Speaking of starting off with a bang, my first paper (due on Sunday, but will be completed way, way before then, because: algebra) for English 1302 is a few paragraphs describing the characters, conflicts, plot and theme(s) of Ralph Ellison's "Battle Royal," which also happens to be the first chapter of his book The Invisible Man. Which is about symbolically invisible men, not science experiments gone horribly wrong.
This story is horrible.
I don't mean that it's badly written or anything. I mean that it's actually, literally, horrible. It's about a nameless guy who gives a great speech at his high school graduation. The speech is so great that all the white dudes in the town want him to come to a special event for just white dudes and say it all again. When he gets to the Great White Dude Party, they tell him he has to participate in a "Battle Royal" which at first seems like it's going to be a boxing match with a bunch of other dudes our narrator knew in school, but actually turns out to be the most bizarre free-for-all I have ever read, and I have read Anita Blake Vampire Slayer books. There's a naked white lady with an American flag tattoo on her belly who dances to a clarinet song (???) while all the white dudes alternately tell them to look and not look at her. I'm not exactly clear what happens to the naked white girl. The white dudes do like a "hip-hip-hooray!" thing, throwing her up in the air seemingly without the use of blankets, (which renders any and all Winnie the Pooh stories I have ever read absolute bullshit - they're famous for using blankets to hip-hip-hooray people into the air. Turns out you don't need blankets, Christopher Robin, you girl-shoed moron.) and then she seems to disappear or something. So this bunch of black dudes with raging hard-ons and panic attacks are all blindfolded and then they have to fight each other. After the fighting is over, the white dudes toss a bunch of money on a rug and tell the black dudes to go get it, but the rug is electrified. WTF? And then the narrator gets a chance to say his speech (most of it cribbed from Booker T. Washington, but apparently that's okay?), but he's all bloody from the fight and pretty much fucking miserable but for some reason really gung-ho to say his speech. The white dudes make fun of him but then they're all naaah, we were just shittin' you and they give him a briefcase with a scholarship to college in it.
W.T.F.
I'm supposed to write about this? I hate this. It's horrible. I realize it's metaphor, but I have a sneaking suspicion that somebody somewhere actually did this shit, and now it's a thing. I feel like my eyes, and indeed my brain, have been violated.
I'm also supposed to write about "Chrysanthemums" by John Steinbeck, which was boring as hell - a farm wife gets scammed by a tinker. Well, duh, honey, that's what tinkers do. And it took twelve pages to say so.
There were other stories I was supposed to read for this section. Any one of those stories would have been easier to write about (I actually really enjoyed "A&P" by John Updike), except one. There was one in the group that was just as bad as "Battle Royal." It's called "The Lottery" and it's by Shirley Jackson.
It's about a small town that does a lottery every year. Why? Because they've always done it, that's why. And what do you think that lottery is for?
IT'S TO FIGURE OUT WHO TO STONE TO DEATH, THAT'S WHAT.
I totally get the point. Some people have stupid traditions that they just keep doing because it's always been done that way. I get it. But the fact that I was forced to read the anxiety of these people as we go through the lottery makes me want to spit on somebody in public.
Has anybody ever written a short story that is well-written and uplifting? Does any conflict ever end with people shaking hands and maybe going to get ice cream together? I completely understand that humankind is a cesspit, but for the love of beans, do they have to keep reminding me? Can't I read about ponies or something? Instead, we have a dude who quit his job at the A&P because some girls came into the store in their bathing suits and got the stinkeye and a comment from the manager, one where a woman finds out her husband is dead in a railroad accident and just as she realizes she's free, she finds out it was a terrible mistake and he's alive, so she drops dead from the disappointment and one about a little girl who can only afford Barbies that come from a fire sale. I'm surprised none of the stories were written by Margaret Freakin' Atwood. Or Eeyore. What the hell is wrong with the American short story author?
Beyond all that, I have to keep contemplating horrible fictional (?) events while creaking open the rusty trunk in my mind that holds things such as "theme," "motif," "conflict," etc. It's an uncomfortable fucking place, and it's making me wonder if I shouldn't quiz all of my potential professors before I register for their classes. "True or false: 'I will force you to read traumatizing short stories on the very first day of class.' Be warned that an answer of 'true' could lead to me finding an English professor with a shred of humanity left in them."
I will persevere. I will write an awesome piece about this story that was scraped off the bottom of somebody's shoe. And I will do it today, because I refuse to think about this any longer than I have to.
Monday, May 23, 2011
US History 2: This Course Requires A Map Test.
The Summer semester has started! Today, actually. And it started with a bang. Apparently because we're on a condensed schedule, we are going to make the very most of every single second, by the power of Greyskull.
I have a map test on Wednesday for my History class. I have to know where Chicago is, among other things.
I don't know where Chicago is, technically.
