Today has given me a lot to think about. I'm facing sort of a moral dilemma at work. I don't want to say much about it because this is private stuff, but I will say that it's nothing illegal.
It is bad enough, however, that I feel physically sick when I think about it.
And I wonder why in the world people feel entitled to treat other people like dirt.
And I think of that Dumbledore quote about it being harder to stand up to your friends than your enemies.
And I shake my head because I just hate the man sometimes for being so wise.
In other work-related news, the power went out today. And by "the power went out," I mean that as I was coming back from break, the lights flickered and went out. Then on again. Then off. Then on again. Then off. Then they stayed off. Luckily, we have a generator in our store that keeps enough lights on so one can see fairly well in most areas, keeps registers open so guests can still check out, and keeps the food cold and edible (although during outages guests aren't allowed to buy cold/frozen food).
Immediately after the power went out, I grinned. I grinned for an embarrassingly long time, actually. I love it when things like this happen at work. It makes my job so much more exciting.
I stopped grinning when I realized that I was about to start a cashier shift. That I wouldn't get to be in the middle of the action, dashing around the store with the sense of importance I treasure so much. I don't mind cashiering, but I hate that you don't get a walkie when you cashier, that you can't see or hear what's going on, that you're completely isolated and restricted to brushing bras and sunscreen and cat food across a laser with a repetitiveness that gradually becomes almost unbearable.
I like the people, though. I got a full six hours last night, so I was in top form today. Some people were kind of frustrated about the lack of light and the fact that they couldn't buy anything cold or frozen, but most people were willing to joke with me about the situation.
My favorite part about the outage? Walmart's power went out too, but instead of fighting through it and keeping things running like us, they shut down their store, locked the doors, and sat around in the parking lot for 2 hours.
(To their defense, I guess, they don't have a generator.)
(But why don't they have a generator???)
(Silly Walmart. Come to Target instead.)
Showing posts with label Excitement. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Excitement. Show all posts
Monday, July 11, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
In Which I Sleep Through a Royal Wedding
Yes, I watched.
Actually, if I'm going to be completely honest (and you know I'm going to be, or I wouldn't have said anything), I meant to watch William and Kate's wedding. I had my alarm set for 5; I was going to roll out of bed, grab my pillow and comforter, and head down a few floors to the TV Lounge (which contains an adequate-for-royal-wedding-viewing sized TV), where I would wait breathlessly for the ceremony to begin.
Here's what actually happened: I was up until 2:30 a.m. this morning studying for a German test I had this afternoon. Ergo, when my alarm went off at 5 (after only 2 and a half hours of sleep), I told myself "five more minutes, and then I'll go downstairs," rolled over, and fell back asleep. The next time I regained consciousness, it was 6:50. Luckily, I was able to make it out of bed that time and managed to catch the entire balcony scene. Kiss one AND kiss two. (This strikes me as a good sign; Diana and Charles only kissed once, and look where they ended up).
This brings me to my current position: I'm waiting for the taped wedding ceremony video to load on Mac. I'm a little disappointed that I missed seeing it live, but I'm sure my German grade will be better for it.
In other royal-related news, I had a long discussion at work today with a professor who seemed to think that Queen Elizabeth arranged for Diana's murder. The way she put it, Diana was dating someone who was not British, not Christian, and not aristocratic. She was an embarrassment to the royal family, and clearly, she had to go. My reaction? Polite, contained disbelief. Maybe it's true that the Queen did not like Diana. But I absolutely refuse to consider her a possible murderer! Maybe I'm too stubbornly stuck in my romantic ideals concerning monarchy, and maybe I put too much faith in the accuracy of the movie "The Queen," but I can't help it. Queen Elizabeth is above such nonsense. She is a sweet, compassionate woman who would never orchestrate something that could harm her grandsons in such a large way. The driver of Diana's car was drunk, and they were being pursued by the paparazzi. It was a tragic accident that will be remembered forever, but I am quickly becoming sick of all the conspiracy theories surrounding it. Why can't people ever just let the deceased be deceased? Why do they have to keep dragging them back for round 2 and 3 and 4 and etc.?
Well, anyway, I don't want to spoil this beautiful day with my morbid rantings. Here's hoping that Kate and William will have all the blessings wished upon them by both the living and the dead.
P.S. (Dress rave) It was absolutely gorgeous, wasn't it? I loved the lacy long-sleeved look. Very cathedral-appropriate, but not matronly or anything. (Funny story) I was just watching a video clip of Kate arriving at the Abbey, and as soon as she got out of the car, the video host started squealing nonstop about her dress. She literally shrieked quite a few times. I had to switch videos because my ear drums were starting to ache.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Me in Six Months
It's late here-about 1:30 a.m. I've been trying to fall asleep for the past hour and a half, and since it's proving impossible (I blame a weekend of sleeping in until 11), I thought I'd share what I've been thinking about all night.
Austria.
No, I haven't finished the application yet. It requires a surprising amount of running from campus office to campus office searching for information. It requires a 1000 word essay on the topic of "My Life Story." Now, I'm not one to shirk when it comes to writing about myself, but this topic has me stumped. I haven't decided what the tone of the thing should be, nor how much detail I should include. Also, I wonder if I can skip over writing about middle school? Those were dark days.
Anyway, what I've really been thinking about is how I'm finally ready to go. I absolutely love being on campus (and being in America, for that matter), and I know it'll be hard to leave when the time comes, but I'm ready for the next step. I'm ready for a change.
It seems like every time I close my eyes nowadays, I picture myself strolling the streets of Salzburg with a friend I haven't met yet. I picture myself ordering spinach (not noodles!) IN GERMAN at some restaurant I don't know the name of yet. And yes, I picture myself spinning, arms outstretched, on top of a beautiful mountain. Julie Andrews style.
Just think: in about 6 months, I could very well be here:
Austria.
No, I haven't finished the application yet. It requires a surprising amount of running from campus office to campus office searching for information. It requires a 1000 word essay on the topic of "My Life Story." Now, I'm not one to shirk when it comes to writing about myself, but this topic has me stumped. I haven't decided what the tone of the thing should be, nor how much detail I should include. Also, I wonder if I can skip over writing about middle school? Those were dark days.
