A warning before I begin: This will probably be a very personal post. And not that people who don't know me really read this blog anyway, but if you don't know me, maybe you should stop now. That's not an order, as this is the internet, (and therefore anything I post here is pretty much fair game) but it is a suggestion.
I was about to take a nap just now. I finished reading Paper Towns (magnificent) on the couch in the sun room, and then I started to doze off. The thing is, my left earring was pressing into my skull, and I was still wearing my Target red and khaki, and I was worried about the dog sneaking over while I slept and eating the pear core I had laying on the rug beside me and getting sick and dying or something while I slept on like a masochistic infant. So I abandoned the couch, locked the dog in the kitchen, threw away the core, changed into sweats, and got into bed.
I was so tired that I didn't even bother to set my cell phone alarm (I usually do when I take naps or else I will pretty much sleep for the next 2 days). I was so tired that when my knee nudged against paper under the covers, and when I remembered that the paper was the Sunday crossword that I had hidden from my sister this morning (Sunday crosswords are sacred to me, and she has bad handwriting. Don't tell her I said that.), I didn't even bother to set the paper on my nightstand. I decided to sleep with it nudged against my knee.
The thing was, as I was drifting off to sleep for the second time, I started to think about the guy I like (Don't be scared; I'm not going to go middle school on you. Promise). I was thinking about how cute he is, and how smart, and how funny, and I was imagining us hanging out together. And then I started to worry, the way I often do when I think about a guy that I like (and I don't think I'm alone in this). I started to wonder why he would ever like me. I'm not a supermodel, I'm not outgoing, I'm not bubbly, I'm not chill or calm or neutral, I have a big nose, sometimes I can be a major space cadet, I can't dance, I'm not graceful in any way, and I make mistakes constantly. Why would he ever, ever like me back, I thought.
And then, suddenly, like someone was shouting it in my ear, I heard this:
You're perfect.
I'm perfect.
The more I thought about this, the more of a revelation it became. I actually started crying, and as I stared at my turquoise bedroom wall, black mascara tears on my cheeks, I realized that I am perfect. That someone (namely, God) took the time to make me the way I am. He didn't make one mistake with me. He didn't make one mistake with anyone. Every bit of me, inside and out, is deliberate. Everything I am has a purpose, and everything I strive to be will only add clarity to that purpose.
And while I generally view myself as a pretty confidant person, I don't know if I really am. I think in the past, when I've embraced myself, I've done it one-handedly; I've left the flaws out. I haven't liked to think about them much because they're flaws. They're bad. But now I don't know if I believe in the flaws at all. They're really only bits of sin and lint and doubt that I've created for myself, that I've let hang around me because, well, this is Earth and I am human. And I wanted that crossword for myself, darn it!
Do you see yet? As a being I am perfect because, lucky me, I was made in God's image (that's right, I'm one of those). As a human, things get a little shady. But these things shouldn't stop me. If I create the shade, then surely I can be the one to wave it away. I know that I can't save myself completely without help, but I also know that I can save myself a little bit just by realizing how lovely the essence of me really is. (P.S. Your essence is quite beautiful as well).
I think I went around in a circle, you guys. I don't know if I ended up where I intended to, or if you were able to follow my tracks, or if I even left clear enough tracks to follow. I hope I did. I also hope that I didn't come off as some sort of motivational speaker. (There's that self-doubt again. Hello.) I didn't mean to. I just tried to take a nap about a half hour ago, and ended up not wanting to sleep after all. I hope you understand why.
Showing posts with label Hope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hope. Show all posts
Sunday, May 29, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Anatomy of a Novel
I think there's a novel in me somewhere. I'm not sure how it got there exactly. I mean, both of my parents are science-y, math-y people. Even my sister mostly dislikes English, although she is a far more dedicated journaler than I.
Maybe the novel nestled up against my rib cage, crushing my left lung a tad, is just buildup. You know, a bunch of leftovers mashed together into a convenient manuscript shape. A bit of This Side of Paradise here, some Harry Potter over there...and I think I can also feel pieces from some of the books I was forced to read: Nathaniel Hawthorne and Ralph Ellison are represented in that part.
