Some of the reasons I hate being a woman include these: I bleed monthly. I have to stuff cotton in my vagina to stop the bleeding or wear a miniature diaper around just so people don't think I have sat in chocolate pudding. I am emotional, and at times these emotions can cause irrational behavior. There are certain expectations I am to adhere to by our society; for example, I am not allowed to stick my hands down my pants in public to scratch my labia. However, men are allowed to scratch their balls, and I see it happen a lot. If my cooter starts itching, and I reach down to scratch it, people automatically think I'm disgusting, have crabs, or am a freak. (Just a note: my cooter isn't diseased and is not currently itchy.) Men are allowed to fart in public--they can't hold it in, they say. The only other person I have heard make that claim is my sister who loves to crap in public restrooms it seems. (Don't tell her I told you that, though.)
There are equally as many things I enjoy about being a woman: I have boobs, and men don't. I get to wear lipstick. I can ask for help when repairing things or when I am having a hard time opening a jar of pickles, and I don't get stared at or accused of being a wuss. Men often hold the door open, and for a germaphobe like me, this is a welcome blessing in disguise. I am a crazy cat lady; crazy cat man just doesn't have the same ring to it. I can watch romatic comedies and it's okay.
But the two most irritating things about being a woman are cars and computers.
While I was growing up, my step-dad taught me a lot about cars. I was mostly an unwilling participant, but I happened to always be a fan of old junkers, and old junkers naturally come with problems. While I only asked to physically help fix my 1987 Chevy Sprint once because I wanted to "get my hands dirty," I listened. I listened to every single word my step-dad said, even when I didn't want to know how carburetors or fuel-injected cars work. If it was a lecture about batteries and alternators, though I didn't necessarily want the long explanation--I just wanted the thing fixed already, please, damnit--I was a sponge for information.
This was recently (in the last year) most helpful to me when I looked at a new car at Dennis Dillon. I bought a Saab a few years ago, and I have become a big fan. As my Saab is past 200,000 miles, I thought it might be time to start looking. On a Friday, I saw a red, 1999 Saab on Craigslist at Dennis Dillon. I went to check it out on the sly; I just wanted to see it and drive off--no salesmen, just a quick glance. My roommate was the getaway driver, and as we turned into the lot, I jumped out, checked out the car, and I was about to jump back in when a man was shouting across the lot at me. Damn. I was trapped. To make a long-story short, I took the Saab for a test drive. And when I started it, a red warning light was on. I asked the salesman about it, and he said he didn't know what it was, and he didn't think their service department guys could get it looked at over the weekend because it was a Saab and they needed a "special computer" to look at it since it was "foreign." "Oh, really?" I asked, as I stepped out of the car after the test drive. And as he told his disheartening saga of the foreign car, and made his way to his office--implying I should come along to work out a deal--I said, "Hold on a second." I walked back to the car, opened the door, popped the hood, and lifted it up. On top of the engine or right inside the hood on the frame, there are usually specifications for what kind of instrument your car needs to read warning messages. Once again, I have owned cars with problems; this is something I know and have soaked in from listening to my step-dad. "Yeah. It takes the ODB II. The service department should have that."
My roommate stood nearby, and I could tell it took all her energy to hold back the biggest bout of laughter. The guy looked humiliated: he was caught. And I didn't care. I didn't buy the car. The manager and I had many phone calls about the car and what was wrong with it; he treated me like a girl. What he didn't know is the whole time I was talking not only to my step-dad, but I was also talking to my mechanic, the one person I am thankful for who has never treated me like a girl. When there were certain things that my step-dad couldn't fix on the car, I found a reputable mechanic whom I can call and tell what I think the problem is when the car is having issues. He actually listens, and listens well. He trusts that even though I can't do the work myself, I am capable of diagnosing a problem, even though I am a girl. However, there are many other people in the car industry that don't understand this about the gender with boobs: parts guys, tire guys, tow truck drivers. They just don't get it.
This leads me to today. I got a Time Capsule for my computers to do backups. For those that don't know, boobless or boobs-having, it is essentially a big hard drive that functions as a wireless router, too. I have an old laptop and a newer desktop that I wanted to backup on this Time Capsule. My desktop had no problem backing up, but the laptop was a completely different story.
I kept getting the same two error messages, and after searching forum after forum online for an answer, I reached out to friends for help on Facebook. I got the best advice they knew how to give, but unfortunately, the problems weren't solved.
I took a trip to the Mac store here in Boise. And instead of trying to listen to my theories, the guy kept talking over me. I told him I had set up a network and that my internet was working. He said, "Well, you could be on anyone's internet connection if there is an unsecured network in your neighborhood." It took me forever to explain that, no, I was positive I was on my OWN network. It took me forever because the guy wouldn't shut up for a second and listen to me. I explained that I understood how to set up the network and how to set up the Time Capsule, and he couldn't accept that as truth. As I tried to ask my questions to diagnose my problem and give my theory that it might be an operating system error--to possibly get his input--he cut me off and said he needed to see the computer and the Time Capsule.
"How much will that cost?"
"$100.00 bucks an hour," he said. "It should take about a half hour to figure out."
"And then it will be fixed?" I asked.
"Not necessarily."
After I got home, I researched more forums and found a temporary work-around the situation, which I will not explain here--boobs or no boobs, it's boring. I researched the upgraded operating system online and discovered it 30 bucks. I decided I would try it to get a more permanent solution, so I went to Best Buy to get the operating system and to ask someone and try and pick their brain; it seemed as though a number of people had the same issue with their Time Capsules. Some computer person had to have an answer.
When I started to ask the guy at Best Buy--the supposed expert--he didn't even want to listen to my question. He immediately started writing down a phone number. It was the number of the "in-home" tech who could come and set-up the Time Capsule for me.
"But I don't need that," I said. "I understand how to set it up, and it is working on one computer, just not the other."
And this is why it is frustrating to be a girl: most everytime I have had to ask for help in cars or computers, men write me off. And that's an interesting point: men are always the ones in the positions to be asked; there are rarely women in the fields of cars and computers.
Men tune me out. Instead of listening to my questions, as if I were another man asking the question, they assume I am incompetent and not worth their time. I swear the next time a man treats me like this, I am going to stomp on his toe--serious, look for me on the news.
Oh, and by the way, Mac store and Geek Squad guy? The fucking operating system upgrade worked. Eat it, fuckers.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
My First Teaching Dream
In August, I begin teaching a class of 25 Introduction to College Writing Students. While I'm nervous, mainly because I'm a sweater when I'm nervous (as in a person who sweats, not someone made out of wool), the idea of me sweating in front of everyone makes me even more nervous--maybe even more nervous than the thought of teaching. Yes, I'm nervous about sweating in front of 25 people; I'm not nervous about what I am going to say to them.
But my anxiety isn't inhabiting my every thought, so I was surprised I had my first teaching dream last night.
I was in front of a huge lecture hall. In real life, I won't be; I'll be in a small computer lab. The room was dark, made of wood, had three groupings of seats, with two aisles. On one side of the room was a chalkboard, on the other side, a whiteboard. On the whiteboard side, there was a ladder. I was supposed to climb the ladder to write on the whiteboard. I am terrified of ladders; I am no good on them, so I chose the chalkboard side. My theory has always been, the bigger they are, the harder they fall, and I am a fat girl.
The students all sat on the side of the room with the whiteboard, opposite of where I was standing. I had my bag of stuff on a chair in the back of the room, and I kept going back to my bag for stuff. I opened my iPad, where I have been keeping notes for class--a tentative plan for each day--and I realized it was Wednesday, and I had yet to take attendance. In real life, I will be teaching on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was then that I noticed one of my professors observing my class. Since I had yet to take attendance, and I couldn't really figure out what the fuck I had planned for the day--my nerves made me forget everything, it seems--and I was worried about being observed and be caught not taking attendance, I made an attendance speech. "I have not taken attendance for the past couple of days because I wanted to wait around until next week until things have settled down. Ya know...people are moving from class to class, and there is just a lot of tumult."
It's then that I decided we should do some sort of activity--since we were being observed and all. I can remember seeing some kind of clustermap--a way of generating ideas for writing--and somehow I was turning it into a group activity. I started to write the instructions on the board and then I turned back to the class. There were only about 11 students left. Where the hell did everybody go, I wondered. This isn't enough people for a group activity!
At this point, since everyone randomly disappeared since I wasn't taking attendance, I decided it was time for the mandatory attendance speech. "I will take attendance everyday. You need to be here on time and ready to work. If you miss more than four classes, you will fail the course. I am not afraid to fail anyone, and I will do it if I have to." There were grumblings from the students and shouts of protest, and all of a sudden, the room was full again. A student stepped up to a microphone in one of the aisles I hadn't noticed before and started to shout at me--I was unfair, I was incompetent.
All of the students were talking. They were talking really, really loud in fact. Everyone that has been to college knows that this is generally not the case for the first week. People sit and are quiet, nervous. And I was trying to talk over them, and it just didn't work. Then, a group of head honchos--presumably the university president and some others came to my class. They walked to the front of the room, and someone I knew was saying to one of the other men while gesturing to me, "Oh, she's great. She's just going to be a great instructor." Then the same man who complimented me looked down at my shoes, "What kind of shoes are you wearing? Those aren't professional shoes. You're wearing Crocs while teaching at a university?"