Anyway, what I've really been thinking about is how I'm finally ready to go. I absolutely love being on campus (and being in America, for that matter), and I know it'll be hard to leave when the time comes, but I'm ready for the next step. I'm ready for a change.
It seems like every time I close my eyes nowadays, I picture myself strolling the streets of Salzburg with a friend I haven't met yet. I picture myself ordering spinach (not noodles!) IN GERMAN at some restaurant I don't know the name of yet. And yes, I picture myself spinning, arms outstretched, on top of a beautiful mountain. Julie Andrews style.
Just think: in about 6 months, I could very well be here:
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Weekend Update
Here's what's going on with me right now:
1. I want to study abroad in Salzburg. I want to so very, very badly, but of course there are things to think about like money and credits. And money.
2. I went to talk to my advisor yesterday about me prospectively studying abroad, and how I was worried about the fact that I've never taken a journalism class (and probably won't ever at UMM, as it's not a major offered here). I wanted to know if I would have to go to graduate school to study journalism in order to proceed with my career. My advisor assured me that plenty of UMM English majors have gone on to be journalists, and that journalism school isn't really necessary unless I want extra credentials (which would be nice, but if I don't need them, why waste time and money?). Furthermore (and this is where things really got good) my advisor informed me that he had recently received an email from a UMM alum who is the editor of an Arizona newspaper. This editor was wondering if there were any English majors who would be interested in a job at his newspaper. And my advisor gave me his email address, saying that I should contact him, and ask him some of the questions I have about a career in journalism. Can you believe it? I mean, only at UMM can you walk into a prof's office, intending to ask a few questions, and come out with an email address that may lead to an actual job after graduation. A job, my friends! For an English major! My Dad will be so proud.
3. So far the New Year's work out resolution is going swimmingly. My quad has healed (with the help of intense icing (with ice, not with frosting), and my roommate and I have been at the gym almost every single day since Spring Semester began. On Thursday, we went to the first meeting of the newly-formed Pickleball Club. I haven't played Pickleball since middle school gym class, so I struggled a bit at first, but it got easier after a while. The funniest thing was that the club president was standing behind Maddie and I as we played against two other people, and he kept pulling me aside to say things like: "Are you a tennis player or something? Because, no offense, but you just missed the ball by a good two feet." Well, thanks. Thanks very much. And no, I'm not a tennis player. I was simply having some hand-eye-coordination problems. Happens to the best of us.
4. This week I've been watching (whenever I get a chance) the A&E (BBC) version of Pride and Prejudice. You know, the one with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth? I used to think that I infinitely preferred the newer, Keira Knightley P and P, but now I'm not so sure. I think I love them both for different reasons. The A&E is longer, so I think it develops the story a lot better, and gives us time to really get to know the characters. It's also way funnier. I just about die laughing whenever Mary opens her mouth. The Keira version, however, is a lot richer. I think the locations are more authentic, and the filmmaking highlights the story beautifully. (Ex: that scene at the Netherfield Ball when Lizzie and Darcy dance for the first time, and everyone else suddenly disappears. I love that). As for the big Jennifer Ehle/Keira Knightley Elizabeth Bennet showdown? I don't know if I can choose one. Not being overly familiar with the book version of P and P (forgive me, but I have trouble reading Jane Austen unless I'm in a very specific state of mind. Otherwise I get bored), I can't say who is the most Elizabeth Bennet Elizabeth Bennet. They both play her so differently, but both performances in my opinion are equally effective. They both deserve Darcy when they finally get him, and vice versa. And that, I think, is the main point.
1. I want to study abroad in Salzburg. I want to so very, very badly, but of course there are things to think about like money and credits. And money.
2. I went to talk to my advisor yesterday about me prospectively studying abroad, and how I was worried about the fact that I've never taken a journalism class (and probably won't ever at UMM, as it's not a major offered here). I wanted to know if I would have to go to graduate school to study journalism in order to proceed with my career. My advisor assured me that plenty of UMM English majors have gone on to be journalists, and that journalism school isn't really necessary unless I want extra credentials (which would be nice, but if I don't need them, why waste time and money?). Furthermore (and this is where things really got good) my advisor informed me that he had recently received an email from a UMM alum who is the editor of an Arizona newspaper. This editor was wondering if there were any English majors who would be interested in a job at his newspaper. And my advisor gave me his email address, saying that I should contact him, and ask him some of the questions I have about a career in journalism. Can you believe it? I mean, only at UMM can you walk into a prof's office, intending to ask a few questions, and come out with an email address that may lead to an actual job after graduation. A job, my friends! For an English major! My Dad will be so proud.
3. So far the New Year's work out resolution is going swimmingly. My quad has healed (with the help of intense icing (with ice, not with frosting), and my roommate and I have been at the gym almost every single day since Spring Semester began. On Thursday, we went to the first meeting of the newly-formed Pickleball Club. I haven't played Pickleball since middle school gym class, so I struggled a bit at first, but it got easier after a while. The funniest thing was that the club president was standing behind Maddie and I as we played against two other people, and he kept pulling me aside to say things like: "Are you a tennis player or something? Because, no offense, but you just missed the ball by a good two feet." Well, thanks. Thanks very much. And no, I'm not a tennis player. I was simply having some hand-eye-coordination problems. Happens to the best of us.
4. This week I've been watching (whenever I get a chance) the A&E (BBC) version of Pride and Prejudice. You know, the one with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth? I used to think that I infinitely preferred the newer, Keira Knightley P and P, but now I'm not so sure. I think I love them both for different reasons. The A&E is longer, so I think it develops the story a lot better, and gives us time to really get to know the characters. It's also way funnier. I just about die laughing whenever Mary opens her mouth. The Keira version, however, is a lot richer. I think the locations are more authentic, and the filmmaking highlights the story beautifully. (Ex: that scene at the Netherfield Ball when Lizzie and Darcy dance for the first time, and everyone else suddenly disappears. I love that). As for the big Jennifer Ehle/Keira Knightley Elizabeth Bennet showdown? I don't know if I can choose one. Not being overly familiar with the book version of P and P (forgive me, but I have trouble reading Jane Austen unless I'm in a very specific state of mind. Otherwise I get bored), I can't say who is the most Elizabeth Bennet Elizabeth Bennet. They both play her so differently, but both performances in my opinion are equally effective. They both deserve Darcy when they finally get him, and vice versa. And that, I think, is the main point.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Early Morning Breakthrough
This you should know about me: I'm kind of bad at talking about literature. At least, I'm bad at talking about literature in class.
