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!"
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.
4.22.2005
this morning's emergency.
I have a candy dish for my keys. I have to always put my keys in the candy dish sitting on the table in my living room or I will lose them. Yes, I am one of those people. The key/candy dish was Casey's idea, because he got tired of waiting for me to find my keys every time we went someplace. So he suggested the candy dish plan so that he would not have to be subjected to my frantic tearing around the house, and I would not have to be subjected to his loud sighing.
This morning, the keys were not in the candy dish. I checked a couple of other places that seemed likely. I thought hard about what I did when I came in yesterday. I unlocked the door. Then I unlocked the dead bolt, which was unusual, because I don't usually lock the deadbolt when I leave the house. It threw me off my routine, perhaps. Had I left the keys in the deadbolt?
That thought was concerning. I opened the door to check if there were keys dangling outside. There were not. That was even more concerning. What if I had left my keys hanging in the deadbolt overnight, and someone had taken the opportunity to take them? Oh, no, no, no, this was bad. I thought about the keys on the set in question: various keys to cars and apartments far away (no real worries there), my car key, my house key, my mailbox key.
I had a spare set; that wasn't the problem. The problem was that there might be someone out there who now had access to all those things and knew where to find them. I tried to calm down and not freak out. After all, it was more than possible that I had just mislaid the keys somewhere in the apartment. No need to start calling my landlord or the nearest Toyota dealership. So I decided to just take my spare set and go to work and not worry about it. And what could I do now anyway, when there was no real guarantee that the keys had been stolen? Just go to work.
Well, that was a stupid idea, how could I not worry about it? I got a mile down the road before I realized that if I was going to get broken into while I was at work, I would at least be prepared. The first thing I did when I got back was to go upstairs to my computer, the only real thing of value that I own. I use a browser that saves my passwords to any sites that I log into. I erased all my passwords, so that if any criminals happened to look at my computer before they sold it, they wouldn't log into any sites like oh, say, my bank account. I hid my stack of account documents and bills. I was planning on taking a roll of tape with me out the door, so that I could tape it across the door. That way, if I came home and the robber was still there, I would know to not go in. All in all, I consider that I handled the situation quite well.
I was already late for work, but before I left, I was going to write a note to my landlord saying that I may have lost my keys. I grabbed some paper and went to get the pen I'd left on the coffee table last night. I lifted a magazine to look for the pen, and suddenly I didn't need the pen anymore.
Always, always use the candy dish.
This morning, the keys were not in the candy dish. I checked a couple of other places that seemed likely. I thought hard about what I did when I came in yesterday. I unlocked the door. Then I unlocked the dead bolt, which was unusual, because I don't usually lock the deadbolt when I leave the house. It threw me off my routine, perhaps. Had I left the keys in the deadbolt?
That thought was concerning. I opened the door to check if there were keys dangling outside. There were not. That was even more concerning. What if I had left my keys hanging in the deadbolt overnight, and someone had taken the opportunity to take them? Oh, no, no, no, this was bad. I thought about the keys on the set in question: various keys to cars and apartments far away (no real worries there), my car key, my house key, my mailbox key.
I had a spare set; that wasn't the problem. The problem was that there might be someone out there who now had access to all those things and knew where to find them. I tried to calm down and not freak out. After all, it was more than possible that I had just mislaid the keys somewhere in the apartment. No need to start calling my landlord or the nearest Toyota dealership. So I decided to just take my spare set and go to work and not worry about it. And what could I do now anyway, when there was no real guarantee that the keys had been stolen? Just go to work.
Well, that was a stupid idea, how could I not worry about it? I got a mile down the road before I realized that if I was going to get broken into while I was at work, I would at least be prepared. The first thing I did when I got back was to go upstairs to my computer, the only real thing of value that I own. I use a browser that saves my passwords to any sites that I log into. I erased all my passwords, so that if any criminals happened to look at my computer before they sold it, they wouldn't log into any sites like oh, say, my bank account. I hid my stack of account documents and bills. I was planning on taking a roll of tape with me out the door, so that I could tape it across the door. That way, if I came home and the robber was still there, I would know to not go in. All in all, I consider that I handled the situation quite well.
I was already late for work, but before I left, I was going to write a note to my landlord saying that I may have lost my keys. I grabbed some paper and went to get the pen I'd left on the coffee table last night. I lifted a magazine to look for the pen, and suddenly I didn't need the pen anymore.
Always, always use the candy dish.
4.21.2005
i'll rate this one a seven, too.