I have been to Chicago. I've actually driven to Chicago from my house. (Or, more accurately, from my friend Christy's house, which is in St. Louis. But I drove to St. Louis from my house. It's how I suddenly realized that St. Louis is sort of in the mountains, which I didn't know, despite having been there before.)
Do I get credit for having driven there? No, I do not. It's totally unfair. I can tell you how to get there from here, but I get no credit for that. I have to find it on a map.
I also have to name all fifty states, locate many major rivers, label all five Great Lakes and several other large cities in America, many of which I have also visited but couldn't possibly find on a map. Clearly, I have to study.
Here's what I don't have to study. I have to also find Canada, Mexico, the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. I'm pretty confident in my ability, there.
Frankly, I'm just a bit shocked that there's a test so damned fast. Fortunately, it doesn't cover any material from the book, because I would just be screwed if it did, as I don't have the book. I have plans to get said book, but as of now, I don't have it. I'm pretty sure that this makes me a slacker.
The whole map test thing is actually pretty amusing to me, considering I haven't had one since my junior year in high school. It was a hard one, too. Which is why I still remember it. I don't think it scarred me for life, but I guess we won't know for sure until I take this new map test. If I have a panic attack and start thumping my head against the desk in the Testing Center, we'll know for sure, won't we.
I have a map test on Wednesday for my History class. I have to know where Chicago is, among other things.
I don't know where Chicago is, technically.
I have been to Chicago. I've actually driven to Chicago from my house. (Or, more accurately, from my friend Christy's house, which is in St. Louis. But I drove to St. Louis from my house. It's how I suddenly realized that St. Louis is sort of in the mountains, which I didn't know, despite having been there before.)
Do I get credit for having driven there? No, I do not. It's totally unfair. I can tell you how to get there from here, but I get no credit for that. I have to find it on a map.
I also have to name all fifty states, locate many major rivers, label all five Great Lakes and several other large cities in America, many of which I have also visited but couldn't possibly find on a map. Clearly, I have to study.
Here's what I don't have to study. I have to also find Canada, Mexico, the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. I'm pretty confident in my ability, there.
Frankly, I'm just a bit shocked that there's a test so damned fast. Fortunately, it doesn't cover any material from the book, because I would just be screwed if it did, as I don't have the book. I have plans to get said book, but as of now, I don't have it. I'm pretty sure that this makes me a slacker.
The whole map test thing is actually pretty amusing to me, considering I haven't had one since my junior year in high school. It was a hard one, too. Which is why I still remember it. I don't think it scarred me for life, but I guess we won't know for sure until I take this new map test. If I have a panic attack and start thumping my head against the desk in the Testing Center, we'll know for sure, won't we.
Monday, May 16, 2011
How I Write
Since I don't have classes this week, and I obviously don't have a job, I've got a week of days where the kids are in school and I'm not. I decided to use this time to work on this novel I've been working on (oh, come on. Of course I'm writing a novel.), because, theoretically, there will be seven hours per day during which there are no distractions. If you've ever tried to write creatively, you may already note the bullshit in that sentence. If you haven't, let me explain why that idea is total and utter bullshit.
This is how a day of "writing" goes in my house.
First, I get up and make coffee and dawdle around with morning-type activities that sometimes include doing a crossword puzzle on my iPod. Then I set up my laptop.
I open up the file I'm working on. Sometimes I adjust the margins or the page layout. And then usually I read back a bit to make sure I'm going to be in the right frame of mind to start writing.
Then I notice a bit of breakfast in my teeth. I go to the bathroom and examine my teeth. I then determine that I need to brush, floss, polish and otherwise go through an entire oral hygiene regimen that I may or may not have completed only about an hour ago. After I'm done with my teeth, I realize my eyebrows could probably use some plucking. I set about doing that for awhile, accompanied by fiercely watering eyes and curse words, and then I think of a brilliant sentence. I go back to the computer and type it. It doesn't look right. So I go back to change the dog to a cat to make it fit better. No matter that the dog/cat appears eleventy billion times up to this point: that's what Find and Replace is for!
By this time, it's probably noonish. Time for lunch! I take an entire hour making the most elaborate lunch possible, and serve it to myself with real cloth napkins and shit. I take my time eating the lunch I so meticulously prepared for myself, and then I sit back down at the computer.
Someone e-mails me. Wait, it might be important! I check the e-mail and then decide to check Facebook too, while I'm at it. Somebody might be looking for me or waiting to ask me a burning question. It's not good to make people wait with burning questions. That's how people end up with charred bits that need Tough Actin' Tinactin. And I'm just not ready to be responsible for that. I end the chat with some lofty pronouncement that it's "now time for me to write!" and then realize that it's 2:59. I have one minute to write something profound before I have to go get the kids from school.
The profound thing, of course, doesn't come in a minute, so I go get the kids. And then when they're done with homework, I write a blog post.