Today, however, today was a breakthrough.
We're studying Carl Sandburg in class. I love Carl Sandburg. He writes poetry the way I think I would write poetry if I had sufficient talent in the area.
Anyway, here's the poem we were talking about ("Child of the Romans"):
THE dago shovelman sits by the railroad track
Eating a noon meal of bread and bologna.
A train whirls by, and men and women at tables
Alive with red roses and yellow jonquils,
Eat steaks running with brown gravy,
Strawberries and cream, eclaires and coffee.
The dago shovelman finishes the dry bread and bologna,
Washes it down with a dipper from the water-boy,
And goes back to the second half of a ten-hour day's work
Keeping the road-bed so the roses and jonquils
Shake hardly at all in the cut glass vases
Standing slender on the tables in the dining cars.
And all of the sudden, while staring at this poem, sweat dripping down the back of my neck, hoping to goodness the professor wouldn't call on me, I got it. I was pulling out patterns and symbols and random observations like there was no tomorrow.
I guess "Child of the Romans" is kind of an obvious poem, but it was a proud moment for me nonetheless. I think I'm officially an English major now.
Today, however, today was a breakthrough.
We're studying Carl Sandburg in class. I love Carl Sandburg. He writes poetry the way I think I would write poetry if I had sufficient talent in the area.
Anyway, here's the poem we were talking about ("Child of the Romans"):
THE dago shovelman sits by the railroad track
Eating a noon meal of bread and bologna.
A train whirls by, and men and women at tables
Alive with red roses and yellow jonquils,
Eat steaks running with brown gravy,
Strawberries and cream, eclaires and coffee.
The dago shovelman finishes the dry bread and bologna,
Washes it down with a dipper from the water-boy,
And goes back to the second half of a ten-hour day's work
Keeping the road-bed so the roses and jonquils
Shake hardly at all in the cut glass vases
Standing slender on the tables in the dining cars.
And all of the sudden, while staring at this poem, sweat dripping down the back of my neck, hoping to goodness the professor wouldn't call on me, I got it. I was pulling out patterns and symbols and random observations like there was no tomorrow.
I guess "Child of the Romans" is kind of an obvious poem, but it was a proud moment for me nonetheless. I think I'm officially an English major now.
Friday, December 31, 2010
End of 2010
It's been a list-worthy year, I think.
New Things I've Done in 2010:
1. Won money for my writing (Firstlinefiction and the College Writing essay contest at UMM)
2. Worked new jobs: Target, Writing Room, Info. Desk, S.S. Office
3. Met a ton of new friends
4. Lost a few old friends
5. Narrowed my career search down to three criteria: people, writing, travel
6. Stopped being a teenager
Best Books I Read in 2010:
1. Going Bovine (Libba Bray)-After finding out he has a rare disease and doesn't have long to live, Cameron Smith sets off on a quest to save his own life with the help of a pink-haired angel, a video game-playing dwarf, and a lawn gnome who may just be a Norse god. Sounds kind of crazy, I know, but this book has so much heart and humor that I couldn't put it down.
2. This Side of Paradise (F. Scott Fitzgerald)-I know you've already heard me rant quite a bit about this one, so I'll only say that Amory Blaine is probably one of my favorite fictional characters.
3. The Shack (William P. Young)-This book somehow captured perfectly the way I've always wanted to think of God.
4. Never Let Me Go (Kazuo Ishiguro)-Again, I've already written a review of this book, but it's probably the best of the best books I've read in 2010. It's immensely powerful, and at the same time heart-wrenching in the most subtle, quiet way.
5. Utopia (Thomas More)-I've wanted to read Utopia ever since I saw Ever After as a little girl. The way they rave about it and quote from it in the film convinced me that Utopia must be some sort of magical, enlightening story. And it is, although I'll admit that I think I need to read it a few more times before I can fully grasp it.
6. Atonement (Ian McEwan)-I've tried to get into this a few times, but when I finally gave myself a chance to sit down and just consume it, I suddenly wondered what had taken me so long. Incredibly fascinating story that is magnificent in its tragedy.
Finally, mainly for fun, and because the spread is of an unbelievable large size...
Food Currently Being Assembled for our New Year's Party:
1. Lasagna
2. Garlic bread
3. Salad
4. Deviled eggs
5. Meat/cheese plate with crackers
6. Pickles wrapped in corned beef spread with cream cheese
7. Champagne/sparkling grape juice for the kids
8. Chocolate wafer cake (you slather whipped cream in between the cookies to sandwich them together, and then spread more all over the entire cake. Let it sit in the fridge for a few hours and the cookies absorb the cream and soften. It's only the most delicious thing ever.)
9. Spinach dip with crackers
10. Shrimp with cocktail sauce
Overall, I think it's been a lovely year, and while I'm sad to see it go, I'm also ready to see what 2011 will bring.
I also have a not-so-secret crush on Dick Clark.
Happy New Year everyone.
New Things I've Done in 2010:
1. Won money for my writing (Firstlinefiction and the College Writing essay contest at UMM)
2. Worked new jobs: Target, Writing Room, Info. Desk, S.S. Office
3. Met a ton of new friends
4. Lost a few old friends
5. Narrowed my career search down to three criteria: people, writing, travel
6. Stopped being a teenager
Best Books I Read in 2010:
1. Going Bovine (Libba Bray)-After finding out he has a rare disease and doesn't have long to live, Cameron Smith sets off on a quest to save his own life with the help of a pink-haired angel, a video game-playing dwarf, and a lawn gnome who may just be a Norse god. Sounds kind of crazy, I know, but this book has so much heart and humor that I couldn't put it down.
