Note that I wrote this a couple of months ago when it happened, and am only now getting around to posting it. I hope that I am not a writer whose relevance is lost as time passes.
Saturday night was a night of music for me, and the full spectrum of music at that. I saw not one, not two, but three live performances.
Piedmont Chamber Singers
If not for my student ID, I would not have been in attendance for the 7:30 concert at St. Timothy's Episcopal Church. Rob is a member of the Piedmont Chamber Singers, but the bounds of our friendship does not cover paying for a $15 ticket to hear him sing. Luckily, student tickets were $6, and without getting into the moral discussion of whether I should be using my student ID to get discounts anymore, I would like to say that if I hadn't gone as a student, I wouldn't have gone at all.
Going was kind of an impromptu decision, so I was late, mostly because I couldn't figure out what to wear. I ended up looking severe and not at all feminine in some black pants and a gray sweater. I slid into a pew just as the Piedmont Chamber Singers or at least some other group of smiling people in black formal wear filed out.
Yes, yes, the music was lovely, the arrangements were splendid, and the direction was superb. Which is to say that my mind started to wander well before intermission. The theme was folk songs, and I started thinking about the ridiculousness of the group singing folk songs. These were white-collar, upper middle class Southerners singing about hunting caribou in Inuit. I felt that the moment someone decided to make an arrangement of a folk song, it ceased to be a song of the folk. The folk do not sing while wearing tuxedos, the folk do not sing from sheet music, and the folk do not drive to the event in their SUVs.
One other item of interest: An arranger of some of the songs was present that night, and it was his wife's birthday. The director made us all sing "Happy Birthday" to dear Olive. Aside from the people up front, there were professional, or at least well-trained, singers all in the audience. I'd just like to say that you've never heard "Happy Birthday" until you've heard it in four-part harmony with several lingering sopranos at the end of each line. I myself sang quietly, as I am neither professional nor well-trained, nor even any good at all.
The Finks
Part of my difficulty in choosing what to wear that night was the fact that I would be appearing at two very different venues. Before I went into The Werehouse, I took off my gray sweater for the second part of the evening. Don't worry - I had something on underneath the sweater; it wasn't that kind of evening. I had a vintage t-shirt on underneath, also gray, but I think it used to be black. I'd call that ready to see a rock show.
I didn't know I was going to see The Finks until I arrived at The Werehouse. I'd never heard of them, because they are a local band, and I am only recently local to the same area. I was lured into conversation with a banker sitting next to me who was here to see them. He was a fan. He told me about The Finks, and then we talked about chaos theory. It was a weird night.
They weren't bad. I toe-tapped to the music, but I didn't find it striking. The Finks are a regular local rock band, though I will admit that they are leagues ahead of most local bands. Plus, they put on an interesting show to watch. The guy in charge of the witty banter in between songs was not as witty as I would have liked, though he had his moments. Later, the banker who was a fan came back to me to ask what I thought. I might have exaggerrated my opinion a tad. He said, "Yeah, they're great! They're like the Pixies without the melody!" I decided that I agreed with him, and at that moment, I realized that one of the things I liked most about The Pixies was...the melody.
Captured! By Robots
I would just like to note that the exclamation point is part of the name of the band. The exclamation-point-in-the-middle is the new version of the umlaut-over-any-vowel-ever so prevalent in 80s metal bands.
The banker was at the Werehouse for The Finks, but as I told him, "I'm here for the robots." I'd never heard any of C!BR's songs. All I know that it was a guy who, discovering his talents for computers and therefore his lack of friends, decided to make his own band by programming some robots. The result ended up being like some cross between those giant mice at Chuck e' Cheese and Johnny Five's foul-mouthed cousin. There was a trio of politicians making up the horn section in the back and a pair of stuffed gorillas playing cymbals, though I think those were all more for show, as their command of their individual instruments seemed limited. The gorillas did talk, though. The drum-bot and the guitar-bot were pretty cool, though. They had personalities and they played instruments; if they'd been skinny and pale, I would've hit on them. Part of their speech seemed recorded, particularly during the songs, but at other times, the actual living person in the band was speaking through some microphone/speech modifier.
Casey told me once that Captured! By Robots is something everyone should see at least once, but that one viewing was probably sufficient. As entertainment, it was worth the fiver I spent, but as music...well, let's just say I didn't buy a CD. Although maybe I should have, again for pure entertainment value. C!BR's latest CD features songs about the movie The Ten Commandments, and anytime you have a song where you have Moses rapping that he is a gangsta' Old Testament style, then you have something special on your hands.
I don't know why the rest of the audience was there. Maybe for The Finks. In any case, about midway through the show, the one non-AI member of of the band just left for a song. And the robots played a whole song unattended. Me, I thought it was pretty cool, but about half of the audience members took it as a good opportunity to make an escape. Perhaps they thought the show was over, but more likely they figured it wouldn't hurt the robots' feelings if they snuck out then. I think a lot of people were there out of curiosity. I talked to a couple before the show who admitted as much, and even I could tell from my prior knowledge of C!BR and by looking at these people in their Gap gear that they were not going to stay the whole show. There's nothing wrong with that - foul-mouthed animatronic musicians are not for everyone. The same could be said for chamber singing and garage bands.
8.21.2005
8.17.2005
nothing tragic.
One of my coworkers was making small talk back when I first started at the company. He asked when my birthday was, and I told him that it was in late October. He then asked if I had been forced to wait an extra year to go to school because I didn't turn five until the end of the month. I thought it was a really odd question. Most people make some sort of Halloween comment when I tell them my birthday. Turns out his kid was going to turn five this year, right after the cut-off for starting kindergarten. He was worried that being made to start school would adversely affect his child.
Not to worry, I said. I'm sure it affected me, but nothing tragic.
The funny thing is, I knew exactly what he was talking about as soon as he said it. I did have to wait an extra year, and I remember it being an issue. I don't think it was so much a problem for me - I didn't care. But I remember my mother explaining to me that to start kindergarten in the fall of 1987, you had to turn five by October 15 of that year. I would not turn five until October 30. Two weeks. Maybe my mother was put out by the inconvenience of having to keep me around the house for another year. It did seem stupid to miss it by only fifteen days, but the school system has to set a firm date somewhere, and I suppose that's where it landed.
So I started school in the fall of 1988, almost six years old. Ever since my coworker asked me how the extra year has affected me, I've been thinking of all the ways. The answer I should have told him is no, I've never been able to tell any adverse effects, but yes, it will affect your child's life in ways that you will never know. Of course, there's no way to know every difference - perhaps I would've been killed in a class field trip or won some sort of lottery only available to children born before October 15, 1982. It's a massive game of "What if?" where you don't think about that promotion you didn't get or that girl you rear-ended, but you start at the very beginning with something as basic as your birthdate.
This isn't the first time this idea has occurred to me. I used to be very glad that I waited a year to start school, because I didn't like a lot of the people in the class ahead of me. Also, it was always really cool to be older than everyone else. I hit all the major rite of passage ages before all my friends: 13, 16, 18, 21. Then I hit 22, and I realized that 21 was probably the last age when it was cooler to be older. When I hit 30, I'm going to look around at all my 29 year old friends and wish I'd been born a couple of weeks earlier so that I'd be hanging out with older people. Or maybe I should just start hanging out with some older people before then.
But now I realize there was a lot more to it than being able to tell a friend that being seven was so passe when she finally reached it months after I did. In high school, I might not have gotten the same scholarship opportunities that I got, because the graduating class ahead of mine had two very ambitious students that worked the system better than I would have thought possible, and I worked it pretty darn well. I might not have gone to Appalachian. That's a toss-up, depending on whether I would've been serious enough about my relationship with Casey to follow him to school, given that he and I even got together in the first place. Even if I had gone to ASU, I probably would not have ended up with a job in Winston. I know the guy they hired at the end of what would have been my graduating year, and I'm thinking he would've beaten me out for the job.
But the difference I think about most are the people. The people surrounding you make such a huge difference just by being a part of your life. They influence your decisions, both the daily ones of what movie you watch that night and the major ones, like where you go to college. Plus, I know some really amazing people, and I have to think that they are way better than anyone I would have met in the life of the Sandra that was born before the fifteenth of October. I look down my buddy list, and I can check all but a few as being people that I only know because I was born two weeks "too late."
Granted, I realize that I would simply have a different group of friends that I would probably like very much, but that's not the point. These are my friends, and I want to keep them. My grade school and high school set would be completely different. I would not have my college roommates, all my ex-coworkers, my friends from all those high school summer programs. And yes, I would still have college roommates and ex-coworkers and old high school buddies, but they would be a completely different set of people. And true, I'd never know the difference, but I look at those friends of mine, and I am nothing but relieved that I decided to hang out in the uterus for a couple more weeks.
Those are only the differences that are obvious. Things like where you went to college and where you get your first job, those are the major crossroads where it's clear to you that one path is very different from another. Differences like the fact that I wouldn't have gotten the chicken pox from that kid in my kindergarten class - who can tell how much or little effect that may have had on me? Everything affects everything, and it is only by a very long series of events and choices and chances that I have ended up as this person sitting where I sit. Ending up this girl right here was very unlikely, though just as likely as any of the billion other girls I could've turned out to be. So that alternate Sandra, that one who is two weeks older than I am, she may have my eyes and my mother's thighs, but she is somewhere completely different, and she is someone else.
All of this struck me hard while I was standing in Josh's kitchen, which I was only doing because I had been born two weeks too late. Otherwise I wouldn't be in Winston, I wouldn't know Josh. I wouldn't be standing in his kitchen, eating pancakes and bacon, unwinding from a long day of packaging installs, wearing that green shirt with those jeans, sporting those Buddy Holly glasses, and thinking about the importance of fifteen days, because I would be someone else. I asked him, "Did you know that if I had been born a couple of weeks earlier, we never would have met?" He flipped a pancake, shook his head and smiled at me as he answered, "That would have been tragic."
Not to worry, I said. I'm sure it affected me, but nothing tragic.
The funny thing is, I knew exactly what he was talking about as soon as he said it. I did have to wait an extra year, and I remember it being an issue. I don't think it was so much a problem for me - I didn't care. But I remember my mother explaining to me that to start kindergarten in the fall of 1987, you had to turn five by October 15 of that year. I would not turn five until October 30. Two weeks. Maybe my mother was put out by the inconvenience of having to keep me around the house for another year. It did seem stupid to miss it by only fifteen days, but the school system has to set a firm date somewhere, and I suppose that's where it landed.
So I started school in the fall of 1988, almost six years old. Ever since my coworker asked me how the extra year has affected me, I've been thinking of all the ways. The answer I should have told him is no, I've never been able to tell any adverse effects, but yes, it will affect your child's life in ways that you will never know. Of course, there's no way to know every difference - perhaps I would've been killed in a class field trip or won some sort of lottery only available to children born before October 15, 1982. It's a massive game of "What if?" where you don't think about that promotion you didn't get or that girl you rear-ended, but you start at the very beginning with something as basic as your birthdate.
This isn't the first time this idea has occurred to me. I used to be very glad that I waited a year to start school, because I didn't like a lot of the people in the class ahead of me. Also, it was always really cool to be older than everyone else. I hit all the major rite of passage ages before all my friends: 13, 16, 18, 21. Then I hit 22, and I realized that 21 was probably the last age when it was cooler to be older. When I hit 30, I'm going to look around at all my 29 year old friends and wish I'd been born a couple of weeks earlier so that I'd be hanging out with older people. Or maybe I should just start hanging out with some older people before then.
But now I realize there was a lot more to it than being able to tell a friend that being seven was so passe when she finally reached it months after I did. In high school, I might not have gotten the same scholarship opportunities that I got, because the graduating class ahead of mine had two very ambitious students that worked the system better than I would have thought possible, and I worked it pretty darn well. I might not have gone to Appalachian. That's a toss-up, depending on whether I would've been serious enough about my relationship with Casey to follow him to school, given that he and I even got together in the first place. Even if I had gone to ASU, I probably would not have ended up with a job in Winston. I know the guy they hired at the end of what would have been my graduating year, and I'm thinking he would've beaten me out for the job.
But the difference I think about most are the people. The people surrounding you make such a huge difference just by being a part of your life. They influence your decisions, both the daily ones of what movie you watch that night and the major ones, like where you go to college. Plus, I know some really amazing people, and I have to think that they are way better than anyone I would have met in the life of the Sandra that was born before the fifteenth of October. I look down my buddy list, and I can check all but a few as being people that I only know because I was born two weeks "too late."
Granted, I realize that I would simply have a different group of friends that I would probably like very much, but that's not the point. These are my friends, and I want to keep them. My grade school and high school set would be completely different. I would not have my college roommates, all my ex-coworkers, my friends from all those high school summer programs. And yes, I would still have college roommates and ex-coworkers and old high school buddies, but they would be a completely different set of people. And true, I'd never know the difference, but I look at those friends of mine, and I am nothing but relieved that I decided to hang out in the uterus for a couple more weeks.
Those are only the differences that are obvious. Things like where you went to college and where you get your first job, those are the major crossroads where it's clear to you that one path is very different from another. Differences like the fact that I wouldn't have gotten the chicken pox from that kid in my kindergarten class - who can tell how much or little effect that may have had on me? Everything affects everything, and it is only by a very long series of events and choices and chances that I have ended up as this person sitting where I sit. Ending up this girl right here was very unlikely, though just as likely as any of the billion other girls I could've turned out to be. So that alternate Sandra, that one who is two weeks older than I am, she may have my eyes and my mother's thighs, but she is somewhere completely different, and she is someone else.
All of this struck me hard while I was standing in Josh's kitchen, which I was only doing because I had been born two weeks too late. Otherwise I wouldn't be in Winston, I wouldn't know Josh. I wouldn't be standing in his kitchen, eating pancakes and bacon, unwinding from a long day of packaging installs, wearing that green shirt with those jeans, sporting those Buddy Holly glasses, and thinking about the importance of fifteen days, because I would be someone else. I asked him, "Did you know that if I had been born a couple of weeks earlier, we never would have met?" He flipped a pancake, shook his head and smiled at me as he answered, "That would have been tragic."
8.08.2005
bad taste.
There's a vineyard a mere five miles from my apartment, one I've driven by but not officially visited. It's getting to be grape harvest time, and the vines are all laden with fruity burdens. Vineyards can be very pretty indeed, and rows upon rows of healthy green plants appeal to both my outdoorsy and my mathematical sides (look at all the straight lines - how pleasing!). So I thought I'd go down to the vineyard with my trusty camera and capture some memories of the 2005 growing season.
I'd been meaning to do this for a couple of weeks, but finally got around to it Sunday afternoon. So I made the short drive, parked my car in the visitor lot and then trotted the dozen or so yards to the vineyards. I didn't even have to hop a fence. I was meandering up and down the rows, taking pictures wherever I managed to find a break in the netting used to keep out the birds. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and this particular vineyard has a kind of rustic southern charm about it. I was tempted to eat a couple of the grapes, but I resisted, since I figured the owners of the vineyard might not like that so much. I even made a point to not even touch the vines or look as if I were doing so, so as not to even look like I might be eating the fruit. I'd been perusing the vines for maybe ten minutes when a voice called out behind me.
"Can I help you?"
That question can be such a loaded one. If I'd gone up to a vineyard employee or if I'd been obviously looking confused, then asking me if I needed assistance would have been very helpful and proper. But when I'm clearly not seeking help of any kind, asking me if I need it is only telling me that you think that I do need it. I'm always confused as to how to answer it in these situations. The answer is no, but people don't seem to care for that response. But seeing as I haven't yet found a better one, I still go for that one.
"No. Thank you." I try to tack on the thanks so as not to appear rude. I also explained to the man that I was just walking around and taking pictures, even going so far as to compliment the beauty of the vines for good measure, because I was getting the impression that I was in trouble. The man went into an extended lecture about pesticides and liability. He told me that if someone wishes to explore the vineyards, the person should first come to the sales room and ask permission, so that they can receive the pesticide and liability lecture in advance. That all made good sense, and honestly I felt a little foolish for not thinking of that myself, so I apologized very nicely and promised both not to eat the grapes and to ask permission next time. He seemed to want to say something more, but instead just unsmilingly accepted my apologies and walked back towards the sales room. I got the impression that he had more lecture planned, as if he expected me to resist or argue.
I continued my wandering tour, but found the temperature to be a little much after a few minutes. So I found a shady spot under a tree at the edge of the vineyard, sat down, and pulled out a notebook to write awhile. I was a little grumpy from my encounter with the old man, not because I didn't understand why I had been lectured, but because of his seeming lack of acceptance of my apology. I had said I was sorry and I had been very nice about it, so if there was nothing more, why hadn't he just smiled and let it go? I idly considered some amusing forms of payback, some of them more clever (buying a bunch of table grapes, hiding the bag, and eating them in full view) than others (taking a picture of my extended middle finger).
After another quarter hour, a shiny silver Mercedes drove up and stopped right on the other side of the fence from my shady spot. A woman with platinum hair got out, and there was that question again:
"Can I help you?"
I was really confused now, because the tone was very angry. What kind of place is it that customer service representatives agressively seek out people to help and then yell at them?
"No." I was so confused that I forgot to thank her for her very unfriendly offer.
"Excuse me?" This woman apparently really wanted to help me.
"No, uh, thank you?" Now I was just asking what the right answer was. Apparently, mine wasn't it, as she began a long tirade, very similar to the one I'd just heard, but in a much angrier voice. I was still very confused, but my righteous indigation did not kick in and I did not interrupt until she got to the phrase "refused to leave." I informed her that I had not been asked to leave, so I could have hardly refused it. The statement seemed to take the wind out of her sails, an unforeseen ad-lib in her thoroughly prepared script, like when you prove to a telemarketer that you're already getting a better rate.
Regardless of whether I'd been asked to leave before, I was clearly being asked to leave now. Not content to let me walk through the vineyard back to my car, the woman told me that she would drive me back. Also, she wanted to talk about pesticides and liability some more. When we crossed into the parking lot, she suddenly seemed to realize that I was a member of the grand class of consumers and decided to make nice. She said, "You're still more than welcome to come into our sales room and try some wines. I just don't want you to just leave with a bad taste in your mouth." I thanked her, resisting the urge to say, "Well, I hardly think tasting your wine is going to help that."
I perused the sales and tasting room for a few minutes. I considered buying something to show that I held no hard feelings, but that would have been dishonest, since I was holding some hard feelings. I didn't even partake in a free tasting. The old man who had originally lectured me was giving a tasting, and he asked me if I'd gotten all the pictures I'd wanted. After the required five minutes of browsing, I headed for the door, pausing once more to apologize for the misunderstanding to the Mercedes lady. She was all smiles now, but it was clear that she just wanted to get me out of there, particularly since I was obviously not buying.
Sales room or no, I left with a rotten taste in my mouth, and judging from the salt content, it wasn't just because of my sweat. I was grumpy and pouty. I have a fear of consequences anyway, and when they are doled to me unfairly, I get unpleasant. I tried to make light of it to myself: I'd just gotten kicked out of a vineyard, and I'm not the kind of girl who gets kicked out of anywhere. I realized that in few years time, I'd find the whole story pretty amusing.