And then later tonight, as I'm trying to fall asleep, I will have approximately one jillion great ideas for the book. None of which I'll remember when I wake up.
This right here is why I'm adhering to the Stephen King principle of writing a hundred words per day. Even if they're crap words, this book is going to get written a hundred words at a time. Or it will until I get distracted by something shiny again.
This is how a day of "writing" goes in my house.
First, I get up and make coffee and dawdle around with morning-type activities that sometimes include doing a crossword puzzle on my iPod. Then I set up my laptop.
I open up the file I'm working on. Sometimes I adjust the margins or the page layout. And then usually I read back a bit to make sure I'm going to be in the right frame of mind to start writing.
Then I notice a bit of breakfast in my teeth. I go to the bathroom and examine my teeth. I then determine that I need to brush, floss, polish and otherwise go through an entire oral hygiene regimen that I may or may not have completed only about an hour ago. After I'm done with my teeth, I realize my eyebrows could probably use some plucking. I set about doing that for awhile, accompanied by fiercely watering eyes and curse words, and then I think of a brilliant sentence. I go back to the computer and type it. It doesn't look right. So I go back to change the dog to a cat to make it fit better. No matter that the dog/cat appears eleventy billion times up to this point: that's what Find and Replace is for!
By this time, it's probably noonish. Time for lunch! I take an entire hour making the most elaborate lunch possible, and serve it to myself with real cloth napkins and shit. I take my time eating the lunch I so meticulously prepared for myself, and then I sit back down at the computer.
Someone e-mails me. Wait, it might be important! I check the e-mail and then decide to check Facebook too, while I'm at it. Somebody might be looking for me or waiting to ask me a burning question. It's not good to make people wait with burning questions. That's how people end up with charred bits that need Tough Actin' Tinactin. And I'm just not ready to be responsible for that. I end the chat with some lofty pronouncement that it's "now time for me to write!" and then realize that it's 2:59. I have one minute to write something profound before I have to go get the kids from school.
The profound thing, of course, doesn't come in a minute, so I go get the kids. And then when they're done with homework, I write a blog post.
And then later tonight, as I'm trying to fall asleep, I will have approximately one jillion great ideas for the book. None of which I'll remember when I wake up.
This right here is why I'm adhering to the Stephen King principle of writing a hundred words per day. Even if they're crap words, this book is going to get written a hundred words at a time. Or it will until I get distracted by something shiny again.
What I Learned This Semester - Spring 2011 Edition
Some things that I learned this semester:
I never did find the words to express how much fun I had in my Business Computing class, but I really, really did. The professor did a great job of engaging everybody (especially considering that it was an evening class) - he was hilarious. He said great things to me and about me and he was just my very favorite.
All in all, I think it was as good a semester to jump back into things as I could have had. This summer, I'm taking English Comp 2 (I took English Comp 1 the same semester as I took Elementary Algebra back ten years ago) and US History 2 as online courses for the first five and a half weeks of the summer semester. At the same time, I'll be taking Intermediate Algebra (actual physical class) and Intro to Environmental Science (online) as eleven-week courses. This could be the dumbest decision I have ever made in my life. It's hard to say at this point. But rest assured, if it is, you'll probably be the first to know.
- If I am given the opportunity to procrastinate, I will absolutely take it. Maybe I won't take it down to the very, very wire (unless it involves Access database work, which I did on the last day to turn in for my Business Computing class that last night), but I'll definitely wait until I can't take the guilt and stress of putting it off anymore. This is a good thing for me to remember, as most of my classes in the Summer semester are online, and, to a degree, self-paced.
- Do not make fun of your professor, no matter how bad a teacher s/he may be. S/he may die during the semester, and then you'll feel really, really bad, for at least one day. Possibly twelve hours.
- Just because you think you're funny and your presentation is awesome, doesn't mean the rest of the class shares your sense of humor. Tough rooms, those classrooms.
- Algebra is hard as balls. It takes a lot of time and work and even more frustration. They tell me it's all worth it, but I think they're lying.
- If you are constantly eating "on-the-go," no matter how "on-the-go" you are, you won't lose weight. In fact, you might gain some.
I never did find the words to express how much fun I had in my Business Computing class, but I really, really did. The professor did a great job of engaging everybody (especially considering that it was an evening class) - he was hilarious. He said great things to me and about me and he was just my very favorite.
All in all, I think it was as good a semester to jump back into things as I could have had. This summer, I'm taking English Comp 2 (I took English Comp 1 the same semester as I took Elementary Algebra back ten years ago) and US History 2 as online courses for the first five and a half weeks of the summer semester. At the same time, I'll be taking Intermediate Algebra (actual physical class) and Intro to Environmental Science (online) as eleven-week courses. This could be the dumbest decision I have ever made in my life. It's hard to say at this point. But rest assured, if it is, you'll probably be the first to know.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Irrational Things I Am Scared Of
There will be a recap of the semester probably tomorrow, when everything's over. Today, I have to give a three-minute presentation on why there should be rigid standards of truth in advertising (thank you, tobacco industry, for giving me SO MANY EXAMPLES), and then I have a final in History (not comprehensive) and a final in Business Computing (comprehensive). Both of those are open book/open notes, so I'm not very stressed today.