Unfortunately, however, this inner Nobel winner of mine is not easily accessible. Sometimes when I'm in the shower or driving or sleeping or staring dumbly out of a window I get flashes of it, but they're never much. A conversation, maybe, or a glimpse of some character's face. They never seem to fit together, these flashes of mine. Most of the time I don't even write them down. I just continue to carry them with me, hoping for more.
Someday, I hope, my slowly emerging novel will be solid and promising on the table in front of me. I will be able to open the cover and smile at the dedication (because arrogant and sappy as I am, I already know who's name will be there). One day I will be at a Barnes and Noble, trying my best not to dash over to the fiction section and browse, and I will be signing copies of my book, handing them shyly back to people I have never met in my life. I will live in New York City (although I'll secretly miss Minnesota terribly), and I will dance (badly, because that's the only way I know how to dance) on Youtube with Libba Bray and John Green and Scott Westerfeld. And someday, when I'm old, and have written many many books, all of them precious to me, I will look a young, ambitious reporter full in the face, and answer a question. "My first novel was my most precious. Because I carried it around next to my heart*** for twenty years."
For now, though, I'll continue to blog. I'll continue to labor into the wee hours over papers whose topics I don't especially care about. I'll devour other people's stories in hopes that they will stick and become part of my own.
Someday, though (and it'll probably take a nasty case of hiccups), I will pour this entire novel onto paper (because it's so very uneloquent to say 'word document'). And I'll dance on Youtube with Libba Bray to celebrate.
Believe it.
***Don't worry, I Googled it: the heart is actually between the lungs. And the left lung, actually, is on the left side of your body if you look down at yourself. There! I did get a partial science gene after all!
Maybe the novel nestled up against my rib cage, crushing my left lung a tad, is just buildup. You know, a bunch of leftovers mashed together into a convenient manuscript shape. A bit of This Side of Paradise here, some Harry Potter over there...and I think I can also feel pieces from some of the books I was forced to read: Nathaniel Hawthorne and Ralph Ellison are represented in that part.
Unfortunately, however, this inner Nobel winner of mine is not easily accessible. Sometimes when I'm in the shower or driving or sleeping or staring dumbly out of a window I get flashes of it, but they're never much. A conversation, maybe, or a glimpse of some character's face. They never seem to fit together, these flashes of mine. Most of the time I don't even write them down. I just continue to carry them with me, hoping for more.
Someday, I hope, my slowly emerging novel will be solid and promising on the table in front of me. I will be able to open the cover and smile at the dedication (because arrogant and sappy as I am, I already know who's name will be there). One day I will be at a Barnes and Noble, trying my best not to dash over to the fiction section and browse, and I will be signing copies of my book, handing them shyly back to people I have never met in my life. I will live in New York City (although I'll secretly miss Minnesota terribly), and I will dance (badly, because that's the only way I know how to dance) on Youtube with Libba Bray and John Green and Scott Westerfeld. And someday, when I'm old, and have written many many books, all of them precious to me, I will look a young, ambitious reporter full in the face, and answer a question. "My first novel was my most precious. Because I carried it around next to my heart*** for twenty years."
For now, though, I'll continue to blog. I'll continue to labor into the wee hours over papers whose topics I don't especially care about. I'll devour other people's stories in hopes that they will stick and become part of my own.
Someday, though (and it'll probably take a nasty case of hiccups), I will pour this entire novel onto paper (because it's so very uneloquent to say 'word document'). And I'll dance on Youtube with Libba Bray to celebrate.
Believe it.
***Don't worry, I Googled it: the heart is actually between the lungs. And the left lung, actually, is on the left side of your body if you look down at yourself. There! I did get a partial science gene after all!
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Imagine Again
Thirty years ago today John Lennon was shot and killed in New York City.
Earlier that day, Lennon had kindly stopped to sign an autograph for his murderer, who traveled all the way from Hawaii just to do the deed.
