don't forget to breathe

Life has been stressful lately. I'm going to live in this song for a while.

And all the suffering that you've witnessed
And the hand prints on the wall
They remind you how it's endless
How endlessly you fall


And the answer that you're seeking
For the question that you found
Drives you further to confusion
As you lose your sense of ground


So don't forget to breathe
Don't forget to breathe
Your whole life is here
No eleventh hour reprieve
So don't forget to breathe

Sorry if this bummed you out.

you CAN come home again

They say you can't go home again. And at least physically, that is not true.

Of course you can get in your car/plane/bus/tardis and travel back to where you grew up/where your family is/where you keep most of your stuff. But often times the place that you get to just isn't the same as you remember.  (that is what the saying means, of course, but, like my brother Ryan said last night "I'm just trying to break it down for you guys")

This always strikes me when I come home for winter break, especially this year.

My brother Daniel has taken over my room upon my absence. The only real change to the room is a lightsaber mounted on the wall and an x-box in the corner but it is enough to remind me that it's not my space anymore. 

And that makes me more than a little sad. And it reminds me that I have a future out there to be worrying about.
(but instead I ignore the scary thoughts about next year and the echos of concerned relatives "what are you going to do? what are you going to do? what are you gonna do?" and burrow myself into another knitting project)

The most radical change - the one that takes the most getting used to and always reminds me that I don't really live here anymore - is the refrigerator. 

this is not our fridge. this is a stranger's fridge, which is what I see every time I come home for the holidays

Every time I come home it's completely different, and it serves as a microcosm of the changes within my own house, my own family.  Sure, the cheese is still in the cheese drawer, the vegetables are still sitting (ignored and browning) in the vegetable "crisper" drawer, but the contents and configuration are constantly changing.

Sometimes completely new foods show up that I have never heard of or foods that should never have been bought (called over my shoulder: "Who eats blue cheese stuffed olives???" response from the living room: "Oh they're really good. Try one! Try- just try one. Just. Try it. Fine! Don't ever say I don't introduce you to new things").  Then again, there is still a bottle of sake in there that has been lurking at the back of the fridge for several years now. I'm not sure where we got it. Or why.  But it's still there.

I am almost always completely thrown off by the refrigerator.  I open it, seeking refuge for my gurgling hunger, and stop short as I glance around and remember I have no idea what is in there (or how long it's been in there).  It's just one more thing that's different. 
One more reminder that I don't live here anymore and I better get on with my life, because things are changing without me.

Wow. blogging therapy.

In the end, the refrigerator becomes normal again.
I learn not to eat that thing in the black tupperware that's been there since before I got home, that blue cheese stuffed olives are pretty delicious, after all, and that home will always be home. It's just waiting for me to normalize.

There might be ghosts.

After my first week living in this historic house I wrote a post about how it's haunted, citing mainly the fact that we have a medicine cabinet and none of our lights really work.  I have settled in to the house since then.  I am no longer weary of the tiny door to the attic at the foot of my bed nor the demon stove, which only seems to attack Marca.

I did, however, have a hard time sleeping a few nights ago because I dreamt that there were two children jostling me awake every hour or so to tell me something important.
They might be ghosts.

sometimes, they don't even know they're ghosts.

BUT if they are dream-children, this (according to DreamDictionary) means I am repressing my inner child, because I was mad that they were trying to wake me up.  It could also mean that I need to wake up to my full potential, or something. You know. If you believe in that sort of thing.
(Dream interpretation, that is. Not ghost children.)

It is also possible that they are trying to tell me something. Like "stop eating tomatoes" or "you're going to start having problems with indigestion...oooOooOOoo"  - which is entirely possible because I woke up with chest pain the next morning and was told it might be esophageal spasms. 

Anyway, I named that post "Ghost Adventures: Charleston"  because it was about ghosts, adventures, and being back in Charleston.  But recently that post (and my blog, as a result) got a bit more attention when GHOST ADVENTURES CAME TO CHARLESTON.

just a few honest guys in Ed Hardy t-shirts lookin to tell a story

Yep, they came here, stayed over night in a "haunted" jail a few blocks away from campus (that is now a school for textile arts and historic preservation) and caused a general ruckus.  But unfortunately, I confused a few people with the title of that post, which of course was the second item when you Google searched "ghost adventures Charleston" or "ghost adventures in Charleston" etc.


ALSO, even though I had a HUGE paper due the next day, I knew I couldn't be in the same city with these guys and not try to see them.  I didn't want to tell my grandchildren the story about how I almost met Zak Bagans, but decided it would be more prudent to spend my adventuring time in the library. So I went.

staging a boo hag hanging at the jail. gotta love twit pics.

And there was nothing to see.
A few other fans meandering around the building, a mild greenish glow from a room upstairs, and dashed hopes.  But at least we tried. At least we ventured.  And I got the paper done, don't worry.