Upon walking from my car to the building this morning, I realized that I'm irrationally afraid of some weird things. It's not terribly surprising, because I can freak myself out about pretty much anything, but I feel like I've really outdone myself with a few of these.
1. Curbs. Sidewalk curbs, specifically. Every time I step off a curb, I do it really slowly and carefully, as though I am just relearning to walk after a terrible hovercraft accident, because I'm 100% positive every single time that I'm going to step off wrong and break my ankle. I know that this fear is loosely based on my friend KC, who, years ago, had trouble getting into a Jeep and broke her ankle in the most horrific way possible. This somehow involved curbs. It even more involved a Jeep Cherokee, but for some reason, I'm not bothered by those. In fact, I drove one up until a few months ago. I have no idea why the sidewalk curb is catching the brunt of this irrational fear and not the truck that actually caused the problem, but I think it might have to do with the Jeep's V-6 engine, which I really miss. A four-cylinder just is not the same.
2. Walking up the stairs. I have no problem walking down the stairs. But walking up the stairs makes me worry that I'm going to trip up the stairs and fall and smash all of my teeth out. Even the ones in the very back. This has never happened to me or anybody I know, but it's been a lifelong fear. I prefer the elevator for going up, but I'll totally take the stairs going down. I wonder what the statistics are for injuries going up and down stairs. But even if I fall going downstairs, I think that maybe my teeth are safe. And that's really all I care about.
3. Pedestrians. Well, I'm only really scared of them if I'm in my car, driving. There's always a little voice in the back of my head that tells me that if I am not absolutely hyper-vigilant, that guy walking on the sidewalk like he doesn't have a care in the world will suddenly realize that his life is meaningless and launch himself in front of my car to end it all. Too bad for him - I drive a PT Cruiser, and he would probably just get a really nasty burn from the friction of my bumper - but maybe he doesn't realize that PT Cruisers are relatively harmless, and then I'd have to live with the fact that I gave a dude a bumper burn for the rest of my life.
4. The Nursing School students. They are so stressed right now that at any moment one of them may snap and start menacing us all with their stethoscope. I'm not exactly sure how a stethoscope could become a weapon (short of hurling it like one of those balls-tied-together-with-rope weapons), but if anybody can figure out how to get the most harm out of one, it's a nursing student. They know about anatomy and shit. (I'm also starting to get really afraid of my body, given the lecture notes they read out loud while studying. Your body can really get you into some serious shit. But you probably already know that if you listen to the "fine print" on the drug ads on TV.)
I probably should be afraid of toilet seats, given that one tried to hurl me off earlier this morning, but so far, no dice. If I think about it hard enough, though, I could probably scare myself into total paralytic fear any time I encounter a restroom facility.
There is probably a medication for this (and it's probably called "Daxin" - hi, TKers!), but the side effects could be so serious that I don't really want it. Side effects may include: sweating to the oldies, spastic thumb disorder, internal seepage of Kool Aid even if you haven't had any in twenty years, unluckiness, uncontrollable sobbing and even death.
I think I'll stick to my compulsive walking-like-an-old-woman for the curbs and stairs problem, and total avoidance of nursing students wherever possible. It seems safer.
Upon walking from my car to the building this morning, I realized that I'm irrationally afraid of some weird things. It's not terribly surprising, because I can freak myself out about pretty much anything, but I feel like I've really outdone myself with a few of these.
1. Curbs. Sidewalk curbs, specifically. Every time I step off a curb, I do it really slowly and carefully, as though I am just relearning to walk after a terrible hovercraft accident, because I'm 100% positive every single time that I'm going to step off wrong and break my ankle. I know that this fear is loosely based on my friend KC, who, years ago, had trouble getting into a Jeep and broke her ankle in the most horrific way possible. This somehow involved curbs. It even more involved a Jeep Cherokee, but for some reason, I'm not bothered by those. In fact, I drove one up until a few months ago. I have no idea why the sidewalk curb is catching the brunt of this irrational fear and not the truck that actually caused the problem, but I think it might have to do with the Jeep's V-6 engine, which I really miss. A four-cylinder just is not the same.
2. Walking up the stairs. I have no problem walking down the stairs. But walking up the stairs makes me worry that I'm going to trip up the stairs and fall and smash all of my teeth out. Even the ones in the very back. This has never happened to me or anybody I know, but it's been a lifelong fear. I prefer the elevator for going up, but I'll totally take the stairs going down. I wonder what the statistics are for injuries going up and down stairs. But even if I fall going downstairs, I think that maybe my teeth are safe. And that's really all I care about.