John Lennon was shot in the back by that man, who carried a copy of The Catcher in the Rye.
The other day, I came across a few quotes by Paul McCartney about John Lennon:
"I definitely did look up to John. We all looked up to John. He was older and he was very much the leader; he was the quickest wit and the smartest."
(when asked if he missed sitting knee to knee with John Lennon, writing songs) "Are you kidding? Of course I bloody miss it. I'm sitting in the room with John, him with me. Believe me, we're both pretty good editors. We were young turks. We were smartasses. And we did some amazing things. I would love him to be here now, saying, 'Don't bloody do that!' – or, more wonderfully, 'That's great!' So yeah, I really had the greatest writing partner."
And I decided to look for other places/ways John Lennon is remembered:
Here (Strawberry Fields, NYC)
Here (Imagine Peace Tower, Iceland)
Here
Here (A CD of my mom's; I grew up listening to it)
Here (The movie Nowhere Boy, about a young John Lennon)
Here (The Beatles)
And Here (John Lennon and his widow, Yoko Ono)
Finally, I just have to post the lyrics to that beautiful, beautiful song itself:
Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today...
Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace...
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world...
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one
Earlier that day, Lennon had kindly stopped to sign an autograph for his murderer, who traveled all the way from Hawaii just to do the deed.
John Lennon was shot in the back by that man, who carried a copy of The Catcher in the Rye.
The other day, I came across a few quotes by Paul McCartney about John Lennon:
"I definitely did look up to John. We all looked up to John. He was older and he was very much the leader; he was the quickest wit and the smartest."
(when asked if he missed sitting knee to knee with John Lennon, writing songs) "Are you kidding? Of course I bloody miss it. I'm sitting in the room with John, him with me. Believe me, we're both pretty good editors. We were young turks. We were smartasses. And we did some amazing things. I would love him to be here now, saying, 'Don't bloody do that!' – or, more wonderfully, 'That's great!' So yeah, I really had the greatest writing partner."
And I decided to look for other places/ways John Lennon is remembered:
Here (Strawberry Fields, NYC)
Here (Imagine Peace Tower, Iceland)
Here
Here (A CD of my mom's; I grew up listening to it)
Here (The movie Nowhere Boy, about a young John Lennon)
Here (The Beatles)
And Here (John Lennon and his widow, Yoko Ono)
Finally, I just have to post the lyrics to that beautiful, beautiful song itself:
Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today...
Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace...
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world...
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
An Unexpected Poem
While dutifully reading an uninteresting (to me) essay for my Understanding Writing class, I found this lovely poem at the very end:
To My Colleagues in the Field
And when that certain grounder
skips blur-white
across clipped June grass
and I move quickly but fumble it
the ball popping into the air before my eyes
I need you moving to cover second
timing my work while the ball's between us
ready to take my toss
tap the bag in stride
and wheel your own true throw to first
in time
you and I will teach the world
to collaborate
Tom Romano
The University of New Hampshire
To My Colleagues in the Field
And when that certain grounder
skips blur-white
across clipped June grass
and I move quickly but fumble it
the ball popping into the air before my eyes
I need you moving to cover second
timing my work while the ball's between us
ready to take my toss
tap the bag in stride
and wheel your own true throw to first
in time
you and I will teach the world
to collaborate
Tom Romano
The University of New Hampshire
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Goodbye to Teenage Holly
Hello everyone.
I am writing from my last few hours of being a teenager.
Now I know that you're as old as you feel, and that I'm not going to wake up tomorrow feeling any different than I feel right now.
But still.
20 years old.
Holy cow.
That's old.
I'm ending something tomorrow that I began when I was 13 years old. When I was just a little 7th grader.
It seems funny that my teenage years have spanned that distance. In fact, at this point, I don't even know what constitutes being a teenager. Is it the awkwardness? The bad hair and clothes? The 'changes?' The moodiness?
I'm inclined to think that being a teenager means that you're sort of discovering yourself. You're seeking out your niche in the world, and then you're filling it as best you can. You're changing your mind a lot, and you're figuring out what you like and don't like. You're making friends and losing friends and deciding that you can live without certain friends. You're dating. Or not. You're deciding who you want to date. You're deciding who you want to be for the rest of your life.