Though I am still a bit upset I didn't make a weird noise that could later be analyzed in slow motion and captioned to say "Die Zac" or "Go home" or "Boo hag's gonna get ya."


Tune in for the Charleston episode on Travel Channel on December 16th!

procrastiknitting, meet procrastiblogging.

Things that I am thinking about right now:

1. I don't want to be writing this paper.  

Prompt: If you'd been put in charge of raising you, what would you do the same and what would you do differently? What "risk factors" do you think you could have avoided? 

Seriously. "Tell me how your parents messed you up. Be explicit. Also, be explicit enough to fill 2-3 pages single spaced."
I told my mom about having to write this and all she said to me was "Don't let me read it. I don't want to read it."  Relax, Mom. I'm trying to figure out a way to write this paper but not write this paper.



      2.  ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT IS COMING BACK!!  

I feel like shouting it from the rooftops! Which I could probably do because we have access to the fire escape.
 
      3.  I would rather be using this time to finish knitting my sweater.

I only have the sleeves left to do. Well, and 8" of the right side...but if I play my cards right, I could be finishing that to.night. If I ever write this damn paper.

This is what it's going to look like. (pictures to prove my skill later)

OK, no more procrastiknitting or procrastiblogging.  Time to settle into this awful paper.

Good night.

things I think about in the airport...

I'd like to share a few examples of how my mind occupies itself when its plane is delayed for two hours. I scribbled down a few starts for things to eventually blog and apparently today is "eventually." Here they are.

I have a habit of, every once in a while, looking around and thinking "these are the people."

These are the people I will be trapped in this elevator with.
These are the people who will be left alive with me if everything in the world is destroyed except for this room. Everything  except for this specific bank of seats in the B gates at the LaGuardia airport.
These are the people who might (in a survival situation) look at me and think to themselves "could I eat a human being?" Or, you know, vice versa.
These are the people I will be stranded on a deserted island with (if somehow this plane from New York to Atlanta flies over a deserted island. Or an ocean for that matter).

These are the people.

please don't let me spend my last hours on a MARTA train

I will scan the faces of the people around me, trying to judge their character by the way that they talk or laugh or whether they move their stuff and offer the seat next to them. He's a good guy, I think. But will his kindness make him weak? These are the kind of things you need to know. 
(Additionally, which one of these people is most likely to stab me? The small Asian boy. Watching Power Rangers on his iTouch. Just trying to be a hero.)

So this is who I'm stuck with, I think. I already hate the way that woman cackles at her cell phone. That guy over there didn't even bring a book to an airport. He's clearly not the survival type. That muscly guy on his laptop could be useful... Maybe he's a g-man or an ex-cop. 
So as people around me stress about having to deplane and where Gretchen put her boarding pass ("is it in your bag? It's GOTTA be in your bag cuz it sure as HELL ain't in mine!") I am assembling my team. And deciding who to leave behind if we find an abandoned working vehicle in our now post-apocalyptic landscape. 
...I'm looking at you, cackling cell phone lady.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

mmmm light pollution

As my plane was flying over New York on the way back home, I looked down on the sparkling city below.  I had already been delayed 3 hours and thought I might sleep on the plane until I got distracted by the view outside my cabin window.

Then my sense of geography started to fail me.
If that's New York, and we're on the East Coast...it looks like we're going further East right into the ocean! Or maybe North to Canada??  

This worry (that the pilot had no idea where he was going and I was going to be stranded in Canada for the night) began to creep into my thoughts and disrupt my reading.

"Tobacco,  introduced to London the year after Shakespeare's birth,...  

Oh no what if the flight is actually going to Canada?

...was a luxury at first but soon gained such widespread popularity... 

I got in the right gate. Right? B8. Yeah. I got in the right gate. My ticket was scanned. It made that satisfying "ping" noise that means I am supposed to be on this plane.

...that by the end of the century there were no fewer than seven thousand tobacconists in the City....  

Dad would be so upset if he drove all the way to the airport at midnight and I'm actually in Canada.

...It was employed not only for pleasure but as a treatment for a broad range of complaints... 

no. they won't be upset. They'll be worried, won't they? I'll probably end up crying if I have to call home and say I accidentally ended up in Canada.

...including venereal disease,... 

but NO. I won't cry. I'm an adult. I'm a grown-ass woman. I just went to New York all by myself!

...migraine,...

I'll take care of everything. I can get myself a hotel or something, and email work to explain my absence and book a new flight and - yeah. I'll be fine. 

...and even bad breath." 

Shit, I have to read that whole passage again. Didn't take in a word of it.

(excerpts from Bill Bryson's Shakespeare: The World as Stage)

my, what big plastic tubes you have grandma

The world is a scary place.