3. Pedestrians. Well, I'm only really scared of them if I'm in my car, driving. There's always a little voice in the back of my head that tells me that if I am not absolutely hyper-vigilant, that guy walking on the sidewalk like he doesn't have a care in the world will suddenly realize that his life is meaningless and launch himself in front of my car to end it all. Too bad for him - I drive a PT Cruiser, and he would probably just get a really nasty burn from the friction of my bumper - but maybe he doesn't realize that PT Cruisers are relatively harmless, and then I'd have to live with the fact that I gave a dude a bumper burn for the rest of my life.
4. The Nursing School students. They are so stressed right now that at any moment one of them may snap and start menacing us all with their stethoscope. I'm not exactly sure how a stethoscope could become a weapon (short of hurling it like one of those balls-tied-together-with-rope weapons), but if anybody can figure out how to get the most harm out of one, it's a nursing student. They know about anatomy and shit. (I'm also starting to get really afraid of my body, given the lecture notes they read out loud while studying. Your body can really get you into some serious shit. But you probably already know that if you listen to the "fine print" on the drug ads on TV.)
I probably should be afraid of toilet seats, given that one tried to hurl me off earlier this morning, but so far, no dice. If I think about it hard enough, though, I could probably scare myself into total paralytic fear any time I encounter a restroom facility.
There is probably a medication for this (and it's probably called "Daxin" - hi, TKers!), but the side effects could be so serious that I don't really want it. Side effects may include: sweating to the oldies, spastic thumb disorder, internal seepage of Kool Aid even if you haven't had any in twenty years, unluckiness, uncontrollable sobbing and even death.
I think I'll stick to my compulsive walking-like-an-old-woman for the curbs and stairs problem, and total avoidance of nursing students wherever possible. It seems safer.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
I Am Utterly Exhausted.
I think I've finally hit the wall. I guess I'm just lucky that it's happening in the last week of school.
I have terrible insomnia that is completely exacerbated by stress. Add to that my procrastination problems that have amounted to an absolute ass-load of homework that could have been avoided had I been more diligent earlier in the semester (total lesson learned, by the way), and I'm averaging about 3 to 5 hours of sleep a night.
This is leading to some surprising crap. And some not so surprising crap.
For instance, this morning, I got gas before coming to school. About halfway there after I got the gas, I remembered to reset the trip-o-meter on my odometer. (This is pretty much a rule in our household, even though I have absolutely no idea why. When we first got married, Spike sort of insisted on it and I eventually fell into step with it, not really understanding the reason behind it, but it takes me less than a second to do, so no skin off my nose. I'm completely OCD about it now, though.) I looked down and realized that at some point, I had totally already done it, and I have absolutely no recollection of doing it. I have no idea when I did it. I'm actually sort of suspecting that my car did it all by itself, knowing that I was going to want that done. Maybe my car is anticipating my whim. I could maybe get on board with that except that yesterday, I nearly bought two pairs of scissors when I meant to buy one. At some point, I had put the scissors in my shopping cart and, not realizing I'd already done that, did it again. I was completely bewildered when I found the second pair of scissors in there. Once again - I have absolutely no memory of doing that. This could be dangerous.
Besides accomplishing small tasks that I can't remember doing, I'm also making questionable choices. Case in point: I trimmed my own bangs last night. At the time, I had no sense whatsoever that this might be a bad idea. I just figured that they were long and tacky-looking and in my way. Did I have time to go get them trimmed professionally? Hell, no, I have homework and not sleeping to do. So I did it myself. Now I look like I went down to the Golden Comb and had them done. I probably should have gone the distance and given myself a home perm while I was at it. At least then my granny-bangs would have hair-context. As it stands now, I have a completely normal haircut with hideous bangs. I feel like apologizing to people who have to look at me.
My algebra teacher has noticed my brain fatigue, also. (I think the bangs might have been a big fat clue.) He has suggested that maybe I take a pill on Sunday night that might ensure me some good sleep before the final Monday morning. Bless him, that was very tactful. At least he didn't say "Get you some sleep before you injure yourself with your sharpened pencil."
I have terrible insomnia that is completely exacerbated by stress. Add to that my procrastination problems that have amounted to an absolute ass-load of homework that could have been avoided had I been more diligent earlier in the semester (total lesson learned, by the way), and I'm averaging about 3 to 5 hours of sleep a night.
This is leading to some surprising crap. And some not so surprising crap.