Well, I've decided. I've found the person that I want to be, and I've found the niche she fits into. My next task, I suppose, is to actually step into her shoes. She's not so very different from myself, actually. She's just a bit nicer, a bit more thoughful, confident, outgoing, responsible, productive, and hard-working. She's the best version of myself. Now I just have to learn how to be her 24 hours a day. It's certainly going to be a challenge.
So happy birthday to me (if you'll allow that).
Here's to the adult I'll eventually grow into.
May she have as many awkward, funny, wonderfully blog-worthy moments as teenage Holly has been blessed with.
Catch you on the flip side.
I am writing from my last few hours of being a teenager.
Now I know that you're as old as you feel, and that I'm not going to wake up tomorrow feeling any different than I feel right now.
But still.
20 years old.
Holy cow.
That's old.
I'm ending something tomorrow that I began when I was 13 years old. When I was just a little 7th grader.
It seems funny that my teenage years have spanned that distance. In fact, at this point, I don't even know what constitutes being a teenager. Is it the awkwardness? The bad hair and clothes? The 'changes?' The moodiness?
I'm inclined to think that being a teenager means that you're sort of discovering yourself. You're seeking out your niche in the world, and then you're filling it as best you can. You're changing your mind a lot, and you're figuring out what you like and don't like. You're making friends and losing friends and deciding that you can live without certain friends. You're dating. Or not. You're deciding who you want to date. You're deciding who you want to be for the rest of your life.
Well, I've decided. I've found the person that I want to be, and I've found the niche she fits into. My next task, I suppose, is to actually step into her shoes. She's not so very different from myself, actually. She's just a bit nicer, a bit more thoughful, confident, outgoing, responsible, productive, and hard-working. She's the best version of myself. Now I just have to learn how to be her 24 hours a day. It's certainly going to be a challenge.
So happy birthday to me (if you'll allow that).
Here's to the adult I'll eventually grow into.
May she have as many awkward, funny, wonderfully blog-worthy moments as teenage Holly has been blessed with.
Catch you on the flip side.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Things I Think
I think that sometimes you have bad days, and that those days feel like they drag on forever.
I think that sometimes people are hard to deal with, and that it's important to recognize that they're people too, and that they have their reasons just like everyone else.
I think that children can be as cruel as adults can.
I think that reading is the best way to forget everything, and the best way to remember what's really important.
I think that I'll probably never get the hang of parking.
I think that staring into space is underrated.
I think that being nice is worth a couple of scars.
I think that I'll settle into bed with The Aviator, some letters I have to write, and a comfy blanket, and work on erasing today to make room for tomorrow.
I think that Scarlett was right. Tomorrow is another day.
I think that sometimes people are hard to deal with, and that it's important to recognize that they're people too, and that they have their reasons just like everyone else.
I think that children can be as cruel as adults can.
I think that reading is the best way to forget everything, and the best way to remember what's really important.
I think that I'll probably never get the hang of parking.
I think that staring into space is underrated.
I think that being nice is worth a couple of scars.
I think that I'll settle into bed with The Aviator, some letters I have to write, and a comfy blanket, and work on erasing today to make room for tomorrow.
I think that Scarlett was right. Tomorrow is another day.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Channeling Amidala
An unfortunate incident happened to me today. So unfortunate (and embarrassing), in fact, that I considered not sharing it. However, the part of me that loves a good unfortunate and humiliating story overruled the part of me that feels the need to crawl under a rock for a few days. So, I'm sharing.
I got my eyebrows waxed for the first time this afternoon. Don't laugh yet (the unfortunate part is yet to come). I've never been particularly bothered by my eyebrows; I mean, I'm not up to Frida Kahlo standards or anything. But my mom was getting hers done anyway, and since I tend to like doing little girly spa-type things every once in awhile (ex: my nail color changes frequently), I thought I'd give it a try as well.