"No," I said. "These are dress flats, but my feet are so big and wide and I have flat feet, so my feet make my shoes look like crocs."
And magically, it was the end of class. Everyone was gone. It was then I discovered there was a microphone on the podium, since the room was so large. Oh, I thought to myself, they just couldn't hear me. And as I approached the microphone, and messed with the volume, all I could get was feedback.
The next instructor, a new instructor, too, showed up for her class. She was a beautiful black woman with an afro. She was stylishly dressed, and as the clock hit 10:40, she began her class by grabbing a big microphone (one straight out of The Price is Right) from the middle of the stage, one that I had somehow missed while I was teaching. She started her lesson plan, and her students were quiet, and then suddenly she began to sing the lesson and her students started cheering. I thought to myself why didn't I find that microphone?
But my anxiety isn't inhabiting my every thought, so I was surprised I had my first teaching dream last night.
I was in front of a huge lecture hall. In real life, I won't be; I'll be in a small computer lab. The room was dark, made of wood, had three groupings of seats, with two aisles. On one side of the room was a chalkboard, on the other side, a whiteboard. On the whiteboard side, there was a ladder. I was supposed to climb the ladder to write on the whiteboard. I am terrified of ladders; I am no good on them, so I chose the chalkboard side. My theory has always been, the bigger they are, the harder they fall, and I am a fat girl.
The students all sat on the side of the room with the whiteboard, opposite of where I was standing. I had my bag of stuff on a chair in the back of the room, and I kept going back to my bag for stuff. I opened my iPad, where I have been keeping notes for class--a tentative plan for each day--and I realized it was Wednesday, and I had yet to take attendance. In real life, I will be teaching on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was then that I noticed one of my professors observing my class. Since I had yet to take attendance, and I couldn't really figure out what the fuck I had planned for the day--my nerves made me forget everything, it seems--and I was worried about being observed and be caught not taking attendance, I made an attendance speech. "I have not taken attendance for the past couple of days because I wanted to wait around until next week until things have settled down. Ya know...people are moving from class to class, and there is just a lot of tumult."
It's then that I decided we should do some sort of activity--since we were being observed and all. I can remember seeing some kind of clustermap--a way of generating ideas for writing--and somehow I was turning it into a group activity. I started to write the instructions on the board and then I turned back to the class. There were only about 11 students left. Where the hell did everybody go, I wondered. This isn't enough people for a group activity!
At this point, since everyone randomly disappeared since I wasn't taking attendance, I decided it was time for the mandatory attendance speech. "I will take attendance everyday. You need to be here on time and ready to work. If you miss more than four classes, you will fail the course. I am not afraid to fail anyone, and I will do it if I have to." There were grumblings from the students and shouts of protest, and all of a sudden, the room was full again. A student stepped up to a microphone in one of the aisles I hadn't noticed before and started to shout at me--I was unfair, I was incompetent.
All of the students were talking. They were talking really, really loud in fact. Everyone that has been to college knows that this is generally not the case for the first week. People sit and are quiet, nervous. And I was trying to talk over them, and it just didn't work. Then, a group of head honchos--presumably the university president and some others came to my class. They walked to the front of the room, and someone I knew was saying to one of the other men while gesturing to me, "Oh, she's great. She's just going to be a great instructor." Then the same man who complimented me looked down at my shoes, "What kind of shoes are you wearing? Those aren't professional shoes. You're wearing Crocs while teaching at a university?"
"No," I said. "These are dress flats, but my feet are so big and wide and I have flat feet, so my feet make my shoes look like crocs."
And magically, it was the end of class. Everyone was gone. It was then I discovered there was a microphone on the podium, since the room was so large. Oh, I thought to myself, they just couldn't hear me. And as I approached the microphone, and messed with the volume, all I could get was feedback.
The next instructor, a new instructor, too, showed up for her class. She was a beautiful black woman with an afro. She was stylishly dressed, and as the clock hit 10:40, she began her class by grabbing a big microphone (one straight out of The Price is Right) from the middle of the stage, one that I had somehow missed while I was teaching. She started her lesson plan, and her students were quiet, and then suddenly she began to sing the lesson and her students started cheering. I thought to myself why didn't I find that microphone?
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Cat Lady Writes a Letter to the Cat Food Company: What Idle Cat Lady Hands Do With Their Idle Time
While I am waiting for school to start and am spending most days when I am not at work preparing for the class I am teaching this upcoming semester, I periodically go to the store to buy groceries. Today, I bought some beets to bake, some La Croix, a bottle of beer, some Krab Salad, Wheat Thins, wet cat food, a gay pride-themed poof for my body wash (it was the cheapest one they had) and a donut. I stuffed everything into my canvas Kiss bag, as I realized I was wearing my Kiss Destroyer shirt, something I vowed I would never let happen in public--be seen with the bag and the shirt together. One by themselves is kind of ironic and amusing, two together verges on weird.
I got home, unpacked the big box of canned cat food I opted for finally--the variety pack! Usually I like to pick out my own cans of cat food, envisioning what it must be like to be my cats, savoring each Salmon and Cheese Savory Shred bite, or Flaked Tuna in Sauce. But today, I was practical. At .4 cents cheaper a can, I opted for the box--those cats can get used to the 3 flavors in here and like it!
I opened the box, and as you'll read in the following letter to Purina, this is what I discovered:
Dear Purina,
Usually I buy the single 5.5 oz cans of Friskies for my cat so they can have variety, but today I bought a 24-can pack with Mixed Grill, Ocean Whitefish and Tuna, and Turkey and Giblets. There are 16 cans of Turkey and Giblets and 8 cans of Mixed Grill; there are no Ocean Whitefish and Tuna in the pack at all. I won't ever be buying the packs again, because I hate being lied to. I am sure my cats are going to appreciate the 16 cans of Turkey and Giblets; it's not even Thanksgiving! BORING! It's called a variety pack for a reason!
I'm waiting for a response. I particularly hope they pay attention to the Thanksgiving part: the only thing giblets are good for is stuffing a raw turkey's ass and pulling them out of a nasty sack for making gravy.
I got home, unpacked the big box of canned cat food I opted for finally--the variety pack! Usually I like to pick out my own cans of cat food, envisioning what it must be like to be my cats, savoring each Salmon and Cheese Savory Shred bite, or Flaked Tuna in Sauce. But today, I was practical. At .4 cents cheaper a can, I opted for the box--those cats can get used to the 3 flavors in here and like it!
I opened the box, and as you'll read in the following letter to Purina, this is what I discovered:
Dear Purina,
Usually I buy the single 5.5 oz cans of Friskies for my cat so they can have variety, but today I bought a 24-can pack with Mixed Grill, Ocean Whitefish and Tuna, and Turkey and Giblets. There are 16 cans of Turkey and Giblets and 8 cans of Mixed Grill; there are no Ocean Whitefish and Tuna in the pack at all. I won't ever be buying the packs again, because I hate being lied to. I am sure my cats are going to appreciate the 16 cans of Turkey and Giblets; it's not even Thanksgiving! BORING! It's called a variety pack for a reason!
I'm waiting for a response. I particularly hope they pay attention to the Thanksgiving part: the only thing giblets are good for is stuffing a raw turkey's ass and pulling them out of a nasty sack for making gravy.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Nerdy Birdy, Look Who's Turning Thirty
There is nothing more depressing than reading the New York Times Weddings/Celebrations section close to a month before your thirtieth birthday. The Weddings/Celebrations section is full of presumably the elite in and around the New York area that are getting married--the ones who can either afford to announce their marriages or whose elite parents advertise for the engaged.
Here's an example of one: "Dr. Ezekiel Shields and his wife Myrna are proud to announce the marriage of their daughter Sarah Shields to Brad Goldberg. Brad and Sarah met while attending law school at Cornell. Brad was birthed from the womb playing classical piano, and Sarah the same. After they met, both found they shared an interested in Russian literature at the age of 3."
Okay, so I made that up, but that's how I feel when I read the announcements. And the pictures always kill me. The engagement photos of these people make them look so old. I don't mean wrinkly, but like distinguished. Though the couples average in age from 25-30, they looks so well put together--like they take their clothes to the cleaner and have facials and professional expensive dye jobs or makeup artists--all while I rinsed my hair this morning, halfway blowdryed it, and sprayed some TreSemme in it because I was in too much of a hurry to do anything else.
I haven't thought much about turning thirty until today. I used to think about it. After I re-enrolled in college and found out I would graduate in 2010, I laughed. I never thought 2010 would come, and I never thought 30 would, either. I think I had more of a problem with turning 25 because at 25, you're expected to quit fucking off and decide what it is you want to do with your life. And it is looking at these people in the New York Times and comparing myself to others in my age group that makes me nervous.