2. This Side of Paradise (F. Scott Fitzgerald)-I know you've already heard me rant quite a bit about this one, so I'll only say that Amory Blaine is probably one of my favorite fictional characters.
3. The Shack (William P. Young)-This book somehow captured perfectly the way I've always wanted to think of God.
4. Never Let Me Go (Kazuo Ishiguro)-Again, I've already written a review of this book, but it's probably the best of the best books I've read in 2010. It's immensely powerful, and at the same time heart-wrenching in the most subtle, quiet way.
5. Utopia (Thomas More)-I've wanted to read Utopia ever since I saw Ever After as a little girl. The way they rave about it and quote from it in the film convinced me that Utopia must be some sort of magical, enlightening story. And it is, although I'll admit that I think I need to read it a few more times before I can fully grasp it.
6. Atonement (Ian McEwan)-I've tried to get into this a few times, but when I finally gave myself a chance to sit down and just consume it, I suddenly wondered what had taken me so long. Incredibly fascinating story that is magnificent in its tragedy.
Finally, mainly for fun, and because the spread is of an unbelievable large size...
Food Currently Being Assembled for our New Year's Party:
1. Lasagna
2. Garlic bread
3. Salad
4. Deviled eggs
5. Meat/cheese plate with crackers
6. Pickles wrapped in corned beef spread with cream cheese
7. Champagne/sparkling grape juice for the kids
8. Chocolate wafer cake (you slather whipped cream in between the cookies to sandwich them together, and then spread more all over the entire cake. Let it sit in the fridge for a few hours and the cookies absorb the cream and soften. It's only the most delicious thing ever.)
9. Spinach dip with crackers
10. Shrimp with cocktail sauce
Overall, I think it's been a lovely year, and while I'm sad to see it go, I'm also ready to see what 2011 will bring.
I also have a not-so-secret crush on Dick Clark.
Happy New Year everyone.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Washington Irving Week
"However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to imbibe the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative-to dream dreams, and see apparitions."
That's from Washington Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. It's Washington Irving week in old American Literature, and the weather seems to be cooperating; it's cool and windy outside, with just enough sunshine to flit against the leaves and make them explode into yellow and orange.
No students lie out on the mall and read anymore.
Instead, they sit on benches in sweaters
and look out over the browning grass
with inexplicable wistfulness.
The air doesn't hang suspended as it did in the summer.
Now it rushes around lamp posts,
tugs at hair
and scarves,
whips five page essays across the sidewalks and into
the dusty road where cars slow but don't pause.
A feeling of frenzied excitement has settled on campus,
and we all dress for a homecoming game that we won't win,
continuing to grin at those we dimly recognize from a long-ago meeting.
We read Washington Irving,
wishing all the time that we could somehow have
the lazy knoll of Rip Van Winkle back,
while still clinging to the blowing trees
as the Headless Horseman gallops by
on the dusky road.
That's from Washington Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. It's Washington Irving week in old American Literature, and the weather seems to be cooperating; it's cool and windy outside, with just enough sunshine to flit against the leaves and make them explode into yellow and orange.
No students lie out on the mall and read anymore.
Instead, they sit on benches in sweaters
and look out over the browning grass
with inexplicable wistfulness.
The air doesn't hang suspended as it did in the summer.
Now it rushes around lamp posts,
tugs at hair
and scarves,
whips five page essays across the sidewalks and into
the dusty road where cars slow but don't pause.
A feeling of frenzied excitement has settled on campus,
and we all dress for a homecoming game that we won't win,
continuing to grin at those we dimly recognize from a long-ago meeting.
We read Washington Irving,
wishing all the time that we could somehow have
the lazy knoll of Rip Van Winkle back,
while still clinging to the blowing trees
as the Headless Horseman gallops by
on the dusky road.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
In Which my Blog is Blogged
This is funny. I'm at a library computer, and I search engined my name like I always do to get to my blog quickly on public computers.
Guess what came up?
On this website: http://kevinrenick.com/News.php
(which is the website of musician Kevin Renick), my blog was mentioned! Why? Oh, because a while back I quoted the lyrics to his song, "Up in the Air," saying that they pretty much described my life. Well, whoever runs his website must have googled his name and my blog must have popped up!
Why am I excited about this? Because it's the first bit of publicity for my blog! Not that I want it to become famous or anything (Julie & Julia style), it's just neat to see that people are actually looking at it.
Here's what was actually said about my blog on the website, in case you don't want to scroll down that far. It's not much, really, but it's something:
--Two more blogs feature the lyrics to "Up in the Air" and the author's favorable comment. First up is Holly Gruntner's personal take: http://staygoldponyboy88.blogspot.com/2010/06/up-in-air.html You rule, Holly!
Guess what came up?
On this website: http://kevinrenick.com/News.php
(which is the website of musician Kevin Renick), my blog was mentioned! Why? Oh, because a while back I quoted the lyrics to his song, "Up in the Air," saying that they pretty much described my life. Well, whoever runs his website must have googled his name and my blog must have popped up!
Why am I excited about this? Because it's the first bit of publicity for my blog! Not that I want it to become famous or anything (Julie & Julia style), it's just neat to see that people are actually looking at it.
Here's what was actually said about my blog on the website, in case you don't want to scroll down that far. It's not much, really, but it's something:
--Two more blogs feature the lyrics to "Up in the Air" and the author's favorable comment. First up is Holly Gruntner's personal take: http://staygoldponyboy88.blogspot.com/2010/06/up-in-air.html You rule, Holly!
Friday, September 3, 2010
Reasons Why I'm Happy (A List)
I'm happy today. Happier than I've been in a long time. Not that I'm not a happy person in general, but this kind of bouncy, fizzy, spontaneous, wonderful happiness only comes around every so often, only lasts for a limited time, and only occurs for the following reasons:
1. It's Friday, the beginning of Labor Day weekend. Hence, I have no classes until Tuesday AND therefore have a short week next week.
2. Along with some dorm mates, tonight I have chosen to rebel against the hit-but-most-often-miss Food Service and make the trek to China Buffet instead.