The actual waxing part was fine. What I didn't realize, however, is that the phrase 'getting your eyebrows waxed' actual stems from the word 'wax,' which means a hot, melty substance that is swirled onto an oversized Q-tip and applied to your brow line. Then, a strip of paper is placed onto the searing wax and ripped away suddenly, leaving you lacking in small hairs and wishing you were lacking in throbbing pain.
Okay, okay; it wasn't really that bad. The bad part was when I got into the car and flipped down the mirror to check out my newly-groomed eyebrows. What I noticed instead was that there were bright red burns shaped strangely similar to the smears of wax that had been rubbed in the exact same places about ten minutes ago. Three burns total: Between the brows, and below each one.
First Thought: Ow.
Second Thought: I look kind of like Queen Amidala (except I didn't really)
Third Thought: Oh, I'm going to have fun walking around the mall like this.
And I did have fun. Since the following shopping trip was necessary and unavoidable, I just kept my head down and followed my mom from store to store. The whole time I was praying that I wouldn't see anyone I know.
I saw two people I know, of course.
The humor came in the dressing room. Trying on a shirt: "Okay, Mom. I'm going to cover my forehead with my hand. Just focus on my eyes down. How does it look?"
Despite the eventual okay-ness and fun-ness, however, I'm still hoping that I wake up tomorrow looking normal. While I'm clearly not beyond explaining the situation to certain coworkers, I'm not sure I can take a full shift of curious looks.
Queen Amidala may be ashamed of my cowardice, but after all, I don't have a closet full of epic headdresses to distract from my brow.
I got my eyebrows waxed for the first time this afternoon. Don't laugh yet (the unfortunate part is yet to come). I've never been particularly bothered by my eyebrows; I mean, I'm not up to Frida Kahlo standards or anything. But my mom was getting hers done anyway, and since I tend to like doing little girly spa-type things every once in awhile (ex: my nail color changes frequently), I thought I'd give it a try as well.
The actual waxing part was fine. What I didn't realize, however, is that the phrase 'getting your eyebrows waxed' actual stems from the word 'wax,' which means a hot, melty substance that is swirled onto an oversized Q-tip and applied to your brow line. Then, a strip of paper is placed onto the searing wax and ripped away suddenly, leaving you lacking in small hairs and wishing you were lacking in throbbing pain.
Okay, okay; it wasn't really that bad. The bad part was when I got into the car and flipped down the mirror to check out my newly-groomed eyebrows. What I noticed instead was that there were bright red burns shaped strangely similar to the smears of wax that had been rubbed in the exact same places about ten minutes ago. Three burns total: Between the brows, and below each one.
First Thought: Ow.
Second Thought: I look kind of like Queen Amidala (except I didn't really)
Third Thought: Oh, I'm going to have fun walking around the mall like this.
And I did have fun. Since the following shopping trip was necessary and unavoidable, I just kept my head down and followed my mom from store to store. The whole time I was praying that I wouldn't see anyone I know.
I saw two people I know, of course.
The humor came in the dressing room. Trying on a shirt: "Okay, Mom. I'm going to cover my forehead with my hand. Just focus on my eyes down. How does it look?"
Despite the eventual okay-ness and fun-ness, however, I'm still hoping that I wake up tomorrow looking normal. While I'm clearly not beyond explaining the situation to certain coworkers, I'm not sure I can take a full shift of curious looks.
Queen Amidala may be ashamed of my cowardice, but after all, I don't have a closet full of epic headdresses to distract from my brow.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Talking About My Generation
I am currently feeling very proud of my generation, and for something that we as a group cannot necessarily take credit for. You know how the 60's had hippies and peace and the Beatles? And the 20's had jazz and F. Scott?
Well you know what the 90's had/has? Harry Potter. That's right everyone; you can keep your disco and your painted chapels and your Rin Tin Tin. We'll keep our magical world.