Wednesday, 5:41pm. A Lewisville, NC apartment.
I'm relaxing after work, just doing a little light cleaning and listening to a mix of Soul Coughing's slower tracks. "Lazybones" is playing when the phone rings. I pause the music - it's pretty loud - and answer the phone. It's early evening, and I'm thinking it's a social call.
"Hi, yes, I'm calling on behalf of Pizza Hut, and I just want to verify that someone in this household participated in a phone survey within the last week. Are you the person who participated in the survey?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Okay, well, I just have to questions for you. On a scale of one to seven, one being disastisfied and seven being satisfied, how would you rate the survey you took?"
"Seven."
"And what would be your reasoning behind your answer?"
"Um. Because it was fine."
"Thank you very much for your time."
Ridiculous.
I'm relaxing after work, just doing a little light cleaning and listening to a mix of Soul Coughing's slower tracks. "Lazybones" is playing when the phone rings. I pause the music - it's pretty loud - and answer the phone. It's early evening, and I'm thinking it's a social call.
"Hi, yes, I'm calling on behalf of Pizza Hut, and I just want to verify that someone in this household participated in a phone survey within the last week. Are you the person who participated in the survey?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Okay, well, I just have to questions for you. On a scale of one to seven, one being disastisfied and seven being satisfied, how would you rate the survey you took?"
"Seven."
"And what would be your reasoning behind your answer?"
"Um. Because it was fine."
"Thank you very much for your time."
Ridiculous.
4.20.2005
three links.
For Three Things today, we have links!
Thing 1: This just in...
Wonderful, wonderful news. I know it's just a first step and there is a lot more research and work to be done before this is a widely-available treatment option. However, the way I figure it is I have about ten or fifteen years before I start having children old enough to get diabetes and need the treatment anyway. (While I realize that our children may very well not inherit Casey's diabetes, I should go ahead and start preparing for our kids to get my nose and his health problems.) That's ten to fifteen years for this treatment to advance, and ten to fifteen years for me to take good care of my pancreas so that I can lovingly donate cells to my children just as I lovingly donated the shape of my nose.
Thing 2: Pretty, pretty.
Look what I bought! I've never had a digital camera before, but I feel like I would take pictures if I had one. When you travel around the rural South, you are likely to run into some very photo-worthy objects at any moment. So I decided I wanted a camera, set a $200 budget, and started looking around. I found this camera, I blew my budget, and I bought it. All online reviews were glowing. I had asked around, heard a couple of pretty good reviews, but the clincher was the graphic designer at work who answered "What kind of digital camera would you recommend?" with simply "Canon." I'm not too upset about the extra money I spent, as I feel I'm getting my money's worth. Be sure to notice the saucy way the LCD monitor can be moved around. The biggest reason that I bought this camera, though, is the fact that most reviews mentioned the fact that it is a camera that "grows with you." So while it's simple enough for me to take pictures right now when I don't know anything, it has features that will allow me to play and experiment as I learn more. And that's just lovely.
Thing 3: Saving money is sexy.
A coworker told me about this site. I used it to get a great deal on the aforementioned, also sexy camera (MSRP is $400, I paid $260, tax and shipping included). I'm also using it to find accessories to make my camera even sexier, if such a thing is possible. The best place to find deals is to search the forums for whatever you want. There are posts listing amazing combinations of good deals that combine to make a Great Deal. Sales! Special, little-advertised promotions! Rebates! Coupon codes! My coworker was telling me about all the deals, and I swear, it was like dirty talk to me.
Thing 1: This just in...
Wonderful, wonderful news. I know it's just a first step and there is a lot more research and work to be done before this is a widely-available treatment option. However, the way I figure it is I have about ten or fifteen years before I start having children old enough to get diabetes and need the treatment anyway. (While I realize that our children may very well not inherit Casey's diabetes, I should go ahead and start preparing for our kids to get my nose and his health problems.) That's ten to fifteen years for this treatment to advance, and ten to fifteen years for me to take good care of my pancreas so that I can lovingly donate cells to my children just as I lovingly donated the shape of my nose.
Thing 2: Pretty, pretty.
Look what I bought! I've never had a digital camera before, but I feel like I would take pictures if I had one. When you travel around the rural South, you are likely to run into some very photo-worthy objects at any moment. So I decided I wanted a camera, set a $200 budget, and started looking around. I found this camera, I blew my budget, and I bought it. All online reviews were glowing. I had asked around, heard a couple of pretty good reviews, but the clincher was the graphic designer at work who answered "What kind of digital camera would you recommend?" with simply "Canon." I'm not too upset about the extra money I spent, as I feel I'm getting my money's worth. Be sure to notice the saucy way the LCD monitor can be moved around. The biggest reason that I bought this camera, though, is the fact that most reviews mentioned the fact that it is a camera that "grows with you." So while it's simple enough for me to take pictures right now when I don't know anything, it has features that will allow me to play and experiment as I learn more. And that's just lovely.
