My hair is gone. I hate to make this into a huge deal (I currently have a facebook status mentioning it), but it's a rather big change to go from almost-middle-of-the-back length hair to above-the-ears length hair. I definitely wanted it, though. I've had the same haircut for about seven years of my life, and it was time for something drastic.
I can't tell if I like it or not yet. At first I loved it, and then the more I looked at myself in the mirror, the less the person staring back looked like me. Maybe it'll just take some getting used to, but somehow I feel like this hair doesn't fit the person wearing it. For one thing, teenage girls with really short hair tend to be edgy. I am in no way edgy. I started picturing myself in the various sweaters that I adore and wear all winter, and it was a fairly laughable image. Alas! My hair doesn't match my clothes!
Anyway, it will grow back if I decide I want long hair again, and in the meantime I'll just enjoy it and amuse myself by wearing baggy clothes and carrying skateboards and posing as a boy.
You honestly should have seen my mother's face when I walked out into the lobby of the salon (I hadn't told her what I was planning to do). It was the first time I've seen anyone outside of a TV show do an actual double take.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
A Good Thing That Happened to Me Today
It was around midday, after my first break, but still hours before my shift ended, and I was pushing a huge, heavy flat full of backstock into one of the storage rooms. This particular room had a door with a keypad, so naturally it wouldn't stay open on its own, and you were forced to tug the cart through using your back to prop the door. Unfortunately, my flat was so big and so cumbersome that I could only steer it in by pushing it, and thus could not keep the door open. As I struggled to overcome this obstacle, I spotted someone in the room across the way. I think his name is Aaron. He's roughly my age, I would guess, although my month at Target has taught me that people are often a completely different age than they appear. People I take to be in high school are married with three kids. It's scary, really.
Anyway, I called out to Aaron, asking him if he could do me a favor and hold the door open for me. He was really nice and obliging about it, and hurried over to help. As he leaned back against the door (no doubt praying that with all my swerving I would somehow manage to avoid crushing his feet with the flat), he joked about how difficult the flats are to handle. When I finally got the cart and myself fully inside the room, I thanked Aaron profusely, and he grinned and headed back to finish his work.
After I had dumped the flat and put all of the product away and was walking by the room where Aaron had been, I saw that he had the door (identical to the one he had held for me) propped open with a fire extinguisher. I immediately felt like kind of a bonehead; here I was calling for help like some silly damsel in distress when I had been perfectly capable of propping the door open and passing through all on my own.
I know this may not seem like much now, but at the time it struck me as very kind that Aaron hadn't merely yelled back in reply to my request that I could just prop the door. I don't know about you all, but I certainly appreciate people like that who don't feel the need to point out things that might make other people feel stupid or embarassed. And although I did feel like that later when I figured everything out for myself, it still made me smile to remember that instead of a dull fire extinguisher for a door prop, I got a living, breathing person who made my afternoon.
Anyway, I called out to Aaron, asking him if he could do me a favor and hold the door open for me. He was really nice and obliging about it, and hurried over to help. As he leaned back against the door (no doubt praying that with all my swerving I would somehow manage to avoid crushing his feet with the flat), he joked about how difficult the flats are to handle. When I finally got the cart and myself fully inside the room, I thanked Aaron profusely, and he grinned and headed back to finish his work.
After I had dumped the flat and put all of the product away and was walking by the room where Aaron had been, I saw that he had the door (identical to the one he had held for me) propped open with a fire extinguisher. I immediately felt like kind of a bonehead; here I was calling for help like some silly damsel in distress when I had been perfectly capable of propping the door open and passing through all on my own.
I know this may not seem like much now, but at the time it struck me as very kind that Aaron hadn't merely yelled back in reply to my request that I could just prop the door. I don't know about you all, but I certainly appreciate people like that who don't feel the need to point out things that might make other people feel stupid or embarassed. And although I did feel like that later when I figured everything out for myself, it still made me smile to remember that instead of a dull fire extinguisher for a door prop, I got a living, breathing person who made my afternoon.
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.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Never Let Me Go II
Quickly I want to tell you that I just finished Never Let Me Go.