I suppose that J.K. is the one who really deserves the credit, although the movies never would have been made (and perhaps so many books wouldn't have been written), had the entire concept not been received so enthusiastically by us 90's children. People of other ages liked the books as well, but we were the ones who celebrated being the same age as Harry himself as we read, who trick-or-treated in robes and taped glasses, and who saw Harry first and foremost as a friend we knew as well as the kids across the street.
The final movies will be out within the next year or so. It makes me sad to think about the saga ending. Although I tend to think of the movies and the books as separate entities, it feels to me that with the release of Deathly Hallows Part 2, the magic will fly up and disappear in a thousand sparks. Harry will exist after that only on our book cases and in our DVD players. He will no longer grow and expand; he will simply remain as he is.
Someday, though, when our children reach that awkward, mystical age of eleven, we will sit by their bedsides, ignore their protests of, "oh but I'm too old to be read to!" and begin to tell them of the boy in the cupboard under the stairs. We won't stop until Harry matters to them as well.
Well you know what the 90's had/has? Harry Potter. That's right everyone; you can keep your disco and your painted chapels and your Rin Tin Tin. We'll keep our magical world.
I suppose that J.K. is the one who really deserves the credit, although the movies never would have been made (and perhaps so many books wouldn't have been written), had the entire concept not been received so enthusiastically by us 90's children. People of other ages liked the books as well, but we were the ones who celebrated being the same age as Harry himself as we read, who trick-or-treated in robes and taped glasses, and who saw Harry first and foremost as a friend we knew as well as the kids across the street.
The final movies will be out within the next year or so. It makes me sad to think about the saga ending. Although I tend to think of the movies and the books as separate entities, it feels to me that with the release of Deathly Hallows Part 2, the magic will fly up and disappear in a thousand sparks. Harry will exist after that only on our book cases and in our DVD players. He will no longer grow and expand; he will simply remain as he is.
Someday, though, when our children reach that awkward, mystical age of eleven, we will sit by their bedsides, ignore their protests of, "oh but I'm too old to be read to!" and begin to tell them of the boy in the cupboard under the stairs. We won't stop until Harry matters to them as well.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Me Write Pretty Some Day
I'm well aware that my writing is not always what you might call 'polished.' People have told me so. And while I like to think that in my blog I write the way I talk, and that when I write papers and such I tread more gracefully, I want to give you a taste of my 'pretty' writing. Okay, okay, so this is mainly to prove to myself that I can do it. Actually, not even that. I know I can do it. I just want to do it here. So here goes (p.s. the repetition of the word 'here' was intentional). Now I sound arrogant. You know, maybe I should make use of the backspace key right about now. But no. All of this nonsense will help me prove my point. Here we go again (more 'here' repetition? Jeez, who does this kid think she is?):
There are few moments of intense clarity in our lives. All other moments, the ones we bathe in and swear in and try to work out impossible calculus problems in, are simply part of the muddle. I fancied myself in a rare moment this afternoon, when I went down to the dock to read.
I lay down gradually; I started out sitting with crossed legs, book propped against my ankles, and I slowly slumped until I was sprawled on my stomach. Turning to the side a bit, the cool metal against my cheek balanced out the sun blazing in my hair. It was a lovely day, and I wondered if anyone would happen to look out and grin with approval at the teenager improving her mind amongst nature.
I always liked the word grin. There was an entire image associated with it. For example, in order to really truly grin, you had to have your face to the wind. Your solid-colored t-shirt had to be blowing back against your chest. You had to be standing on either a hill or some sort of elevated object. You had to have your lips pressed flat to gums, and your teeth had to be glinting.
I pondered all of this while the swallows flitted by and gingerly dipped blue wings into blue water.
Every so often there would be a loud splash, and my head would lift in time to see two dragonflies (apparently attached somehow-this I didn't dwell on) buzzing away. How such small insects could create a splash equivalent to that of a small child doing a cannonball was beyond me.
I only went up when the dogs were whining so loudly in their kennel that the waves lapping against the shore seemed darker than usual.
I think, as I rest dirty legs against clean blankets on my bed, that the clarity has left me. I could go down to the dock again, I suppose. I could look out at the water and imagine myself very knowledgeable indeed. But it's too dark to see anything now; the swallows would peer down at me with sleep-heavy eyes and chuckle dreamily to themselves. Silly girl, she thinks she knows us.