Lady Gaga--born in 1986, she just turned 25. She still gets to fuck off and drink a lot and wear meat suits, but she is easily now a millionaire (billionaire) and shits gold records. I will never shit gold records, though I will eat plenty of meat and never wear it.
Jessica McClure--better known as"Baby Jessica" born two days before Lady Gaga, just turned 25. While her claim to fame was falling in a well, and the media attention and multiple surgeries she had to endure were horrendous, she just cashed in on a trust fund set up by "well-wishers" in the eighties which contains $800,000. She is also married and has two kids.
Tiffany Brissette--better known as V.I.C.I. the robot in A Small Wonder is 36 years old. She's a nurse. And she was once a child-actor and a robot. How can I compare with a robot?
Erin Smith--totally not her real name, but a girl I was in G.A.T.E. (gifted and talented education) with in elementary school. She got a big set of fake boobs--what's that cost? $5,000 dollars? Seems like an accomplishment to me.
Alisa Baxter--her maiden name. Another girl I went to school with. She is now a neurosurgeon. In the tenth grade, do you know what her dream was? To be a neurosurgeon. How the hell do people know that at 16? Did Alisa know her boob would fall out of her dress at the high school prom? Probably not. Did she want it to? Probably not. Did she assume I would remember it for the rest of my life? No, but I did.
So, I guess what I am trying to say is, I don't know what I want to be, yet. I know I am going to graduate school, and I know that is an accomplishment, but it took me a long time to get here. I did a lot of screwing around in my 20's, and it was a time of tumult (some self-inflicted, most not.) I just don't feel like I'm an adult yet. I don't take my clothes to the cleaner; in fact, I don't even buy clothes that have to be taken to a cleaner, especially since my gay friend that did my ironing moved away--no lie. Most of my friends have kids and spouses and dogs and houses and things to take care of. I'm lucky that I remember to feed my cat (I remember when he meows at me) and water my plant (I remember when it is sagging down the sides of the planter).
I wonder this: will thirty make me feel and look like more of an adult? I doubt it. Will I keep fooling people? I hope so. Will I come to love vacuuming? Never.
Here's an example of one: "Dr. Ezekiel Shields and his wife Myrna are proud to announce the marriage of their daughter Sarah Shields to Brad Goldberg. Brad and Sarah met while attending law school at Cornell. Brad was birthed from the womb playing classical piano, and Sarah the same. After they met, both found they shared an interested in Russian literature at the age of 3."
Okay, so I made that up, but that's how I feel when I read the announcements. And the pictures always kill me. The engagement photos of these people make them look so old. I don't mean wrinkly, but like distinguished. Though the couples average in age from 25-30, they looks so well put together--like they take their clothes to the cleaner and have facials and professional expensive dye jobs or makeup artists--all while I rinsed my hair this morning, halfway blowdryed it, and sprayed some TreSemme in it because I was in too much of a hurry to do anything else.
I haven't thought much about turning thirty until today. I used to think about it. After I re-enrolled in college and found out I would graduate in 2010, I laughed. I never thought 2010 would come, and I never thought 30 would, either. I think I had more of a problem with turning 25 because at 25, you're expected to quit fucking off and decide what it is you want to do with your life. And it is looking at these people in the New York Times and comparing myself to others in my age group that makes me nervous.
Lady Gaga--born in 1986, she just turned 25. She still gets to fuck off and drink a lot and wear meat suits, but she is easily now a millionaire (billionaire) and shits gold records. I will never shit gold records, though I will eat plenty of meat and never wear it.
Jessica McClure--better known as"Baby Jessica" born two days before Lady Gaga, just turned 25. While her claim to fame was falling in a well, and the media attention and multiple surgeries she had to endure were horrendous, she just cashed in on a trust fund set up by "well-wishers" in the eighties which contains $800,000. She is also married and has two kids.
Tiffany Brissette--better known as V.I.C.I. the robot in A Small Wonder is 36 years old. She's a nurse. And she was once a child-actor and a robot. How can I compare with a robot?
Erin Smith--totally not her real name, but a girl I was in G.A.T.E. (gifted and talented education) with in elementary school. She got a big set of fake boobs--what's that cost? $5,000 dollars? Seems like an accomplishment to me.
Alisa Baxter--her maiden name. Another girl I went to school with. She is now a neurosurgeon. In the tenth grade, do you know what her dream was? To be a neurosurgeon. How the hell do people know that at 16? Did Alisa know her boob would fall out of her dress at the high school prom? Probably not. Did she want it to? Probably not. Did she assume I would remember it for the rest of my life? No, but I did.
So, I guess what I am trying to say is, I don't know what I want to be, yet. I know I am going to graduate school, and I know that is an accomplishment, but it took me a long time to get here. I did a lot of screwing around in my 20's, and it was a time of tumult (some self-inflicted, most not.) I just don't feel like I'm an adult yet. I don't take my clothes to the cleaner; in fact, I don't even buy clothes that have to be taken to a cleaner, especially since my gay friend that did my ironing moved away--no lie. Most of my friends have kids and spouses and dogs and houses and things to take care of. I'm lucky that I remember to feed my cat (I remember when he meows at me) and water my plant (I remember when it is sagging down the sides of the planter).
I wonder this: will thirty make me feel and look like more of an adult? I doubt it. Will I keep fooling people? I hope so. Will I come to love vacuuming? Never.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Buying Cheap Cock
There is restaurant on a corner near my house. For the longest time while I was in high school, it was a Denny's. It was the crack den of the century. I remember going there after concerts downtown and drinking coffee. I don't actually remember eating there, but it was a place to go and smoke cigarettes and hang out.
After Denny's closed, the building remained empty for a long time. Finally, I noticed through some paper on the windows that someone was building stalactites and stalagmites from the walls on the inside. Then, the restaurant was dubbed The Bedrock Cafe. I went there once, and I ate an omelet that tasted as though it came from Denny's but was served in caveman style.
After The Bedrock Cafe closed, the stalactites and stalagmites just stayed there forever. It must have cost a fortune for such garish decorating, but an evening bigger fortune to tear them down.
The next restaurant to go in the spot was a chinese buffet. I don't remember the name for certain, but I think it was called Chopsticks. I went there twice: once with my mom, and we were both grossed out that the crab rangoon had old crab claws stuffed into the ends of the puffy pastries--though I loved the chocolate fountain that they had very briefly. The second time, I went with my roommate. At the end of our meal--which wasn't very good--we left our money on the table with our bill, and we left. As we were pulling out of the parking lot, a small, Asian woman started beating on the driver's side window of the car--and beating hard for a small, Asian woman--while yelling "YOU NO PAY!" I politely (right) rolled down the window and told her our money was on the table and to get her hands off of my car. I never went back.
So once Chopsticks closed, I wasn't surprised. It's like crack den Denny's is haunting the space, never to let another restaurant survive. So, when I saw Sushi Joy, a new Chinese and Japanese restaurant go in, I was a little shocked because no one has really learned their lesson yet, it seems.
I stopped on my way home from work and ordered some spring rolls, a couple of sushi rolls, and a coke. When I paid, I found that that is not actually what I ordered:
Yes, that's right. I have been caught. I am guilty of buying cock--well, it's cheap! Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same. I pondered telling the girls working there about maybe reprogramming the register, but I couldn't figure out how to say "Hey, this receipt here says I am buying cock, not coke. Cock is a penis. Coke is not a penis. A cock is a dick, a wiener, a prick, a tube steak, a skin flute. A coke is a soft drink, a soda, a pop, a carbonated beverage." I just thought the conversation would turn out awkwardly, so I avoided it all together. But if they keep selling cock for $1.75, this restaurant may just make it.
After Denny's closed, the building remained empty for a long time. Finally, I noticed through some paper on the windows that someone was building stalactites and stalagmites from the walls on the inside. Then, the restaurant was dubbed The Bedrock Cafe. I went there once, and I ate an omelet that tasted as though it came from Denny's but was served in caveman style.
After The Bedrock Cafe closed, the stalactites and stalagmites just stayed there forever. It must have cost a fortune for such garish decorating, but an evening bigger fortune to tear them down.
The next restaurant to go in the spot was a chinese buffet. I don't remember the name for certain, but I think it was called Chopsticks. I went there twice: once with my mom, and we were both grossed out that the crab rangoon had old crab claws stuffed into the ends of the puffy pastries--though I loved the chocolate fountain that they had very briefly. The second time, I went with my roommate. At the end of our meal--which wasn't very good--we left our money on the table with our bill, and we left. As we were pulling out of the parking lot, a small, Asian woman started beating on the driver's side window of the car--and beating hard for a small, Asian woman--while yelling "YOU NO PAY!" I politely (right) rolled down the window and told her our money was on the table and to get her hands off of my car. I never went back.
So once Chopsticks closed, I wasn't surprised. It's like crack den Denny's is haunting the space, never to let another restaurant survive. So, when I saw Sushi Joy, a new Chinese and Japanese restaurant go in, I was a little shocked because no one has really learned their lesson yet, it seems.