3. The weather outside is my very favorite kind of weather; windy, mid-60's, sunny, and Fallish.
4. I'm wearing a comfy purple plaid shirt. Sometimes your clothes just make your day, I think.
5. Tonight is free movie night on campus, and District 9 is showing. Not that that particular movie exactly fits my happy mood, but how can you go wrong with a free movie? (Actually, I lied. The free movie last year was G-Force. That was very, very wrong).
6. Tomorrow I'm driving down to St. Paul with some friends to shop at bookstores, to eat Cossetta's pizza, and to generally revel in the glory that is a big city.
7. I got my first birthday card today! I'm turning 20 in 5 days, you guys! It's really happening, and I'm actually okay with it. Not that there's anything I can do to prevent my aging anyway.
8. I had a good time in class today. Didn't embarrass myself in German I, spoke up a few times in American Lit., and learned a great deal despite it being Friday and beautiful.
1. It's Friday, the beginning of Labor Day weekend. Hence, I have no classes until Tuesday AND therefore have a short week next week.
2. Along with some dorm mates, tonight I have chosen to rebel against the hit-but-most-often-miss Food Service and make the trek to China Buffet instead.
3. The weather outside is my very favorite kind of weather; windy, mid-60's, sunny, and Fallish.
4. I'm wearing a comfy purple plaid shirt. Sometimes your clothes just make your day, I think.
5. Tonight is free movie night on campus, and District 9 is showing. Not that that particular movie exactly fits my happy mood, but how can you go wrong with a free movie? (Actually, I lied. The free movie last year was G-Force. That was very, very wrong).
6. Tomorrow I'm driving down to St. Paul with some friends to shop at bookstores, to eat Cossetta's pizza, and to generally revel in the glory that is a big city.
7. I got my first birthday card today! I'm turning 20 in 5 days, you guys! It's really happening, and I'm actually okay with it. Not that there's anything I can do to prevent my aging anyway.
8. I had a good time in class today. Didn't embarrass myself in German I, spoke up a few times in American Lit., and learned a great deal despite it being Friday and beautiful.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Third Is The One In The Polka Dotted Dress
Things are looking up already, folks. I got third place in the firstlinefiction short story contest.
I won't lie; I was hoping for first. But you know what? The first place story is excellent. Really, really excellent. The second place story is very good as well. Both are better than mine, and both deserved first and second place.
You know what else? The August contest starts today. I'm shooting for first place again.
Here's the bronze story in case you want to read through it:
The Waiters
He brought in his shirt pocket the last photograph he’d taken of his son.
Poor guy. You should have seen the way he walked into the office that afternoon. He wore a yellow jacket that seemed inappropriate. Its brightness contrasted with the hollow expression on his face so drastically that it was almost shocking. I was relieved when he took the jacket off, carefully hanging it up on the rack in the corner of the waiting room.
And then the man began to slowly cross, crumpling a little with each step. I imagined that he’d be on his knees before he even reached the chair. I imagined myself putting my hand on the shrugged shoulder, shouting into a wrinkled ear. He made it though, sitting next to me as I knew he would. There was no other place, after all. The waiting room was full of people waiting, most of whom were buried in magazines or clicking on small phones.
He began talking as soon as he sat down. Talking to me, or so I figured after a few seconds.
I had a son once, he said.
A son? This was before I decided he was speaking to me and not to someone else.
Yes. He died, though. Car accident.
I’m sorry. Because that’s what you say, isn’t it? I’m sorry? I’m sorry I can’t know what you’re going through, and I’m sorry that I’m going to try my hardest to comfort you anyway. I’m sorry I don’t understand.
Thank you, he said simply. I thought that would be it, and I could go back to staring at the wall.
He continued, though. So many people die that way; it isn’t terribly original. But my son doesn’t die that way. My son doesn’t die.
He did, though. I spoke softly, hoping he would know that I wasn’t trying to hurt him with my bluntness. I wanted him to keep talking all of the sudden. I wanted to know how this man had come to be folded into himself. How his eyes got to be the way they were now. Drowning. He could see, but he wasn’t really looking out of them. I saw all of these things in that waiting room, and I wanted him to keep talking.
The man paused for a moment, fiddling with the pocket at the front of his shirt. Out of the pocket he plucked a folded bit of paper. A photograph; it said Kodak across the back. He unfolded the photograph and stared at it for a few seconds before folding it once more.
He took a deep breath before he spoke again. Afterwards, we all mourned. No one talked during meals anymore. My wife and I cried ourselves to sleep every night. We tried to comfort one another. I tried so hard. But it is so very difficult to dig yourself out of the well of your own grief and reach for someone else.
Suddenly the man looked up at me, as if just realizing that he was talking to an actual person who was listening.
He looked down again at the photo in his hands and continued. My wife stopped grieving after awhile. She got on with her life. She went back to work. She started running with the dog in the morning. She drove our daughters to lacrosse and modern jazz. She didn’t understand why I couldn’t get up too. She used to become angry with me. Why can’t you get over him? She would yell. Why can’t you see that he’s gone and that we’re left? You have two other children. You have a job. This needs to stop. The man looked at me again, warily this time. Do you have a job?
I nodded. I deliver packages. I drive a truck and I stop and I make people sign for brown boxes or tan envelopes.
The man took this in. Do you enjoy your work? He asked me.
I thought for a moment. Then I answered. I enjoy the people. I watch them. I guess what they’re like, what their names are.
Do you ever get them right?
I don’t know if I do or not.
The man frowned. I would like to know. He unfolded the photograph again and stared at it again. I would like to know.
I saw that he was on the verge of crying. His eyes squinted up and his knees shook a bit. People across the room were beginning to look at us. Not obviously looking, but peering at us every so often over their Newsweeks, as if to warn us that they didn’t want to overhear, but that they would if we spoke any louder. They didn’t want to overhear. They didn’t want a share in the anguish on the man’s face, the bewilderment on mine. They read their magazines.
The man shuddered three more times and was still.
He began to speak again after a few minutes. I realized soon that I could lose my wife as well. That she wouldn’t die, but that she would be just as permanently and irrevocably gone if I didn’t stop missing my son. So I stopped. I had to, you see. I knew if I lost anything else I would disappear completely myself. Everything tying me down would be gone. I would be gone too.