Tomorrow they'll let me back, though. I'll sit there for hours, tanning arms around knees. I'll sit there until I can see straight to the bottom.
There are few moments of intense clarity in our lives. All other moments, the ones we bathe in and swear in and try to work out impossible calculus problems in, are simply part of the muddle. I fancied myself in a rare moment this afternoon, when I went down to the dock to read.
I lay down gradually; I started out sitting with crossed legs, book propped against my ankles, and I slowly slumped until I was sprawled on my stomach. Turning to the side a bit, the cool metal against my cheek balanced out the sun blazing in my hair. It was a lovely day, and I wondered if anyone would happen to look out and grin with approval at the teenager improving her mind amongst nature.
I always liked the word grin. There was an entire image associated with it. For example, in order to really truly grin, you had to have your face to the wind. Your solid-colored t-shirt had to be blowing back against your chest. You had to be standing on either a hill or some sort of elevated object. You had to have your lips pressed flat to gums, and your teeth had to be glinting.
I pondered all of this while the swallows flitted by and gingerly dipped blue wings into blue water.
Every so often there would be a loud splash, and my head would lift in time to see two dragonflies (apparently attached somehow-this I didn't dwell on) buzzing away. How such small insects could create a splash equivalent to that of a small child doing a cannonball was beyond me.
I only went up when the dogs were whining so loudly in their kennel that the waves lapping against the shore seemed darker than usual.
I think, as I rest dirty legs against clean blankets on my bed, that the clarity has left me. I could go down to the dock again, I suppose. I could look out at the water and imagine myself very knowledgeable indeed. But it's too dark to see anything now; the swallows would peer down at me with sleep-heavy eyes and chuckle dreamily to themselves. Silly girl, she thinks she knows us.
Tomorrow they'll let me back, though. I'll sit there for hours, tanning arms around knees. I'll sit there until I can see straight to the bottom.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Is There Anyone Alive Out There?
Sometimes I wonder if anyone ever reads this blog. I don't mean familiar anyones, but strangers. Late night anyones who landed on this blog and decided to take a second look for some strange reason. Anyones who are interested in the musings of a nineteen-year-old college student who sometimes thinks that she's F. Scott Fitzgerald, and sometimes thinks that she's an Oompa Loompa (destined to sing and work for a man in purple all her life).
You see, I'm not sure exactly why I write this blog, but I suspect that it has something to do with you anyones. You give me hope, I guess. You make me feel like what I'm writing does matter, and maybe not just to me. Because the stuff I write in this blog, this stuff is who I am. This is my voice. This is what I sound like when I'm talking in a large room by myself. This is what the inside of my brain looks like.
I know exactly what I want to do with my life. I want to write and write and write and then I want people to tell me that my writing is good enough that I can just continue to do it forever. I've told you that I love to write before, I know. Writing is the hardest thing in the world, but it's the most beautiful and powerful thing in the world also. Maybe you don't feel the same about writing, dear anyones, but everyone feels this way about something.
This rant must end. Truthfully, it probably should have ended at Oompa Loompas, but I've never been one to know where to end things.
(The End)
You see, I'm not sure exactly why I write this blog, but I suspect that it has something to do with you anyones. You give me hope, I guess. You make me feel like what I'm writing does matter, and maybe not just to me. Because the stuff I write in this blog, this stuff is who I am. This is my voice. This is what I sound like when I'm talking in a large room by myself. This is what the inside of my brain looks like.
I know exactly what I want to do with my life. I want to write and write and write and then I want people to tell me that my writing is good enough that I can just continue to do it forever. I've told you that I love to write before, I know. Writing is the hardest thing in the world, but it's the most beautiful and powerful thing in the world also. Maybe you don't feel the same about writing, dear anyones, but everyone feels this way about something.
This rant must end. Truthfully, it probably should have ended at Oompa Loompas, but I've never been one to know where to end things.
(The End)
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