I didn't cry at the end as I expected to. Instead, I felt (feel) quiet, like instead of filling me up with something, the book has left me empty. Grasping for understanding, I guess. But that is, I think, what the novel is about. Something out of your reach, something you were never meant to have, and how empty your life suddenly seems now that you've missed it. Or maybe it's the realization that you don't miss it even now that you're aware of its existence, because you weren't taught how to miss it. It's about missing the choice, or even the ability, to miss what you don't have.
Not a sad ending, really. It's simply bleak. And very, very beautiful. Here, I'll quote a bit for you:
"I half-closed my eyes and imagined this was the spot where everything I'd ever lost since my childhood had washed up, and I was now standing here in front of it, and if I waited long enough, a tiny figure would appear on the horizon across the field, and gradually get larger until I'd see it was Tommy, and he'd wave, maybe even call. The fantasy never got beyond that-I didn't let it-and though the tears rolled down my face, I wasn't sobbing or out of control. I just waited a bit, then turned back to the car, to drive off to wherever it was I was supposed to be."
Thank you to Mr. Ishiguro. It was a privilege to read, truly.
I didn't cry at the end as I expected to. Instead, I felt (feel) quiet, like instead of filling me up with something, the book has left me empty. Grasping for understanding, I guess. But that is, I think, what the novel is about. Something out of your reach, something you were never meant to have, and how empty your life suddenly seems now that you've missed it. Or maybe it's the realization that you don't miss it even now that you're aware of its existence, because you weren't taught how to miss it. It's about missing the choice, or even the ability, to miss what you don't have.
Not a sad ending, really. It's simply bleak. And very, very beautiful. Here, I'll quote a bit for you:
"I half-closed my eyes and imagined this was the spot where everything I'd ever lost since my childhood had washed up, and I was now standing here in front of it, and if I waited long enough, a tiny figure would appear on the horizon across the field, and gradually get larger until I'd see it was Tommy, and he'd wave, maybe even call. The fantasy never got beyond that-I didn't let it-and though the tears rolled down my face, I wasn't sobbing or out of control. I just waited a bit, then turned back to the car, to drive off to wherever it was I was supposed to be."
Thank you to Mr. Ishiguro. It was a privilege to read, truly.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Never Let Me Go
I just finished watching Julie and Julia with my sister. We had an awful time tonight choosing a movie. It went back and forth with neither of us wanting to watch what the other person wanted to watch, while at the same time neither of us had a personal preference to offer to the other person. In the end, though, it was Julie and Julia, which Amy had never seen and which I had only seen once back in January. A good choice, I think, and when it was over all there was left to do was turn off the TV and head into our respective bedrooms. It is almost 2 a.m., after all.
I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed right now, with a blanket across my lap because the darn laptop is cold after sitting asleep on my desk for so long. The thunderstorm we've been trying to ignore all night has finally drifted away to the East, and although the dogs have settled down with its passing, I miss the background booms and flashes of light.
I've never been one to say that I love storms, and to run outside to watch the clouds as they flicker and the trees as they get ripped up at the roots and blown into the neighbor's yard. In fact, I used to hide under my covers and curl into a ball away from the window (because I didn't want my eye to be sliced out Spiderman 2 style if the glass broke, of course). Nowadays, I actually enjoy reading during storms. It seems like a sort of a cozy, romantic thing to do, doesn't it?
Anyway, as I said, the storm has passed and I am left as always in a silent house with my books, my computer, and a few thoughts rattling around up top.
Can't think of any at the moment, of course.
I guess I could tell you about the book I'm reading currently. It's called Never Let Me Go, written by Kazuo Ishiguro. I first decided to read it because I was making my usual rounds of my bookmarked websites, and came upon a movie trailer of a movie based on the book. The film has Carey Mulligan and Keira Knightley, two people I like very much, and guess what? The trailer actually looks really good. I know it's stupid to judge a movie by its trailer, but I'm very optimistic.
Despite my excitement over the movie, I wanted the book first. It's only right, after all, and as (as you're probably aware of by now) I don't entirely loathe the written world, I thought I'd crack open the novel and see if there was a good story behind the intriguing title.