Thing 3: Saving money is sexy.
A coworker told me about this site. I used it to get a great deal on the aforementioned, also sexy camera (MSRP is $400, I paid $260, tax and shipping included). I'm also using it to find accessories to make my camera even sexier, if such a thing is possible. The best place to find deals is to search the forums for whatever you want. There are posts listing amazing combinations of good deals that combine to make a Great Deal. Sales! Special, little-advertised promotions! Rebates! Coupon codes! My coworker was telling me about all the deals, and I swear, it was like dirty talk to me.
4.19.2005
not the same, but easily recognizable.
As Casey and I were leaving dinner at La Carreta, we saw two of them. As we were driving downtown to The Garage, we saw half a dozen. As we were entering Krispy Kreme, we saw another half a dozen. As we were wandering around Wal-Mart, we ran into a couple more.
Stupid high school kids in prom clothes.
Was it just me, or did we happen to run into the most annoying ones? Maybe it's just the fact that the minute I left high school, all high school kids became inherently annoying. Was I that obnoxious? Did I look that ridiculous tottering in my high heels and chewing gum? I watched and listened to these kids and I knew exactly what kind of kids they were. I could put a name on them that corresponded to another kid that I went to high school with. Different high school, different city, different time, but same exact kid. In my day, that guy was named Mitchell, and that girl was named Ashley. That dude over there was Brandon, and his date was a different girl named Ashley. I didn't like them in high school, either. Ridiculous people who think that tuxedos and sequined dresses make them adults. Sorry, kid, but your mom's borrowed Visa gave you away. And when one couple had a Krispy Kreme employee take their picture standing in front of the "Hot Doughnuts Now" sign holding up their respective half-dozen boxes, I'm surprised my eyes didn't roll right out of my head. The Krispy Kreme workers seemed to be having similar difficulties trying not to laugh out loud.
Ah, but who am I kidding? I am only four years removed from those girls in shiny dresses and matching eye shadow. Am I wrong to think that they were four important years? I have a degree now, and major kitchen appliances, and a credit rating, and a job that doesn't include an apron in the dress code. I worried then about my GPA, what I wanted to major in, and the size of my hips. Now I worry about my 401k, whether I majored in the right thing, and the size of my hips. Maybe if I'd run into the right group of kids, I would've looked at a girl and thought she would've been named Sandra at my high school. The scarier idea is if she'd be able to look at me and tell that she is me, just four years later.
I can't deny my high school self, nor would I necessarily want to. She did about the best she could given her resources. She wasn't so bad, for a kid in high school, and she remains part of me. I'm not the same, but I'm easily recognizable.
But the funniest part was watching those kids with their dates and then looking across the table at my once-upon-a-time prom date; he had doughnut glaze on his chin. Some things never change.
Stupid high school kids in prom clothes.
Was it just me, or did we happen to run into the most annoying ones? Maybe it's just the fact that the minute I left high school, all high school kids became inherently annoying. Was I that obnoxious? Did I look that ridiculous tottering in my high heels and chewing gum? I watched and listened to these kids and I knew exactly what kind of kids they were. I could put a name on them that corresponded to another kid that I went to high school with. Different high school, different city, different time, but same exact kid. In my day, that guy was named Mitchell, and that girl was named Ashley. That dude over there was Brandon, and his date was a different girl named Ashley. I didn't like them in high school, either. Ridiculous people who think that tuxedos and sequined dresses make them adults. Sorry, kid, but your mom's borrowed Visa gave you away. And when one couple had a Krispy Kreme employee take their picture standing in front of the "Hot Doughnuts Now" sign holding up their respective half-dozen boxes, I'm surprised my eyes didn't roll right out of my head. The Krispy Kreme workers seemed to be having similar difficulties trying not to laugh out loud.
Ah, but who am I kidding? I am only four years removed from those girls in shiny dresses and matching eye shadow. Am I wrong to think that they were four important years? I have a degree now, and major kitchen appliances, and a credit rating, and a job that doesn't include an apron in the dress code. I worried then about my GPA, what I wanted to major in, and the size of my hips. Now I worry about my 401k, whether I majored in the right thing, and the size of my hips. Maybe if I'd run into the right group of kids, I would've looked at a girl and thought she would've been named Sandra at my high school. The scarier idea is if she'd be able to look at me and tell that she is me, just four years later.