I stretched my legs out across the carpet and arched my back a little bit. I wasn’t bored; I was only sore from sitting so long. He knew I wasn’t bored. Even if I had been, I don’t think he would have stopped. We both knew now that he needed to say these things. We both knew I needed to hear.
He kept talking through my stretch; his gaze wandered down to my brown boots and anchored on to them.
I donated all of my son’s clothes, and cleaned his room. I even took down his posters and painted over his walls with the spring green color my wife picked. The paint erased my son’s smell until I couldn’t breathe in that room anymore. I was about to shut his door behind me for the last time when I spotted the edge of something white sticking out from under the bed.
It was the photograph, wasn’t it?
The man nodded gravely. I had taken it a few weeks before he died. We were driving in my old convertible going west. West like the pioneers, my son had shouted joyfully. While we were stopped at a red light, my son dug the camera out of his backpack and thrust it at me. We were laughing hard, like two teenagers instead of one. My son rested one arm on top of the rolled-down window and leaned back away from me. He grinned the same smile I had seen all his life. My son leaned back into the wind against the highway and grinned while I took the picture.
It was all too much for the man then. He dropped his head into the picture in his hands and sobbed soundlessly. His back rose and fell with each rolling breath, and as I deliberated patting him gingerly on the shoulderblade, I intercepted a few raised eyebrows from across the room. I shot those eyebrows straight back, sending most of the waiters diving back into their Popular Sciences. I wasn’t a big man. I wasn’t even a brave man. Not then. But I knew when things were private. This was between the man, the photograph of his son, and me.
When the man finally calmed down he looked relieved. Now he could finish.
Very slowly he opened the photograph in his hands. I couldn’t quite see it, but I didn’t fail to be amazed at its proximity. I only had to raise my eyes. I didn’t, though. I waited.
He spoke. The last photograph of my son, the one I clung to when my wife wasn’t around, the one that allowed me to keep him and to keep myself together…He trailed off. He wasn’t sure how to end, now that he had begun to end.
He tried again. The last photograph of my son is something I both love and hate. I can’t make myself throw it away, and yet it feels heavy in my pocket. He stopped.
A woman had walked into the waiting room, and was now looking around with a definite air of impatient authority. She called out a name. I didn’t hear, but I guess the man did because he slowly stood and walked towards her with that same worn down gait he had entered on.
I sat back in my chair and looked around the room. The other waiters stared boldly at me now. I dropped my head, all defiance gone. I sat and I thought. I knew this was a story I would remember, not just another observation to drop in my brain like a marble. I wondered if I would ever retell it. I wondered how I would do it. But mostly I wondered how it ended.
How did I know about the photograph in the man’s pocket? Because he told me about it while we waited.
On his way out, the he passed me with only a nod. Thank you, he said quietly, slipping either arm into that inappropriate yellow jacket. I stared, decided.
Yes I must. Sir! I bounded after him past the alarmed waiters. Sir can I please see the photograph of your son?
He looked at me in his watery way, and then seemed to surface. I imagined the last waves breaking around his eyes before receding like the tide. Yes, he replied. Yes of course you can see my son.
Slowly he reached towards his pocket and drew out the creased picture. He handed it to me without unfolding it. Perhaps he thought that by unfolding it himself it would only make it harder. Perhaps he needed me to take it from him, to hold his regret and his pain for a little while.
I unfolded the picture and stared at it for what felt like a long time. I wanted him to feel me take it in. But really it only took me a moment to understand.
As I handed the picture back to him and watched him refold it and set it gently into the same pocket, I listened to him speak the last words he ever said to me. I had a son once, he explained patiently, as if we were starting over, as if we were just meeting each other. I had a son once and he died. I had a son once, and the last photograph I ever took of him captured only his elbow.
I stood and saw the glass door swing shut behind him, watched it forget instantly that such a man had ever passed through.
You know, with people you meet when you’re delivering packages, you can guess. You can assume that a woman is snobbish, or that a man is out of sorts and late for work. You can guess about them, and it never has to bother you if you’re right or if you’re wrong. You can just let your imaginings hang in the air above your head.
Sons and photographs, I have come to realize, are a different matter altogether. With them, you have to wonder your whole life why you didn’t look through the lens before snapping the shutter. You have to wish that you had taken the time to aim, wish that you hadn’t been too captivated by the living, breathing boy to focus on capturing all of him forever.
Eventually, though, you have to know that when you tell the story of your son in a waiting room, when people listen, and when people look at the photograph of your son afterwards, that those waiters see all of him. You have to know that those waiters see all of you too.
I won't lie; I was hoping for first. But you know what? The first place story is excellent. Really, really excellent. The second place story is very good as well. Both are better than mine, and both deserved first and second place.
You know what else? The August contest starts today. I'm shooting for first place again.
Here's the bronze story in case you want to read through it:
The Waiters
He brought in his shirt pocket the last photograph he’d taken of his son.
Poor guy. You should have seen the way he walked into the office that afternoon. He wore a yellow jacket that seemed inappropriate. Its brightness contrasted with the hollow expression on his face so drastically that it was almost shocking. I was relieved when he took the jacket off, carefully hanging it up on the rack in the corner of the waiting room.
And then the man began to slowly cross, crumpling a little with each step. I imagined that he’d be on his knees before he even reached the chair. I imagined myself putting my hand on the shrugged shoulder, shouting into a wrinkled ear. He made it though, sitting next to me as I knew he would. There was no other place, after all. The waiting room was full of people waiting, most of whom were buried in magazines or clicking on small phones.
He began talking as soon as he sat down. Talking to me, or so I figured after a few seconds.
I had a son once, he said.
A son? This was before I decided he was speaking to me and not to someone else.
Yes. He died, though. Car accident.
I’m sorry. Because that’s what you say, isn’t it? I’m sorry? I’m sorry I can’t know what you’re going through, and I’m sorry that I’m going to try my hardest to comfort you anyway. I’m sorry I don’t understand.
Thank you, he said simply. I thought that would be it, and I could go back to staring at the wall.