But not yet.
I'd been meaning to do this for a couple of weeks, but finally got around to it Sunday afternoon. So I made the short drive, parked my car in the visitor lot and then trotted the dozen or so yards to the vineyards. I didn't even have to hop a fence. I was meandering up and down the rows, taking pictures wherever I managed to find a break in the netting used to keep out the birds. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and this particular vineyard has a kind of rustic southern charm about it. I was tempted to eat a couple of the grapes, but I resisted, since I figured the owners of the vineyard might not like that so much. I even made a point to not even touch the vines or look as if I were doing so, so as not to even look like I might be eating the fruit. I'd been perusing the vines for maybe ten minutes when a voice called out behind me.
"Can I help you?"
That question can be such a loaded one. If I'd gone up to a vineyard employee or if I'd been obviously looking confused, then asking me if I needed assistance would have been very helpful and proper. But when I'm clearly not seeking help of any kind, asking me if I need it is only telling me that you think that I do need it. I'm always confused as to how to answer it in these situations. The answer is no, but people don't seem to care for that response. But seeing as I haven't yet found a better one, I still go for that one.
"No. Thank you." I try to tack on the thanks so as not to appear rude. I also explained to the man that I was just walking around and taking pictures, even going so far as to compliment the beauty of the vines for good measure, because I was getting the impression that I was in trouble. The man went into an extended lecture about pesticides and liability. He told me that if someone wishes to explore the vineyards, the person should first come to the sales room and ask permission, so that they can receive the pesticide and liability lecture in advance. That all made good sense, and honestly I felt a little foolish for not thinking of that myself, so I apologized very nicely and promised both not to eat the grapes and to ask permission next time. He seemed to want to say something more, but instead just unsmilingly accepted my apologies and walked back towards the sales room. I got the impression that he had more lecture planned, as if he expected me to resist or argue.
I continued my wandering tour, but found the temperature to be a little much after a few minutes. So I found a shady spot under a tree at the edge of the vineyard, sat down, and pulled out a notebook to write awhile. I was a little grumpy from my encounter with the old man, not because I didn't understand why I had been lectured, but because of his seeming lack of acceptance of my apology. I had said I was sorry and I had been very nice about it, so if there was nothing more, why hadn't he just smiled and let it go? I idly considered some amusing forms of payback, some of them more clever (buying a bunch of table grapes, hiding the bag, and eating them in full view) than others (taking a picture of my extended middle finger).
After another quarter hour, a shiny silver Mercedes drove up and stopped right on the other side of the fence from my shady spot. A woman with platinum hair got out, and there was that question again:
"Can I help you?"
I was really confused now, because the tone was very angry. What kind of place is it that customer service representatives agressively seek out people to help and then yell at them?
"No." I was so confused that I forgot to thank her for her very unfriendly offer.
"Excuse me?" This woman apparently really wanted to help me.
"No, uh, thank you?" Now I was just asking what the right answer was. Apparently, mine wasn't it, as she began a long tirade, very similar to the one I'd just heard, but in a much angrier voice. I was still very confused, but my righteous indigation did not kick in and I did not interrupt until she got to the phrase "refused to leave." I informed her that I had not been asked to leave, so I could have hardly refused it. The statement seemed to take the wind out of her sails, an unforeseen ad-lib in her thoroughly prepared script, like when you prove to a telemarketer that you're already getting a better rate.
Regardless of whether I'd been asked to leave before, I was clearly being asked to leave now. Not content to let me walk through the vineyard back to my car, the woman told me that she would drive me back. Also, she wanted to talk about pesticides and liability some more. When we crossed into the parking lot, she suddenly seemed to realize that I was a member of the grand class of consumers and decided to make nice. She said, "You're still more than welcome to come into our sales room and try some wines. I just don't want you to just leave with a bad taste in your mouth." I thanked her, resisting the urge to say, "Well, I hardly think tasting your wine is going to help that."
I perused the sales and tasting room for a few minutes. I considered buying something to show that I held no hard feelings, but that would have been dishonest, since I was holding some hard feelings. I didn't even partake in a free tasting. The old man who had originally lectured me was giving a tasting, and he asked me if I'd gotten all the pictures I'd wanted. After the required five minutes of browsing, I headed for the door, pausing once more to apologize for the misunderstanding to the Mercedes lady. She was all smiles now, but it was clear that she just wanted to get me out of there, particularly since I was obviously not buying.
Sales room or no, I left with a rotten taste in my mouth, and judging from the salt content, it wasn't just because of my sweat. I was grumpy and pouty. I have a fear of consequences anyway, and when they are doled to me unfairly, I get unpleasant. I tried to make light of it to myself: I'd just gotten kicked out of a vineyard, and I'm not the kind of girl who gets kicked out of anywhere. I realized that in few years time, I'd find the whole story pretty amusing.
But not yet.
8.05.2005
over my left shoulder.
Thing 1: "I've got a bad feeling about this."
Last night, I went to see Revenge of the Sith at the two buck theatre with Josh. So now I've completed my Star Wars education, having seen all six movies (it should be noted that I'd had a couple of drinks while watching The Phantom Menace, so I really couldn't tell you what happened, but whatever). I have seen so many hands get cut off by light sabers, it is ridiculous. I dunno, the movie was okay. Everyone's lost faith in this new trilogy that's come out. And while they were fine, they weren't of the caliber of the originals. But let's face it, it would be very difficult to achieve that kind of greatness. The special effects, by the way, were amazing. But maybe next time, spend a little more time on the script, okay? Oh, and someone please tell Samuel L. Jackson that Jedi Knights do not strut.
Thing 2: A crick is more than just a little river.
Apologies for the heading - my roots are showing. Somewhere along the timeline of Wednesday, I developed a crick in my neck on the left side. I can only hope that somewhere along the timeline of some future day, I will develop an absence of a crick in my neck. I've never had a crick that a night's sleep didn't cure, so I'm finding this one unpleasant in its staying power. It's not so bad, but the worst is when I'm driving and I would like to change lanes, so I check my blind spot. Or rather, I turn my head to check my blind spot, feel a sharp pain, make a pathetic little whine, and then pout and change lanes at the same time. Also, it was very difficult to lean over and make snarky comments to Josh during the movie last night because he was sitting on the injured side. However, being a devoted snarky comment professional, I did not let a minor injury keep me out of the game. I'm sure the other movie patrons were relieved.
I looked up home remedies. One was some sort of stretching thing that I must not be doing correctly. It doesn't help and I just look stupid. Another was to apply heat. So I tore my apartment up last night looking for this Christmas gift I'd gotten a couple of years ago and not used. It's not that I did not appreciate the gift, I just hadn't had cause to use it yet. It was a homemade heating pad, a pink fabric bag with three segments full of rice. Throw it in the microwave, heat for a couple of minutes, and BAM! Hot rice in a bag. Now that I have finally used it, I can say that it works marvelously, and that my crick situation is improving. My one complaint is that it makes me smell as if I've been necking with Uncle Ben.
Thing 3: What do athiests say when they're glad the week is over?
I don't know when I became one of those "Thank God It's Friday" kind of people, but I am now. It probably happened about the time that I stopped having to wait tables, and weekends actually became time off for me. In any case, Amen. It's been a long week spent reading transmission protocol specifications, which is just as exciting as it sounds. If only J.K. Rowling wrote those, my job would be much easier. Even having had a better than usual beer-thirty afternoon yesterday, I'm glad to embrace the weekend and not look back at this week. Particularly not over my left shoulder.
Last night, I went to see Revenge of the Sith at the two buck theatre with Josh. So now I've completed my Star Wars education, having seen all six movies (it should be noted that I'd had a couple of drinks while watching The Phantom Menace, so I really couldn't tell you what happened, but whatever). I have seen so many hands get cut off by light sabers, it is ridiculous. I dunno, the movie was okay. Everyone's lost faith in this new trilogy that's come out. And while they were fine, they weren't of the caliber of the originals. But let's face it, it would be very difficult to achieve that kind of greatness. The special effects, by the way, were amazing. But maybe next time, spend a little more time on the script, okay? Oh, and someone please tell Samuel L. Jackson that Jedi Knights do not strut.
Thing 2: A crick is more than just a little river.
Apologies for the heading - my roots are showing. Somewhere along the timeline of Wednesday, I developed a crick in my neck on the left side. I can only hope that somewhere along the timeline of some future day, I will develop an absence of a crick in my neck. I've never had a crick that a night's sleep didn't cure, so I'm finding this one unpleasant in its staying power. It's not so bad, but the worst is when I'm driving and I would like to change lanes, so I check my blind spot. Or rather, I turn my head to check my blind spot, feel a sharp pain, make a pathetic little whine, and then pout and change lanes at the same time. Also, it was very difficult to lean over and make snarky comments to Josh during the movie last night because he was sitting on the injured side. However, being a devoted snarky comment professional, I did not let a minor injury keep me out of the game. I'm sure the other movie patrons were relieved.
I looked up home remedies. One was some sort of stretching thing that I must not be doing correctly. It doesn't help and I just look stupid. Another was to apply heat. So I tore my apartment up last night looking for this Christmas gift I'd gotten a couple of years ago and not used. It's not that I did not appreciate the gift, I just hadn't had cause to use it yet. It was a homemade heating pad, a pink fabric bag with three segments full of rice. Throw it in the microwave, heat for a couple of minutes, and BAM! Hot rice in a bag. Now that I have finally used it, I can say that it works marvelously, and that my crick situation is improving. My one complaint is that it makes me smell as if I've been necking with Uncle Ben.
Thing 3: What do athiests say when they're glad the week is over?
I don't know when I became one of those "Thank God It's Friday" kind of people, but I am now. It probably happened about the time that I stopped having to wait tables, and weekends actually became time off for me. In any case, Amen. It's been a long week spent reading transmission protocol specifications, which is just as exciting as it sounds. If only J.K. Rowling wrote those, my job would be much easier. Even having had a better than usual beer-thirty afternoon yesterday, I'm glad to embrace the weekend and not look back at this week. Particularly not over my left shoulder.
8.03.2005
beer-thirty.
At The Bistro, I learned the hard way that if you don't go to the first social function to which you are invited by your coworkers, you will not be invited again (with the exception of company-wide shindigs, in which case everybody, even that weird kid who only works on Thursdays and always wears that same shirt, is invited). At Vintner's, I learned the hard way that if you don't work night shifts, you will not be included in any post-night-shift shennanigans. At Winn-Dixie, I learned the hard way that if you don't go to the same high school as everybody else, no one will talk to you, and the baggers will ignore you even when you are neck deep in baby food jars.
I'm beginning to doubt my own social skills.
The social scheme here in the real world is very different. For one thing, these people are bona-fide adults. While adults can still be petty and immature (and frequently are), they have the sense to do it privately. So basically all invitations are extended to everyone on the same employment level (meaning we don't invite the higher-ups or the intern). For another thing, I'm the only female employee under the age of thirty. Youth is very valuable, and they like a girl who can talk back to the men. So yeah, I get invited.
Post-work gatherings are different here in a lot of other ways. For one thing, they're not held every night in attempts to drink away every cent made during the day. They're generally more once a month or biweekly events. Remember, these fellas have to call and get permission to have beer with the boys (and the girl) from the little woman. Also, the events last maybe an hour or an hour and a half. None of this out til dawn mess. They're more of an out til dusk crowd, and sometimes not even that late during daylight savings time.
So we all head out in a giddy we-are-leaving-the-office convoy and head out to the pre-approved watering hole. Sometimes First Street Draught House, sometimes Lucky 32, sometimes Fox and the Hound. Never the kind of sketch dive bars college-age waiters would frequent. We go to clean places and we take our white collars with us. We talk about the coworkers who aren't there, what our weekend plans are, whatever home improvement topics we're working on, and what we'd be doing if we weren't being computer programmers. If the waitress is a pretty lady, we talk about that, too. If the waiter is an attractive man, well, we never talk about that, but I think about it privately while the guys talk about home improvement.
Sometimes we plan these things a week in advance. Sometimes it's decided that afternoon, as the day drags on and we find ourselves buried under documents and processes and code. You alert the right people, and the information spreads like SARS across the office: beer-thirty this afternoon. Beer-thirty is the understood password that means we're going out for a beer after work. Beer-thirty is the time, because the joke is that it's always beer-thirty. And it's always beer; these guys don't have cocktail or wine habits.
Sometimes it's a lot of fun, and sometimes things are a bit dull. It varies depending on how much the boys want to talk about woodworking or landscaping or football or other things I'm not even vaguely interested in. But hey, free beer, because one or two guys usually pick up the tab for everyone, and I'm a girl, so I never have to. There are some sexist double standards that I'm willing to hold onto. In any case, I go when I can because I've finally figured out that your work social life is important, whether you want someone to help you bag baby food or figure out some algorithm. You could probably suck pretty hard at your job, but if everybody liked you, you might get by. Of course, I'd rather be competent and well-liked, but we can't have everything, now can we?
I'm beginning to doubt my own social skills.
The social scheme here in the real world is very different. For one thing, these people are bona-fide adults. While adults can still be petty and immature (and frequently are), they have the sense to do it privately. So basically all invitations are extended to everyone on the same employment level (meaning we don't invite the higher-ups or the intern). For another thing, I'm the only female employee under the age of thirty. Youth is very valuable, and they like a girl who can talk back to the men. So yeah, I get invited.
Post-work gatherings are different here in a lot of other ways. For one thing, they're not held every night in attempts to drink away every cent made during the day. They're generally more once a month or biweekly events. Remember, these fellas have to call and get permission to have beer with the boys (and the girl) from the little woman. Also, the events last maybe an hour or an hour and a half. None of this out til dawn mess. They're more of an out til dusk crowd, and sometimes not even that late during daylight savings time.
So we all head out in a giddy we-are-leaving-the-office convoy and head out to the pre-approved watering hole. Sometimes First Street Draught House, sometimes Lucky 32, sometimes Fox and the Hound. Never the kind of sketch dive bars college-age waiters would frequent. We go to clean places and we take our white collars with us. We talk about the coworkers who aren't there, what our weekend plans are, whatever home improvement topics we're working on, and what we'd be doing if we weren't being computer programmers. If the waitress is a pretty lady, we talk about that, too. If the waiter is an attractive man, well, we never talk about that, but I think about it privately while the guys talk about home improvement.
Sometimes we plan these things a week in advance. Sometimes it's decided that afternoon, as the day drags on and we find ourselves buried under documents and processes and code. You alert the right people, and the information spreads like SARS across the office: beer-thirty this afternoon. Beer-thirty is the understood password that means we're going out for a beer after work. Beer-thirty is the time, because the joke is that it's always beer-thirty. And it's always beer; these guys don't have cocktail or wine habits.
Sometimes it's a lot of fun, and sometimes things are a bit dull. It varies depending on how much the boys want to talk about woodworking or landscaping or football or other things I'm not even vaguely interested in. But hey, free beer, because one or two guys usually pick up the tab for everyone, and I'm a girl, so I never have to. There are some sexist double standards that I'm willing to hold onto. In any case, I go when I can because I've finally figured out that your work social life is important, whether you want someone to help you bag baby food or figure out some algorithm. You could probably suck pretty hard at your job, but if everybody liked you, you might get by. Of course, I'd rather be competent and well-liked, but we can't have everything, now can we?
7.26.2005
improving my aim.
I use Gmail for my personal email (and if any of you would like to do the same, let me know and I'll send an invite your way; I've got about 50). There are a lot of features that I like about Gmail, the ridiculous amount of space I have being one of them. I was used to Hotmail, where if I didn't check my email every two hours and delete all the spam, I was in danger of going over my space limit. At Gmail, I'm using fifteen times as much space as I had in the old Hotmail, but the bottom of my inbox states "You are currently using 1% of your 2432 MB." That's good stuff.
Anyway, Gmail also has these sponsored links that show up on the right toolbar of each email. I assume these are powered by Google, because there's obviously some sort of search mechanism that relates the ads that appear to whatever email you're looking at (again, as opposed to Hotmail, which seemed to think that all my correspondence is related to meeting blonds or getting in touch with people from high school). I suppose Google goes by keywords in the email. I've gotten in the habit of checking the sponsored links, just because it's sort of interesting to see what Google has deemed relevant in my email. For example, I got an email from a friend a week or so ago that was just sort of all over the place, and there were links for Italian food, Muppet memorabilia, and luncheon meat. I got an email from an old roommate about her new apartment, and the links were about finding roommates, finding apartments, and, inexplicably, expatriating to Brussels. Today, I got an email from my sister-in-law regarding the recent change in my relationship status. These were the links that appeared beside her email:
Overcome Breaking Up
Powerful subliminal methods. We'll get you through this.
www.innergear.com
I Used to Miss Him
But My Aim is Improving: Not Your Ordinary Breakup Survival Guide
www.improveyouraim.com
Relationships
Find Highly compatible Matches Get A Free Compatibility Profile.
www.PerfectMatch.com
I like how the links tell a story. Notice how they go through the stages of a breakup: depression, bitterness, and moving on.
I'd kind of like to experiment with this feature. If someone sends you an email with about three letter X's in a row, do you get porn advertisements? Of course, if you mention any sort of product, I imagine that makes Google's job really easy, but what about more abstract concepts, like numbers or gravity or sarcasm? And do those ads even serve the purpose of attracting site visitors? I read somewhere that an obscenely large percentage of the population couldn't tell the difference between a search result and a sponsored link (The big hint for me is the heading "SPONSORED LINKS"). So maybe people think it's part of the email, as if they happen to be friends with a lot of marketing people.
It's kind of creepy, both the ubiquity of ads and the fact that Google is "reading" my email. But most email providers do that anyway, if nothing else for spam-blocking. So maybe you might not even get your email with all those letter X's, because it's been sent to the spam can.
But enough. I've apparently got better things to do, according to Google. I've got to move to Brussels, buy some salami, and practice my aim. Maybe not in that order.
Anyway, Gmail also has these sponsored links that show up on the right toolbar of each email. I assume these are powered by Google, because there's obviously some sort of search mechanism that relates the ads that appear to whatever email you're looking at (again, as opposed to Hotmail, which seemed to think that all my correspondence is related to meeting blonds or getting in touch with people from high school). I suppose Google goes by keywords in the email. I've gotten in the habit of checking the sponsored links, just because it's sort of interesting to see what Google has deemed relevant in my email. For example, I got an email from a friend a week or so ago that was just sort of all over the place, and there were links for Italian food, Muppet memorabilia, and luncheon meat. I got an email from an old roommate about her new apartment, and the links were about finding roommates, finding apartments, and, inexplicably, expatriating to Brussels. Today, I got an email from my sister-in-law regarding the recent change in my relationship status. These were the links that appeared beside her email:
Overcome Breaking Up
Powerful subliminal methods. We'll get you through this.
www.innergear.com
I Used to Miss Him
But My Aim is Improving: Not Your Ordinary Breakup Survival Guide
www.improveyouraim.com
Relationships
Find Highly compatible Matches Get A Free Compatibility Profile.
www.PerfectMatch.com
I like how the links tell a story. Notice how they go through the stages of a breakup: depression, bitterness, and moving on.