Let me tell you, dear people, there certainly is. It's a good story, it's a well written story, and it's a story that is revealed to you bit by bit. I'm on page 142, which is roughly halfway through, and I'm completely enthralled. It isn't one of those books you can't put down, let me warn you. It's one of those books that is so fascinating that you have trouble picking it up, not only because you don't want it to be over too soon, but because you feel you have to read it somewhere special, where you can really sit back and savor it. This is not a book to be read on a bus or in a waiting room. You have to read it when you're alone, preferably outside.
But I won't make rules for you. Just pick it up for yourself and see what I mean. The Forest Lake library has four copies, if you're in the area, and when you've finished you can stop by Target and tell me how you liked it. I work 6 a.m. to 12:30 all next week and the week after.
I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed right now, with a blanket across my lap because the darn laptop is cold after sitting asleep on my desk for so long. The thunderstorm we've been trying to ignore all night has finally drifted away to the East, and although the dogs have settled down with its passing, I miss the background booms and flashes of light.
I've never been one to say that I love storms, and to run outside to watch the clouds as they flicker and the trees as they get ripped up at the roots and blown into the neighbor's yard. In fact, I used to hide under my covers and curl into a ball away from the window (because I didn't want my eye to be sliced out Spiderman 2 style if the glass broke, of course). Nowadays, I actually enjoy reading during storms. It seems like a sort of a cozy, romantic thing to do, doesn't it?
Anyway, as I said, the storm has passed and I am left as always in a silent house with my books, my computer, and a few thoughts rattling around up top.
Can't think of any at the moment, of course.
I guess I could tell you about the book I'm reading currently. It's called Never Let Me Go, written by Kazuo Ishiguro. I first decided to read it because I was making my usual rounds of my bookmarked websites, and came upon a movie trailer of a movie based on the book. The film has Carey Mulligan and Keira Knightley, two people I like very much, and guess what? The trailer actually looks really good. I know it's stupid to judge a movie by its trailer, but I'm very optimistic.
Despite my excitement over the movie, I wanted the book first. It's only right, after all, and as (as you're probably aware of by now) I don't entirely loathe the written world, I thought I'd crack open the novel and see if there was a good story behind the intriguing title.
Let me tell you, dear people, there certainly is. It's a good story, it's a well written story, and it's a story that is revealed to you bit by bit. I'm on page 142, which is roughly halfway through, and I'm completely enthralled. It isn't one of those books you can't put down, let me warn you. It's one of those books that is so fascinating that you have trouble picking it up, not only because you don't want it to be over too soon, but because you feel you have to read it somewhere special, where you can really sit back and savor it. This is not a book to be read on a bus or in a waiting room. You have to read it when you're alone, preferably outside.
But I won't make rules for you. Just pick it up for yourself and see what I mean. The Forest Lake library has four copies, if you're in the area, and when you've finished you can stop by Target and tell me how you liked it. I work 6 a.m. to 12:30 all next week and the week after.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Sleep Aids
I haven't been sleeping well lately. I go to bed at around 1 a.m., and I wake up around 11 a.m., which sounds like a solid amount of sleep, although it's not considering that in between those two times I wake up continually. When my alarm goes off at 11, I'm not tired, exactly; I simply feel like I missed out on sleep, like my brain isn't fully satiated. It's very similar to the feeling you get when you're incredibly thirsty, but you can only have a small glass of water. It doesn't quite hit the spot.
I wasn't sure why exactly I wasn't sleeping well until my mom suggested today that maybe it's because I haven't had enough mental stimulation. That kind of makes sense. Thanks, Mom.
I mean, think about it: I went from going to class every day and having to concentrate and take notes and grasp the material and then go back to my dorm and study for hours, to sitting around and reading and watching TV and working maybe 30 hours a week on average. My work can be stressful, sure, but at this point I know enough about what's going on that I have to concentrate a lot less.
How to get that mental stimulation back? Well, I have a few ideas.
Idea No. 1: Begin teaching myself German.
My Dad has old German textbooks around somewhere, and I found a great free language teaching website called livemocha that is very helpful. I am taking German 1 in the fall, but it certainly can't hurt to get a bit of a head start.
Idea No. 2: Write more.