I can't deny my high school self, nor would I necessarily want to. She did about the best she could given her resources. She wasn't so bad, for a kid in high school, and she remains part of me. I'm not the same, but I'm easily recognizable.
But the funniest part was watching those kids with their dates and then looking across the table at my once-upon-a-time prom date; he had doughnut glaze on his chin. Some things never change.
4.18.2005
take it or leave it? okay.
Sunrise United Methodist Church
Another of the four UMCs in Lewisville, this one is a little unconventional. The church has two services, both contemporary. Their sanctuary is a great big room with lots of chairs lined up in rows in the middle, a stage up front, and small round cafeteria tables around the outer perimeter. Snacks and coffee are provided in the lobby, and you are encouraged to take your food into the service. This is a good idea. I like to worship God whilst I enjoy some of his fresh-brewed creation.
But I really didn't know what to make of this church. It was just so casual. I was probably overdressed, in a skirt, short-sleeved top, and sandals. Most people were in jeans, and some were in (gasp!) shorts. I'm not sure how I feel about casual dress at church. I guess I feel like it doesn't matter what you wear, but I personally feel a little weird about wearing casual stuff to Sunday services. And while I know that is completely my own issue stemming from growing up in traditional churches, knowing that doesn't make it any easier to pull on my Levi's on Sunday morning. I suppose I could get used to it.
Being dressed-down didn't keep the people from being super-ultra-mega-friendly. The church is big enough that the regulars might not be able to spot a visitor immediately, but these people seemed to feel that the fact that I was there was reason enough to come up and introduce themselves. Even if they couldn't tell I was new, they could tell I was new to them. Plus, they were regular, down-to-earth people. One of them even told me up-front that this was the kind of church that you either liked or didn't like. Even if it turned out that I was the kind that didn't like the church, I liked the "Hey, this is what we do - take it or leave it" kind of attitude. They're glad to see me if I come, but they'll understand if I don't.
Being a contemporary church, they had contemporary music. I'm not a fan. However, they did have a full band (acoustic guitar, electric guitar, bass, drumset, and a set of bongos that did not get played), rather than using some awful recording of karaoke versions of popular Christian music. We read the words off TV screens at the front of the room. The distressing thing about not using hymnals is that you don't know what to do with your hands. I think I ended up holding my hands together in front of me, feeling very awkward and checking out what other people were doing with their hands.
I dug the sermon a lot; it wasn't very good. The minister gave some anecdotes that didn't really fit, had poor flow in his ideas, and I think he defined a couple of concepts incorrectly. But the sermon was about sloth, and I'd never heard a sermon on sloth before, and it made me think about things I'd never really thought about, and so I liked it. I write, so I'm probably just overcritical of bad sermon-writing, but I do give points for originality.
I am frankly not sure if I will ever darken the door of Sunrise UMC ever again. Part of me thinks that I could easily get used to the contemporary and casual aspects that I'm not all that comfortable with, and another part of me thinks that I shouldn't have to get used to it. Either way, I don't feel guilty. They told me I could take it or leave it, and so leave it I will.
Another of the four UMCs in Lewisville, this one is a little unconventional. The church has two services, both contemporary. Their sanctuary is a great big room with lots of chairs lined up in rows in the middle, a stage up front, and small round cafeteria tables around the outer perimeter. Snacks and coffee are provided in the lobby, and you are encouraged to take your food into the service. This is a good idea. I like to worship God whilst I enjoy some of his fresh-brewed creation.
But I really didn't know what to make of this church. It was just so casual. I was probably overdressed, in a skirt, short-sleeved top, and sandals. Most people were in jeans, and some were in (gasp!) shorts. I'm not sure how I feel about casual dress at church. I guess I feel like it doesn't matter what you wear, but I personally feel a little weird about wearing casual stuff to Sunday services. And while I know that is completely my own issue stemming from growing up in traditional churches, knowing that doesn't make it any easier to pull on my Levi's on Sunday morning. I suppose I could get used to it.
Being dressed-down didn't keep the people from being super-ultra-mega-friendly. The church is big enough that the regulars might not be able to spot a visitor immediately, but these people seemed to feel that the fact that I was there was reason enough to come up and introduce themselves. Even if they couldn't tell I was new, they could tell I was new to them. Plus, they were regular, down-to-earth people. One of them even told me up-front that this was the kind of church that you either liked or didn't like. Even if it turned out that I was the kind that didn't like the church, I liked the "Hey, this is what we do - take it or leave it" kind of attitude. They're glad to see me if I come, but they'll understand if I don't.