I'd kind of like to experiment with this feature. If someone sends you an email with about three letter X's in a row, do you get porn advertisements? Of course, if you mention any sort of product, I imagine that makes Google's job really easy, but what about more abstract concepts, like numbers or gravity or sarcasm? And do those ads even serve the purpose of attracting site visitors? I read somewhere that an obscenely large percentage of the population couldn't tell the difference between a search result and a sponsored link (The big hint for me is the heading "SPONSORED LINKS"). So maybe people think it's part of the email, as if they happen to be friends with a lot of marketing people.
It's kind of creepy, both the ubiquity of ads and the fact that Google is "reading" my email. But most email providers do that anyway, if nothing else for spam-blocking. So maybe you might not even get your email with all those letter X's, because it's been sent to the spam can.
But enough. I've apparently got better things to do, according to Google. I've got to move to Brussels, buy some salami, and practice my aim. Maybe not in that order.
7.22.2005
throwing silence to the wind.
I was just sitting here thinking about Mrs. Hartso. And I wanted to tell the goofy little story about Mrs. Hartso, but there just wasn't enough for a full entry. So it's Substitute Teacher time, Three Things Style.
Thing 1: Mrs. Woodring
I never had a very flattering view of Mrs. Woodring's intelligence. Maybe I always figured that the reason she wasn't a full-fledged teacher was because she couldn't get into full-fledged teacher school. She was the standard substitute; in elementary school, I probably had her more than any other sub. But the thing that drove me nuts about her was the way she pronounced "apostrophe." And it seemed like every time she taught us, we had to learn something about contractions or possessive nouns. I'd like to find her now, give her a good shake, and ask her, "What in heaven's name is an 'a-pos-ta-pee?'" Come to think of it, I think she said "li-berry" too.
Now I'm wondering just what kind of weird, anal-retentive ten-year-old I was to be bothered by this so much. Perhaps the kind that grows into a weird, anal-retentive twenty-two-year-old.
Thing 2: Mrs. White
In the observatory. With the candlestick.
No, no. Mrs. White was a perfectly normal lady with a penchant for leopard print up until about seventh period one day during my eighth grade year. Then she became a completely absent lady with a penchant for leopard print. She just left in the middle of the day. I'm not even sure why. We hadn't been terrorizing her at all. It had just been normal science class with us sitting there nicely doing busy work. There might have been some friendly banter with the jocks. The ironic thing was that she left (crying, by the way) right before the advanced class came in, which probably would have been cake for her. Silly lady. She probably wasn't a full-fledged teacher because she couldn't hack it in full-fledged teacher school.
I tell this story a couple different ways depending on the audience. Sometimes it's the more accurate crazy lady story. Other times, it's more like "Once, my class made a substitute teacher cry and leave before the school day was out." Everyone is always very impressed.
Thing 3: Mrs. Hartso
Ah, the inspiration for this whole entry. I only had the Mrs. Hartso experience a couple of times in middle school. She was an old, squat woman with a cheeky mouth that comes from years of raising/teaching children in the South. She used to tell us that she was a hundred years old. She was probably more like seventy. She liked me because she knew my dad and liked him. So she'd get up close to me to talk in conspiratorial tones, all the while spitting on my face with every word.
You didn't mess with Mrs. Hartso, because she came from a time when children were meant to be beaten and not heard. We were too young to logically come to the conclusion that she couldn't legally take us over her knee and light a fire on our hides, so we minded her. Not that she ever actually threatened to do that, but the threat was somehow implied by her nature.
But the thing I will always remember about Mrs. Hartso was when she made us write sentences. We were apparently being loud as a class, and so she decided that we would write a sentence one hundred times as punishment. She wrote the sentence on the board.
"Silence is the best policy."
What? No. Silence is golden. Honesty is the best policy. Of course, I could hardly argue with her, seeing as she thought silence was the best policy. I really wanted to, because I still believed that it was honesty. I can't figure why she didn't go with "Silence is golden," except that maybe she thought we deserved a longer sentence. But if she was going to abandon sense and just go for length, she should have gone all out with something like "Silence in the hand is worth two birds in the bush" or maybe "Early to bed, early to rise, and shutting the heck up makes a man healthy, wealthy, wise, and silent."
In any case, I do enjoy using Mrs. Hartso's example from time to time for silliness. You can say anything is the best policy, and no one can argue with you, because you sound very wise. I told my coworker today that caution was the best policy. He started mumbling something or other about throwing caution to the wind, but that can't be right, because caution is the best policy. It's also golden.
Thing 1: Mrs. Woodring
I never had a very flattering view of Mrs. Woodring's intelligence. Maybe I always figured that the reason she wasn't a full-fledged teacher was because she couldn't get into full-fledged teacher school. She was the standard substitute; in elementary school, I probably had her more than any other sub. But the thing that drove me nuts about her was the way she pronounced "apostrophe." And it seemed like every time she taught us, we had to learn something about contractions or possessive nouns. I'd like to find her now, give her a good shake, and ask her, "What in heaven's name is an 'a-pos-ta-pee?'" Come to think of it, I think she said "li-berry" too.
Now I'm wondering just what kind of weird, anal-retentive ten-year-old I was to be bothered by this so much. Perhaps the kind that grows into a weird, anal-retentive twenty-two-year-old.
Thing 2: Mrs. White
In the observatory. With the candlestick.
No, no. Mrs. White was a perfectly normal lady with a penchant for leopard print up until about seventh period one day during my eighth grade year. Then she became a completely absent lady with a penchant for leopard print. She just left in the middle of the day. I'm not even sure why. We hadn't been terrorizing her at all. It had just been normal science class with us sitting there nicely doing busy work. There might have been some friendly banter with the jocks. The ironic thing was that she left (crying, by the way) right before the advanced class came in, which probably would have been cake for her. Silly lady. She probably wasn't a full-fledged teacher because she couldn't hack it in full-fledged teacher school.
I tell this story a couple different ways depending on the audience. Sometimes it's the more accurate crazy lady story. Other times, it's more like "Once, my class made a substitute teacher cry and leave before the school day was out." Everyone is always very impressed.
Thing 3: Mrs. Hartso
Ah, the inspiration for this whole entry. I only had the Mrs. Hartso experience a couple of times in middle school. She was an old, squat woman with a cheeky mouth that comes from years of raising/teaching children in the South. She used to tell us that she was a hundred years old. She was probably more like seventy. She liked me because she knew my dad and liked him. So she'd get up close to me to talk in conspiratorial tones, all the while spitting on my face with every word.
You didn't mess with Mrs. Hartso, because she came from a time when children were meant to be beaten and not heard. We were too young to logically come to the conclusion that she couldn't legally take us over her knee and light a fire on our hides, so we minded her. Not that she ever actually threatened to do that, but the threat was somehow implied by her nature.
But the thing I will always remember about Mrs. Hartso was when she made us write sentences. We were apparently being loud as a class, and so she decided that we would write a sentence one hundred times as punishment. She wrote the sentence on the board.
"Silence is the best policy."
What? No. Silence is golden. Honesty is the best policy. Of course, I could hardly argue with her, seeing as she thought silence was the best policy. I really wanted to, because I still believed that it was honesty. I can't figure why she didn't go with "Silence is golden," except that maybe she thought we deserved a longer sentence. But if she was going to abandon sense and just go for length, she should have gone all out with something like "Silence in the hand is worth two birds in the bush" or maybe "Early to bed, early to rise, and shutting the heck up makes a man healthy, wealthy, wise, and silent."
In any case, I do enjoy using Mrs. Hartso's example from time to time for silliness. You can say anything is the best policy, and no one can argue with you, because you sound very wise. I told my coworker today that caution was the best policy. He started mumbling something or other about throwing caution to the wind, but that can't be right, because caution is the best policy. It's also golden.
7.21.2005
english letters.
My parents are in Israel. Yes, my mother, age 63, and my father, age 70, are in Israel. Even better, my mother, the rural mail carrier, and my father, the retired teacher, are in Israel participating in an archaeological dig. Things like that are what keep me from worrying that I can't write fiction. I got a message this morning from my mother, the rural mail carrier, age 63, all the way from Israel.
Hi
Posted on 7.21.2005 9:13 AM
I wrote down the exact addresses of special sites I wanted to visit while in Israel. It is so good to read your blog sitting in a foreign country. This computer has English letters like a regular keyboard, but also Hebrew letters.
Love ya,
MOM
I could just picture Mama, sitting in the holy lands, having a cup of kosher coffee and logging onto my journal. I smiled, because the note was from the other side of the world and was still just so very Mama, even down to the all-caps signature. And then I wondered what other sites she wrote down to visit. The Drudge Report? Her stock portfolio? Her hometown weather (just to remind herself of home)?
I never know how to explain why my parents go on trips, even when I used to go with them. "Because we want to" never seems to be an acceptable reason to most people. People thought we were nuts when we went to Australia and New Zealand. Apparently, it's perfectly reasonable to go to Myrtle Beach because you want to, but not the Southern Hemisphere. Okay, so my folks had a good reason to go to China a couple years ago (baby-fetchin'), but even still, why would someone ask for a reason to travel somewhere new and exciting and foreign? When a person asks why we go to Kansas, I understand. Kansas is rumored to be flat and boring and only my loyalty to my family's history will keep me from agreeing. But Australia? Not flat! Or boring!
But anyway, my parents are in Israel. It was Daddy's idea. First he was going to go by himself, and then Mama signed up. Depending on which parent you ask, she either signed up because she couldn't stand be without him or because she didn't trust him to be by himself in a foreign land. I was invited, and maybe I should have gone. For some reason, spending hours digging in the desert sun didn't strike me as my ideal vacation. But now I think, man, Sandra, when are you ever going to get another chance to go dig in the desert sun?
My camera, however, did go to Israel. That's even how I described the situation last Friday after my camera left my clingy little hands. "Well, my camera has gone to Israel. Oh, and my parents went with it, too." I didn't even know my camera was Jewish. Mama wanted a camera, but she didn't decide on this desire until a week before their flight out of the country, and that is not enough time for a practical person to make a major purchase. So she asked to borrow mine. Knowing how I feel about lending things, she even said that she wouldn't be offended if I said no. But even so, there was this subtext of "I gave you life, and you can't lend me a stupid gadget for two weeks?"
So my camera went to Israel. Worst case scenario: even if she loses it and she has to buy me a new one, I will forever be able to say that I lost my first camera when my mother dropped it in the Dead Sea or flung it against the Wailing Wall. And then, I'll have to explain why my camera was in Israel, and subsequently why parents were in Israel.
Because they wanted to be.
Hi
Posted on 7.21.2005 9:13 AM
I wrote down the exact addresses of special sites I wanted to visit while in Israel. It is so good to read your blog sitting in a foreign country. This computer has English letters like a regular keyboard, but also Hebrew letters.
Love ya,
MOM
I could just picture Mama, sitting in the holy lands, having a cup of kosher coffee and logging onto my journal. I smiled, because the note was from the other side of the world and was still just so very Mama, even down to the all-caps signature. And then I wondered what other sites she wrote down to visit. The Drudge Report? Her stock portfolio? Her hometown weather (just to remind herself of home)?
I never know how to explain why my parents go on trips, even when I used to go with them. "Because we want to" never seems to be an acceptable reason to most people. People thought we were nuts when we went to Australia and New Zealand. Apparently, it's perfectly reasonable to go to Myrtle Beach because you want to, but not the Southern Hemisphere. Okay, so my folks had a good reason to go to China a couple years ago (baby-fetchin'), but even still, why would someone ask for a reason to travel somewhere new and exciting and foreign? When a person asks why we go to Kansas, I understand. Kansas is rumored to be flat and boring and only my loyalty to my family's history will keep me from agreeing. But Australia? Not flat! Or boring!
But anyway, my parents are in Israel. It was Daddy's idea. First he was going to go by himself, and then Mama signed up. Depending on which parent you ask, she either signed up because she couldn't stand be without him or because she didn't trust him to be by himself in a foreign land. I was invited, and maybe I should have gone. For some reason, spending hours digging in the desert sun didn't strike me as my ideal vacation. But now I think, man, Sandra, when are you ever going to get another chance to go dig in the desert sun?
My camera, however, did go to Israel. That's even how I described the situation last Friday after my camera left my clingy little hands. "Well, my camera has gone to Israel. Oh, and my parents went with it, too." I didn't even know my camera was Jewish. Mama wanted a camera, but she didn't decide on this desire until a week before their flight out of the country, and that is not enough time for a practical person to make a major purchase. So she asked to borrow mine. Knowing how I feel about lending things, she even said that she wouldn't be offended if I said no. But even so, there was this subtext of "I gave you life, and you can't lend me a stupid gadget for two weeks?"
So my camera went to Israel. Worst case scenario: even if she loses it and she has to buy me a new one, I will forever be able to say that I lost my first camera when my mother dropped it in the Dead Sea or flung it against the Wailing Wall. And then, I'll have to explain why my camera was in Israel, and subsequently why parents were in Israel.
Because they wanted to be.
7.17.2005
curtis dessertis.
I think for a long time that I thought "Dessert" was Curt's last name. Curt Dessert is what I called him, because that's what the desserts he made rang up as on our computer system at Vintner's. I called him Curtis Dessertis if I was feeling scientific.
Curt started working at Vintner's a couple of months after I did. He was our in-house pastry chef. He was a bit overweight and losing his hair though only in his late twenties, but he had this great boyish grin. And he made the best desserts, and was generous in letting the staff sample them. The desserts had french names that I could never spell and could barely pronounce, but I could taste them, and they were wonderful. Curt made me fall in love with creme brulee, and his cheesecake is still the best I have ever tasted. All the servers looked forward to brownie-cutting day with a passion, because there were always end pieces waiting to be gobbled up, and if there is anything servers ever did well at Vintner's, it was eat.
But Curt also had to make these creme horns. The pastry chef before him made them, and possibly the pastry chef before her. Who knows where those stupid creme horns came from, but Curt hated making them and they sold better than anything else he ever made. They were cheap, and people would walk in the door and order a dozen of them to go. I never understood it. Why would they want those creme horns, when the filling was far too rich, when they could have a big creamy slice of delicate cheesecake?
Curt had a crush on every girl that ever worked at Vintner's. No, I'm exaggerrating. Curt had a crush on every girl that ever worked at Vintner's while he was there. He was the kind of guy that would hit on you as a joke, secretly trying to test the waters. To say that he liked all the girls is misleading of his character. He was not a pervert. I like to think that Curt was just really good at finding the beauty in any girl, and he loved us all for our different beauties, however hidden or obvious they were. He liked girls for qualities they didn't know they had, and for the ones they were most proud of but thought that no one ever noticed.
I was decorating a plate with a colored syrups once to put a piece of cake on it. I never really got the knack for plate presentation, and Curt used to make fun of my vain attempts at syrup art. I got particularly frustrated that day, finally just taking all the colors and wildly squirting them around. I sighed, defeated, and said, "It looks like Jackson Pollock decorated this plate." Curt looked at the plate, looked at me, and said, "That's why I love you. No one but you would ever say something like that." Curt knew I had a boyfriend that I was pretty attached to, so he knew we were just friends.
Curt and I were two of longest-working employees I ever knew to work at Vintner's. People rarely last over six months, much less over a year. So we knew each other fairly well, and would tease and pick at each other a lot. And whenever I ran out of comebacks, I told him that we were out of creme horns. He would usually just flip me the bird at that point, which I took to mean that I had won.
In the last few months that Vintner's was open, I saw Curt less and less. When I did see him, he was in a foul mood. As great of a guy that Curt is, I knew to steer clear of his bad moods. Curt hated working there. He hated the way the place was managed, he hated the hours, he hated having to make creme horns all the time when his talent would allow so much more. He was rotting there.
So he left about a month before the restaurant closed anyway. For the last few weeks, we had another pastry chef named Sara Lee. She was good, but nowhere as good as Curt Dessert. Her pre-cut portions were smaller, her cheesecake wasn't nearly as creamy, and she didn't smile at you with that great boyish grin and tell you that you were gorgeous. But we never changed the computer menu, and we still rang them up as "Curt Dessert," which felt like lying all the time. But people never noticed that we never had tiramisu in a glass or triple layer chocolate mousse cake anymore. Fickle things, they just noticed that we never had creme horns.
Curt started working at Vintner's a couple of months after I did. He was our in-house pastry chef. He was a bit overweight and losing his hair though only in his late twenties, but he had this great boyish grin. And he made the best desserts, and was generous in letting the staff sample them. The desserts had french names that I could never spell and could barely pronounce, but I could taste them, and they were wonderful. Curt made me fall in love with creme brulee, and his cheesecake is still the best I have ever tasted. All the servers looked forward to brownie-cutting day with a passion, because there were always end pieces waiting to be gobbled up, and if there is anything servers ever did well at Vintner's, it was eat.
But Curt also had to make these creme horns. The pastry chef before him made them, and possibly the pastry chef before her. Who knows where those stupid creme horns came from, but Curt hated making them and they sold better than anything else he ever made. They were cheap, and people would walk in the door and order a dozen of them to go. I never understood it. Why would they want those creme horns, when the filling was far too rich, when they could have a big creamy slice of delicate cheesecake?
Curt had a crush on every girl that ever worked at Vintner's. No, I'm exaggerrating. Curt had a crush on every girl that ever worked at Vintner's while he was there. He was the kind of guy that would hit on you as a joke, secretly trying to test the waters. To say that he liked all the girls is misleading of his character. He was not a pervert. I like to think that Curt was just really good at finding the beauty in any girl, and he loved us all for our different beauties, however hidden or obvious they were. He liked girls for qualities they didn't know they had, and for the ones they were most proud of but thought that no one ever noticed.
I was decorating a plate with a colored syrups once to put a piece of cake on it. I never really got the knack for plate presentation, and Curt used to make fun of my vain attempts at syrup art. I got particularly frustrated that day, finally just taking all the colors and wildly squirting them around. I sighed, defeated, and said, "It looks like Jackson Pollock decorated this plate." Curt looked at the plate, looked at me, and said, "That's why I love you. No one but you would ever say something like that." Curt knew I had a boyfriend that I was pretty attached to, so he knew we were just friends.
Curt and I were two of longest-working employees I ever knew to work at Vintner's. People rarely last over six months, much less over a year. So we knew each other fairly well, and would tease and pick at each other a lot. And whenever I ran out of comebacks, I told him that we were out of creme horns. He would usually just flip me the bird at that point, which I took to mean that I had won.
In the last few months that Vintner's was open, I saw Curt less and less. When I did see him, he was in a foul mood. As great of a guy that Curt is, I knew to steer clear of his bad moods. Curt hated working there. He hated the way the place was managed, he hated the hours, he hated having to make creme horns all the time when his talent would allow so much more. He was rotting there.
So he left about a month before the restaurant closed anyway. For the last few weeks, we had another pastry chef named Sara Lee. She was good, but nowhere as good as Curt Dessert. Her pre-cut portions were smaller, her cheesecake wasn't nearly as creamy, and she didn't smile at you with that great boyish grin and tell you that you were gorgeous. But we never changed the computer menu, and we still rang them up as "Curt Dessert," which felt like lying all the time. But people never noticed that we never had tiramisu in a glass or triple layer chocolate mousse cake anymore. Fickle things, they just noticed that we never had creme horns.