I stopped on my way home from work and ordered some spring rolls, a couple of sushi rolls, and a coke. When I paid, I found that that is not actually what I ordered:
Yes, that's right. I have been caught. I am guilty of buying cock--well, it's cheap! Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same. I pondered telling the girls working there about maybe reprogramming the register, but I couldn't figure out how to say "Hey, this receipt here says I am buying cock, not coke. Cock is a penis. Coke is not a penis. A cock is a dick, a wiener, a prick, a tube steak, a skin flute. A coke is a soft drink, a soda, a pop, a carbonated beverage." I just thought the conversation would turn out awkwardly, so I avoided it all together. But if they keep selling cock for $1.75, this restaurant may just make it.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Jesse Better Shut His Pie Hole
Today is my nephew Jake's eighth birthday. For people that have read my blog before, he is the boy who wore an Uncle Sam costume on superhero day at school, and subsequently, while visiting our fireworks stand, decided to go and advertise on the street. Then the sheriff showed up and accused us of child endangerment. Poor us. Poor kid. Nobody told him that though he loved that red, white, and blue top hat, Uncle Sam, although fictional, is not technically a super hero, nor is he probably anyone's favorite about now.
So, for Jake's birthday, he asked me to get him Nancy Drew books. I happily and a little grudgingly agreed. See, I am more than happy to be buying him books for his birthday--books and music is what I always remember wanting for birthdays--but I thought he might want something a little more gender-specific like The Hardy Boys. I have no problem with him wanting to read a book about a girl detective, but I thought his eight-year-old party guests may think differently, and I didn't want to embarrass him--in case Nancy Drew was his little eight-year-old secret passion.
After the party had wound down, and most of the kids had left, I was inspecting some other books he got for his birthday from The Diary of the Wimpy Kid series. I had never seen the books but know they are wildly popular. As I was flipping the pages, I noticed something written in the front cover of the book:
The photo is lacking, for sure, but here is what the inscription reads: "Jesse better shut his pie hole."
I asked my sister "Did Jake write that!?" And my sister replied "Yes." When Jake was walking through the kitchen, he agreed that he knew Jesse, but when we brought up that "Jesse better shut his pie hole" he magically knew nothing and walked off nonchalantly. Later, as he sat at the table alone, I went up and whispered in Jake's ear "Jesse better shut his pie hole," and Jake giggled--he knew, and he had done it.
Now, I'm confident that no kid will make fun of Jake for reading Nancy Drew or any other kind of book, and for that, I'm grateful.
Seriously, Jesse, you better shut your pie hole. Happy birthday, Jake.
So, for Jake's birthday, he asked me to get him Nancy Drew books. I happily and a little grudgingly agreed. See, I am more than happy to be buying him books for his birthday--books and music is what I always remember wanting for birthdays--but I thought he might want something a little more gender-specific like The Hardy Boys. I have no problem with him wanting to read a book about a girl detective, but I thought his eight-year-old party guests may think differently, and I didn't want to embarrass him--in case Nancy Drew was his little eight-year-old secret passion.
After the party had wound down, and most of the kids had left, I was inspecting some other books he got for his birthday from The Diary of the Wimpy Kid series. I had never seen the books but know they are wildly popular. As I was flipping the pages, I noticed something written in the front cover of the book:
I asked my sister "Did Jake write that!?" And my sister replied "Yes." When Jake was walking through the kitchen, he agreed that he knew Jesse, but when we brought up that "Jesse better shut his pie hole" he magically knew nothing and walked off nonchalantly. Later, as he sat at the table alone, I went up and whispered in Jake's ear "Jesse better shut his pie hole," and Jake giggled--he knew, and he had done it.
Now, I'm confident that no kid will make fun of Jake for reading Nancy Drew or any other kind of book, and for that, I'm grateful.
Seriously, Jesse, you better shut your pie hole. Happy birthday, Jake.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Library Day
I visited the library today. And I have been visiting the library about twice a week for the past few weeks--hence no blogs as I have been reading as much as I can. I have toyed with writing reviews, but I don't know how much interest people would have in reading them here, so I haven't. Also, for some reason I just can't make myself write a review, which brings me to the idea of my perfect job (other than teaching, of course): reading books. Yes. That would be my job: reading. But I don't think I can get paid for it because after I have read a book, I have no motivation to write a review or talk in depth about the book. I can do a few things after completing a novel: 1.) Smile and nod. 2.) Frown and shake my head. 3.) Cringe in repugnance (see Bret Easton Ellis' Imperial Bedrooms last two pages) 4.) Send a text to a friend recommending the book because I think he/she will like it.
So today, I picked up nine books--hopefully none are cringeworthy with surprise, grotesque endings. On a day like today, when the weather is rainy and snowy, it's amazing how many people pack into the main library in Boise. The tables were mostly all occupied by homeless people trying to get out of the cold. I spent less time than I would have liked there today because the library stunk like wet, dirty, science-fiction people, and because none of the homeless people were reading--not even the newspaper--which made me uncomfortable. They were just sitting there looking depressed. And as I passed by the shelves, every once in a while, a homeless man would glance over and give me a look of judgment--at least that's what it felt like--and it made me start sweating a lot, so I got out of there as quickly as I could.
So today, I picked up nine books--hopefully none are cringeworthy with surprise, grotesque endings. On a day like today, when the weather is rainy and snowy, it's amazing how many people pack into the main library in Boise. The tables were mostly all occupied by homeless people trying to get out of the cold. I spent less time than I would have liked there today because the library stunk like wet, dirty, science-fiction people, and because none of the homeless people were reading--not even the newspaper--which made me uncomfortable. They were just sitting there looking depressed. And as I passed by the shelves, every once in a while, a homeless man would glance over and give me a look of judgment--at least that's what it felt like--and it made me start sweating a lot, so I got out of there as quickly as I could.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Books, books, books!
The last two weekends, I feel as though I am settling into graduated life. As my friend Claire told me, "Don't be so hard on yourself." I am sure that a lot of people have said this to me over the past almost two months, but for some reason, it sunk in when she said it. I have been working on a writing project for a couple of weeks, but I haven't written much since last week. While I normally would be upset with myself, I have been reveling in reading what I want to.
Ever since I finished Aimee Bender's The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake in September, I have been having a hard time finding writing that will keep my attention. I have recently become a fan of fiction again, but fiction that sometimes I might be embarrassed to admitting, though who I am I trying to impress, really?
After much hesitation, I started and finished Brady Udall's The Lonely Polygamist. I have never met Udall, though he teaches at BSU, where I got my degree. I have always heard mixed reviews of his teaching--and his ratemyprofessor rating seems to paint him as a less-than-desirable-instructor, but man can that guy write. Last May, while on a trip to the coast, I found Udall's The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint on sale at Powell's books. There was a huge stack of the paperbacks, being sold at a the discounted rate of $4.00. I took pity on them, as I often do, because the author was from my hometown. If there are so many, I thought to myself, then they must really be bad. Maybe they expected to sell more, but people saw this for the tripe it was. I picked up the book anyway and was immediately enthralled. I felt almost the same about The Lonely Polygamist. It's a complicated story about a polygamist family--four wives, one husband, 28 children--and the entangled web they create and live. I read the 599 pages in two days and was only disgusted by one part near the end (which I won't ruin in case you are going to read it) where a twelve-year-old boy ejaculates on himself. I brought the ejaculation seen up last night during dinner at a nice restaurant with my family while sitting next to my mom. Now I am not quite so confused as to why my mom shouts my name as though I am a teenager in trouble though I am an adult, and I am not confused about why people usually look disgustedly at my family while we eat. I used to just think it was because people thought we were pigs dressed like slobs, but it turns out it's the talk of ejaculation, dick jokes, and yeast infection table talk that drives people to other tables.
Last week I ordered The Truth of the Matter, The Best American Essays, 2010, and The Best American Non-required Reading, 2010.
I ordered The Truth of the Matter at the urging of a friend who said it might jumpstart my writing and give me some new ideas. It has started to, though I have set it aside for a bit to indulge in some pleasure reading instead of craft reading.
Then I have The Best American Essays, 2010, of which I still have to start sitting on the nightstand. I rarely read the Best American Series from cover-to-cover because there are usually a few essays that don't pique my interest. And long ago I found that if I a book was not interesting me, it was okay to put it down. I suffered through many a bad book until I realized there were a lot of things I would rather be reading.
The Best American Non-required Reading, 2010, contains two pieces, "War Dances" by Sherman Alexie--which I think is nonfiction--from his book War Dances and "Fed to the Streets" by Courtney Moreno which I think are great. "War Dances" is about the narrator's--maybe Alexie's--battle with a meningioma on his brain. "Fed to the Streets" is about Morenos' work as an EMT in Los Angeles, and I found it interesting that she had a moment where all of her training, which she excelled at in school sort of escaped her when she found herself on-the-scene with real patients. I have a friend that was once an EMT, and one of his biggest complaints is that he got so nervous when he actually ended up being with patients that he wasn't sure how to react and felt like he was faking it. It was good to read that his experience was normal for most EMTs, though it seemed Moreno got over hers and quickly ended up in burnout phase.
After reading The Lonely Polygamist, I have found that I am longing for novels with flawed and complicated characters while finding page turners that make my free time fly by. So, yesterday, I visited the library.