San Diego KGTV reports:

A 91-year-old East County grandmother is getting national attention for making suicide kits. The woman started making the kits after watching her husband die a slow, painful death from colon cancer.

Death Bag and tubes

“I’m doing what I can to improve the world,” she told 10News. “There’s a lot of heartache and difficulty here.” Charlotte makes the kits — which cost buyers $60 — by taking large plastic bags and sewing soft elastic bands around the opening. There is a slot in the bag for a plastic tube carrying helium gas to be inserted. Helium — when inhaled in its pure form — is deadly. Kit users are responsible for securing their own helium gas.

“If heaven is so wonderful, you know you’d naturally want to go there, wouldn’t you?” said Charlotte. Charlotte said her sales were nearly $100,000 last year. That’s more than 1,600 suicide kits.

 This scares me for several reasons.

1. My StumbleUpon apparently thinks this is the kind of story I would be interested in. And it was right. Damn.
2. This woman is 91 years old and not retired. Stop working.
3. Her name is Charlotte, so she reminds me of a spider luring people into her suicide web.
4. This is a really scary way to go! Putting a bag over your head? Filling it with helium? Taking your last breaths as you look at the world through the distortion of the hand sewn plastic death bag? Geez.
5.  Also, THE WORLD IS RUNNING OUT OF HELIUM. AND it's non-renewable! So even if you don't disagree with her on ethical grounds, know that she is ruining birthday parties for the rest of us FOREVER.
6. She is not supplying the helium, so people are forced to interrupt their planned suicide night with a trip to Party City. Also, what's to stop people from getting the helium and making their own Death Bags? besides crippling depression.
7. How does she advertise this? We know it's not word of mouth. It's probably through news reports like this: people see the story on the news and call the station asking for her phone number, claiming to be enraged but secretly wondering if they can get same-day delivery. But why would the news station give out her number? This doesn't add up.         

I just can not understand how this woman is so successful. I did hear recently that there have been more suicides than homicides in the United States in recent years, so I suppose there is a demand, but I never thought there would be such high demand for suicide kits. Or that a kindly 91-year-old would decide to fill that need. Although now I am picturing her more like the "old lady" with the demon head from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

All the better to eat you see you with

Also, I don't believe that killing yourself will be rewarded by admittance past the pearly gates. So she's selling a crock.

The world is a scary place.

uber tuber

I don't have much time to say anything. I have too much to pack and I have been uber busy studying for finals and saying goodbye "see ya later" to all my friends at school. Once I get settled back home, I will do a real post. I am sure ten minutes at my house will be enough for a two-parter.

But I saw this again, and it made me smile. Share with me!

courtesy xkcd

Also, if Celtic Woman is my go-to perfect study music, the Space Jam soundtrack is the perfect packing music. And Disney songs. And 80s/90s pop.

Social Guard

I am really hungry but have to write about this first.

I was stumbling around the internet this morning, bumping into some Mean Girls/Harry Potter tumblrs when an ad caught my eye on the side of the page.

It was a fake Facebook post (it said "advertisement" at the top, so people won't get confused and try to "like" it or something) that had a girl saying

Some Girl: Can't wait for tonight! Party at my house and it's going to be aMaZiNg!
Bitchy Girl:  No one wants to go to your loser party!
Some Dude: Sounds great, what is your address please?

And then next to the two posts this X pops up and says BLOCKED or something dramatic. The fake profile melts away to present what the ad is selling: Zone Alarm Social Guard.

This is a program designed to recognize key words and phrases to block cyber bullies and potential stalkers. Bitchy girl was a cyber bully and using the word "loser" flagged her, and that dude is probably a 43 year old because he asked for her address. Right?  They couldn't possibly be being sarcastic or just need her address. While I do fully understand cyber bullying and it's new prevalence and severity, I still don't know if I like the idea of this product.

The website says "SocialGuard scans millions of records using a unique algorithm to determine threats and sends warnings to you the minute they happen, not just once a day like the competition."
This program sends parents alerts at the tiniest sign of trouble. Woah. That's like if you got emailed every time your kid was picked last for softball or ignored at the lunch table. These things happen.
I believe that the answer to bullying is to start at the child; to promote tolerance and compassion and help kids see that they can bond together because this happens to everyone.  This is not always a parent's battle, and although you want to do anything you can to protect your child, I do not believe that being an internet helicopter is going to do any good.

Cyberbullying
Alerts you to alarming words used in private messages, status updates, and wall postings.

Strangers
Alerts you when someone who may be a stranger is trying to interact with your kid on Facebook. 

Age Concerns
Flags friends that are much older than they claim to be; someone who may be pretending to be a kid. 