7.13.2005
west side.
"Hello, welcome to Backyard Burgers, may I take your order?"
"Yes, I'd like a Hawaiian Chicken combo, with-"
"Okay! One Hawaiian chicken combo! Yes, ma'am!"
"Um. Yeah. With seasoned fries and a Dr. Pepper with just a little bit of ice, please." He's enthusiastic.
"That's a Hawaiian chicken combo with seasoned fries and Dr. Pepper, light ice?"
"Yes, please." He's going to forget the light ice.
"Right away! Your ta-zotal is $5.59 at the first window!"
"Um. Thank you." Did he just say ta-zotal?
(Drive Around)
"That's $5.59, please! Ma'am, are you laughing at me?"
"Yes." Busted.
"Why?"
"You are, uh, very enthusiastic about your job." Also, I'm pretty sure you said ta-zotal.
"Why, thank you. Hey, I like those earrings."
"Oh, thank you." Is he hitting on me? Hard to tell, these are some awesome earrings. Mudflap girls.
"I saw that girl once on a motorcycle. It was pretty cool."
"Oh, yeah?" He saw her once? Dude, it's the mudflap girl. He's hitting on me.
"So...do you go to West?"
... West? West what? I used to go to West Caldwell High School, but how would he know about that? That's an hour and a half away from here. Wait, does he mean West Forsyth High School?
"Um, no." West Forsyth High? High school? Is he kidding me?
"Oh."
... He thinks I'm dissing him now because I didn't tell him what high school I do go to.
...
... High school? Dude, I'm 22.
...
... Poor guy. He thinks he's been shot down.
"Here's your food, ma'am. Have a nice day."
"Thank you." I still got a way with the overweight high school drive-thru employees. Poor guy. I should say something, so he won't feel bad. I should explain that I didn't mean...that jerk, he forgot the light ice.
"Yes, I'd like a Hawaiian Chicken combo, with-"
"Okay! One Hawaiian chicken combo! Yes, ma'am!"
"Um. Yeah. With seasoned fries and a Dr. Pepper with just a little bit of ice, please." He's enthusiastic.
"That's a Hawaiian chicken combo with seasoned fries and Dr. Pepper, light ice?"
"Yes, please." He's going to forget the light ice.
"Right away! Your ta-zotal is $5.59 at the first window!"
"Um. Thank you." Did he just say ta-zotal?
(Drive Around)
"That's $5.59, please! Ma'am, are you laughing at me?"
"Yes." Busted.
"Why?"
"You are, uh, very enthusiastic about your job." Also, I'm pretty sure you said ta-zotal.
"Why, thank you. Hey, I like those earrings."
"Oh, thank you." Is he hitting on me? Hard to tell, these are some awesome earrings. Mudflap girls.
"I saw that girl once on a motorcycle. It was pretty cool."
"Oh, yeah?" He saw her once? Dude, it's the mudflap girl. He's hitting on me.
"So...do you go to West?"
... West? West what? I used to go to West Caldwell High School, but how would he know about that? That's an hour and a half away from here. Wait, does he mean West Forsyth High School?
"Um, no." West Forsyth High? High school? Is he kidding me?
"Oh."
... He thinks I'm dissing him now because I didn't tell him what high school I do go to.
...
... High school? Dude, I'm 22.
...
... Poor guy. He thinks he's been shot down.
"Here's your food, ma'am. Have a nice day."
"Thank you." I still got a way with the overweight high school drive-thru employees. Poor guy. I should say something, so he won't feel bad. I should explain that I didn't mean...that jerk, he forgot the light ice.
7.06.2005
near and far.
Thing 1: Sexy Code!
In addition to my build master duties, I am actually doing something at work that I went to college to do. Yes, they let me write code now. And let me tell you, I've written some sexy code lately. I told Josh that I'd written sexy code, and he asked, "What does that even mean? Efficient?" Yes, that is what I meant, but then we started discussing possibilities of actual sexy code, like erotic novels for computers. I'm resisting the urge to reproduce some of the examples I came up with. The people who don't understand code wouldn't get them, and the people who did understand code would be appalled. Trust me, it was funny.
Thing 2: Up! Up! And away!
I bought a mass-produced shirt at a retail store. Tsk, I know. I rarely buy shirts like that, both for cost reasons and the fact that I don't want to be wearing the same thing as everyone else. This is particularly true for t-shirts with slogans on them. Usually by the time a slogan makes it to a t-shirt being sold at the mall, it's no longer clever, if it ever was. So a shirt has to be really good, and really on sale. I found a shirt at an outlet store featuring Super Grover. I can resist Elmo and Oscar and even the Cookie Monster. I might, if I were feeling particularly strong, could resist plain old Grover (unless he was featured doing that Near/Far thing, then it would be all over). But I can't resist Super Grover. I cannot resist an obscure character like that. Everyone knows Elmo or Oscar. But the people that can see my proud new shirt and go "Hey! Super Grover!", those people are my kindred spirits.
As a side note, I did a little searching to see if I could find a picture of my shirt online. No dice. I did, however, find a Guy Smiley shirt, and now I am just wrought with t-shirt desire.
Thing 3: Casey and I broke up.
And that's all I have to say about that.
In addition to my build master duties, I am actually doing something at work that I went to college to do. Yes, they let me write code now. And let me tell you, I've written some sexy code lately. I told Josh that I'd written sexy code, and he asked, "What does that even mean? Efficient?" Yes, that is what I meant, but then we started discussing possibilities of actual sexy code, like erotic novels for computers. I'm resisting the urge to reproduce some of the examples I came up with. The people who don't understand code wouldn't get them, and the people who did understand code would be appalled. Trust me, it was funny.
Thing 2: Up! Up! And away!
I bought a mass-produced shirt at a retail store. Tsk, I know. I rarely buy shirts like that, both for cost reasons and the fact that I don't want to be wearing the same thing as everyone else. This is particularly true for t-shirts with slogans on them. Usually by the time a slogan makes it to a t-shirt being sold at the mall, it's no longer clever, if it ever was. So a shirt has to be really good, and really on sale. I found a shirt at an outlet store featuring Super Grover. I can resist Elmo and Oscar and even the Cookie Monster. I might, if I were feeling particularly strong, could resist plain old Grover (unless he was featured doing that Near/Far thing, then it would be all over). But I can't resist Super Grover. I cannot resist an obscure character like that. Everyone knows Elmo or Oscar. But the people that can see my proud new shirt and go "Hey! Super Grover!", those people are my kindred spirits.
As a side note, I did a little searching to see if I could find a picture of my shirt online. No dice. I did, however, find a Guy Smiley shirt, and now I am just wrought with t-shirt desire.
Thing 3: Casey and I broke up.
And that's all I have to say about that.
6.27.2005
chickens lay eggs.
Martha corrected my grammar at work. Man, that is an irritating habit. I know, because I used to do it. Then I realized what an irritating habit it was when people stopped hanging out with me, and they never ever said "Thank you for correcting me, Sandra." Now I only do it to my very close friends, those who are privileged to know the real Sandra with all her irritating habits.
But anyway, apparently no one ever told Martha that correcting the grammar of others was an irritating habit. Actually, it's more likely that many people have told her, but they probably said it with an incorrect sentence structure, and then she just corrected them again. As for me, I was more embarrassed than annoyed. I was busted.
Martha asked about my weekend plans. I said, "I'm going to lay around all weekend." Martha sighed, as if my words had bitterly hurt her. I thought maybe she was going to make a comment on my wild and young single girl lifestyle. I was preparing myself for that, since I'd had a rough week and hadn't been sleeping much. But no, she said, "Chickens lay eggs."
Oh.
So I said then, quite feebly, "I'm going to lie around all weekend." I briefly considered saying, "Thank you for correcting me, Martha," but that would have only encouraged what others see as an irritating habit. I did appreciate it, in a very weird way. See, I knew there was a lie vs. lay issue, but I'd never figured it out. Now I had a little saying that I could use in my daily conversation that would save me from looking like an idiot. And if I'm talking to people who don't know the difference, well then I can just feel superior. I will resist the urge to use it except on my ever decreasing batch of very close friends. So, thank you, Martha, thank you for correcting me.
But anyway, apparently no one ever told Martha that correcting the grammar of others was an irritating habit. Actually, it's more likely that many people have told her, but they probably said it with an incorrect sentence structure, and then she just corrected them again. As for me, I was more embarrassed than annoyed. I was busted.
Martha asked about my weekend plans. I said, "I'm going to lay around all weekend." Martha sighed, as if my words had bitterly hurt her. I thought maybe she was going to make a comment on my wild and young single girl lifestyle. I was preparing myself for that, since I'd had a rough week and hadn't been sleeping much. But no, she said, "Chickens lay eggs."
Oh.
So I said then, quite feebly, "I'm going to lie around all weekend." I briefly considered saying, "Thank you for correcting me, Martha," but that would have only encouraged what others see as an irritating habit. I did appreciate it, in a very weird way. See, I knew there was a lie vs. lay issue, but I'd never figured it out. Now I had a little saying that I could use in my daily conversation that would save me from looking like an idiot. And if I'm talking to people who don't know the difference, well then I can just feel superior. I will resist the urge to use it except on my ever decreasing batch of very close friends. So, thank you, Martha, thank you for correcting me.
6.16.2005
having just one more nice day.
I quit drinking coffee last week. Actually, I quit drinking coffee six days ago. I'd been drinking coffee every day for months, and then one morning a month or two ago, I missed my morning cup. By ten o'clock, my head had split open. Apparently my body couldn't have sent me a fax or a voicemail saying, "Hey, I'd like some caffeine, please." So my body sent me the headache that Zeus must have felt right before full-grown Athena sprung from his head. That's when I realized that I had a problem. So I stood up and said, "My name is Sandra, and I'm addicted to coffee."
All say, "Hi, Sandra."
As far as addictions go, a coffee one is pretty wimpy. No one gives testimonials about how they gave up coffee. Those are saved for the crack/heroin/meth addicts. You can't buy a coffee patch. There is no coffee-quitting gum, only gum that supposedly gets the coffee stains off your teeth, which is only an abettor in your denial to your problem. Most people probably don't even understand why I would quit coffee. I'll tell you. It's a control issue. I want the freedom to not have a cup in the morning without suffering the consequences of having a headache nailed to my forehead. Simply put, I don't like the idea of being addicted to something, even if, truth be told, the addiction isn't necessarily harmful. Most reports say that coffee in moderation isn't harmful at all. Those old studies done in the 50s have been retracted, mostly because everyone who drank coffee at that time also smoked, and as it turns out, coffee does not cause lung cancer. But still, I wanted to be done with it.
The missed cup incident had taught me that I was not ready for any sort of cold turkey solution. So I opted for a "slightly more chilled turkey every day" solution. I made less coffee for myself each morning. However, this also meant that I made worse coffee for myself each morning. My regular brew involves 4 cups of water and putting enough coffee beans to meet a certain mark in the grinder. It's very inexact, so trying to decrease the amount of coffee brewed while still maintaining a consistent flavor is nigh upon impossible. I supposed I could have employed some more exact measuring device than "a certain mark in the grinder" and then let my mad fraction skills do the rest, but by the time that idea had occurred to me, so had another one: ah, screw it.
So I came in to work last Friday without my coffee in my hands. I was fully prepared to run and get a cup of company coffee in case of headache. Company coffee is punishment in itself. But I was fine. I continue to be fine. Okay, I'm a little sleepier in the mornings, but that is a small price to pay for my freedom. I'm even going to put my coffee maker and grinder away in the closet with all the other infrequently used appliances. And I guess I'll only buy half-and-half by the pint when I'm expecting people who have yet to give up their coffee demons. Considering I'd been buying it by the half-gallon, I'd call this a step up.
But now, man, I kinda want some coffee. It's not one of those I-quit-smoking-twenty-years-ago-and-I-still-want-just-one-drag kind of things. It's a hmm-coffee-would-be-tasty-right-now thing. With most addictions, once you quit, going back in even a minor way is bad news. But if I'm driving past my local independent coffee shop one day and I get to craving a vanilla latte, am I backtracking so much to give in? Caffeine is addictive, but not in such a way that once you have a drop, you're doomed to be its slave forever.
There's a short vignette in Jim Jarmusch's Coffee and Cigarettes featuring Iggy Pop and Tom Waits. Tom Waits lights up a cigarette from a pack he's carrying, saying that he quit smoking, so he can have a cigarette now. Iggy is pretty confused by this logic, but he quit smoking, too, and he wants a cigarette, so he goes with it. My question is, now that I've quit coffee, can I have some?
All say, "Hi, Sandra."
As far as addictions go, a coffee one is pretty wimpy. No one gives testimonials about how they gave up coffee. Those are saved for the crack/heroin/meth addicts. You can't buy a coffee patch. There is no coffee-quitting gum, only gum that supposedly gets the coffee stains off your teeth, which is only an abettor in your denial to your problem. Most people probably don't even understand why I would quit coffee. I'll tell you. It's a control issue. I want the freedom to not have a cup in the morning without suffering the consequences of having a headache nailed to my forehead. Simply put, I don't like the idea of being addicted to something, even if, truth be told, the addiction isn't necessarily harmful. Most reports say that coffee in moderation isn't harmful at all. Those old studies done in the 50s have been retracted, mostly because everyone who drank coffee at that time also smoked, and as it turns out, coffee does not cause lung cancer. But still, I wanted to be done with it.
The missed cup incident had taught me that I was not ready for any sort of cold turkey solution. So I opted for a "slightly more chilled turkey every day" solution. I made less coffee for myself each morning. However, this also meant that I made worse coffee for myself each morning. My regular brew involves 4 cups of water and putting enough coffee beans to meet a certain mark in the grinder. It's very inexact, so trying to decrease the amount of coffee brewed while still maintaining a consistent flavor is nigh upon impossible. I supposed I could have employed some more exact measuring device than "a certain mark in the grinder" and then let my mad fraction skills do the rest, but by the time that idea had occurred to me, so had another one: ah, screw it.
So I came in to work last Friday without my coffee in my hands. I was fully prepared to run and get a cup of company coffee in case of headache. Company coffee is punishment in itself. But I was fine. I continue to be fine. Okay, I'm a little sleepier in the mornings, but that is a small price to pay for my freedom. I'm even going to put my coffee maker and grinder away in the closet with all the other infrequently used appliances. And I guess I'll only buy half-and-half by the pint when I'm expecting people who have yet to give up their coffee demons. Considering I'd been buying it by the half-gallon, I'd call this a step up.
But now, man, I kinda want some coffee. It's not one of those I-quit-smoking-twenty-years-ago-and-I-still-want-just-one-drag kind of things. It's a hmm-coffee-would-be-tasty-right-now thing. With most addictions, once you quit, going back in even a minor way is bad news. But if I'm driving past my local independent coffee shop one day and I get to craving a vanilla latte, am I backtracking so much to give in? Caffeine is addictive, but not in such a way that once you have a drop, you're doomed to be its slave forever.
There's a short vignette in Jim Jarmusch's Coffee and Cigarettes featuring Iggy Pop and Tom Waits. Tom Waits lights up a cigarette from a pack he's carrying, saying that he quit smoking, so he can have a cigarette now. Iggy is pretty confused by this logic, but he quit smoking, too, and he wants a cigarette, so he goes with it. My question is, now that I've quit coffee, can I have some?
6.09.2005
pray for rain.
Josh was checking the weather report at about 2pm. This Josh is the one that works with me, not to be confused with any other Joshes who may or may not call me in the middle of the night. Apparently Joshua was a popular name about twenty-five years ago. Anyway, the one that was checking the weather report read aloud, "Heavy thunderstorms from 3pm until midnight." Josh was excited. He had a softball game that he didn't want to play. He said his team was going to get creamed. Josh can stand losing a game by 3 runs, but when he faces the prospect of losing a game by 20 runs, he'd just as soon pray for rain.
About an hour later, I heard thunder. I don't have a window in my office, so I go across the hall to Josh's to remind myself what the world outside my office looks like. I trotted over to see rain pouring not down, but sideways. The tree right outside was whipping every which way and showing us the underside of every single leaf. Small tree limbs were being washed up the hill next to the building. I asked Josh just how well he was in with God to get results like that when he didn't want to play a softball game. Mark ran down the hall past the door, crying, "I left my windows down!" Josh looked out in awe and said, "Man, I'm glad I didn't park underneath the tree." And then I said, "Oh." I always park under the tree. Then Josh leaned back, satisfied, in his chair, confident that there would be no game. He gestured proudly out the window as if he himself had created it, saying that he'd never been in a hurricane, but that this was how he imagined one would be. I have been in a hurricane, I told him. "This weather is like a hurricane. Well, a really far inland hurricane." I stared at Josh in amazement, and started thinking about things that I could get him to ask God to do for me.
Mark came back in, his inch-long hair all leaning the same way. "A tree branch fell right in between Sandra's and Lee's cars. You got lucky." We would all later find out that only I had been lucky. The tree branch fell right on Lee's car, and then rolled off to land in the empty space between our two cars.
The storm lasted only a quarter-hour or so before the window showed us a typical sunny Southern summer day again. Josh left at 4, prepared to go home and watch a movie in his pajamas, not play softball. The next morning I came in and asked him how he'd enjoyed his lazy evening completely devoid of softball.
"The game didn't get cancelled."
"What? How is that possible?"
"They called me and said the field was fine."
"Aw, man, that sucks. I'm sorry. How was the game?"
"We won."
"What? I thought you said you were going to get killed."
"I thought we were. But then we came back in the last inning and won."
"Man, God is laughing at you right now."
"Yeah, I know."
About an hour later, I heard thunder. I don't have a window in my office, so I go across the hall to Josh's to remind myself what the world outside my office looks like. I trotted over to see rain pouring not down, but sideways. The tree right outside was whipping every which way and showing us the underside of every single leaf. Small tree limbs were being washed up the hill next to the building. I asked Josh just how well he was in with God to get results like that when he didn't want to play a softball game. Mark ran down the hall past the door, crying, "I left my windows down!" Josh looked out in awe and said, "Man, I'm glad I didn't park underneath the tree." And then I said, "Oh." I always park under the tree. Then Josh leaned back, satisfied, in his chair, confident that there would be no game. He gestured proudly out the window as if he himself had created it, saying that he'd never been in a hurricane, but that this was how he imagined one would be. I have been in a hurricane, I told him. "This weather is like a hurricane. Well, a really far inland hurricane." I stared at Josh in amazement, and started thinking about things that I could get him to ask God to do for me.
Mark came back in, his inch-long hair all leaning the same way. "A tree branch fell right in between Sandra's and Lee's cars. You got lucky." We would all later find out that only I had been lucky. The tree branch fell right on Lee's car, and then rolled off to land in the empty space between our two cars.
The storm lasted only a quarter-hour or so before the window showed us a typical sunny Southern summer day again. Josh left at 4, prepared to go home and watch a movie in his pajamas, not play softball. The next morning I came in and asked him how he'd enjoyed his lazy evening completely devoid of softball.