I checked out The Finishing School by Muriel Spark which I started last night and finished this morning. It was pretty good, though very odd.
Next on the list is Ann Packer's The Songs Without Words, and it seems like a total chick book, and I am okay with that so far. And then, Joyce Carol Oates' We Were the Mulvaneys which was on the Oprah Book Club list. Something we'll only see how I do with.
I feel bad about not writing more on my writing project (which is obviously very secretive), but I also know that part of being a good writer is reading a lot, something I am trying to do.
If you have any suggestions for me, leave them here now, and I will check them out.
Ever since I finished Aimee Bender's The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake in September, I have been having a hard time finding writing that will keep my attention. I have recently become a fan of fiction again, but fiction that sometimes I might be embarrassed to admitting, though who I am I trying to impress, really?
After much hesitation, I started and finished Brady Udall's The Lonely Polygamist. I have never met Udall, though he teaches at BSU, where I got my degree. I have always heard mixed reviews of his teaching--and his ratemyprofessor rating seems to paint him as a less-than-desirable-instructor, but man can that guy write. Last May, while on a trip to the coast, I found Udall's The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint on sale at Powell's books. There was a huge stack of the paperbacks, being sold at a the discounted rate of $4.00. I took pity on them, as I often do, because the author was from my hometown. If there are so many, I thought to myself, then they must really be bad. Maybe they expected to sell more, but people saw this for the tripe it was. I picked up the book anyway and was immediately enthralled. I felt almost the same about The Lonely Polygamist. It's a complicated story about a polygamist family--four wives, one husband, 28 children--and the entangled web they create and live. I read the 599 pages in two days and was only disgusted by one part near the end (which I won't ruin in case you are going to read it) where a twelve-year-old boy ejaculates on himself. I brought the ejaculation seen up last night during dinner at a nice restaurant with my family while sitting next to my mom. Now I am not quite so confused as to why my mom shouts my name as though I am a teenager in trouble though I am an adult, and I am not confused about why people usually look disgustedly at my family while we eat. I used to just think it was because people thought we were pigs dressed like slobs, but it turns out it's the talk of ejaculation, dick jokes, and yeast infection table talk that drives people to other tables.
Last week I ordered The Truth of the Matter, The Best American Essays, 2010, and The Best American Non-required Reading, 2010.
I ordered The Truth of the Matter at the urging of a friend who said it might jumpstart my writing and give me some new ideas. It has started to, though I have set it aside for a bit to indulge in some pleasure reading instead of craft reading.
Then I have The Best American Essays, 2010, of which I still have to start sitting on the nightstand. I rarely read the Best American Series from cover-to-cover because there are usually a few essays that don't pique my interest. And long ago I found that if I a book was not interesting me, it was okay to put it down. I suffered through many a bad book until I realized there were a lot of things I would rather be reading.
The Best American Non-required Reading, 2010, contains two pieces, "War Dances" by Sherman Alexie--which I think is nonfiction--from his book War Dances and "Fed to the Streets" by Courtney Moreno which I think are great. "War Dances" is about the narrator's--maybe Alexie's--battle with a meningioma on his brain. "Fed to the Streets" is about Morenos' work as an EMT in Los Angeles, and I found it interesting that she had a moment where all of her training, which she excelled at in school sort of escaped her when she found herself on-the-scene with real patients. I have a friend that was once an EMT, and one of his biggest complaints is that he got so nervous when he actually ended up being with patients that he wasn't sure how to react and felt like he was faking it. It was good to read that his experience was normal for most EMTs, though it seemed Moreno got over hers and quickly ended up in burnout phase.
After reading The Lonely Polygamist, I have found that I am longing for novels with flawed and complicated characters while finding page turners that make my free time fly by. So, yesterday, I visited the library.
I checked out The Finishing School by Muriel Spark which I started last night and finished this morning. It was pretty good, though very odd.
Next on the list is Ann Packer's The Songs Without Words, and it seems like a total chick book, and I am okay with that so far. And then, Joyce Carol Oates' We Were the Mulvaneys which was on the Oprah Book Club list. Something we'll only see how I do with.
I feel bad about not writing more on my writing project (which is obviously very secretive), but I also know that part of being a good writer is reading a lot, something I am trying to do.
If you have any suggestions for me, leave them here now, and I will check them out.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
One Month and Ten Days
It has been one month and ten days since I graduated. I feel disappointed. As I think every naive graduate has done, I came out of college swinging--thinking I was going to take the world by storm. Here is a list of the things I have done since I have been out of school:
1.) Spied on the neighbor throwing his dog's poop in my trash can.
2.) Finished 0 new essays.
3.) Drank lots of coffee.
4.) Sent a proposal to Bust Magazine.
5.) Eaten a lot of Lamb Grinders from Bar Gernika and drank a lot of Red Seal to go along with them.
6.) Made a list of goals on how to become a popular writer and make money writing.
7.) Worked
8.) Watched almost two seasons of Intervention (though I don't watch the full episodes, just the messed up parts.)
9.) Finished a couple of books.
10.) Read the book Your Stupid, Stupid Decision to Go to Grad School and laughed and gave myself an ulcer from worry.
11.) Made a list of three ideas of essays I should write.
12.) Moped and cried because I am not taking the world by storm.
13.) While moping and feeling worthless, I decided I should revamp my cafe on Zynga's CafeWorld on Facebook. I am humiliated each day because while I know I should be writing, I am busy cooking White Radish Cake and serving Triple Berry Cheesecake, all the while wishing the cheesecake was real so I could do some emotional eating and wondering how much I would be made fun of by friends who knew I had started to play the game again.
Someone gave me a peptalk the other day about how most people think they will take the world by storm when they get out of college--I'm not an exception--and most don't. I responded by crying and saying "But I WAAAAAANNNTTT tooooooo."
The problem is, in order to make it as a writer, you must write. And in order to write, you must sit down, ass in chair (as that Ballenger voice says in my head) and WRITE! But how do you write when you don't feel motivated and you feel like your life is in limbo while waiting to see if you're accepted to graduate school? And how do you write when you wake up one day and realize you've become a sniveling, entitled, whining sad-sack about it all. And then you see something so discouraging to your psyche that you think antidepressants may be in order.
Today, I woke to find that one of my classmates is writing for a local paper. And while I am happy one of us is doing something, I am also disheartened because this girl is also the one that in class when someone told her she had a lot of run-on sentences (this was an upper-division English class), she said she had no idea what that meant. And she also said she had no idea what a complete sentence was. If she knew what a complete sentence was, then I would be happier. And if I knew she really wanted to be a writer, I would be happier. But in class, she said something about how she didn't think the English degree was for her, and she had decided to go into nursing. But somehow, even though writing isn't her "thing," she still got a job writing. It makes me sound like a bitch, and I am, and I don't care. But it also baffles me. Maybe she got it because she tried, but I feel sort of defeated that someone like that, who can't write a complete sentence, made it in a small way. I don't want to write hard news; I want to be funny and be a bitch and gross people out and make them laugh until they piss themselves. And maybe she put in the hard work, and in the month since we graduated, learned what a complete sentence is, so I should be happy for her. And maybe I should stick my neck out there more because no one knows I exist behind this computer, sporting unwashed hair, going braless, wearing grubby pajamas and drinking coffee while stroking my cat. If I take a shower, maybe then I can take a little bit of the world by storm.
1.) Spied on the neighbor throwing his dog's poop in my trash can.
2.) Finished 0 new essays.
3.) Drank lots of coffee.
4.) Sent a proposal to Bust Magazine.
5.) Eaten a lot of Lamb Grinders from Bar Gernika and drank a lot of Red Seal to go along with them.
6.) Made a list of goals on how to become a popular writer and make money writing.
7.) Worked
8.) Watched almost two seasons of Intervention (though I don't watch the full episodes, just the messed up parts.)
9.) Finished a couple of books.
10.) Read the book Your Stupid, Stupid Decision to Go to Grad School and laughed and gave myself an ulcer from worry.
11.) Made a list of three ideas of essays I should write.
12.) Moped and cried because I am not taking the world by storm.
13.) While moping and feeling worthless, I decided I should revamp my cafe on Zynga's CafeWorld on Facebook. I am humiliated each day because while I know I should be writing, I am busy cooking White Radish Cake and serving Triple Berry Cheesecake, all the while wishing the cheesecake was real so I could do some emotional eating and wondering how much I would be made fun of by friends who knew I had started to play the game again.
Someone gave me a peptalk the other day about how most people think they will take the world by storm when they get out of college--I'm not an exception--and most don't. I responded by crying and saying "But I WAAAAAANNNTTT tooooooo."
The problem is, in order to make it as a writer, you must write. And in order to write, you must sit down, ass in chair (as that Ballenger voice says in my head) and WRITE! But how do you write when you don't feel motivated and you feel like your life is in limbo while waiting to see if you're accepted to graduate school? And how do you write when you wake up one day and realize you've become a sniveling, entitled, whining sad-sack about it all. And then you see something so discouraging to your psyche that you think antidepressants may be in order.