For instance, this morning, I got gas before coming to school. About halfway there after I got the gas, I remembered to reset the trip-o-meter on my odometer. (This is pretty much a rule in our household, even though I have absolutely no idea why. When we first got married, Spike sort of insisted on it and I eventually fell into step with it, not really understanding the reason behind it, but it takes me less than a second to do, so no skin off my nose. I'm completely OCD about it now, though.) I looked down and realized that at some point, I had totally already done it, and I have absolutely no recollection of doing it. I have no idea when I did it. I'm actually sort of suspecting that my car did it all by itself, knowing that I was going to want that done. Maybe my car is anticipating my whim. I could maybe get on board with that except that yesterday, I nearly bought two pairs of scissors when I meant to buy one. At some point, I had put the scissors in my shopping cart and, not realizing I'd already done that, did it again. I was completely bewildered when I found the second pair of scissors in there. Once again - I have absolutely no memory of doing that. This could be dangerous.
Besides accomplishing small tasks that I can't remember doing, I'm also making questionable choices. Case in point: I trimmed my own bangs last night. At the time, I had no sense whatsoever that this might be a bad idea. I just figured that they were long and tacky-looking and in my way. Did I have time to go get them trimmed professionally? Hell, no, I have homework and not sleeping to do. So I did it myself. Now I look like I went down to the Golden Comb and had them done. I probably should have gone the distance and given myself a home perm while I was at it. At least then my granny-bangs would have hair-context. As it stands now, I have a completely normal haircut with hideous bangs. I feel like apologizing to people who have to look at me.
My algebra teacher has noticed my brain fatigue, also. (I think the bangs might have been a big fat clue.) He has suggested that maybe I take a pill on Sunday night that might ensure me some good sleep before the final Monday morning. Bless him, that was very tactful. At least he didn't say "Get you some sleep before you injure yourself with your sharpened pencil."
Monday, May 2, 2011
Sigh. Feelings.
I believe I've made it perfectly clear how much I hate talking about feelings. I loathe it. I detest it. And yet I always end up doing it.
If you're already sick of Osama Bin Laden stuff, feel free to skip this post. It's not going to be funny. It's not going to be about political anything or who deserves credit or what. It's not about speculation or celebration or anything. It's about my own reaction, which surprised even me.
We were cruising iTunes last night and Spike saw something on his newsfeed that said that President Obama was going to have a big announcement on TV. My stomach sort of dropped, because for a split-second, I was absolutely convinced that the big announcement was going to be that aliens had landed. I was trying to figure out if I should wake up the kids and drag them into a closet, fashioning tin-foil hats for us all and filling up water pistols along the way, because I have watched a lot of M. Night Shymalan movies. ("Swing away, Merrill. Swing away.") Logic and reason took over again fairly quickly, so I figured this was an announcement about the NATO strike and the death of Gaddafi's son. (I have no idea if I spelled that correctly or not.)
When we heard the news (I think we missed the actual announcement by about five minutes), my heart leapt up in my throat and the only thing I could say was "Thank God." All I felt was relief. I felt sort of giddy with it. We watched the celebrations on CNN and talked mainly about the crowds themselves (especially the cheerleaders outside the White House. That was freakin' weird. They were doing stands and stuff). And then we tried to go to bed. I didn't end up going to sleep until about 4:00am. I had made the mistake of reading my Facebook newsfeed as I was laying down, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. I had mixed feelings, and I was surprised at myself, because I thought my reaction was going to be cut-and-dried. Not that I ever expected this day to come. I fully expected Osama bin Laden to die of natural causes and we, the people of the world, would never know. Al Qaeda surely wouldn't tell, so he would just continue being a boogeyman for all of us until the end of time.
A little history would probably be good here. On 9/11, I was almost seven months pregnant with my first child. Even though I was miles and miles away from the Twin Towers (and at that point, had never even visited NYC), I cried for days. Osama bin Laden was a particular source of anxiety for me. I remember telling Spike that I was absolutely terrified of him. I felt really silly for being as overwrought as I was, but I just sort of chalked it up to being pregnant, and eventually stopped crying. I never really felt like I had the right to be as upset as I was, because I didn't know anybody in those towers. I didn't live in NYC. I'd never even been there. In short, I felt like a dumbass - like one of those people who try to inject themselves into every situation, whether it concerns them or not. I was jumpy about planes in the sky once the planes started flying again. I was just all-around freaked out. But I did get over myself and get on with things, obviously.
And then, last September, I went to Ground Zero.
It was my third trip to NYC. There wasn't a lot to be seen at Ground Zero at that point - the construction fences had been put up, and they were working away, so really it just looked like any building site. But I and two of my friends went to the little Ground Zero Center sort of catty-corner from the construction. And once we got in there, I started crying again.
I didn't expect to. I expected to look at everything and be okay, but I cried in public and I hate crying in public. I hate it so much. It always makes me feel like an idiot, and I felt like an extra-supreme idiot for the same reason I did almost ten years ago. I hadn't been there. I had no right to be upset. My friend Amanda lived in NYC at the time. She would have had a right to cry, if she'd been there with us. I did not.