I haven't worked on any of my stories for a few days. I should definitely get back on that.
Idea No. 3: Run around outside more.
I work so much that I don't really have time to get much exercise, or even to be out in the fresh air. I should take advantage of the time I have at home and go for a bike ride or something.
I wasn't sure why exactly I wasn't sleeping well until my mom suggested today that maybe it's because I haven't had enough mental stimulation. That kind of makes sense. Thanks, Mom.
I mean, think about it: I went from going to class every day and having to concentrate and take notes and grasp the material and then go back to my dorm and study for hours, to sitting around and reading and watching TV and working maybe 30 hours a week on average. My work can be stressful, sure, but at this point I know enough about what's going on that I have to concentrate a lot less.
How to get that mental stimulation back? Well, I have a few ideas.
Idea No. 1: Begin teaching myself German.
My Dad has old German textbooks around somewhere, and I found a great free language teaching website called livemocha that is very helpful. I am taking German 1 in the fall, but it certainly can't hurt to get a bit of a head start.
Idea No. 2: Write more.
I haven't worked on any of my stories for a few days. I should definitely get back on that.
Idea No. 3: Run around outside more.
I work so much that I don't really have time to get much exercise, or even to be out in the fresh air. I should take advantage of the time I have at home and go for a bike ride or something.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Bank
I had a day off from work today. What did I do? Well, I mainly lazed around reading books and watching TV and reading the newspaper and checking facebook and reading outside while watching the dogs out my peripheral. I did get some business-like stuff done, however; I did laundry and went to the bank.
I loathe the bank, despite the fact that it contains most of my life savings (or what's left of them after a year of college). The only thing I loathe more than the bank itself is going to the bank. For one thing, it's an extremely conspicuous place to go. I always feel like I have to dress up. The bank is no place for a messy ponytail and athletic shorts. Everyone watches you as you come in, you and your flip flops and your 'grown up' purse. They sit in cubicles with mugs of coffee, waiting for you to sit down in front of them in one of the conveniently-placed chairs.
If you don't sit down, however, if you're a disappointing teenager who only wants to put your latest paycheck into your savings account, they let their eyes slide past you onto the granite tile at your feet. You walk up to the counter and smile before sliding the check across. The teller is usually a pretty young woman. She's polite and asks you how you are as she zips your check through the computer. You don't answer. You're not supposed to, of course. If you've requested to receive some cash out of that paycheck, you have to wait while she counts it aloud for you. Then you have to fiddle with your wallet for a few tense seconds, trying to shove the bills in with the stray change and gum wrappers. The people behind you sigh and mentally tap their heels in your ear, and you finally finish and hurry away from the counter and through the door, feeling the air-conditioned chill slam you in the back as you leave. A final insult that reminds you that you're parked crookedly in the lot, and that you'll have another check to deposit in two weeks. Thank you, and come again.
I loathe the bank, despite the fact that it contains most of my life savings (or what's left of them after a year of college). The only thing I loathe more than the bank itself is going to the bank. For one thing, it's an extremely conspicuous place to go. I always feel like I have to dress up. The bank is no place for a messy ponytail and athletic shorts. Everyone watches you as you come in, you and your flip flops and your 'grown up' purse. They sit in cubicles with mugs of coffee, waiting for you to sit down in front of them in one of the conveniently-placed chairs.
If you don't sit down, however, if you're a disappointing teenager who only wants to put your latest paycheck into your savings account, they let their eyes slide past you onto the granite tile at your feet. You walk up to the counter and smile before sliding the check across. The teller is usually a pretty young woman. She's polite and asks you how you are as she zips your check through the computer. You don't answer. You're not supposed to, of course. If you've requested to receive some cash out of that paycheck, you have to wait while she counts it aloud for you. Then you have to fiddle with your wallet for a few tense seconds, trying to shove the bills in with the stray change and gum wrappers. The people behind you sigh and mentally tap their heels in your ear, and you finally finish and hurry away from the counter and through the door, feeling the air-conditioned chill slam you in the back as you leave. A final insult that reminds you that you're parked crookedly in the lot, and that you'll have another check to deposit in two weeks. Thank you, and come again.
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