Today, I woke to find that one of my classmates is writing for a local paper. And while I am happy one of us is doing something, I am also disheartened because this girl is also the one that in class when someone told her she had a lot of run-on sentences (this was an upper-division English class), she said she had no idea what that meant. And she also said she had no idea what a complete sentence was. If she knew what a complete sentence was, then I would be happier. And if I knew she really wanted to be a writer, I would be happier. But in class, she said something about how she didn't think the English degree was for her, and she had decided to go into nursing. But somehow, even though writing isn't her "thing," she still got a job writing. It makes me sound like a bitch, and I am, and I don't care. But it also baffles me. Maybe she got it because she tried, but I feel sort of defeated that someone like that, who can't write a complete sentence, made it in a small way. I don't want to write hard news; I want to be funny and be a bitch and gross people out and make them laugh until they piss themselves. And maybe she put in the hard work, and in the month since we graduated, learned what a complete sentence is, so I should be happy for her. And maybe I should stick my neck out there more because no one knows I exist behind this computer, sporting unwashed hair, going braless, wearing grubby pajamas and drinking coffee while stroking my cat. If I take a shower, maybe then I can take a little bit of the world by storm.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Flea Market
My sister sets up a booth at the flea market every once in a while, and today, she convinced me to come visit. As soon as I walked through the gates of the Expo Building of the fairgrounds, I was reminded why I hate the flea market and love it all at the same time. The people always trip me out at flea markets. Usually the flea market is paired with a gun show, and today there was fishing show, too, so there was a good mix of old people, men in camouflage, smokers, and people with physical ailments--mainly missing legs, missing hands, and missing eyes.
I didn't stay very long, as I had other plans, but I stayed long enough to find this:
It is a black and white print of a portrait of Franklin Roosevelt by Elizabeth Shoumatoff, which originally was unfinished because as Roosevelt sat for the painting on April 12, 1945 at Warm Springs, GA, he suffered a cerebral hemorrhage that killed him. I have yet to figure out if this is an original print--it has an original stamp from the Warm Springs Memorial Commission from The Little White House in Warm Springs, GA, and it looks really old, but I am not an expert. I found one almost exactly like mine in an auction, appraised at 200-300 dollars, which is good for the $5.75 I borrowed from my sister to buy it.
In my adult years, I have developed a penchant for presidential memorabilia, but I am particularly fond of Franklin Roosevelt. He was a good president, and I think in our troubled times, we can learn from him. He had a tumultuous personal life, but he was one of few presidents that people truly respected--he was on his fourth term when he died--and he never claimed to have all the answers; however, he asked for the peoples' patience while he and Congress tried to implement measures to make the country a better place. I found his Fireside Chats available for the Kindle. I'm sure I'll write more about them once I start reading them.
I didn't stay very long, as I had other plans, but I stayed long enough to find this:
It is a black and white print of a portrait of Franklin Roosevelt by Elizabeth Shoumatoff, which originally was unfinished because as Roosevelt sat for the painting on April 12, 1945 at Warm Springs, GA, he suffered a cerebral hemorrhage that killed him. I have yet to figure out if this is an original print--it has an original stamp from the Warm Springs Memorial Commission from The Little White House in Warm Springs, GA, and it looks really old, but I am not an expert. I found one almost exactly like mine in an auction, appraised at 200-300 dollars, which is good for the $5.75 I borrowed from my sister to buy it.
In my adult years, I have developed a penchant for presidential memorabilia, but I am particularly fond of Franklin Roosevelt. He was a good president, and I think in our troubled times, we can learn from him. He had a tumultuous personal life, but he was one of few presidents that people truly respected--he was on his fourth term when he died--and he never claimed to have all the answers; however, he asked for the peoples' patience while he and Congress tried to implement measures to make the country a better place. I found his Fireside Chats available for the Kindle. I'm sure I'll write more about them once I start reading them.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
BSU: the "green" (see cheap) school
I got an email today from BSU about how I wasn't going to receive a Dean's List certificate in the mail, even though I was on the Dean's List. The reason: the college is "going green." I call bullshit. And while it might not be a big deal to most, I have been giving the certificates to my mom or my grandma, and seeing my name makes them excited and keeps them living (well at least in my grandma's case--well not really). So, it's not like the paper ends up in the trash, and it's not like the paper they print them on wasn't already made. They aren't cutting down a special tree to make the certificates--yes, I know, faulty logic; if we keep thinking this way then the Earth will be an even bigger fiery inferno, but you know what? This stupid piece of paper is important to me. I don't need it to stroke my ego, but I like the feeling I get when it comes in the mail and I like the smile on my mom's face when she sees it--a look of a job well done in raising me. At any rate, I think the college is cheap, and wanting my damned piece of paper isn't whiny or snotty; after that last semester, I deserve it. So, as I am wont to do, I wrote a complaint. Not attending class has given me time to do stuff like this. I think it is what idle minds do sometimes. The following is the correspondence I received and the correspondence I sent: the names have been taken out to protect the people involved--except for me.
On Thu, Jan 13, 2011 at 2:42 PM, XXX wrote
Dear College of Arts and Sciences student:
Congratulations on your Fall 2010 academic record at Boise State University. I am pleased to recognize your achievement by including you on the College of Arts and Sciences Dean’s List of Students. Boise State University provides the opportunity for individuals to achieve their academic goals, but it is up to you to take advantage of the opportunity. You have done this in an exceptional manner.
We would like to recognize your accomplishments on COAS’s website (http://artsci.boisestate.edu/index.html). Unless we hear otherwise from you, we will post your name and honor distinction on the website. Please note that the semester’s Dean’s list will be posted for the duration of the following semester at such conclusion the following semester’s honors will then be listed.
In the past, the College of Arts and Sciences Dean’s Office has issued certificates to those on the Dean’s List. In part due to the university-wide “go green” program and in part our fellow College’s progressive change, we are no longer mailing paper certificates. Your academic accomplishment of being on the Dean’s list will be noted on your transcripts. Again, congratulations on your achievements and please feel free to contact our office if we can be of further service to you.
Sincerely,
XXX's boss
Here is my letter back.
Dear XXX,
Let me first start by saying that I appreciate your correspondence. Secondly, I would like to recognize that you are only the messenger; however, I have some complaints regarding your correspondence.
While working on my undergraduate degree, I was on the Dean's List six times. This semester I graduated, and therefore this is my last chance to get a Dean's List certificate. While I am sure you wouldn't have known this, I send the certificate to either my mom or my grandma every time I get one. My grandma is almost ninety, and she is not in good health. This was probably the last time I was going to be able to send her a certificate. In return, she usually sends me fifty dollars in the mail--which to be honest, would be nice right about now because the economy isn't the best and finding a job is hard. So not only do I not get my fifty dollars, my grandma will die broken hearted--don't worry, though; I won't blame you.
I understand that BSU is "going green," and that our college is finally following suit. The "green movement" in our department at this juncture is a little curious since it comes right after Butch Otter's State of the State address in which he proposed numerous budget cuts. But come on, College of Arts and Sciences Dean's Office. Does it really cost that much money to send out some pieces of paper to recognize people that busted their humps--some of whom who are like me that worked nearly full-time and still managed to get a 4.0 while taking 14 credits in their final semesters? The paper the certificate is printed on isn't that great. The last time I got a certificate in the mail, the corner was torn; it's not like they are made out of gold. Postage could be a concern, and I understand that, except I remember the certificates being mailed in non-profit envelopes at a discount.
While I appreciate your offer to post my name on the website, and the consolation that the Dean's list accomplishment will be noted on my transcript (it is no matter what--no matter the "green" state of our university or not), I offer a better suggestion: why doesn't the College of Arts and Sciences Dean's Office provide a PDF version to each student that is on the Dean's List? Your computers are on anyway, and it is a "green" solution. This way, no blood will be on your hands for killing those trees (not even my grandma's because she'll still get a certificate), and instead I will print a certificate myself and kill the tree and use my own energy and ink and resources; thus, you stay green, and I get the one thing I was looking forward to for working so hard this semester.
Sincerely,
Andrea Oyarzabal
On Thu, Jan 13, 2011 at 2:42 PM, XXX wrote
Dear College of Arts and Sciences student:
Congratulations on your Fall 2010 academic record at Boise State University. I am pleased to recognize your achievement by including you on the College of Arts and Sciences Dean’s List of Students. Boise State University provides the opportunity for individuals to achieve their academic goals, but it is up to you to take advantage of the opportunity. You have done this in an exceptional manner.
We would like to recognize your accomplishments on COAS’s website (http://artsci.boisestate.edu/index.html). Unless we hear otherwise from you, we will post your name and honor distinction on the website. Please note that the semester’s Dean’s list will be posted for the duration of the following semester at such conclusion the following semester’s honors will then be listed.
In the past, the College of Arts and Sciences Dean’s Office has issued certificates to those on the Dean’s List. In part due to the university-wide “go green” program and in part our fellow College’s progressive change, we are no longer mailing paper certificates. Your academic accomplishment of being on the Dean’s list will be noted on your transcripts. Again, congratulations on your achievements and please feel free to contact our office if we can be of further service to you.