Cheri, my friend from Canada (hi, Cheri!), wanted to go across the street to the little church where the first responders had gone throughout all of the rescue efforts for respite. We got over there and I couldn't go in. I absolutely could not face it. So I sat on a bench in the pretty little churchyard and looked out over all the very old graves dating back to the 1700s and waited for Cheri and Jill to come out and get me. Then we went on with our day and I was fine.
This morning, I cried in public again. I didn't cry for Osama bin Laden, because I'm really having a hard time dredging up any sympathy for him. I cried because of this picture.
If you're already sick of Osama Bin Laden stuff, feel free to skip this post. It's not going to be funny. It's not going to be about political anything or who deserves credit or what. It's not about speculation or celebration or anything. It's about my own reaction, which surprised even me.
We were cruising iTunes last night and Spike saw something on his newsfeed that said that President Obama was going to have a big announcement on TV. My stomach sort of dropped, because for a split-second, I was absolutely convinced that the big announcement was going to be that aliens had landed. I was trying to figure out if I should wake up the kids and drag them into a closet, fashioning tin-foil hats for us all and filling up water pistols along the way, because I have watched a lot of M. Night Shymalan movies. ("Swing away, Merrill. Swing away.") Logic and reason took over again fairly quickly, so I figured this was an announcement about the NATO strike and the death of Gaddafi's son. (I have no idea if I spelled that correctly or not.)
When we heard the news (I think we missed the actual announcement by about five minutes), my heart leapt up in my throat and the only thing I could say was "Thank God." All I felt was relief. I felt sort of giddy with it. We watched the celebrations on CNN and talked mainly about the crowds themselves (especially the cheerleaders outside the White House. That was freakin' weird. They were doing stands and stuff). And then we tried to go to bed. I didn't end up going to sleep until about 4:00am. I had made the mistake of reading my Facebook newsfeed as I was laying down, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. I had mixed feelings, and I was surprised at myself, because I thought my reaction was going to be cut-and-dried. Not that I ever expected this day to come. I fully expected Osama bin Laden to die of natural causes and we, the people of the world, would never know. Al Qaeda surely wouldn't tell, so he would just continue being a boogeyman for all of us until the end of time.
A little history would probably be good here. On 9/11, I was almost seven months pregnant with my first child. Even though I was miles and miles away from the Twin Towers (and at that point, had never even visited NYC), I cried for days. Osama bin Laden was a particular source of anxiety for me. I remember telling Spike that I was absolutely terrified of him. I felt really silly for being as overwrought as I was, but I just sort of chalked it up to being pregnant, and eventually stopped crying. I never really felt like I had the right to be as upset as I was, because I didn't know anybody in those towers. I didn't live in NYC. I'd never even been there. In short, I felt like a dumbass - like one of those people who try to inject themselves into every situation, whether it concerns them or not. I was jumpy about planes in the sky once the planes started flying again. I was just all-around freaked out. But I did get over myself and get on with things, obviously.
And then, last September, I went to Ground Zero.
It was my third trip to NYC. There wasn't a lot to be seen at Ground Zero at that point - the construction fences had been put up, and they were working away, so really it just looked like any building site. But I and two of my friends went to the little Ground Zero Center sort of catty-corner from the construction. And once we got in there, I started crying again.
I didn't expect to. I expected to look at everything and be okay, but I cried in public and I hate crying in public. I hate it so much. It always makes me feel like an idiot, and I felt like an extra-supreme idiot for the same reason I did almost ten years ago. I hadn't been there. I had no right to be upset. My friend Amanda lived in NYC at the time. She would have had a right to cry, if she'd been there with us. I did not.
Cheri, my friend from Canada (hi, Cheri!), wanted to go across the street to the little church where the first responders had gone throughout all of the rescue efforts for respite. We got over there and I couldn't go in. I absolutely could not face it. So I sat on a bench in the pretty little churchyard and looked out over all the very old graves dating back to the 1700s and waited for Cheri and Jill to come out and get me. Then we went on with our day and I was fine.
This morning, I cried in public again. I didn't cry for Osama bin Laden, because I'm really having a hard time dredging up any sympathy for him. I cried because of this picture.
I saw it on Buzzfeed. I don't know why this affected me so much, but I just sat at a picnic table in the cold wind outside the building where my 10:30 class is held and cried.
I don't have any answers. I don't have a pat thing to say, like that Mark Twain quote that's going around right now. I just keep thinking that if it's making me cry, what must the other people be feeling right now? The survivors and the widows and widowers and kids who lost one or both parents?
I can't celebrate. I don't really have that in me, I don't think. It's just amazing how much stuff can be raked up inside yourself, even almost ten years later. Imagine being someone who really has something to be raked up.