Being a contemporary church, they had contemporary music. I'm not a fan. However, they did have a full band (acoustic guitar, electric guitar, bass, drumset, and a set of bongos that did not get played), rather than using some awful recording of karaoke versions of popular Christian music. We read the words off TV screens at the front of the room. The distressing thing about not using hymnals is that you don't know what to do with your hands. I think I ended up holding my hands together in front of me, feeling very awkward and checking out what other people were doing with their hands.
I dug the sermon a lot; it wasn't very good. The minister gave some anecdotes that didn't really fit, had poor flow in his ideas, and I think he defined a couple of concepts incorrectly. But the sermon was about sloth, and I'd never heard a sermon on sloth before, and it made me think about things I'd never really thought about, and so I liked it. I write, so I'm probably just overcritical of bad sermon-writing, but I do give points for originality.
I am frankly not sure if I will ever darken the door of Sunrise UMC ever again. Part of me thinks that I could easily get used to the contemporary and casual aspects that I'm not all that comfortable with, and another part of me thinks that I shouldn't have to get used to it. Either way, I don't feel guilty. They told me I could take it or leave it, and so leave it I will.
4.17.2005
lord, hear our prayers.
Harmony Grove United Methodist Church
I like this church. It's small, with about 70 people attending regularly. We sang one song I did know and one I didn't, and the choir was actually very good. No handbells. The preacher (who had such a lovely southern gentleman accent, I could listen to it all day) gave a slightly unconventional sermon about death that had a couple of historical references (I like informed preachers) and started out with a joke about a little girl asking about the birds and the bees, which I thought was daring.
The church definitely had that family feel that is so important to me. The people knew each other there. People would quip into the announcements to make a joke, and everybody laughed. They were nice to each other, they were nice to me. A woman came up to me and started telling me about the young adult Sunday School class. I was stopped by an older couple on my way out who introduced themselves. Yet another older woman stopped to talk to me and tell me how much she wanted me to come back. Rather than a chain of introductions like at the Moravian church, every individual here made it their business to meet me. I didn't have to be introduced as a visitor, because I obviously was to everyone.
This church had a prayer tradition that I've never experienced before, although I think it might be fairly common, perhaps in other denominations. In most Methodist services, there's a great big long prayer in the middle of the service, after the announcements, but before the offering. Beforehand, the preacher usually asks for prayer requests or celebrations. In this church, we all bowed our heads, and people would call out their requests one at a time, just saying the name of someone who was sick or something like "our troops overseas." Then after each one, the congregation would say in unison "Lord, hear our prayers." Admittedly, it took me a couple requests to catch on to what was going on, but once I did, I really liked it. There was a sense of togetherness in it, like your prayer is his prayer is my prayer, and we're all in this together.
Again, I like this church a lot. If there were not another Methodist church down the road that I was curious about, I would have said to myself that this was it as I walked out the door. This was the kind of church that everyone had been going to since they were born, and though they had a system and a rhythm already going strong before I came in, they were more than willing to let me, or anyone else, catch up.
I like this church. It's small, with about 70 people attending regularly. We sang one song I did know and one I didn't, and the choir was actually very good. No handbells. The preacher (who had such a lovely southern gentleman accent, I could listen to it all day) gave a slightly unconventional sermon about death that had a couple of historical references (I like informed preachers) and started out with a joke about a little girl asking about the birds and the bees, which I thought was daring.
The church definitely had that family feel that is so important to me. The people knew each other there. People would quip into the announcements to make a joke, and everybody laughed. They were nice to each other, they were nice to me. A woman came up to me and started telling me about the young adult Sunday School class. I was stopped by an older couple on my way out who introduced themselves. Yet another older woman stopped to talk to me and tell me how much she wanted me to come back. Rather than a chain of introductions like at the Moravian church, every individual here made it their business to meet me. I didn't have to be introduced as a visitor, because I obviously was to everyone.
This church had a prayer tradition that I've never experienced before, although I think it might be fairly common, perhaps in other denominations. In most Methodist services, there's a great big long prayer in the middle of the service, after the announcements, but before the offering. Beforehand, the preacher usually asks for prayer requests or celebrations. In this church, we all bowed our heads, and people would call out their requests one at a time, just saying the name of someone who was sick or something like "our troops overseas." Then after each one, the congregation would say in unison "Lord, hear our prayers." Admittedly, it took me a couple requests to catch on to what was going on, but once I did, I really liked it. There was a sense of togetherness in it, like your prayer is his prayer is my prayer, and we're all in this together.