Sincerely,
XXX's boss
Here is my letter back.
Dear XXX,
Let me first start by saying that I appreciate your correspondence. Secondly, I would like to recognize that you are only the messenger; however, I have some complaints regarding your correspondence.
While working on my undergraduate degree, I was on the Dean's List six times. This semester I graduated, and therefore this is my last chance to get a Dean's List certificate. While I am sure you wouldn't have known this, I send the certificate to either my mom or my grandma every time I get one. My grandma is almost ninety, and she is not in good health. This was probably the last time I was going to be able to send her a certificate. In return, she usually sends me fifty dollars in the mail--which to be honest, would be nice right about now because the economy isn't the best and finding a job is hard. So not only do I not get my fifty dollars, my grandma will die broken hearted--don't worry, though; I won't blame you.
I understand that BSU is "going green," and that our college is finally following suit. The "green movement" in our department at this juncture is a little curious since it comes right after Butch Otter's State of the State address in which he proposed numerous budget cuts. But come on, College of Arts and Sciences Dean's Office. Does it really cost that much money to send out some pieces of paper to recognize people that busted their humps--some of whom who are like me that worked nearly full-time and still managed to get a 4.0 while taking 14 credits in their final semesters? The paper the certificate is printed on isn't that great. The last time I got a certificate in the mail, the corner was torn; it's not like they are made out of gold. Postage could be a concern, and I understand that, except I remember the certificates being mailed in non-profit envelopes at a discount.
While I appreciate your offer to post my name on the website, and the consolation that the Dean's list accomplishment will be noted on my transcript (it is no matter what--no matter the "green" state of our university or not), I offer a better suggestion: why doesn't the College of Arts and Sciences Dean's Office provide a PDF version to each student that is on the Dean's List? Your computers are on anyway, and it is a "green" solution. This way, no blood will be on your hands for killing those trees (not even my grandma's because she'll still get a certificate), and instead I will print a certificate myself and kill the tree and use my own energy and ink and resources; thus, you stay green, and I get the one thing I was looking forward to for working so hard this semester.
Sincerely,
Andrea Oyarzabal
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
A Trashcan Story
I told this story to my coworkers the other day, and they think I am an obsessive weirdo.
The other day, I was watching my cat in the window, and I noticed my neighbor walk by with his enormously huge Doberman. I mean I could ride this dog and not hurt it, and I am a fat girl. The neighbor and dog were coming from the park, which is across from my house, after a jaunty game of fetch and a pleasant walk, and as the man walked near my alley, I noticed a small, blue bag filed with dog crap, and I mean PACKED with dog crap. And he stopped at our trashcan in the alley, and dropped his sack of crap in our trash can.
There are a few reasons this troubles me: 1.) There are plentiful trashcans at the park where the man could drop off his crap. 2.) The man lives like two houses down, and it wouldn't be hard for him to carry his crap all the way to his OWN trashcan. 3.) Our trashcan smells like shit in the summer--bad. A few times in the summer I usually hose it out and dump Mr. Clean or Lysol or some combo of chemicals that won't kill me when used together into that can, let it fester in the hot sun, and rinse the can out, just to get the crap smell out--which only works for about three days, and then it's back to square one. And the whole time I thought it was just my own cat's litterbox turds that I bundle up really well, usually double bagged.
Today, I am talking to my cat as he sits in the window. Man and huge doberman pass by. I cautiously peer out the back window, and damn that man, he puts his crap in my trashcan! I know a trashcan smells like shit because it is filled with shit. I know that! And I shouldn't be upset, but the trashcan smells like my shit--well not MY shit exactly, but the shit I throw away.
I am tempted to make a sign that has a picture of a pile of turds with a red ring around it and a slash through it indicating "THIS TRASHCAN IS NOT FOR YOUR TURDS, SIR!" I am also tempted to make a sign that says "Please quit putting your dog's poop in our trashcan; it stinks!" But I can't bring myself to do it because maybe I am crazy. Also, the man seems a little unstable to begin with.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Uno, the one-eyed Siamese
When my beloved cat Mr. Smokey died in June of 2008, I got Uno from Simply Cats, a local no-kill, cageless shelter in August of 2008. My other cat, Satan, who has since passed away was lonely, and though I didn't feel ready for another companion, I knew she needed one. The decision was one based on a few things: 1.) I didn't think that anyone else would adopt Uno after I saw his picture because he has only one eye, and people can be cruel and creeped out by things like that. 2.) Smokey had died due to complications from a tumor in his eyeball/brain, and Uno was missing the same eye that Smokey had a tumor in, so I took it as some sort of sign.
At first Satan took an interest in Uno, but her interest quickly turned into a death wish. After reading up on cat homicidal tendencies, I put coins in an empty soda can, taped the hole shut, and each time Satan went in for the kill, I shook the can and gave a firm "No!" The website I had visited indicated something like "The cat must be made to understand when its homicidal tendencies are inappropriate. Do not yell at the cat, but be firm and direct." I felt like a nutcase each time I shook that ginger ale can, but it worked.
Shortly after Uno moved in, things started to go missing. First a sweater of mine disappeared. I thought it had fallen behind the washer and dryer, the dresser, and I even checked my roommate's laundry pile thinking she had accidentally or purposefully absconded with it. I found the sweater under the couch. And after I drug the sweater out and laundered it, it disappeared again. And again, and again, and again. Until, finally, I realized that Uno was stealing it and hiding it under the couch.
I have never written about Uno or his capacity for bringing presents to me in bed because another blogger at http://simonthecatburglar.blogspot.com did a much better job of telling cat stories. Simon from simonthecatburglar was an outdoor cat, so his finds were much more interesting, but he has since passed away. He seemed like a great animal, and as a tribute, and to carry on his memory and share memories of my own cat, here is a short list of things I have found in my bed courtesy of Uno or that he has brought me during inappropriate moments.
-Orange handled garden clippers
-paint roller
-laundry soap measuring cup
-yellow dust rag
-sunflower seed spores in a plastic baggy that my roommate has meant to plant for like 17 years
-pencils
-square pencil eraser my roommate uses while doing the crossword
-my pink slippers
-the dish towel from the sink (this happens on almost a daily basis)
-bic razor my roommate uses to shave with
-bathtub plug
-tampons (unused, but embarrassing considering he brought one to me while I was having a conversation with a guest in the living room--they said something like "Your cat is carrying a tampon." And I replied "Yes, I know." conceding to the fact that I have no control over this beast.)
And while Uno loved embarrassing me constantly, and waking me from my sleep to show my presents, he has never loved any found item as much as "Pink Friend." After I got Uno home from the shelter, he fell in love with a pink feather toy that was on an orange, plastic cord. He carried the toy around from room to room, almost as his surrogate, so I began calling the toy Pink Friend. And as Uno would come around the corner with Pink Friend, the orange cord got stuck on corners and doorways in the house, and would finally give Uno a snap in the behind as it dislodged. Eventually, Uno chewed the cord off, so he only had to contend with the pink and fluffy feather piece. And the toy got disgusting. It was gummed up and looked like a long, pink string with some feathers poking out. When Pink Friend started to wear out, I found a feather toy that resembled Pink Friend, but it was green. Uno would have nothing to do with it. Green friend still lies here, untouched, fluffy, and ungummed up. And no matter how beat up, Uno adored his Pink Friend.
Imagine my horror as a cat mother then, when a few weeks ago, I was vacuuming around the cat tree, and "Sloooooop!" Pink Friend goes down the hose. I considered busting open the bag to dig for Pink Friend, but I couldn't imagine the dust mites now covering it. It seemed Pink Friend met his fate. I thought Uno would be okay, but he hasn't been the same since Pink Friend met his demise, and Uno already distrusts that vacuum cleaner--mom gave him another reason to hate it--it took his friend. And after seeing poor Uno carry around a single feather--which he ripped out of another cat toy--from room to room looking as pathetic as ever, I finally went to the story and came home with the best replica I could find. He seems happy, and I wonder how long it will stay on this cord. I am just going to call Pink Friend II, Pink Friend. I hope he doesn't notice.
 |
| Baby Uno |
Shortly after Uno moved in, things started to go missing. First a sweater of mine disappeared. I thought it had fallen behind the washer and dryer, the dresser, and I even checked my roommate's laundry pile thinking she had accidentally or purposefully absconded with it. I found the sweater under the couch. And after I drug the sweater out and laundered it, it disappeared again. And again, and again, and again. Until, finally, I realized that Uno was stealing it and hiding it under the couch.
I have never written about Uno or his capacity for bringing presents to me in bed because another blogger at http://simonthecatburglar.blogspot.com did a much better job of telling cat stories. Simon from simonthecatburglar was an outdoor cat, so his finds were much more interesting, but he has since passed away. He seemed like a great animal, and as a tribute, and to carry on his memory and share memories of my own cat, here is a short list of things I have found in my bed courtesy of Uno or that he has brought me during inappropriate moments.