He continued, though. So many people die that way; it isn’t terribly original. But my son doesn’t die that way. My son doesn’t die.
He did, though. I spoke softly, hoping he would know that I wasn’t trying to hurt him with my bluntness. I wanted him to keep talking all of the sudden. I wanted to know how this man had come to be folded into himself. How his eyes got to be the way they were now. Drowning. He could see, but he wasn’t really looking out of them. I saw all of these things in that waiting room, and I wanted him to keep talking.
The man paused for a moment, fiddling with the pocket at the front of his shirt. Out of the pocket he plucked a folded bit of paper. A photograph; it said Kodak across the back. He unfolded the photograph and stared at it for a few seconds before folding it once more.
He took a deep breath before he spoke again. Afterwards, we all mourned. No one talked during meals anymore. My wife and I cried ourselves to sleep every night. We tried to comfort one another. I tried so hard. But it is so very difficult to dig yourself out of the well of your own grief and reach for someone else.
Suddenly the man looked up at me, as if just realizing that he was talking to an actual person who was listening.
He looked down again at the photo in his hands and continued. My wife stopped grieving after awhile. She got on with her life. She went back to work. She started running with the dog in the morning. She drove our daughters to lacrosse and modern jazz. She didn’t understand why I couldn’t get up too. She used to become angry with me. Why can’t you get over him? She would yell. Why can’t you see that he’s gone and that we’re left? You have two other children. You have a job. This needs to stop. The man looked at me again, warily this time. Do you have a job?
I nodded. I deliver packages. I drive a truck and I stop and I make people sign for brown boxes or tan envelopes.
The man took this in. Do you enjoy your work? He asked me.
I thought for a moment. Then I answered. I enjoy the people. I watch them. I guess what they’re like, what their names are.
Do you ever get them right?
I don’t know if I do or not.
The man frowned. I would like to know. He unfolded the photograph again and stared at it again. I would like to know.
I saw that he was on the verge of crying. His eyes squinted up and his knees shook a bit. People across the room were beginning to look at us. Not obviously looking, but peering at us every so often over their Newsweeks, as if to warn us that they didn’t want to overhear, but that they would if we spoke any louder. They didn’t want to overhear. They didn’t want a share in the anguish on the man’s face, the bewilderment on mine. They read their magazines.
The man shuddered three more times and was still.
He began to speak again after a few minutes. I realized soon that I could lose my wife as well. That she wouldn’t die, but that she would be just as permanently and irrevocably gone if I didn’t stop missing my son. So I stopped. I had to, you see. I knew if I lost anything else I would disappear completely myself. Everything tying me down would be gone. I would be gone too.
I stretched my legs out across the carpet and arched my back a little bit. I wasn’t bored; I was only sore from sitting so long. He knew I wasn’t bored. Even if I had been, I don’t think he would have stopped. We both knew now that he needed to say these things. We both knew I needed to hear.
He kept talking through my stretch; his gaze wandered down to my brown boots and anchored on to them.
I donated all of my son’s clothes, and cleaned his room. I even took down his posters and painted over his walls with the spring green color my wife picked. The paint erased my son’s smell until I couldn’t breathe in that room anymore. I was about to shut his door behind me for the last time when I spotted the edge of something white sticking out from under the bed.
It was the photograph, wasn’t it?
The man nodded gravely. I had taken it a few weeks before he died. We were driving in my old convertible going west. West like the pioneers, my son had shouted joyfully. While we were stopped at a red light, my son dug the camera out of his backpack and thrust it at me. We were laughing hard, like two teenagers instead of one. My son rested one arm on top of the rolled-down window and leaned back away from me. He grinned the same smile I had seen all his life. My son leaned back into the wind against the highway and grinned while I took the picture.
It was all too much for the man then. He dropped his head into the picture in his hands and sobbed soundlessly. His back rose and fell with each rolling breath, and as I deliberated patting him gingerly on the shoulderblade, I intercepted a few raised eyebrows from across the room. I shot those eyebrows straight back, sending most of the waiters diving back into their Popular Sciences. I wasn’t a big man. I wasn’t even a brave man. Not then. But I knew when things were private. This was between the man, the photograph of his son, and me.
When the man finally calmed down he looked relieved. Now he could finish.
Very slowly he opened the photograph in his hands. I couldn’t quite see it, but I didn’t fail to be amazed at its proximity. I only had to raise my eyes. I didn’t, though. I waited.
He spoke. The last photograph of my son, the one I clung to when my wife wasn’t around, the one that allowed me to keep him and to keep myself together…He trailed off. He wasn’t sure how to end, now that he had begun to end.
He tried again. The last photograph of my son is something I both love and hate. I can’t make myself throw it away, and yet it feels heavy in my pocket. He stopped.
A woman had walked into the waiting room, and was now looking around with a definite air of impatient authority. She called out a name. I didn’t hear, but I guess the man did because he slowly stood and walked towards her with that same worn down gait he had entered on.
I sat back in my chair and looked around the room. The other waiters stared boldly at me now. I dropped my head, all defiance gone. I sat and I thought. I knew this was a story I would remember, not just another observation to drop in my brain like a marble. I wondered if I would ever retell it. I wondered how I would do it. But mostly I wondered how it ended.
How did I know about the photograph in the man’s pocket? Because he told me about it while we waited.
On his way out, the he passed me with only a nod. Thank you, he said quietly, slipping either arm into that inappropriate yellow jacket. I stared, decided.
Yes I must. Sir! I bounded after him past the alarmed waiters. Sir can I please see the photograph of your son?
He looked at me in his watery way, and then seemed to surface. I imagined the last waves breaking around his eyes before receding like the tide. Yes, he replied. Yes of course you can see my son.
Slowly he reached towards his pocket and drew out the creased picture. He handed it to me without unfolding it. Perhaps he thought that by unfolding it himself it would only make it harder. Perhaps he needed me to take it from him, to hold his regret and his pain for a little while.
I unfolded the picture and stared at it for what felt like a long time. I wanted him to feel me take it in. But really it only took me a moment to understand.
