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.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
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.
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