"The game didn't get cancelled."
"What? How is that possible?"
"They called me and said the field was fine."
"Aw, man, that sucks. I'm sorry. How was the game?"
"We won."
"What? I thought you said you were going to get killed."
"I thought we were. But then we came back in the last inning and won."
"Man, God is laughing at you right now."
"Yeah, I know."
6.06.2005
not for your pet elephant.
There's always buzz when a new Star Wars comes out. I tend to ignore buzz. Actually, I tend to do the opposite of whatever the buzz says. I'm just contrary like that. But then I was in Best Buy, and on their huge TVs, they were showing The Empire Strikes Back. I became engrossed, and suddenly I wanted to see them all again. I've seen the original trilogy once, back when I was about 16. I haven't seen any of the prequels. But I figure I should refresh myself, since Episode III will be at the $2 theatre soon, and I'm planning on taking advantage of that.
I was just going to rent the trilogy. But then I realized that I work at a software company, and someone surely had the SUPER-MEGA-EXTENDED-BONUS EDITION WITH SPECIAL FEATURES FROM THE DIRECTOR'S CHOICE COLLECTION. We have a lot of dorks here. Two of my coworkers had the VHS versions, and the third led me to another, Todd. Apparently, Todd is a kind of a sci-fi nut, so he definitely had them. I asked very nicely if he would mind if I borrowed the set for a few days.
I personally have a hard time loaning out my belongings. My old roommate's friends used to borrow things from us. Maybe they would ask her, and she's an accommodating kind of girl, so she would rent out our things. Maybe they wouldn't ask, knowing she would agree, and have every intention of returning it. Maybe they were thieves. In any case, I lived in terror of my stuff being borrowed out and never returned or returned damaged. I don't like it. So I understand that when people lend things to me, they may very well be the same way. In fact, since they're my friends, they are very likely the same way.
But it's rude to not let people borrow things when they ask, and it's rude to look pained and uncomfortable and to say, "PLEASE DON'T BREAK IT AND PLEEEEEEEASE DON'T LOSE IT, AND BE EXTRA-SPECIAL CAREFUL, 'CAUSE IT IS MINE, MINE, MINE." However, that is probably a good way to get the thing back immediately and to never be asked to lend anything ever again because you are such a freak. No matter how much you want to not let the person, and no matter how suspect this person actually is, being stingy is no good.
So when I got a response email from Todd after I asked to borrow his DVDs, I laughed. Thrown in with some chit-chat about the series, Todd said, "Not that I think you'll intentionally mishandle them, but please take care of them: no scratches please." I imagined him agonizing over this, trying to word it just right so that I wouldn't be offended, but that I understood that I was to be careful. Or maybe Todd is just a confident enough person to remind me that it was not my own DVDs that I was playing with.
I should be such a person. I should be able to say "Be careful, please." Maybe if I were silly about it, I could get away with it, because it would be like I'm making a joke but I'm not. I could say "Don't let your pet elephant play with it!" or maybe "Don't use it for scrubbing your pots and pans!" And see, that would serve the double purpose of me feeling better because I was able to warn someone to be careful, and it would also make that person think twice before using the item to scrub pots and pans.
In any case, I have Todd's DVDs, and I won't be letting my pet elephant play with it, although I might tell Todd that I did, just to have some fun. I'm pretty excited about seeing the trilogy; I hear there's an exciting twist at the end of The Empire Strikes Back, something to do with Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker. I can't wait.
I was just going to rent the trilogy. But then I realized that I work at a software company, and someone surely had the SUPER-MEGA-EXTENDED-BONUS EDITION WITH SPECIAL FEATURES FROM THE DIRECTOR'S CHOICE COLLECTION. We have a lot of dorks here. Two of my coworkers had the VHS versions, and the third led me to another, Todd. Apparently, Todd is a kind of a sci-fi nut, so he definitely had them. I asked very nicely if he would mind if I borrowed the set for a few days.
I personally have a hard time loaning out my belongings. My old roommate's friends used to borrow things from us. Maybe they would ask her, and she's an accommodating kind of girl, so she would rent out our things. Maybe they wouldn't ask, knowing she would agree, and have every intention of returning it. Maybe they were thieves. In any case, I lived in terror of my stuff being borrowed out and never returned or returned damaged. I don't like it. So I understand that when people lend things to me, they may very well be the same way. In fact, since they're my friends, they are very likely the same way.
But it's rude to not let people borrow things when they ask, and it's rude to look pained and uncomfortable and to say, "PLEASE DON'T BREAK IT AND PLEEEEEEEASE DON'T LOSE IT, AND BE EXTRA-SPECIAL CAREFUL, 'CAUSE IT IS MINE, MINE, MINE." However, that is probably a good way to get the thing back immediately and to never be asked to lend anything ever again because you are such a freak. No matter how much you want to not let the person, and no matter how suspect this person actually is, being stingy is no good.
So when I got a response email from Todd after I asked to borrow his DVDs, I laughed. Thrown in with some chit-chat about the series, Todd said, "Not that I think you'll intentionally mishandle them, but please take care of them: no scratches please." I imagined him agonizing over this, trying to word it just right so that I wouldn't be offended, but that I understood that I was to be careful. Or maybe Todd is just a confident enough person to remind me that it was not my own DVDs that I was playing with.
I should be such a person. I should be able to say "Be careful, please." Maybe if I were silly about it, I could get away with it, because it would be like I'm making a joke but I'm not. I could say "Don't let your pet elephant play with it!" or maybe "Don't use it for scrubbing your pots and pans!" And see, that would serve the double purpose of me feeling better because I was able to warn someone to be careful, and it would also make that person think twice before using the item to scrub pots and pans.
In any case, I have Todd's DVDs, and I won't be letting my pet elephant play with it, although I might tell Todd that I did, just to have some fun. I'm pretty excited about seeing the trilogy; I hear there's an exciting twist at the end of The Empire Strikes Back, something to do with Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker. I can't wait.
6.02.2005
build master®.
We've had a series of employees who have held the title of Build Master. I'm the current Build Master. There was once talk of calling me the Build Mistress, but that just doesn't flow as well. The Build Master packages installs. The reason that no one person is the permanent Build Master in residence is no one wants this job forever. So the company started making the new hires be the Build Master. The first was Zach, who was Master for a year and a half. He trained Josh, who had the title for six months. Josh trained Sandra, that's me, and I've been Build Master for four months now. Josh was the new Zach, I was the new Josh, and I can only hope that soon there will be a new Sandra. We were due to get a new Sandra in August, but he passed on the offer. Frankly, I think anyone should be honored to be the new Sandra.
The company sent Zach to a Build Master class where he learned about the install software, InstallShield. I was given his books from the class when I started in the hopes that in my spare time I would read both the text and Zach's scribbled notes. I browsed through them during my first week, but haven't touched them since. Rather than send Josh to another class, Zach just trained him to do the job. Then Josh trained me. It is the passing of the torch, or rather the hasty throwing of the torch and then running away before the other guy can try to give the torch back.
The job isn't that bad, but it's very ebb and flow. You can be sitting around reading Microsoft books one week, bored out of your skull, and then the next week you are up to your ears in deadlines. Plus, there is no advancement in this job. You're making installs, that is all you'll do, and even though each one is different, it's still an install. While that's okay for a while, no one goes to college with dreams of doing it. I hear that people who do want to do installs forever are in demand for those companies who need full time Build Masters. It can be stressful. No install is ever as simple as it seems, because there is always that one little catch. "We need this install to just copy some files over - real simple like, should be no problem. Here are the files, it's no big thing. Oh, by the way, we need it to launch this other install in the background. You should have this by the end of the day, right? Actually, maybe before lunch, because Martha's testing it and she likes to leave at 3." Okay, I'm exaggerating - no one has ever given me a deadline like that. But installs are never as simple as they seem. Our company isn't big enough to have someone do it full-time, so we use the passing of the torch system, which seems to be working pretty well.
So I like to think that each Build Master adds something to the fount of Build Master knowledge that is passed down. It's like that name game you play on the first day of camp where everyone's going on a cruise, and each person is taking something that starts with the same letter as the person's first name. "We're all going on a cruise, and Zach is taking zucchini, Josh is taking jumpropes, and I'm Sandra, and I'm taking silkworms." Zach's class didn't teach him everything, and even if it had, he would not have remembered it all. The thing about using InstallShield is there is a lot of functionality included that you never know about until you need it. One day someone says, "Hey, wouldn't it be nice if the install could do this? Is that possible? Can you find out?" And then the Build Master spends some time researching by looking at the InstallShield help files (which vary wildly in their levels of usefulness and ambiguity) and searching online forums full of questions and answer from other Build Masters across the world. This part is actually one of my favorite parts of the job. I like to figure out first if something is possible, and then how it is possible, and finally how it is possible in my individual install. Then once I know, I can add it to the list of the things that I'll tell the new Sandra, just in case he ever needs it.
So it's just like the name game where you're going on a cruise, except in this case, it's more like "We're all adding to the Build Master know-how pool, and Zach taught us how to modify dialogs, Josh taught us how to record installations, and I'm Sandra, and I taught you how to use the Character Map."
I thought everyone knew how to use the Character Map. But maybe it was just the kids like me, who found themselves sick of Solitaire and wanted something else to play with, so they started exploring anything on the computer. For those of you who don't know and are using Windows machines (post Windows 95): Go to the Start Menu, then to Programs, then Accessories, then to System Tools, and you'll see the Character Map. It's fun, for like, five minutes. You can make cool emoticons and Greek letters and funny pictures. It's like when you discovered Wingdings, only better. I never thought I would ever use it in my job, until the day came that I had to install something with a trademark in the name.
Most installs just have a (TM) or (R) if the product has a trademark or registered trademark in the name. But at some point, someone asked me, "Sandra, is there any way to make that prettier?" So I went to the Character Map. See, the tiny TM and the R in the circle are actual characters in most fonts, just like a lowercase letter 'a,' a plus sign, or the Greek letter gamma. But putting those characters into an install took me four hours to figure out. It was a whole big font issue that I'd rather not retell. The moral of the story is that you can get the little R in the circle, but not the tiny TM. At least I haven't figured out how to do it yet.
To be fair, I've done more than figure out the character map issue. I also learned to turn off the update feature, how to associate file extensions with a program, how to restart the install after a reboot, and that any install that includes Adobe Reader 7.0 will be trouble. But no one cares about those things because they can't really see them. Anyone can see and appreciate a little R inside a circle. My coworkers are regularly delighted with the little R's in circles. Josh was so delighted that he asked me how I did it. He'd never heard of the Character Map before, and his life hasn't been the same since I showed it to him. He uses it whenever he gets the chance. Note his last email to me:
>> -----Original Message-----
From: Josh
Sent: Wednesday, May 25, 2005 3:17 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: demo
Sandra®,
Can you make a new diagnostics® demo and give it to Mike?
Thanks®.
Josh®
That's a lot of little R's in circles. And that is my contribution to the collection torch of knowledge to be passed down to generations upon generations of Build Masters. I'd like for all those future Zachs, Joshes, and Sandras to know just who brought them the ability to put the little R's into the circles. I thought of trademarking the idea, but then again, I still don't know how to make that tiny TM.
The company sent Zach to a Build Master class where he learned about the install software, InstallShield. I was given his books from the class when I started in the hopes that in my spare time I would read both the text and Zach's scribbled notes. I browsed through them during my first week, but haven't touched them since. Rather than send Josh to another class, Zach just trained him to do the job. Then Josh trained me. It is the passing of the torch, or rather the hasty throwing of the torch and then running away before the other guy can try to give the torch back.
The job isn't that bad, but it's very ebb and flow. You can be sitting around reading Microsoft books one week, bored out of your skull, and then the next week you are up to your ears in deadlines. Plus, there is no advancement in this job. You're making installs, that is all you'll do, and even though each one is different, it's still an install. While that's okay for a while, no one goes to college with dreams of doing it. I hear that people who do want to do installs forever are in demand for those companies who need full time Build Masters. It can be stressful. No install is ever as simple as it seems, because there is always that one little catch. "We need this install to just copy some files over - real simple like, should be no problem. Here are the files, it's no big thing. Oh, by the way, we need it to launch this other install in the background. You should have this by the end of the day, right? Actually, maybe before lunch, because Martha's testing it and she likes to leave at 3." Okay, I'm exaggerating - no one has ever given me a deadline like that. But installs are never as simple as they seem. Our company isn't big enough to have someone do it full-time, so we use the passing of the torch system, which seems to be working pretty well.
So I like to think that each Build Master adds something to the fount of Build Master knowledge that is passed down. It's like that name game you play on the first day of camp where everyone's going on a cruise, and each person is taking something that starts with the same letter as the person's first name. "We're all going on a cruise, and Zach is taking zucchini, Josh is taking jumpropes, and I'm Sandra, and I'm taking silkworms." Zach's class didn't teach him everything, and even if it had, he would not have remembered it all. The thing about using InstallShield is there is a lot of functionality included that you never know about until you need it. One day someone says, "Hey, wouldn't it be nice if the install could do this? Is that possible? Can you find out?" And then the Build Master spends some time researching by looking at the InstallShield help files (which vary wildly in their levels of usefulness and ambiguity) and searching online forums full of questions and answer from other Build Masters across the world. This part is actually one of my favorite parts of the job. I like to figure out first if something is possible, and then how it is possible, and finally how it is possible in my individual install. Then once I know, I can add it to the list of the things that I'll tell the new Sandra, just in case he ever needs it.
So it's just like the name game where you're going on a cruise, except in this case, it's more like "We're all adding to the Build Master know-how pool, and Zach taught us how to modify dialogs, Josh taught us how to record installations, and I'm Sandra, and I taught you how to use the Character Map."
I thought everyone knew how to use the Character Map. But maybe it was just the kids like me, who found themselves sick of Solitaire and wanted something else to play with, so they started exploring anything on the computer. For those of you who don't know and are using Windows machines (post Windows 95): Go to the Start Menu, then to Programs, then Accessories, then to System Tools, and you'll see the Character Map. It's fun, for like, five minutes. You can make cool emoticons and Greek letters and funny pictures. It's like when you discovered Wingdings, only better. I never thought I would ever use it in my job, until the day came that I had to install something with a trademark in the name.
Most installs just have a (TM) or (R) if the product has a trademark or registered trademark in the name. But at some point, someone asked me, "Sandra, is there any way to make that prettier?" So I went to the Character Map. See, the tiny TM and the R in the circle are actual characters in most fonts, just like a lowercase letter 'a,' a plus sign, or the Greek letter gamma. But putting those characters into an install took me four hours to figure out. It was a whole big font issue that I'd rather not retell. The moral of the story is that you can get the little R in the circle, but not the tiny TM. At least I haven't figured out how to do it yet.
To be fair, I've done more than figure out the character map issue. I also learned to turn off the update feature, how to associate file extensions with a program, how to restart the install after a reboot, and that any install that includes Adobe Reader 7.0 will be trouble. But no one cares about those things because they can't really see them. Anyone can see and appreciate a little R inside a circle. My coworkers are regularly delighted with the little R's in circles. Josh was so delighted that he asked me how I did it. He'd never heard of the Character Map before, and his life hasn't been the same since I showed it to him. He uses it whenever he gets the chance. Note his last email to me:
>> -----Original Message-----
From: Josh
Sent: Wednesday, May 25, 2005 3:17 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: demo
Sandra®,
Can you make a new diagnostics® demo and give it to Mike?
Thanks®.
Josh®
That's a lot of little R's in circles. And that is my contribution to the collection torch of knowledge to be passed down to generations upon generations of Build Masters. I'd like for all those future Zachs, Joshes, and Sandras to know just who brought them the ability to put the little R's into the circles. I thought of trademarking the idea, but then again, I still don't know how to make that tiny TM.
5.29.2005
ain't that some auto parts store?
I was raised a white zinfandel girl (from hence known as white zin). I didn't realize until I began working at Vintner's Restaurant & Wine Shoppe that white zin was not classy. Most wine people tend to look down upon it, lumping white zin people with boxed wine people, Boone's Farm people, and illiterate people. I remember once waiting on a table at The Bistro of three gentlemen who were drinking pricey pinot noir. Their table was next to a big southern family of eight drinking white zin. One of the gentlemen looked at the family with disgust, and then said in a fake southern accent, "Napa? Ain't that some auto parts store?" I laughed, because it was pretty clever, and said, "Hey, it takes all kinds."
Being around wine at work all the time made me interested in it, so I started learning what I could. I was too young to do much tasting, and my of-age friends were impatient with my hour long trips to the wine aisle. So it was mostly head knowledge, and very little tongue knowledge. But with limited tasting, I was having a hard time finding something I liked. Every wine I tried made my face pucker, but I thought that was just the way wine was. I began to despair that I would never be more than a white zin person.
My life with wine changed the night I went to an art opening. It was shortly before my 21st birthday, they had free wine, and no one was carding. After the first time, they took your empty glass as an indication that you were old enough to do this. I took the opportunity to try a lot of different things. Casey was not very interested in wine at the time, and asked for a suggestion. I recommended a riesling, because I knew that it was one of the sweetest "classy" wines that you can find, and that's what we both had. One taste, and we both had a great epiphany.
Wine could taste good.
My face didn't pucker, I didn't have to swallow it quickly, and I definitely didn't throw it down the water fountain like I did with some bitter red stuff we tried later that evening. At the time I tasted it, I lacked the wine words to describe it properly, but here is what I remember: very pleasant and drinkable, fruity and well-balanced, but not overly sweet. It was what the experts would call a nice sipping wine. It was what the southern experts would call a nice sippin' and sittin' on the porch at sunset in the summertime wine.
I've since looked everywhere for that wine. I went to the local wine stores and all the grocery stores, but no one had it. Probably whoever had it couldn't sell it, and donated it to the art gallery. I remembered the label from the night we tasted it, and I did extensive searching on the internet until I found it. I also found three wine shops in New England that carry it, but do not ship to North Carolina. I could only hope that the winery will release a new vintage every year that was as good as the one I tried, and I can find it then. I was a little afraid that since I, a wine amateur, liked it, that in the wine world, it would be considered a bad wine. But then it showed up in the Top 100 Value Wines issue of Wine Enthusiast. At #54, it scored 88 points. I am redeemed.
It's been over a year and a half since I tried that wonderful riesling. I stopped looking for it after a year. This week, I was early for some dinner plans, so I stopped at a wine shop downtown to kill time. I'd been meaning to check it out since I moved to Winston, but since there's a Total Wine & More near my work and a North Carolina wineseller near my house, I lacked the impetus. I was just browsing, looking more for a red zin that my local Total Wine doesn't carry than anything else, when there was my riesling. One bottle, sitting there, hanging out without any sort of sign that said "SANDRA, LOOK HERE RIGHT NOW!" I'd sworn off wine buying recently, because I have two cases at home, but an exception had to be made. I was so excited that when I paid, I gushed to the cashier, "I've been looking for this for a year and a half." I never divulge information to strangers. He politely nodded and took my credit card.