Cee Lo Green Is My New Best Favorite
I have fallen hopelessly in love with the musical stylings of Cee Lo Green.
I absolutely have to give credit to his new TV show "The Voice," which I guess is on NBC. Spike and I watched the rerun of the first episode over the weekend on E!. I never, ever watch that channel for any reason, but it was the only place that had that show, and we were sort of interested in it. (It's actually a pretty good show - the auditions take place with the team leaders [Adam Levine from Maroon 5, Christina Aguilera, Cee Lo Green and Blake Shelton] turned around with their backs to the stage. They listen to the singer and then if they decide they want that voice on their team, they hit a button that swivels their chair around so they can see the performer. The performer then gets to choose which turned-around artist they want for a mentor. Each artist gets a team of eight people, and they themselves are competing against the other artists for top slot. It's pretty awesome.) Anyway, I had heard a clip of his big hit "Fuck You" (or "Forget You" if you're terrestrial radio and/or Wal*Mart) awhile ago and tried to make a mental note about it, but my mental notepad is more like a dry-erase board these days, so I forgot. Until yesterday, when we watched "The Voice." I remembered, and downloaded his entire The Lady Killer album.
There are several points to make here. First, I am the whitest white girl that ever lived. I turn bright pink even without sun - just with application of a little heat. (This is extremely inconvenient in Texas.) The only soul I have is the one on the bottom of my shoe. I can sing with some soul, but I just do not possess any in my everyday life.
Having said that, I come to my second point: I am an avid, entrenched fan of early R&B. I love early R&B so very, very much. I always have, and I always will. Unlike many people who like that style, it's not homogenous to me. I have favorite artists, and favorite eras, and favorite eras of artists. Chief among them are The Four Tops, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Sam Cooke, Jackie Wilson and Al Green. They move me. Their voices move me. Their grooves move me. I love this shit.
Cee Lo Green is just like this shit. He is fucking amazing.
The orchestrations, with the horns and the back-up singers and even the freaking xylophone is such a throwback to earlier times. And tracks on that album hark back to the 1960s and the 1970s, in separate tracks. This music is so great, I want to rub it into my skin. I want to wear it like a too-tight t-shirt to inappropriate places, like church. I love this music.
This is not to say that all the tracks are equally good - they're not. Some are weaker than others. But even the weak tracks kick the collective ass of current popular music in such a fashion that I'm not sure I'm allowed to watch. It's that brutal.
The long and the short of it is: I don't care if you like Motown or not. Buy this damn album. It is musical genius.
I absolutely have to give credit to his new TV show "The Voice," which I guess is on NBC. Spike and I watched the rerun of the first episode over the weekend on E!. I never, ever watch that channel for any reason, but it was the only place that had that show, and we were sort of interested in it. (It's actually a pretty good show - the auditions take place with the team leaders [Adam Levine from Maroon 5, Christina Aguilera, Cee Lo Green and Blake Shelton] turned around with their backs to the stage. They listen to the singer and then if they decide they want that voice on their team, they hit a button that swivels their chair around so they can see the performer. The performer then gets to choose which turned-around artist they want for a mentor. Each artist gets a team of eight people, and they themselves are competing against the other artists for top slot. It's pretty awesome.) Anyway, I had heard a clip of his big hit "Fuck You" (or "Forget You" if you're terrestrial radio and/or Wal*Mart) awhile ago and tried to make a mental note about it, but my mental notepad is more like a dry-erase board these days, so I forgot. Until yesterday, when we watched "The Voice." I remembered, and downloaded his entire The Lady Killer album.
There are several points to make here. First, I am the whitest white girl that ever lived. I turn bright pink even without sun - just with application of a little heat. (This is extremely inconvenient in Texas.) The only soul I have is the one on the bottom of my shoe. I can sing with some soul, but I just do not possess any in my everyday life.
Having said that, I come to my second point: I am an avid, entrenched fan of early R&B. I love early R&B so very, very much. I always have, and I always will. Unlike many people who like that style, it's not homogenous to me. I have favorite artists, and favorite eras, and favorite eras of artists. Chief among them are The Four Tops, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Sam Cooke, Jackie Wilson and Al Green. They move me. Their voices move me. Their grooves move me. I love this shit.
Cee Lo Green is just like this shit. He is fucking amazing.
The orchestrations, with the horns and the back-up singers and even the freaking xylophone is such a throwback to earlier times. And tracks on that album hark back to the 1960s and the 1970s, in separate tracks. This music is so great, I want to rub it into my skin. I want to wear it like a too-tight t-shirt to inappropriate places, like church. I love this music.
This is not to say that all the tracks are equally good - they're not. Some are weaker than others. But even the weak tracks kick the collective ass of current popular music in such a fashion that I'm not sure I'm allowed to watch. It's that brutal.
The long and the short of it is: I don't care if you like Motown or not. Buy this damn album. It is musical genius.
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