Again, I like this church a lot. If there were not another Methodist church down the road that I was curious about, I would have said to myself that this was it as I walked out the door. This was the kind of church that everyone had been going to since they were born, and though they had a system and a rhythm already going strong before I came in, they were more than willing to let me, or anyone else, catch up.
4.12.2005
something to read.
From: Rob
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 1:48 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: something to read
I have a strange theory that Krispy Kreme engineers their coffee to have a strong coffee scent. The 1/2 oz. I have left in this morning's cup can still be smelled from a couple of feet away. That just doesn't happen with the office coffee (or anything I make at home).
How's your afternoon shaping up? Anything good going on? I got some stuff to look over, at least. Baby steps.
From: Sandra
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 1:54 PM
To: Rob
Subject: RE: something to read
eh. certification stuff. sleepy sandra. i'd like to take a nap. i think it's all this energy i'm devoting to not biting on the nails that broke.
i dreamt last night that i was getting a novel published. i was pretty bummed when i woke up and realized it wasn't true.
From: Rob
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 1:57 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: RE: something to read
When was the last time you wrote something? Maybe you could write an exciting story about an investigation into coffee that somehow unnaturally maintains its coffee smell.
You should totally bite the nails. Life is short.
From: Sandra
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 2:02 PM
To: Rob
Subject: RE: something to read
dear, that's what coffee does.
life is too short to not be able to open stuff because you bit your nails off. also, it's too short to be miserable because your fingers hurt. my finger is bleeding.
From: Rob
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 2:04 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: RE: something to read
ouch, really? sorry about that.
I found your coffee story too brief. Elaborate a little, get the reader involved. Maybe add a character or two. Some dialog. Whatnot.
What movie did you mention on the way to lunch?
From: Sandra
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 2:10 PM
To: Rob
Subject: mulholland drive
"i'm bored," said rob, raking his right hand across his hairline to sweep his hair to the left. sometimes he worried that the gesture was causing his hairline to recede. sometimes he worried that not sweeping his hair to the left would make his hairline recede. sometimes he thought about sweeping his hair to the right, but found the motion too difficult with his non-dominant hand.
"write a story about an unnatural event that is completely and totally natural. i will read it and judge you and thereby be amused for a few minutes," he demanded, thinking that an unnatural event that was completely and totally natural would distract him from the all too natural event of hairline migration.
"no," replied sandra. she had lots of hair.
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 1:48 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: something to read
I have a strange theory that Krispy Kreme engineers their coffee to have a strong coffee scent. The 1/2 oz. I have left in this morning's cup can still be smelled from a couple of feet away. That just doesn't happen with the office coffee (or anything I make at home).
How's your afternoon shaping up? Anything good going on? I got some stuff to look over, at least. Baby steps.
* * *
From: Sandra
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 1:54 PM
To: Rob
Subject: RE: something to read
eh. certification stuff. sleepy sandra. i'd like to take a nap. i think it's all this energy i'm devoting to not biting on the nails that broke.
i dreamt last night that i was getting a novel published. i was pretty bummed when i woke up and realized it wasn't true.
* * *
From: Rob
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 1:57 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: RE: something to read
When was the last time you wrote something? Maybe you could write an exciting story about an investigation into coffee that somehow unnaturally maintains its coffee smell.
You should totally bite the nails. Life is short.
* * *
From: Sandra
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 2:02 PM
To: Rob
Subject: RE: something to read
dear, that's what coffee does.
life is too short to not be able to open stuff because you bit your nails off. also, it's too short to be miserable because your fingers hurt. my finger is bleeding.
* * *
From: Rob
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 2:04 PM
To: Sandra
Subject: RE: something to read
ouch, really? sorry about that.
I found your coffee story too brief. Elaborate a little, get the reader involved. Maybe add a character or two. Some dialog. Whatnot.
What movie did you mention on the way to lunch?
* * *
From: Sandra
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 2:10 PM
To: Rob
Subject: mulholland drive
"i'm bored," said rob, raking his right hand across his hairline to sweep his hair to the left. sometimes he worried that the gesture was causing his hairline to recede. sometimes he worried that not sweeping his hair to the left would make his hairline recede. sometimes he thought about sweeping his hair to the right, but found the motion too difficult with his non-dominant hand.