-Orange handled garden clippers
-paint roller
-laundry soap measuring cup
-yellow dust rag
-sunflower seed spores in a plastic baggy that my roommate has meant to plant for like 17 years
-pencils
-square pencil eraser my roommate uses while doing the crossword
-my pink slippers
-the dish towel from the sink (this happens on almost a daily basis)
-bic razor my roommate uses to shave with
-bathtub plug
-tampons (unused, but embarrassing considering he brought one to me while I was having a conversation with a guest in the living room--they said something like "Your cat is carrying a tampon." And I replied "Yes, I know." conceding to the fact that I have no control over this beast.)
And while Uno loved embarrassing me constantly, and waking me from my sleep to show my presents, he has never loved any found item as much as "Pink Friend." After I got Uno home from the shelter, he fell in love with a pink feather toy that was on an orange, plastic cord. He carried the toy around from room to room, almost as his surrogate, so I began calling the toy Pink Friend. And as Uno would come around the corner with Pink Friend, the orange cord got stuck on corners and doorways in the house, and would finally give Uno a snap in the behind as it dislodged. Eventually, Uno chewed the cord off, so he only had to contend with the pink and fluffy feather piece. And the toy got disgusting. It was gummed up and looked like a long, pink string with some feathers poking out. When Pink Friend started to wear out, I found a feather toy that resembled Pink Friend, but it was green. Uno would have nothing to do with it. Green friend still lies here, untouched, fluffy, and ungummed up. And no matter how beat up, Uno adored his Pink Friend.
Imagine my horror as a cat mother then, when a few weeks ago, I was vacuuming around the cat tree, and "Sloooooop!" Pink Friend goes down the hose. I considered busting open the bag to dig for Pink Friend, but I couldn't imagine the dust mites now covering it. It seemed Pink Friend met his fate. I thought Uno would be okay, but he hasn't been the same since Pink Friend met his demise, and Uno already distrusts that vacuum cleaner--mom gave him another reason to hate it--it took his friend. And after seeing poor Uno carry around a single feather--which he ripped out of another cat toy--from room to room looking as pathetic as ever, I finally went to the story and came home with the best replica I could find. He seems happy, and I wonder how long it will stay on this cord. I am just going to call Pink Friend II, Pink Friend. I hope he doesn't notice.
 |
| Uno and Pink Friend II |
Friday, January 7, 2011
Name in Print
Today, for the first time, I saw my name in print. Well, it's not the first time because I have written for various school newspapers, but it is the first time I have seen my name in a book--like with a binding and pages and numbers on the pages. I worked with Dr. Bruce Ballenger, my professor and mentor, this summer on his book Crafting Truth: Short Studies in Creative Nonfiction. I contributed an essay-in-progress (that started out in blog form here) called "Math, Metamorphosis, and Monarchs" about my time as a child in math class, how I was horrible at it and deemed smart at everything else, what it means to be categorized in the extremes of society, and the exploration of my loathing for my third grade teacher that has lived 20+ years in my gut. To balance the extreme, I talk about a woman, my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Sutherland who was a kind, eccentric woman that was loved by many. It feels weird to be in print--unreal almost--and it feels incredibly great to see my name on those pages.
And while to some it may not seem super important to be included in someone else's book and not my own, it is an honor to be included in someone's book that you greatly admire who sees potential in you, and that is why Bruce became my mentor, though I didn't ask for his permission to call him that (are you supposed to ask?).
My sister made fun of me when I was calling someone my mentor--that's what she does--and she asked me what it even means to be someone's mentor and how you go about getting one. So, I will share how I ended up with a mentor, whether he likes it or not (the mentoring, not the explaining).
After a really horrible start at college at 18 years old--there were numerous family and person issues that were making committing to college impossible for me because I was an emotional wreck--I returned to Boise State at 24 years old, almost 25. After jumping through 3,666 fiery hoops to get back in after flunking out my first semester six almost seven years prior. I was assigned an advisor who was unhelpful and rude and self-important. I took one writing class that I hated--I swore the woman that taught us was going to make us explore our own genitals with hand mirrors in class--and asked my advisor if I could get permission to take a class from Bruce (I had taken the class he taught once already, but in our department we were allowed to take certain writing classes twice for credit), and my advisor told me I needed to start working on my lit classes, which made no sense to me because I was an English major with a writing emphasis.
So, as I am wont to do, I took matters into my own hands. I emailed Bruce and asked if I could meet him to discuss having him sign me into the class. I went to his office, lined with bookshelves, and books, and a weird bodyless leg which I have never asked about, and sat at the round table in his office, across from his desk, while he took the other seat at the table. I then talked incessantly. I mean nonstop. I am assuming I overshared (which for me usually entails giving too much embarrassing info) because that is what I do when I am nervous. And in the next moment, he changed my college career. He didn't offer me a spot in his class; he offered me an independent study, an opportunity to work more closely with him on an individual basis. It was the end of April or beginning of May, and he decided to give me a summer reading list to prepare, and as he suggested books, we had a problem: I had already read them all. So, he sent me a list later, and I devoured the books over the summer.
Before I met him that spring day, I had thought about quitting BSU again. The professors weren't particularly helpful, and I didn't feel like I was actually gaining anything from being there. I thought that college just wasn't the place for me and that I had been fooling myself my whole life. But after being offered the independent study, I felt like my academic career took on a new life, and I finally felt confident with my choice to pursue writing. I still don't know why he offered the independent study; I was a complete stranger to him, and for all he knew, it could have turned out to be a horrible experience for us both.
So that is how I came to graduate, be published in a book, and seek graduate school. While I have had a lot of support along the way, Bruce was my champion, though he is way too humble to take the praise.
And seeing myself in print this week wasn't the only great feeling of accomplishment I have had. The essay that appears in the book has been revised extensively, and I recently gave a copy to my boss and his wife, Dick and Deana, to read. It turns out that Mrs. Sutherland's daughter still visits their office, and she came in this week. Deana gave her a copy of the essay, and Mrs. Sutherland's daughter asked for an extra to send to her brother. If the piece never gets published in it's finished form anywhere, I will always be happy knowing that Mrs. Sutherland's family received a sort of tribute to her.
And while to some it may not seem super important to be included in someone else's book and not my own, it is an honor to be included in someone's book that you greatly admire who sees potential in you, and that is why Bruce became my mentor, though I didn't ask for his permission to call him that (are you supposed to ask?).
My sister made fun of me when I was calling someone my mentor--that's what she does--and she asked me what it even means to be someone's mentor and how you go about getting one. So, I will share how I ended up with a mentor, whether he likes it or not (the mentoring, not the explaining).
After a really horrible start at college at 18 years old--there were numerous family and person issues that were making committing to college impossible for me because I was an emotional wreck--I returned to Boise State at 24 years old, almost 25. After jumping through 3,666 fiery hoops to get back in after flunking out my first semester six almost seven years prior. I was assigned an advisor who was unhelpful and rude and self-important. I took one writing class that I hated--I swore the woman that taught us was going to make us explore our own genitals with hand mirrors in class--and asked my advisor if I could get permission to take a class from Bruce (I had taken the class he taught once already, but in our department we were allowed to take certain writing classes twice for credit), and my advisor told me I needed to start working on my lit classes, which made no sense to me because I was an English major with a writing emphasis.
So, as I am wont to do, I took matters into my own hands. I emailed Bruce and asked if I could meet him to discuss having him sign me into the class. I went to his office, lined with bookshelves, and books, and a weird bodyless leg which I have never asked about, and sat at the round table in his office, across from his desk, while he took the other seat at the table. I then talked incessantly. I mean nonstop. I am assuming I overshared (which for me usually entails giving too much embarrassing info) because that is what I do when I am nervous. And in the next moment, he changed my college career. He didn't offer me a spot in his class; he offered me an independent study, an opportunity to work more closely with him on an individual basis. It was the end of April or beginning of May, and he decided to give me a summer reading list to prepare, and as he suggested books, we had a problem: I had already read them all. So, he sent me a list later, and I devoured the books over the summer.
Before I met him that spring day, I had thought about quitting BSU again. The professors weren't particularly helpful, and I didn't feel like I was actually gaining anything from being there. I thought that college just wasn't the place for me and that I had been fooling myself my whole life. But after being offered the independent study, I felt like my academic career took on a new life, and I finally felt confident with my choice to pursue writing. I still don't know why he offered the independent study; I was a complete stranger to him, and for all he knew, it could have turned out to be a horrible experience for us both.
So that is how I came to graduate, be published in a book, and seek graduate school. While I have had a lot of support along the way, Bruce was my champion, though he is way too humble to take the praise.
And seeing myself in print this week wasn't the only great feeling of accomplishment I have had. The essay that appears in the book has been revised extensively, and I recently gave a copy to my boss and his wife, Dick and Deana, to read. It turns out that Mrs. Sutherland's daughter still visits their office, and she came in this week. Deana gave her a copy of the essay, and Mrs. Sutherland's daughter asked for an extra to send to her brother. If the piece never gets published in it's finished form anywhere, I will always be happy knowing that Mrs. Sutherland's family received a sort of tribute to her.
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