As I handed the picture back to him and watched him refold it and set it gently into the same pocket, I listened to him speak the last words he ever said to me. I had a son once, he explained patiently, as if we were starting over, as if we were just meeting each other. I had a son once and he died. I had a son once, and the last photograph I ever took of him captured only his elbow.
I stood and saw the glass door swing shut behind him, watched it forget instantly that such a man had ever passed through.
You know, with people you meet when you’re delivering packages, you can guess. You can assume that a woman is snobbish, or that a man is out of sorts and late for work. You can guess about them, and it never has to bother you if you’re right or if you’re wrong. You can just let your imaginings hang in the air above your head.
Sons and photographs, I have come to realize, are a different matter altogether. With them, you have to wonder your whole life why you didn’t look through the lens before snapping the shutter. You have to wish that you had taken the time to aim, wish that you hadn’t been too captivated by the living, breathing boy to focus on capturing all of him forever.
Eventually, though, you have to know that when you tell the story of your son in a waiting room, when people listen, and when people look at the photograph of your son afterwards, that those waiters see all of him. You have to know that those waiters see all of you too.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
That Itchy Feeling
I'm having that feeling again. That itchy, late-night feeling that makes me want to run and sing and then sit down and write something wonderful.
Current problem: I don't know what to write about.
It seems like whenever I have a story idea I don't have anything to write on, and whenever I'm sitting in front of my computer, fingers poised, my mind is completely blank. Oh, the irony of inspiration.
Despite my lack of lightbulb in certain literary areas, I do have a few bits of good news to share with you...
1. I won the College Writing Essay Contest. When I got the congratulatory email from one of the English professors at UMM, all I could do was lay back on the floor of my room and laugh. It's been three months since I turned in that essay. By now, winning feels stale because I've thought about it for so long. I am grateful, however, and I intend to spend $15.00 of the prize money on an itunes card, just like I said I would from the beginning. Despite my excitement at the prospect of buying new music, I'm thinking that F. Scott didn't buy an itunes card when his stories won prizes at Princeton. In all fairness, though, he probably bought booze.
2. Second bit of happiness: I just checked my Spring Semester grades online, and so far I have an A- in both CMR and Physical Anthropology. While I was expecting an A in CMR (still don't understand how I went down), I expected a B+ at the highest in Anth. I must have done really well on that final! Here's hoping that when my Brit. Lit. and Crusades grades come in, they don't detract from my current happiness.
Well, that's about all the big news on the home front.
If you're really looking for details this fine evening, you may be interested to know that I am currently reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I started it ages ago, got to page 200 and became tired of it. I'm just now picking it up again. It's not that it's a bad book; it won the Pulitzer, for heavens' sakes. I simply got distracted.
I also began Ivanhoe last night. I'm only on page 8, so I hate to judge, but so far things are moving rather slowly in the chivalric world of Walter Scott. Because he is Sir Walter Scott, however, I'm trying very hard to have faith.
Current problem: I don't know what to write about.
It seems like whenever I have a story idea I don't have anything to write on, and whenever I'm sitting in front of my computer, fingers poised, my mind is completely blank. Oh, the irony of inspiration.
Despite my lack of lightbulb in certain literary areas, I do have a few bits of good news to share with you...
1. I won the College Writing Essay Contest. When I got the congratulatory email from one of the English professors at UMM, all I could do was lay back on the floor of my room and laugh. It's been three months since I turned in that essay. By now, winning feels stale because I've thought about it for so long. I am grateful, however, and I intend to spend $15.00 of the prize money on an itunes card, just like I said I would from the beginning. Despite my excitement at the prospect of buying new music, I'm thinking that F. Scott didn't buy an itunes card when his stories won prizes at Princeton. In all fairness, though, he probably bought booze.
2. Second bit of happiness: I just checked my Spring Semester grades online, and so far I have an A- in both CMR and Physical Anthropology. While I was expecting an A in CMR (still don't understand how I went down), I expected a B+ at the highest in Anth. I must have done really well on that final! Here's hoping that when my Brit. Lit. and Crusades grades come in, they don't detract from my current happiness.
Well, that's about all the big news on the home front.
If you're really looking for details this fine evening, you may be interested to know that I am currently reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I started it ages ago, got to page 200 and became tired of it. I'm just now picking it up again. It's not that it's a bad book; it won the Pulitzer, for heavens' sakes. I simply got distracted.
I also began Ivanhoe last night. I'm only on page 8, so I hate to judge, but so far things are moving rather slowly in the chivalric world of Walter Scott. Because he is Sir Walter Scott, however, I'm trying very hard to have faith.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
I Need No Ruby Slippers
I just need my Dad, a truck, a three and a half hour drive, and some gasoline to get me home.
Here is the master plan for my break:
1. Get in the Christmas spirit (what's wrong with me? I'm not even excited yet!)
2. READ a lot. I would like to finish Gone With the Wind (600-some pages left), and get through at least four more before break's over. I've missed reading for pleasure so much it's unreal.
3. See my friends from high school/middle school/possibly meet up with college friends
4. Write a bit if possible. After all the papers I had to write near the end of the semester, I think I need a small break from anything too formal, but journaling and poetry is always wonderful.
5. Just relax in general and enjoy being home.
P.S. I got an A on my final college writing paper (the 6-page research argumentative one that I've been working on for over a month). I practically skipped around the dorm when I got it back (sorry if this is braggy but I worked incredibly hard on it).
Here is the master plan for my break:
1. Get in the Christmas spirit (what's wrong with me? I'm not even excited yet!)
2. READ a lot. I would like to finish Gone With the Wind (600-some pages left), and get through at least four more before break's over. I've missed reading for pleasure so much it's unreal.
3. See my friends from high school/middle school/possibly meet up with college friends
4. Write a bit if possible. After all the papers I had to write near the end of the semester, I think I need a small break from anything too formal, but journaling and poetry is always wonderful.
5. Just relax in general and enjoy being home.
P.S. I got an A on my final college writing paper (the 6-page research argumentative one that I've been working on for over a month). I practically skipped around the dorm when I got it back (sorry if this is braggy but I worked incredibly hard on it).
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
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