"write a story about an unnatural event that is completely and totally natural. i will read it and judge you and thereby be amused for a few minutes," he demanded, thinking that an unnatural event that was completely and totally natural would distract him from the all too natural event of hairline migration.
"no," replied sandra. she had lots of hair.
4.11.2005
that stupid girl who never wrote me back.
Thing 1: Seth got a job!
My friend, Seth from the illustrious computer science program at Appalachian State University, is graduating this May, and has landed a job. Normally, I would not share this news for you, for though I would be excited for him anyway, my selfless excitement would not be enough for a Thing. No, I'm having some selfish excitement, too. When I found out I was moving here, I pretty much tried to talk all of my friends into moving here, too. Apparently, Seth listened. He got a job in Winston, so now I will have a(nother) friend. Better yet, I will likely be the only person he knows here, so he will have to put up with me if he wants any friends.
Thing 2: I googled for about four hours today.
Surfing the net at work is fun. Surfing for work-related stuff at work is not so much fun. I was doing the latter. I was trying to figure out how to do something with a piece of software I've never used before. After four hours, I asked someone for help. He gave up half an hour later with the advice that if we couldn't find some way to do it on the web, it couldn't be done. I like this advice, and I took it as permission to give up and have a cup of tea. I only wished I could've had a Long Island Iced Tea, but as that sort of thing is very discouraged at work, I settled for some Earl Grey.
Thing 3: I mailed a card to Yuliya.
Yuliya is a girl I used to work with at Vintner's. She's originally from Belarus, but now she's settled down in the eastern part of NC with her husband. I hadn't spoken to her since she moved, but we always got along very well. Of all the people I worked with at Vintner's, she's one of the ones I miss the most. Anyway, I happened to look her up on the internet and found her mailing address. I'm bad to let friendships fizzle, and I've decided recently that I've known too many wonderful people to lose them out of neglect. She may or may not ever respond, and that's fine really. I feel better knowing that I gave it a shot. That way, she won't become "that sweet girl that I lost touch with," but "that stupid girl who never wrote me back."
My friend, Seth from the illustrious computer science program at Appalachian State University, is graduating this May, and has landed a job. Normally, I would not share this news for you, for though I would be excited for him anyway, my selfless excitement would not be enough for a Thing. No, I'm having some selfish excitement, too. When I found out I was moving here, I pretty much tried to talk all of my friends into moving here, too. Apparently, Seth listened. He got a job in Winston, so now I will have a(nother) friend. Better yet, I will likely be the only person he knows here, so he will have to put up with me if he wants any friends.
Thing 2: I googled for about four hours today.
Surfing the net at work is fun. Surfing for work-related stuff at work is not so much fun. I was doing the latter. I was trying to figure out how to do something with a piece of software I've never used before. After four hours, I asked someone for help. He gave up half an hour later with the advice that if we couldn't find some way to do it on the web, it couldn't be done. I like this advice, and I took it as permission to give up and have a cup of tea. I only wished I could've had a Long Island Iced Tea, but as that sort of thing is very discouraged at work, I settled for some Earl Grey.
Thing 3: I mailed a card to Yuliya.
Yuliya is a girl I used to work with at Vintner's. She's originally from Belarus, but now she's settled down in the eastern part of NC with her husband. I hadn't spoken to her since she moved, but we always got along very well. Of all the people I worked with at Vintner's, she's one of the ones I miss the most. Anyway, I happened to look her up on the internet and found her mailing address. I'm bad to let friendships fizzle, and I've decided recently that I've known too many wonderful people to lose them out of neglect. She may or may not ever respond, and that's fine really. I feel better knowing that I gave it a shot. That way, she won't become "that sweet girl that I lost touch with," but "that stupid girl who never wrote me back."
4.09.2005
free opinions!
I don't have any sneakers. No, that's not right, I have lots of sneakers. I have red ones with blue stripes and blue ones with white stripes and black ones with bleach spots. What I mean is that while I have several pairs of sneakers, I don't really have anything I can go running in or play basketball in or any other kind of sporting thing that I don't do regularly but might if I had some shoes in which to do them.
I don't have any athletic shoes. Well, that's not true either. I have a pair of Adidas, white with some purplish-blueish design on them that I got when I was in high school and I played volleyball. But they're kinda old, and maybe my tastes have changed a bit. What I mean is that I don't really have any athletic shoes that I like to wear.
I wanted some new athletic shoes. That is true.