I'm afraid now that I won't like my little riesling. My tastes have changed, as I've been old enough to taste and I've been taking advantage of that. I find red zin more interesting than white zin, and it's been a long time since I found a riesling that I liked enough to buy. I'm afraid that the wine won't live up to the memory, like when I watched The Dark Crystal for the first time as an adult and realized that it sucked. We shall see.
I've come a long way in my wine knowledge. I try not to be a wine snob, because Lord knows I still have a long way to go in my wine education. I see white zin as a pair of training wheels on a bike. You have to start somewhere, and I don't think there is anyone who can jump right into a sauvignon blanc or a pinot noir and appreciate them without having had wine before. (I was honestly beginning to wonder if I would ever like sauvignon blanc when I tried a very nice one a couple of months ago.) And while some people may never get past the training wheels, anything that gets them to appreciate wine at all is a good idea. You should drink what you like. Why waste your time drinking something that doesn't even taste good to you? Looking down upon people for liking white zin is like looking down upon people for liking oysters or mushrooms or cantaloupe (though I have to confess I do have to wonder what is actually wrong with all those kinds of people).
Though I may think all of that, it's a little different in practice. I went out to eat once with a friend of mine. After the food, I decided to partake in an alcoholic beverage for dessert, so I asked about the wine and beer list. I wanted a nice riesling. But this was not a wine place, and they had merlot, chardonnay, and white zinfandel. I didn't like beer, so I ordered a premium malt beverage. Most college kids would not be caught dead drinking a malt beverage in public, but as I explained to my friend, "Well, I wasn't going to drink a white zin in public!"
Being around wine at work all the time made me interested in it, so I started learning what I could. I was too young to do much tasting, and my of-age friends were impatient with my hour long trips to the wine aisle. So it was mostly head knowledge, and very little tongue knowledge. But with limited tasting, I was having a hard time finding something I liked. Every wine I tried made my face pucker, but I thought that was just the way wine was. I began to despair that I would never be more than a white zin person.
My life with wine changed the night I went to an art opening. It was shortly before my 21st birthday, they had free wine, and no one was carding. After the first time, they took your empty glass as an indication that you were old enough to do this. I took the opportunity to try a lot of different things. Casey was not very interested in wine at the time, and asked for a suggestion. I recommended a riesling, because I knew that it was one of the sweetest "classy" wines that you can find, and that's what we both had. One taste, and we both had a great epiphany.
Wine could taste good.
My face didn't pucker, I didn't have to swallow it quickly, and I definitely didn't throw it down the water fountain like I did with some bitter red stuff we tried later that evening. At the time I tasted it, I lacked the wine words to describe it properly, but here is what I remember: very pleasant and drinkable, fruity and well-balanced, but not overly sweet. It was what the experts would call a nice sipping wine. It was what the southern experts would call a nice sippin' and sittin' on the porch at sunset in the summertime wine.
I've since looked everywhere for that wine. I went to the local wine stores and all the grocery stores, but no one had it. Probably whoever had it couldn't sell it, and donated it to the art gallery. I remembered the label from the night we tasted it, and I did extensive searching on the internet until I found it. I also found three wine shops in New England that carry it, but do not ship to North Carolina. I could only hope that the winery will release a new vintage every year that was as good as the one I tried, and I can find it then. I was a little afraid that since I, a wine amateur, liked it, that in the wine world, it would be considered a bad wine. But then it showed up in the Top 100 Value Wines issue of Wine Enthusiast. At #54, it scored 88 points. I am redeemed.
It's been over a year and a half since I tried that wonderful riesling. I stopped looking for it after a year. This week, I was early for some dinner plans, so I stopped at a wine shop downtown to kill time. I'd been meaning to check it out since I moved to Winston, but since there's a Total Wine & More near my work and a North Carolina wineseller near my house, I lacked the impetus. I was just browsing, looking more for a red zin that my local Total Wine doesn't carry than anything else, when there was my riesling. One bottle, sitting there, hanging out without any sort of sign that said "SANDRA, LOOK HERE RIGHT NOW!" I'd sworn off wine buying recently, because I have two cases at home, but an exception had to be made. I was so excited that when I paid, I gushed to the cashier, "I've been looking for this for a year and a half." I never divulge information to strangers. He politely nodded and took my credit card.
I'm afraid now that I won't like my little riesling. My tastes have changed, as I've been old enough to taste and I've been taking advantage of that. I find red zin more interesting than white zin, and it's been a long time since I found a riesling that I liked enough to buy. I'm afraid that the wine won't live up to the memory, like when I watched The Dark Crystal for the first time as an adult and realized that it sucked. We shall see.
I've come a long way in my wine knowledge. I try not to be a wine snob, because Lord knows I still have a long way to go in my wine education. I see white zin as a pair of training wheels on a bike. You have to start somewhere, and I don't think there is anyone who can jump right into a sauvignon blanc or a pinot noir and appreciate them without having had wine before. (I was honestly beginning to wonder if I would ever like sauvignon blanc when I tried a very nice one a couple of months ago.) And while some people may never get past the training wheels, anything that gets them to appreciate wine at all is a good idea. You should drink what you like. Why waste your time drinking something that doesn't even taste good to you? Looking down upon people for liking white zin is like looking down upon people for liking oysters or mushrooms or cantaloupe (though I have to confess I do have to wonder what is actually wrong with all those kinds of people).
Though I may think all of that, it's a little different in practice. I went out to eat once with a friend of mine. After the food, I decided to partake in an alcoholic beverage for dessert, so I asked about the wine and beer list. I wanted a nice riesling. But this was not a wine place, and they had merlot, chardonnay, and white zinfandel. I didn't like beer, so I ordered a premium malt beverage. Most college kids would not be caught dead drinking a malt beverage in public, but as I explained to my friend, "Well, I wasn't going to drink a white zin in public!"
5.22.2005
goo goo g'joob.
hing 1: Forget the walrus, I am the lobster (goo goo g'joob).
Translation: I am sunburnt.
I am not so much the color of a lobster so much as I am the color of a lobster as it is being boiled alive. I have only myself to blame. I knew I was pasty, and I knew I was going to be out in the sun. But my altogether faulty logic figured that since I would not be in the sun between the hours of 10am and noon (the most dangerous hours in terms of sun exposure, so I've heard), that I would be fine. However, when you are the color of a, well, a computer scientist, and you are out in the sun for FOUR HOURS, then you're going to end up looking like a computer scientist being boiled alive. So I'm red, I'm in pain, and I am whiny.
Thing 2: Forget the walrus, I am the electric blue lobster (goo goo g'joob).
Translation: I'm using that bright blue gel ice stuff for my burns.
I bought this stuff last night, around the time that I realized just how much sun I had gotten. I love this stuff. I love that it is neon, I love that it is gel, and I love that it is a very silly product that somehow works. Plus, they seem to have made advancements in the gel ice technology since the last time I purchased the stuff, as it no longer has that weird smell. It smells like mint. So I may look kinda stupid with my weird burn lines, but I smell like I just brushed my teeth. Blind people will want to kiss me, I am so minty fresh.
Incidently, I heard recently that you could put vinegar on sunburn, and that you would feel better. This sounds like something you tell someone so they'll do it, and then you can laugh at them - like the time at The Bistro when Harry burnt his thumb, and someone told him to put a wet tea bag on it. He came in the next day with a brown thumb, and we laughed at him. Also, with this method, blind people will not want to kiss me, though, as Mama pointed out, I will not attract any flies.
Thing 3: Forget the walrus, I am the electric blue lobster being boiled alive (goo goo g'joob).
Translation: I am still not using my air conditioning.
No, I'm not that stubborn. I did finally turn my air conditioning on: it just doesn't work. My apartment manager has been notified, and the situation is due to be corrected in the morning. No promises on the rest of my problems.
Translation: I am sunburnt.
I am not so much the color of a lobster so much as I am the color of a lobster as it is being boiled alive. I have only myself to blame. I knew I was pasty, and I knew I was going to be out in the sun. But my altogether faulty logic figured that since I would not be in the sun between the hours of 10am and noon (the most dangerous hours in terms of sun exposure, so I've heard), that I would be fine. However, when you are the color of a, well, a computer scientist, and you are out in the sun for FOUR HOURS, then you're going to end up looking like a computer scientist being boiled alive. So I'm red, I'm in pain, and I am whiny.
Thing 2: Forget the walrus, I am the electric blue lobster (goo goo g'joob).
Translation: I'm using that bright blue gel ice stuff for my burns.
I bought this stuff last night, around the time that I realized just how much sun I had gotten. I love this stuff. I love that it is neon, I love that it is gel, and I love that it is a very silly product that somehow works. Plus, they seem to have made advancements in the gel ice technology since the last time I purchased the stuff, as it no longer has that weird smell. It smells like mint. So I may look kinda stupid with my weird burn lines, but I smell like I just brushed my teeth. Blind people will want to kiss me, I am so minty fresh.
Incidently, I heard recently that you could put vinegar on sunburn, and that you would feel better. This sounds like something you tell someone so they'll do it, and then you can laugh at them - like the time at The Bistro when Harry burnt his thumb, and someone told him to put a wet tea bag on it. He came in the next day with a brown thumb, and we laughed at him. Also, with this method, blind people will not want to kiss me, though, as Mama pointed out, I will not attract any flies.
Thing 3: Forget the walrus, I am the electric blue lobster being boiled alive (goo goo g'joob).
Translation: I am still not using my air conditioning.
No, I'm not that stubborn. I did finally turn my air conditioning on: it just doesn't work. My apartment manager has been notified, and the situation is due to be corrected in the morning. No promises on the rest of my problems.
5.19.2005
the depths of my poverty.
Last night, I was lying in bed, and I was sweating. Relax, Ma, it's not what you think. Have you been upstairs in my apartment? No, of course not, otherwise, I would have found your skeleton already, one hand on your empty canteen and one arm draped over the cactus that has recently sprouted in my guest room. I tell ya, it is hot up there. Downstairs is fine, almost comfortable. Upstairs, it's a toss up between walking around in my skivvies and throwing all the windows open. If I lived in the country, I'd do both.
Of course, the real solution is to just turn on the A/C. I have air conditioning, I even have central air, which was a big selling point for me when I signed up for my place. I should use it. I'm not even sure what I'm waiting for. Every time it occurs to me to just turn on the A/C, I suddenly am too lazy to do it. To me, suffering is easier than closing the windows and going downstairs to turn a knob.
I've lived without air conditioning in Winston before. I lived at Salem College one summer on the top floor of a dorm that was apparently built by the original Moravian settlers back in the year sixteen-whatever. My solution was to spend as much time as possible either in the Fine Arts Center (where there was A/C), outside, or with my head in my fridge. But at night, I had to be in that sauna. I had the top bunk, and I slept wearing as little as I could get away with without embarrassing my roommate, to whom I never spoke. Eventually, I put an oscillating fan at the foot of the bed, and then before I went to bed every night, I would wet a few of my socks with cold water, and then lay them on myself. I bet I sure looked stupid.
Maybe the problem is that I still think that I live in Boone. In Boone, no one has air conditioning, except maybe like the rich old people who summer there. It just doesn't get hot enough. People in Boone just throw open their windows or walk around in their skivvies or both. I was no diferent, and during my last summer there, I lived in the country. See, in Boone, I was just reluctant to turn on the heat. I remember one winter sitting at my computer trying to type with gloves on before the typos just got ridiculous, and I looked at myself and said, "I am not this poor."
And I am still not this poor. I am not poor enough to go to bed with wet socks all over me. I am not poor enough to wonder just how little clothing I can get away with before my neighbors start whipping out their binoculars. I'm even richer than when I was not poor enough to type with gloves on. I am rich enough to use the air conditioning that I am likely paying extra to have in my apartment. If only I were rich enough to just buy a house in the country.
Of course, the real solution is to just turn on the A/C. I have air conditioning, I even have central air, which was a big selling point for me when I signed up for my place. I should use it. I'm not even sure what I'm waiting for. Every time it occurs to me to just turn on the A/C, I suddenly am too lazy to do it. To me, suffering is easier than closing the windows and going downstairs to turn a knob.
I've lived without air conditioning in Winston before. I lived at Salem College one summer on the top floor of a dorm that was apparently built by the original Moravian settlers back in the year sixteen-whatever. My solution was to spend as much time as possible either in the Fine Arts Center (where there was A/C), outside, or with my head in my fridge. But at night, I had to be in that sauna. I had the top bunk, and I slept wearing as little as I could get away with without embarrassing my roommate, to whom I never spoke. Eventually, I put an oscillating fan at the foot of the bed, and then before I went to bed every night, I would wet a few of my socks with cold water, and then lay them on myself. I bet I sure looked stupid.
Maybe the problem is that I still think that I live in Boone. In Boone, no one has air conditioning, except maybe like the rich old people who summer there. It just doesn't get hot enough. People in Boone just throw open their windows or walk around in their skivvies or both. I was no diferent, and during my last summer there, I lived in the country. See, in Boone, I was just reluctant to turn on the heat. I remember one winter sitting at my computer trying to type with gloves on before the typos just got ridiculous, and I looked at myself and said, "I am not this poor."
And I am still not this poor. I am not poor enough to go to bed with wet socks all over me. I am not poor enough to wonder just how little clothing I can get away with before my neighbors start whipping out their binoculars. I'm even richer than when I was not poor enough to type with gloves on. I am rich enough to use the air conditioning that I am likely paying extra to have in my apartment. If only I were rich enough to just buy a house in the country.
5.15.2005
dreaming when i wrote this.
2:37 am.
I'd had a rough night of it. I couldn't remember if I'd been awake for three hours or if I'd just been having very realistic dreams of being awake. Either way, I was feeling unsatisfied by the past three hours of sleep that I might or might not have gotten. My cell phone was ringing. The screen says Josh is calling, but I know two boys named Josh, and the screen isn't big enough for the last name. To see the last name, I would have to open the phone, thereby answering it.
One boy named Josh would call me at 2:37 am. If I could be sure it was him, I would let it ring, if for no other reason than the fact that he left me a lovely and revealing voicemail message once, and I've been waiting for another ever since, except I keep answering my phone. He called me once before in the wee hours of the morning. I think he'd been drinking, though he claimed only a light buzz when I answered the phone that time.
Another boy named Josh has never called me in the dead of night before, and it doesn't strike me as his style. So if it were his last name that was sitting just out of the range of the exterior screen of my cell phone, that might mean he needed something. Maybe he needed bailing out of jail. Maybe he was depressed. Maybe he couldn't think of the band that sang that "Time of the Season" song.
Ah well, I wasn't sleeping well anyway. Might as well answer it. For the brief second that I saw the screen of the phone before I put it to my ear, I saw that it was Josh #1. Crap. Should've just let him leave a message. Too late now.
"Hey, sailor."
"Oh, hey. I didn't expect you to answer. I woke you up, didn't I?"
"No. Well, kinda."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just going to leave a message. I figured your phone would be off."
"Nope. What's up? Are you okay?"
"Yeah. How are you? How's your job?"
"Fine."
"Yeah, it's a job. Listen, what are you doing May 28? I think that's the right date. The last Saturday in May."
"That's Memorial Day." A beat while I realize I've told a falsehood. "Weekend."
"Oh, really? Huh. Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, well, my apartment building is having a music festival, and there's-"
I laugh.
"...well, okay, you can laugh if you want." He's a little hurt.
"It's funny. 'My apartment building is the last stop of Lollapalooza!'"
He laughs.
"Yeah, okay, that is funny. Well, there's like four bands playing in different people's apartments. We're calling it 'Waltamont,' you know after Altamont, and-"
I laugh.
"You know, that old festival that went bad?" He's confused now, though he knows me well enough to know that I laugh at nigh upon everything.
"No, yeah, I know. Can I be the first person to get killed at your festival?"
He laughs.
"Sure. I was just calling to leave you a message about that, but you answered, and...hey listen, I should call back when you're awake and it's not the middle of the night. This was dumb."
"Yeah, okay."
"Okay. Sorry. Bye."
"Bye."
I'd had a rough night of it. I couldn't remember if I'd been awake for three hours or if I'd just been having very realistic dreams of being awake. Either way, I was feeling unsatisfied by the past three hours of sleep that I might or might not have gotten. My cell phone was ringing. The screen says Josh is calling, but I know two boys named Josh, and the screen isn't big enough for the last name. To see the last name, I would have to open the phone, thereby answering it.
One boy named Josh would call me at 2:37 am. If I could be sure it was him, I would let it ring, if for no other reason than the fact that he left me a lovely and revealing voicemail message once, and I've been waiting for another ever since, except I keep answering my phone. He called me once before in the wee hours of the morning. I think he'd been drinking, though he claimed only a light buzz when I answered the phone that time.
Another boy named Josh has never called me in the dead of night before, and it doesn't strike me as his style. So if it were his last name that was sitting just out of the range of the exterior screen of my cell phone, that might mean he needed something. Maybe he needed bailing out of jail. Maybe he was depressed. Maybe he couldn't think of the band that sang that "Time of the Season" song.
Ah well, I wasn't sleeping well anyway. Might as well answer it. For the brief second that I saw the screen of the phone before I put it to my ear, I saw that it was Josh #1. Crap. Should've just let him leave a message. Too late now.
"Hey, sailor."
"Oh, hey. I didn't expect you to answer. I woke you up, didn't I?"
"No. Well, kinda."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just going to leave a message. I figured your phone would be off."
"Nope. What's up? Are you okay?"
"Yeah. How are you? How's your job?"
"Fine."
"Yeah, it's a job. Listen, what are you doing May 28? I think that's the right date. The last Saturday in May."
"That's Memorial Day." A beat while I realize I've told a falsehood. "Weekend."
"Oh, really? Huh. Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, well, my apartment building is having a music festival, and there's-"
I laugh.
"...well, okay, you can laugh if you want." He's a little hurt.
"It's funny. 'My apartment building is the last stop of Lollapalooza!'"
He laughs.
"Yeah, okay, that is funny. Well, there's like four bands playing in different people's apartments. We're calling it 'Waltamont,' you know after Altamont, and-"
I laugh.
"You know, that old festival that went bad?" He's confused now, though he knows me well enough to know that I laugh at nigh upon everything.
"No, yeah, I know. Can I be the first person to get killed at your festival?"
He laughs.
"Sure. I was just calling to leave you a message about that, but you answered, and...hey listen, I should call back when you're awake and it's not the middle of the night. This was dumb."
"Yeah, okay."
"Okay. Sorry. Bye."
"Bye."
5.11.2005
car things.
Car themed things today!
Thing 1: I got a car.
Not new, not even new to me. For though I've been driving this car around and calling it my car for four years now, it's officially mine. My parents signed a paper, I signed a paper, an unrelated witness signed the paper. I own a car. It is the most valuable thing I own. Depending on the depreciation of my computer, I would say that my washer/dryer set run a distant second. Then my autographed 8x10 glossy of Macaulay Culkin. Nah, just kidding. I wasn't kidding about having one of those, just about it being worth anything.
Thing 2: I broke the car.