Last night, Rob and I went athletic shoe shopping. Last night was not to be confused with last week, which was when Rob and I went dress shoe shopping. Rob likes to take girls shopping because girls can tell him what looks good and what does not. He has a gay man friend who supposedly has great taste, but since Rob's target audience is girls and not gay men, he brings a girl. He often even promises to buy the girl something in exchange for her opinions.
I told Rob it would be silly for him to buy me something in exchange for my opinion, when I am so happy to give it freely and usually without being asked. Plus, I like to shop, and I have no other friends in Winston-Salem. Maybe I should've been buying him something. But no. I also went because I was toying with the idea of buying some shoes myself for reasons covered earlier.
We started at Sears', and really, we should've just stayed there. Every shoe store we perused had essentially the same stock at essentially the same price. We both agreed that there were lots of pairs of shoes that were fine, but nothing that made either one of us say, "Wow, my feet would look sexy in those." There was a pair of lovely suede green New Balances that Rob liked, and of course I enthusiastically approve of all suede shoes; alas, they were women's. I tried hard to convince him that no one would ever be able to tell, but he was convinced the day would come when he would hit on a girl and look down to realize she had the same shoes. There was another pair of some funny-shaped track shoes that Rob liked, but when he tried them on, I looked at him sadly and said, "Sweetie, I just don't think you can pull those off. Frankly, I don't know anyone who can. I'm sorry." He sighed, and said, "It's okay. That's why you're here."
Finally, it was back to Sears'. He tried on a pair of men's Nikes, and I tried on a pair of men's Nikes. Then we switched; Rob and I wear the same shoe size. I decided to buy my pair after much walking with one of them on and checking myself out in the feet mirror with my pants rolled up to see if they had a slimming effect on my calf. Rob decided to buy his, took them off, tried mine on, decided to buy mine, then tried his on again and decided to buy them so we wouldn't have the same pair of shoes. I suggested both of us each wearing one of each shoe, but Rob has an amazing ability to completely tune me out when I make suggestions.
We walked out of Sears' with matching bags containing matching boxes containing non-matching shoes in matching sizes. And that's the truth.
I don't have any athletic shoes. Well, that's not true either. I have a pair of Adidas, white with some purplish-blueish design on them that I got when I was in high school and I played volleyball. But they're kinda old, and maybe my tastes have changed a bit. What I mean is that I don't really have any athletic shoes that I like to wear.
I wanted some new athletic shoes. That is true.
Last night, Rob and I went athletic shoe shopping. Last night was not to be confused with last week, which was when Rob and I went dress shoe shopping. Rob likes to take girls shopping because girls can tell him what looks good and what does not. He has a gay man friend who supposedly has great taste, but since Rob's target audience is girls and not gay men, he brings a girl. He often even promises to buy the girl something in exchange for her opinions.
I told Rob it would be silly for him to buy me something in exchange for my opinion, when I am so happy to give it freely and usually without being asked. Plus, I like to shop, and I have no other friends in Winston-Salem. Maybe I should've been buying him something. But no. I also went because I was toying with the idea of buying some shoes myself for reasons covered earlier.
We started at Sears', and really, we should've just stayed there. Every shoe store we perused had essentially the same stock at essentially the same price. We both agreed that there were lots of pairs of shoes that were fine, but nothing that made either one of us say, "Wow, my feet would look sexy in those." There was a pair of lovely suede green New Balances that Rob liked, and of course I enthusiastically approve of all suede shoes; alas, they were women's. I tried hard to convince him that no one would ever be able to tell, but he was convinced the day would come when he would hit on a girl and look down to realize she had the same shoes. There was another pair of some funny-shaped track shoes that Rob liked, but when he tried them on, I looked at him sadly and said, "Sweetie, I just don't think you can pull those off. Frankly, I don't know anyone who can. I'm sorry." He sighed, and said, "It's okay. That's why you're here."
Finally, it was back to Sears'. He tried on a pair of men's Nikes, and I tried on a pair of men's Nikes. Then we switched; Rob and I wear the same shoe size. I decided to buy my pair after much walking with one of them on and checking myself out in the feet mirror with my pants rolled up to see if they had a slimming effect on my calf. Rob decided to buy his, took them off, tried mine on, decided to buy mine, then tried his on again and decided to buy them so we wouldn't have the same pair of shoes. I suggested both of us each wearing one of each shoe, but Rob has an amazing ability to completely tune me out when I make suggestions.
We walked out of Sears' with matching bags containing matching boxes containing non-matching shoes in matching sizes. And that's the truth.
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