Specifically the windshield. A few weeks ago, I noticed a crack in the windshield. I vaguely remember hearing something hitting the windshield, but at the time, I hadn't noticed damage. The crack was concerning, but I didn't worry about it. A couple of weeks after that, I noticed the crack was longer. That was cause for concern. I figured a cracked windshield wouldn't hurt anything, but an increasingly cracked windshield was troublesome. Long story short, the company my insurance company sent me to came out while I was at work, fixed my windshield, filed my insurance paperwork, gave me a lifetime guarantee, and told me to have a nice day. I proceeded to have a nice day, except for when I was driving home and something flew out of the road, hit my windshield, and left a scratch. But not a crack, so it's okay.
Thing 3: I fixed the car.
The car pulled to the right, and the steering wheel vibrated at around 65 mph. My solution for that was just to always go faster than that, but that still didn't solve the pulling. As convenient as it was to be able to get off on my exit without having to steer myself there, it's bad news for the tires. And as I am fully capable of screwing up my tires by hitting potholes at high speeds, running over nails, or hitting cats, I don't need help from my own car. So I had the tire place fix that up real nice, and they changed my oil, too. But NOT the power steering fluid, because I can get my daddy to do that. So I'm only mostly helpless. Afterwards, I was able to fix my hair while driving because I didn't need to keep a hand on the steering wheel all the time. Aren't you glad my car's all better?
I hate having car issues. I am rough on my car with my ignorance and apathy. I need my car to just do its job, to get me somewhere and play that funky music. So there's crap all in it and there are some places that are sticky from having stuff spilled on it. You may find a diabetic test strip and/or syringe, because my boyfriend doesn't care what my car looks like either. When the car is broken, it gives me a sinking feeling in my stomach all the time. I'm scared of the car being broken, and I'm scared to go get it fixed. I just want it to work. And I do love my little car, because she understands her job. She knows she's just supposed to get me there, and that it doesn't matter what she looks like or what kind of mess her interior is in. She gets to go fast and listen to loud music, and she can win races at the stoplight against much fancier cars, particularly when their drivers don't realize they are racing.
So I'm glad she's all better now, because I hate having to worry about my tires falling off or my windshield coming flying in my face. With the change in ownership, she can now expect exactly the same kind of treatment. She's my car now, and she's the most valuable thing I own. If only I could get Macaulay Culkin to sign the car, now that would be something special...
Thing 1: I got a car.
Not new, not even new to me. For though I've been driving this car around and calling it my car for four years now, it's officially mine. My parents signed a paper, I signed a paper, an unrelated witness signed the paper. I own a car. It is the most valuable thing I own. Depending on the depreciation of my computer, I would say that my washer/dryer set run a distant second. Then my autographed 8x10 glossy of Macaulay Culkin. Nah, just kidding. I wasn't kidding about having one of those, just about it being worth anything.
Thing 2: I broke the car.
Specifically the windshield. A few weeks ago, I noticed a crack in the windshield. I vaguely remember hearing something hitting the windshield, but at the time, I hadn't noticed damage. The crack was concerning, but I didn't worry about it. A couple of weeks after that, I noticed the crack was longer. That was cause for concern. I figured a cracked windshield wouldn't hurt anything, but an increasingly cracked windshield was troublesome. Long story short, the company my insurance company sent me to came out while I was at work, fixed my windshield, filed my insurance paperwork, gave me a lifetime guarantee, and told me to have a nice day. I proceeded to have a nice day, except for when I was driving home and something flew out of the road, hit my windshield, and left a scratch. But not a crack, so it's okay.
Thing 3: I fixed the car.
The car pulled to the right, and the steering wheel vibrated at around 65 mph. My solution for that was just to always go faster than that, but that still didn't solve the pulling. As convenient as it was to be able to get off on my exit without having to steer myself there, it's bad news for the tires. And as I am fully capable of screwing up my tires by hitting potholes at high speeds, running over nails, or hitting cats, I don't need help from my own car. So I had the tire place fix that up real nice, and they changed my oil, too. But NOT the power steering fluid, because I can get my daddy to do that. So I'm only mostly helpless. Afterwards, I was able to fix my hair while driving because I didn't need to keep a hand on the steering wheel all the time. Aren't you glad my car's all better?
I hate having car issues. I am rough on my car with my ignorance and apathy. I need my car to just do its job, to get me somewhere and play that funky music. So there's crap all in it and there are some places that are sticky from having stuff spilled on it. You may find a diabetic test strip and/or syringe, because my boyfriend doesn't care what my car looks like either. When the car is broken, it gives me a sinking feeling in my stomach all the time. I'm scared of the car being broken, and I'm scared to go get it fixed. I just want it to work. And I do love my little car, because she understands her job. She knows she's just supposed to get me there, and that it doesn't matter what she looks like or what kind of mess her interior is in. She gets to go fast and listen to loud music, and she can win races at the stoplight against much fancier cars, particularly when their drivers don't realize they are racing.
So I'm glad she's all better now, because I hate having to worry about my tires falling off or my windshield coming flying in my face. With the change in ownership, she can now expect exactly the same kind of treatment. She's my car now, and she's the most valuable thing I own. If only I could get Macaulay Culkin to sign the car, now that would be something special...
5.08.2005
back to pondering my mortality.
Terry Schiavo. The Pope. Big time for the media. Oh, and Mitch Hedberg died. I noticed.
Mitch Hedberg is (was?) a comedian, easily my favorite. He died this past month at the age of 37; rumors whisper heroin. Mainstream America knows him from regular stints on Letterman or from specials on Comedy Central. I was introduced to Mitch Hedberg by an hour-long comedy CD that found its way into my freshman roommate's stereo. The three of us would sit in the room, each of us at our computers doing something else while listening, often pausing to laugh. Sometimes we had to pause a long time, because it was just that funny. Before long, we could quote him verbatim, and we often imitated his slow, stoned drawl.
The thing I liked most about Hedberg was just how obvious and ridiculous his jokes were. No one thought of his jokes before because they were so obvious. So obvious, it was funny. Most of them left you going "What in the world?" but you laughed as you said it. Maybe they were the kind of jokes you would make up if you were stoned, and maybe potheads the world over have already come up with all of his jokes a million times, but they just didn't remember them later. Regardless, they weren't jokes you had to be stoned to enjoy.
So I've been bummed about it. Mitch Hedberg's death isn't going to cause political changes, like Schiavo's, and it won't affect people the way the Pope's has and will. It's not like he's even the first young talent in entertainment to OD. There's nothing controversial about his death. It's just...sad.
I took the liberty of finding some of Mitch's jokes* for you all, so that if you had never heard him, you could enjoy them too, and then be sad like me that he's gone.
I had a stick of Carefree gum, but it didn't work. I felt pretty good while I was blowing that bubble, but as soon as the gum lost its flavor, I was back to pondering my mortality.
I like swiss cheese. It's the only cheese you can draw with a pencil and identify. You can draw American cheese, but someone will think it's cheddar. Swiss cheese is the only cheese you can bite and miss. "Hey Mitch - does that sandwich have cheese on it?" "Every now and then!"
I can't wait 'til this set is over 'cuz I've got a roll of lifesavers in my pocket and pineapple is next!
Once I met this wino and he was eating some grapes and I said "dude, you have to wait".
I hate turkeys. If you stand in the meat section at the grocery store long enough, you start to get mad at turkeys. There's turkey ham, turkey bologna, turkey pastrami. Some one needs to tell the turkey: man, just be yourself.
I like refried beans. I wanna try fried beans, because maybe they're just as good and we're just wasting time.
I have a friend who is a juggler. When I go to his house I don't like to take food from him if it is in threes. "He has three apples left ... I guess I can't have one."
If you had a friend who was a tightrope walker, and you were walking down a sidewalk, and he fell, that would be completely unacceptable.
My friend said to me "Man, this weather is trippy." I said to him, "No man, perhaps it is not the weather that is trippy, it is the way we perceive it that is indeed trippy ..." then I thought, man, I should have just said, 'yeah.'
I like to play blackjack. I'm not addicted to gambling, I'm addicted to sitting in a semi-circle.
...and then at the end of the letter I like to write "P.S. - This is what part of the alphabet would look like if Q and R were eliminated."
I wanna hang a map of the world in my house. Then I'm gonna put pins into all the locations that I've travelled to. But first, I'm gonna have to travel to the top two corners of the map so that it will not fall down.
When I drive a rental car, I don't know what's going on with it, right? So a lot of time I drive, like, for 10 miles with the emergency parking brake on. That doesn't say a lot for me, but it says even less for the "emergency parking brake." It's more like an "emergency make-the-car-smell-funny lever."
I was at a club and they had blacklights everywhere. A blacklight is a light that makes everyone look cool... except me, 'cause I was under the impression that the mustard stain came out.
Whenever I walk, people try to hand me out flyers. And when someone tries to hand me out a flyer, it's kinda like they're saying, "Here - you throw this away."
When I was a kid, I used to lie awake in my twin bed wonderin' where my brother was...
I played golf, I'm not good at golf, I never got good at it. I never got a hole in one, but I did hit a guy. And that's way more satisfying. You're supposed to yell "fore." But I was too busy mumbling, "there ain't no way that's gonna hit him." ....
My belt holds my pants up, but the belt loops hold my belt up. So which one's the real hero?
You know when they have a fishing show on TV? They catch the fish and then let it go. They don't want to eat the fish; they just want to make it late for something.
I wanted to buy a candle holder, but the store didn't have one. So I got a cake.
I think Bigfoot is blurry, that's the problem. It's not the photographer's fault. Bigfoot is blurry. And that's extra scary to me, because there's a large, out-of-focus monster roaming the countryside. Run. He's fuzzy. Get outta here.
An escalator can never break. It can only become stairs. You would never see an escalator "Temporarily Out of Order" sign, just "Escalator Temporarily Stairs... Sorry for the Convenience ... We apologize for the fact that you can still get up there."
I have a cheese-shredder at home, which is its positive name. They don't call it by its negative name, which is sponge-ruiner. Because I wanted to clean it, and now I have little bits of sponge that would melt easily over tortilla chips.
I was at this casino minding my own business, and this guy came up to me and said, "You're gonna have to move, you're blocking a fire exit." As though if there was a fire, I wasn't gonna run. If you're flammable and have legs, you are never blocking a fire exit.
Sometimes I fall asleep at night with my clothes on. I'm going to have all my clothes made out of blankets.
This jacket is dry clean only. Which means .... it's dirty.
*Quotes obtained from WikiQuote.
Mitch Hedberg is (was?) a comedian, easily my favorite. He died this past month at the age of 37; rumors whisper heroin. Mainstream America knows him from regular stints on Letterman or from specials on Comedy Central. I was introduced to Mitch Hedberg by an hour-long comedy CD that found its way into my freshman roommate's stereo. The three of us would sit in the room, each of us at our computers doing something else while listening, often pausing to laugh. Sometimes we had to pause a long time, because it was just that funny. Before long, we could quote him verbatim, and we often imitated his slow, stoned drawl.
The thing I liked most about Hedberg was just how obvious and ridiculous his jokes were. No one thought of his jokes before because they were so obvious. So obvious, it was funny. Most of them left you going "What in the world?" but you laughed as you said it. Maybe they were the kind of jokes you would make up if you were stoned, and maybe potheads the world over have already come up with all of his jokes a million times, but they just didn't remember them later. Regardless, they weren't jokes you had to be stoned to enjoy.
So I've been bummed about it. Mitch Hedberg's death isn't going to cause political changes, like Schiavo's, and it won't affect people the way the Pope's has and will. It's not like he's even the first young talent in entertainment to OD. There's nothing controversial about his death. It's just...sad.
I took the liberty of finding some of Mitch's jokes* for you all, so that if you had never heard him, you could enjoy them too, and then be sad like me that he's gone.
| * | * | * |
I had a stick of Carefree gum, but it didn't work. I felt pretty good while I was blowing that bubble, but as soon as the gum lost its flavor, I was back to pondering my mortality.
I like swiss cheese. It's the only cheese you can draw with a pencil and identify. You can draw American cheese, but someone will think it's cheddar. Swiss cheese is the only cheese you can bite and miss. "Hey Mitch - does that sandwich have cheese on it?" "Every now and then!"
I can't wait 'til this set is over 'cuz I've got a roll of lifesavers in my pocket and pineapple is next!
Once I met this wino and he was eating some grapes and I said "dude, you have to wait".
I hate turkeys. If you stand in the meat section at the grocery store long enough, you start to get mad at turkeys. There's turkey ham, turkey bologna, turkey pastrami. Some one needs to tell the turkey: man, just be yourself.
I like refried beans. I wanna try fried beans, because maybe they're just as good and we're just wasting time.
I have a friend who is a juggler. When I go to his house I don't like to take food from him if it is in threes. "He has three apples left ... I guess I can't have one."
If you had a friend who was a tightrope walker, and you were walking down a sidewalk, and he fell, that would be completely unacceptable.
My friend said to me "Man, this weather is trippy." I said to him, "No man, perhaps it is not the weather that is trippy, it is the way we perceive it that is indeed trippy ..." then I thought, man, I should have just said, 'yeah.'
I like to play blackjack. I'm not addicted to gambling, I'm addicted to sitting in a semi-circle.
...and then at the end of the letter I like to write "P.S. - This is what part of the alphabet would look like if Q and R were eliminated."
I wanna hang a map of the world in my house. Then I'm gonna put pins into all the locations that I've travelled to. But first, I'm gonna have to travel to the top two corners of the map so that it will not fall down.
When I drive a rental car, I don't know what's going on with it, right? So a lot of time I drive, like, for 10 miles with the emergency parking brake on. That doesn't say a lot for me, but it says even less for the "emergency parking brake." It's more like an "emergency make-the-car-smell-funny lever."
I was at a club and they had blacklights everywhere. A blacklight is a light that makes everyone look cool... except me, 'cause I was under the impression that the mustard stain came out.
Whenever I walk, people try to hand me out flyers. And when someone tries to hand me out a flyer, it's kinda like they're saying, "Here - you throw this away."
When I was a kid, I used to lie awake in my twin bed wonderin' where my brother was...
I played golf, I'm not good at golf, I never got good at it. I never got a hole in one, but I did hit a guy. And that's way more satisfying. You're supposed to yell "fore." But I was too busy mumbling, "there ain't no way that's gonna hit him." ....
My belt holds my pants up, but the belt loops hold my belt up. So which one's the real hero?
You know when they have a fishing show on TV? They catch the fish and then let it go. They don't want to eat the fish; they just want to make it late for something.
I wanted to buy a candle holder, but the store didn't have one. So I got a cake.
I think Bigfoot is blurry, that's the problem. It's not the photographer's fault. Bigfoot is blurry. And that's extra scary to me, because there's a large, out-of-focus monster roaming the countryside. Run. He's fuzzy. Get outta here.
An escalator can never break. It can only become stairs. You would never see an escalator "Temporarily Out of Order" sign, just "Escalator Temporarily Stairs... Sorry for the Convenience ... We apologize for the fact that you can still get up there."
I have a cheese-shredder at home, which is its positive name. They don't call it by its negative name, which is sponge-ruiner. Because I wanted to clean it, and now I have little bits of sponge that would melt easily over tortilla chips.
I was at this casino minding my own business, and this guy came up to me and said, "You're gonna have to move, you're blocking a fire exit." As though if there was a fire, I wasn't gonna run. If you're flammable and have legs, you are never blocking a fire exit.
Sometimes I fall asleep at night with my clothes on. I'm going to have all my clothes made out of blankets.
This jacket is dry clean only. Which means .... it's dirty.
*Quotes obtained from WikiQuote.
5.05.2005
frisbeepiphany.
I'm playing frisbee with my nephew Adam, son of my brother Knocker. Adam is describing to me the way to throw a frisbee. The description involves a demonstration of proper frisbee-throwing technique and form and finally culminates in an even and completely mis-aimed throw. "Sorry about that," he says. "Sometimes I miss."
"It's okay," I say, because it is, "You just need more practice." Then I remember something from my childhood and wonder if Adam knows the answer to the question that I then put to him, "Hey, Adam! What does practice make?"
"Better." Of course he knows. He's Knocker's son, and I distinctly remember Knocker correcting me once when I was little, saying that practice did not make perfect, practice makes better. After querying Adam, Knocker laughed that I knew what practice makes, thinking that I had heard it from some other brother. I told him that he had told me when I was little. "Man, I've been saying that a long time."
"Practice makes perfect" is not technically correct. Without getting too far into the question of whether actual perfection is ever really attained, we can all agree that it isn't always attained, even with a lot of practice. I practiced basketball for five seasons, in two hour sessions five days a week. I never made it to perfect, and it would be very debatable to say that I even made it to adequate. But I got better.
I decided long ago that I agreed with "Practice makes better." And then this morning I started wondering why Knocker came up with it in the first place. Maybe he doesn't believe in humans attaining perfection. Maybe he heard it from someone else. Or maybe there was some tragic incident where he practiced, practiced, practiced and still didn't make it to Carnegie Hall. Then he was disillusioned, because someone had told him that practice makes perfect, and he had practiced, so therefore he should be perfect. But he wasn't. He was only better. Young Knocker concluded that the phrase was then wrong, or at least misleading. Q.E.D.
I feel like the practice-makes-better story is a Knocker-defining one. I could tell the story to someone who knows Knocker, and they would laugh, nod, and say, "Yeah, that sounds like him." Everyone in my family likes to be technically correct, and I suppose it wouldn't be too far off the mark to call us perfectionists, but I've always felt like Knocker beat us all out at it. Maybe he just practiced more.
But I find, and I suspect Knocker does, too, comfort in correctness. Not popular, not even necessarily right, but correct. It is logically sound and you cannot really argue against it, even when it borders on silliness. I might win on a technicality, but I win. I may be stumbling blindly through life just like everyone else, but at least I know the truth about practice and what it really makes.
But for all the comfort I get out of that, I am realizing that being correct isn't everything, and in most cases, it isn't anything. While I still appreciate correctness and I admire other people who appreciate it, by and large, it is missing the point. It is small picture, not big, and it is trees, not forest. See? I know that. I am making improvement. Though I have no hopes of ever achieving perfection, every day I get a little more practice at life.
And I'm getting better.
"It's okay," I say, because it is, "You just need more practice." Then I remember something from my childhood and wonder if Adam knows the answer to the question that I then put to him, "Hey, Adam! What does practice make?"
"Better." Of course he knows. He's Knocker's son, and I distinctly remember Knocker correcting me once when I was little, saying that practice did not make perfect, practice makes better. After querying Adam, Knocker laughed that I knew what practice makes, thinking that I had heard it from some other brother. I told him that he had told me when I was little. "Man, I've been saying that a long time."
"Practice makes perfect" is not technically correct. Without getting too far into the question of whether actual perfection is ever really attained, we can all agree that it isn't always attained, even with a lot of practice. I practiced basketball for five seasons, in two hour sessions five days a week. I never made it to perfect, and it would be very debatable to say that I even made it to adequate. But I got better.
I decided long ago that I agreed with "Practice makes better." And then this morning I started wondering why Knocker came up with it in the first place. Maybe he doesn't believe in humans attaining perfection. Maybe he heard it from someone else. Or maybe there was some tragic incident where he practiced, practiced, practiced and still didn't make it to Carnegie Hall. Then he was disillusioned, because someone had told him that practice makes perfect, and he had practiced, so therefore he should be perfect. But he wasn't. He was only better. Young Knocker concluded that the phrase was then wrong, or at least misleading. Q.E.D.
I feel like the practice-makes-better story is a Knocker-defining one. I could tell the story to someone who knows Knocker, and they would laugh, nod, and say, "Yeah, that sounds like him." Everyone in my family likes to be technically correct, and I suppose it wouldn't be too far off the mark to call us perfectionists, but I've always felt like Knocker beat us all out at it. Maybe he just practiced more.
But I find, and I suspect Knocker does, too, comfort in correctness. Not popular, not even necessarily right, but correct. It is logically sound and you cannot really argue against it, even when it borders on silliness. I might win on a technicality, but I win. I may be stumbling blindly through life just like everyone else, but at least I know the truth about practice and what it really makes.
But for all the comfort I get out of that, I am realizing that being correct isn't everything, and in most cases, it isn't anything. While I still appreciate correctness and I admire other people who appreciate it, by and large, it is missing the point. It is small picture, not big, and it is trees, not forest. See? I know that. I am making improvement. Though I have no hopes of ever achieving perfection, every day I get a little more practice at life.
And I'm getting better.
5.02.2005
cake-eaters.
The higher-ups at my company like cake, which is just fine with us lower-downs, because we like it, too. Someone, somewhere said "Let them eat cake," and so we're all having it, and we're eating it, too. Every month we have a lunch from a local eating establishment, and then we finish it off with some cake. The excuse for the party is to celebrate all the birthdays and work anniversaries for that month. Then we also have parties for five and ten-year anniversaries, where there is no lunch, but only cake. I'm not fooled by these reasons for celebrating. We are celebrating cake. Every month we are saying, "A long time ago somebody threw together flour, eggs, sugar, and milk, and boy, was it a good idea!"
The cake is usually marble, that is, vanilla with chocolate swirls. There is elaborate colored icing on top with "Happy Birthday" or "Congratulations" or "Hey, look! Cake!" written in more colored icing. Often there are icing flowers and candy sprinkles, and whoever ends up cutting the cake (usually whoever is having a birthday) will have to field requests for specific pieces. I don't like icing much, so I ask for a middle piece and hope there are candy sprinkles involved. Others will ask for side pieces, and only the boldest will ask for flowers. We all have college degrees, most of us have mortgages, but cake has a way of turning us all into five-year-olds. The only difference is the fact that age and experience has given us the ability to keep from bouncing on our toes while we say, "Can I have a piece with a flower? And, and, and some sprinkles? Please, can I? Pleeeeeease?" If a fountain of youth is ever found, chances are good that it's made of cake.
Josh, whose office is across the hall from mine, likes cake more than most. He works out every day and usually eats carrots or celery that he buys in bulk at Costco for lunch. But he makes up for it on cake days. He eats two slices at the party, and then later in the day, when everyone is full of cake, he'll sneak to the break room and come back to his office with a piece of cake about four times the size of a regular piece. He'll intend to take it home to eat later, but that mammoth-sized piece of cake won't last five minutes. Once we had cake with some blue icing that gave everyone Smurf teeth. Sure enough, at about 4 o'clock, Josh looked like he'd been chewing on a blue ink pen that had exploded in his mouth. I tell ya, there's not much in this life that will cheer you up like grown-ups with funny-colored mouths all hepped up on sugar. Except maybe cake.
The cake is usually marble, that is, vanilla with chocolate swirls. There is elaborate colored icing on top with "Happy Birthday" or "Congratulations" or "Hey, look! Cake!" written in more colored icing. Often there are icing flowers and candy sprinkles, and whoever ends up cutting the cake (usually whoever is having a birthday) will have to field requests for specific pieces. I don't like icing much, so I ask for a middle piece and hope there are candy sprinkles involved. Others will ask for side pieces, and only the boldest will ask for flowers. We all have college degrees, most of us have mortgages, but cake has a way of turning us all into five-year-olds. The only difference is the fact that age and experience has given us the ability to keep from bouncing on our toes while we say, "Can I have a piece with a flower? And, and, and some sprinkles? Please, can I? Pleeeeeease?" If a fountain of youth is ever found, chances are good that it's made of cake.
Josh, whose office is across the hall from mine, likes cake more than most. He works out every day and usually eats carrots or celery that he buys in bulk at Costco for lunch. But he makes up for it on cake days. He eats two slices at the party, and then later in the day, when everyone is full of cake, he'll sneak to the break room and come back to his office with a piece of cake about four times the size of a regular piece. He'll intend to take it home to eat later, but that mammoth-sized piece of cake won't last five minutes. Once we had cake with some blue icing that gave everyone Smurf teeth. Sure enough, at about 4 o'clock, Josh looked like he'd been chewing on a blue ink pen that had exploded in his mouth. I tell ya, there's not much in this life that will cheer you up like grown-ups with funny-colored mouths all hepped up on sugar. Except maybe cake.
4.28.2005
god's mailing list.
If you haven't figured out yet that I've picked a church, let me spell it out for you: I-V-E F-O-U-N...you get the idea. I guess I decided one Sunday morning when I overslept and hadn't planned on a specific church the night before, so I found myself back at Harmony Grove, the only church I'd really liked. And I was tired of looking. When I went back, the people recognized me, and they were glad I came back. So I kept going.
The real deciding factor for Harmony Grove was the mail. Churches always want you to sign the register with your name, address, phone number, etc. so they can send out the church hounds, I mean, postcards. We can probably all agree that churches want you to come back, though why it is they want you back may be open for discussion. I always wrote down my name and simply "Lewisville, NC" as my address. There are over 8000 people who could put "Lewisville, NC," so I didn't figure I was giving anything away. The truth is, being sent a postcard or getting a phone call from the pastor probably wasn't going to change my mind about a church.
Or so I thought.
Two days after my first visit to Harmony Grove, I received an inspirational postcard - generic pastoral-type picture with a Bible verse with a generic y'all-come-back-now-ya-hear message on the back. It was mailed to me at simply "Lewisville, NC." Written off to the side was my building and apartment number in a different ink - the mail carrier. How was it possible that the postcard made it to me? True, my last name isn't that common, but I just moved here. Does the church have an agent at the post office? Is the Lewisville branch of the United States Post Service just that good? "Through wind, rain, sleet, snow and incomplete addresses..."
I told my mother, a rural mail carrier, about it, and she was equally amazed. I've seen letters with the wrong house number on the right street get delivered, but a letter sans the street entirely? Even in a small town, it is not the post office's job to fill in the blanks of addresses. You know, I've been hearing that God works in mysterious ways for a long time now, but never have I seen Him use a stamp.
Now here I am, proved wrong by thinking that a church's outreach committee wasn't going to change my mind. And if I hadn't been so very Sandra about the whole thing and just put my address, I wouldn't have given it a second thought. I would've chucked the postcard after a cursory glance, and I surely wouldn't have stuck it on my fridge.
So now I go to the church that sent me mail. You could say I took it as a sign. I'm not saying that God made sure I got the postcard because my life will be drastically changed by my regular attendance at Harmony Grove. Could be. I make no promises on knowing God's plans, though I am apparently somehow on His mailing list. More than likely, He's just having a good laugh about it. He knows I think I'm pretty smart, and yet here I am, totally thrown by a generic religious postcard. Mysterious ways, indeed.
The real deciding factor for Harmony Grove was the mail. Churches always want you to sign the register with your name, address, phone number, etc. so they can send out the church hounds, I mean, postcards. We can probably all agree that churches want you to come back, though why it is they want you back may be open for discussion. I always wrote down my name and simply "Lewisville, NC" as my address. There are over 8000 people who could put "Lewisville, NC," so I didn't figure I was giving anything away. The truth is, being sent a postcard or getting a phone call from the pastor probably wasn't going to change my mind about a church.
Or so I thought.
Two days after my first visit to Harmony Grove, I received an inspirational postcard - generic pastoral-type picture with a Bible verse with a generic y'all-come-back-now-ya-hear message on the back. It was mailed to me at simply "Lewisville, NC." Written off to the side was my building and apartment number in a different ink - the mail carrier. How was it possible that the postcard made it to me? True, my last name isn't that common, but I just moved here. Does the church have an agent at the post office? Is the Lewisville branch of the United States Post Service just that good? "Through wind, rain, sleet, snow and incomplete addresses..."
I told my mother, a rural mail carrier, about it, and she was equally amazed. I've seen letters with the wrong house number on the right street get delivered, but a letter sans the street entirely? Even in a small town, it is not the post office's job to fill in the blanks of addresses. You know, I've been hearing that God works in mysterious ways for a long time now, but never have I seen Him use a stamp.
Now here I am, proved wrong by thinking that a church's outreach committee wasn't going to change my mind. And if I hadn't been so very Sandra about the whole thing and just put my address, I wouldn't have given it a second thought. I would've chucked the postcard after a cursory glance, and I surely wouldn't have stuck it on my fridge.
So now I go to the church that sent me mail. You could say I took it as a sign. I'm not saying that God made sure I got the postcard because my life will be drastically changed by my regular attendance at Harmony Grove. Could be. I make no promises on knowing God's plans, though I am apparently somehow on His mailing list. More than likely, He's just having a good laugh about it. He knows I think I'm pretty smart, and yet here I am, totally thrown by a generic religious postcard. Mysterious ways, indeed.
4.26.2005
that's a lot of batteries.
Thing 1: I told you so.
I went shopping with Rob again last week, and I specifically remember saying as we were getting out of his car, "C'mon, so we can go into popular, mainstream stores where we can listen to remixes of cool indie music and get pissed off about it." He shook his head at me, because he apparently thought that was a silly thing to be pissed off about. It's not. Stores where you pay mostly for the brand name are the antithesis of independent music, and people who solely shop at those places should not get to hear it. Also, he probably thought that mine was a ridiculous prediction to make. Of course, I wouldn't bother mentioning the statement had it not come true. We were in the Gap (or is it The Gap?) when I found that I knew the lyrics of a song I'd never heard before. Then I realized, to my absolute and sheer horror, that it was a mellow, techno remake of The Kinks' "All Day and All of the Night." Blasphemy. I remarked something about the audacity of it to Rob, who characteristically responded with something about the shirts he was looking at. He tunes me out so well. Ah, but then, we were in American Eagle, and the Postal Service was playing. I don't care much for the Postal Service (the band, not the mail service), but they are one of Rob's favorite bands. I went up to him and said, "Listen." He said, "Yeah, I know. And it's really pissing me off."
Thing 2: I am one step closer to grown-up-hood.
Because I joined Costco. I'd been toying with the idea, but wasn't sure if the savings would pay for the membership fee. Everyone I knew was in favor of it, mostly because they all wanted me to take them to Costco. Casey made the valid point of asking what percentage of my annual salary did a membership cost. Apparently, the boy knows the way my mind works. One of my coworkers practically lives there. He says he pays for his membership in milk savings alone, as he goes through 2 gallons of milk a week (at $2.15 a gallon at Costco). I figured I would probably join, especially after I found out that they have a Costco gas station. But then there was a booth in the mall that giving away $10 gift cards with new memberships. Okay, fine, sign me up. I went for the first time Sunday and bought 48 batteries. I bought other stuff, too, but I just think it's funny to say that I bought 48 batteries.
Thing 3: Six extra batteries.
Actually, I bought 54 batteries, but six of them were fancy-schmancy rechargeable ones for my pretty new camera, which arrived last Friday, despite Dell.com's estimated ship date of May 4. I cannot describe to you my love affair with this camera. I had it delivered to me at work, and directly after work, you could have found me lying down in the parking lot adjacent to my office building, taking pictures of dogwood blooms. I came up with flowers in my pants and a big smile (though the two were unrelated). I also spent an afternoon at Old Salem taking pictures after I found myself there for a rummage sale. My camera can do a lot of things that I do not yet understand, but I aim to conquer every button on there. I am very glad that I splurged and got the quality camera with the tilty LCD screen, as I find that I can twist it so as to avoid lying down all over the ground (though I sometimes like to do that just for fun).
I went shopping with Rob again last week, and I specifically remember saying as we were getting out of his car, "C'mon, so we can go into popular, mainstream stores where we can listen to remixes of cool indie music and get pissed off about it." He shook his head at me, because he apparently thought that was a silly thing to be pissed off about. It's not. Stores where you pay mostly for the brand name are the antithesis of independent music, and people who solely shop at those places should not get to hear it. Also, he probably thought that mine was a ridiculous prediction to make. Of course, I wouldn't bother mentioning the statement had it not come true. We were in the Gap (or is it The Gap?) when I found that I knew the lyrics of a song I'd never heard before. Then I realized, to my absolute and sheer horror, that it was a mellow, techno remake of The Kinks' "All Day and All of the Night." Blasphemy. I remarked something about the audacity of it to Rob, who characteristically responded with something about the shirts he was looking at. He tunes me out so well. Ah, but then, we were in American Eagle, and the Postal Service was playing. I don't care much for the Postal Service (the band, not the mail service), but they are one of Rob's favorite bands. I went up to him and said, "Listen." He said, "Yeah, I know. And it's really pissing me off."
Thing 2: I am one step closer to grown-up-hood.
Because I joined Costco. I'd been toying with the idea, but wasn't sure if the savings would pay for the membership fee. Everyone I knew was in favor of it, mostly because they all wanted me to take them to Costco. Casey made the valid point of asking what percentage of my annual salary did a membership cost. Apparently, the boy knows the way my mind works. One of my coworkers practically lives there. He says he pays for his membership in milk savings alone, as he goes through 2 gallons of milk a week (at $2.15 a gallon at Costco). I figured I would probably join, especially after I found out that they have a Costco gas station. But then there was a booth in the mall that giving away $10 gift cards with new memberships. Okay, fine, sign me up. I went for the first time Sunday and bought 48 batteries. I bought other stuff, too, but I just think it's funny to say that I bought 48 batteries.
Thing 3: Six extra batteries.
Actually, I bought 54 batteries, but six of them were fancy-schmancy rechargeable ones for my pretty new camera, which arrived last Friday, despite Dell.com's estimated ship date of May 4. I cannot describe to you my love affair with this camera. I had it delivered to me at work, and directly after work, you could have found me lying down in the parking lot adjacent to my office building, taking pictures of dogwood blooms. I came up with flowers in my pants and a big smile (though the two were unrelated). I also spent an afternoon at Old Salem taking pictures after I found myself there for a rummage sale. My camera can do a lot of things that I do not yet understand, but I aim to conquer every button on there. I am very glad that I splurged and got the quality camera with the tilty LCD screen, as I find that I can twist it so as to avoid lying down all over the ground (though I sometimes like to do that just for fun).
4.24.2005
FLUIDS.
So what does a girl like me do when she's suddenly thrust into this new life where she has weekends off from work and disposable income? She goes to yard sales. Regular readers (as well as some of the irregular ones) should know by now that I love yard sales. Call it low-class, call it backwards, call it distasteful, but my stuff is cooler than yours and it cost less, too.
The Winston-Salem Forsyth County Schools put on a yard sale last weekend, and they advertised it in the paper. I see the advertisement, and I am intrigued: "Desks, Chairs, other Furniture, Musical Instruments." The idea of a school system putting on a yard sale was probably enough to convince me to go, but if Casey had found out that I passed on going to a sale with instruments, he would consider that grounds for relationship termination. So I Googled the location, because I still don't know my way around this town, and I set out.
The sale was in a big warehouse on a sketchy side of town. I walked in, and it was like I was in some sort of store house of my grade school memories. Desks, tables, magazine racks, cubbies, everything I ever remember from school exactly the way I remember it, down to the old colored gum stuck to the bottoms. There were kid-sized desks, desks with the chairs attached, teacher-sided desks, principal-sized desks, all with accompanying chairs. There were file cabinets, classroom cabinets, and one green metal cabinet marked "FLUIDS" that had unfortunately already been sold before I got there (It would have made a fabulous liquor cabinet). There were wooden chairs, plastic chairs (a quarter apiece), blue metal cafeteria chairs, and I remembered sitting in them all at some point in my public school career. They had those old plastic couches that gave away their age by being orange or green, the kind that were in the teachers' lounge. I saw the office chairs that visitors sat in, the simple swivel jobs that the secretary used, and even the imposing high-backed dark blue kind of chair that the principal sat in. All the furniture was just lined up in sections, like little armies of school furniture.
There were pianos and kilns for $25 apiece. Sewing machines for ten bucks. Everything was in working order; the schools were just upgrading to new items. It's probably best that the kilns had all sold by the time of my arrival, because I would've wanted one, even given the arguments that I had no room for one, no idea how to use one, and no way of getting it to the home where there was no room for it in the first place. I did buy a sewing machine. Not that I know how to sew, but it was more practical than a kiln.
It was awesome. There are no words to describe how great this yard sale was, despite all the ones you just read. I've been to a lot of yard sales, but never one like this. And the best part? The school system is going to start having these sales every couple of months. There's still hope to get me a "FLUIDS" cabinet yet.
The Winston-Salem Forsyth County Schools put on a yard sale last weekend, and they advertised it in the paper. I see the advertisement, and I am intrigued: "Desks, Chairs, other Furniture, Musical Instruments." The idea of a school system putting on a yard sale was probably enough to convince me to go, but if Casey had found out that I passed on going to a sale with instruments, he would consider that grounds for relationship termination. So I Googled the location, because I still don't know my way around this town, and I set out.
The sale was in a big warehouse on a sketchy side of town. I walked in, and it was like I was in some sort of store house of my grade school memories. Desks, tables, magazine racks, cubbies, everything I ever remember from school exactly the way I remember it, down to the old colored gum stuck to the bottoms. There were kid-sized desks, desks with the chairs attached, teacher-sided desks, principal-sized desks, all with accompanying chairs. There were file cabinets, classroom cabinets, and one green metal cabinet marked "FLUIDS" that had unfortunately already been sold before I got there (It would have made a fabulous liquor cabinet). There were wooden chairs, plastic chairs (a quarter apiece), blue metal cafeteria chairs, and I remembered sitting in them all at some point in my public school career. They had those old plastic couches that gave away their age by being orange or green, the kind that were in the teachers' lounge. I saw the office chairs that visitors sat in, the simple swivel jobs that the secretary used, and even the imposing high-backed dark blue kind of chair that the principal sat in. All the furniture was just lined up in sections, like little armies of school furniture.
There were pianos and kilns for $25 apiece. Sewing machines for ten bucks. Everything was in working order; the schools were just upgrading to new items. It's probably best that the kilns had all sold by the time of my arrival, because I would've wanted one, even given the arguments that I had no room for one, no idea how to use one, and no way of getting it to the home where there was no room for it in the first place. I did buy a sewing machine. Not that I know how to sew, but it was more practical than a kiln.
It was awesome. There are no words to describe how great this yard sale was, despite all the ones you just read. I've been to a lot of yard sales, but never one like this. And the best part? The school system is going to start having these sales every couple of months. There's still hope to get me a "FLUIDS" cabinet yet.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)