Dangerous Links
Catches dangerous links sent in private messages, status updates, and wall posts. Prevents viral attacks and data theft. (this thing checks private messages. hm)

Rules for being on the internet:

1. Don't "friend" anyone you do not personally know. Even if you have friends in common. Meet them in person first.
2. If your child is too young to be on Facebook, don't let them on Facebook.
3. I can't think of any more, I'm too hungry.

I am getting all confused in my opinions. This thing really threw me off guard.
I hate bullies, and of course I hate internet predators, but this SocialGuard seems so...
I don't know.

What do you think?

a brief glimpse into the mind of a crazy person

Sorry about the brief hiatus. If anyone noticed. Today is the last day of classes, so of course this past week or so has been hellish.

I have had a few ideas for posts but haven't had the time to write anything that didn't involve the words "independent variable" or "arbitrary matching to sample."  So here are a few mini-posts. Let's call them vignettes.

#1
25 April: 
This weekend was Easter weekend, which unfortunately got overshadowed by the sheer magnitude of work I had to do for Happiness class and Conditioning and Learning. On the brighter side, I was able to spend a good part of Saturday enjoying friends, hot dogs, sunshine and pool floaties.

this is not me. but I DO really want that floating fruit table.

On the redder side, this left most of my upper body sunburnt and angry.  I sat at my computer for hours gulping down ice water to counteract the heat emanating from my body and my overworked computer, to no avail.

When I finally went to sleep, I considered throwing my down blanket on the floor, but decided against it. (Our floor is really gross.) Instead I went to sleep in my sports bra and shorts (let me know if this is too much information).

Soon after closing my eyes, I heard a strange scratching sound coming from my ceiling, right around the overhead light.
...and my imagination ran away with itself....

(WARNING: the following is not factual, but a brief glimpse into the mind of a crazy person)

eeeeeeeeeeeeeewww

I open my eyes and look up to see thousands if not millions of fat angry cockroaches pouring out of the hole where the light used to be, coating the ceiling as they crawl out of their hiding place toward each wall. I see this, and calmly hop out of my bed, potentially spraining my ankle as I land clumsily on the small rug beside my bed.

I don't think to grab anything as I race to the door, calling to Marca who is finishing watching Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (it is Easter, after all). I slam the door shut behind me and try to coax her off the couch and downstairs where it is safe. She doesn't believe me at first, until the hoard begins crawling from under the door and oozing across the floor.
We bolt down the stairs and outside, where it is safe.

Who do we call? What do we do? Can I ever touch my stuff again?

As things calm down, I realize I am outside wearing just shorts and a sports bra.
And I realize, I am OK with it.

And that is the moral of the story.

Welcome to my brain.


#2

from right: Tory Belleci, Kari Byron, and Grant "Third Wheel" Imahara

Jake and I were watching Mythbusters a few weeks ago when I wistfully stated something to the effect of "I wish Kari's baby had been Tory's. I want them to be together." There was talk of whether this exists on the world wide web in the form of fan fiction, and it probably does. But alas, I have been too busy to research further. 
Jake suggested that I write some, and I said something like "haha sure" which really means "that's funny, but I probably won't. Also DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO."  As I was falling asleep the other night a few lines came to me, and I will post them for you. But that's as far as it's gonna go. 

"Kari," Tory began, "I love the way you spell your name weird and how your nose squinches up all cute when you use a sledge hammer to destroy a car," she blushed, "but we can't let the world know about us.  They're just not ready. We're just not ready." She opened her mouth as if too argue, but he continued, "I'm too reckless, you're too refined. You're an artist! Plus, Grant will be outed as a third wheel-" 

She silenced him with a passionate embrace. He was almost thrown off-balance by the surprise. She pulled back, looked into his eyes and said, "I'm pregnant."

In reality she married some artist with a mustache. Puh.

And that is all you are getting. I feel ridiculous. And hardcore nerdy.

meta: birds are loud

I don't usually reference the title of my blog, because, well, for a while I forgot why I named it as such. Then I remembered that when I started this thing, it was mid-summer and I was annoyed at the birds outside my window waking me up. My first idea for a post was to complain about these stupid birds, and then I thought, well that's dumb, everyone knows birds are loud. But then that's how most of my writing here is anyway. Less-than keen observations.
So there you go.

ANYWAY, I was googling around and I found this story:

Quentin Tarantino sues neighbors over loud macaw birds

"Quentin Tarantino sued his neighbors whose outdoor aviary contains loud macaws that emit blood curdling screams at intermittent intervals for 7 to 8 hours a day."

"Courthouse News says the birds' squawks are a loud, grating call, and are particularly noisy at dawn and sunset. Bird publications claim that a macaw's call can, and does, reach the decibel level of a rock concert or a jumbo jet engine."

"Tarantino's complaint states that Macdissi and Ball are aware that their birds make "blood-curdling, prehistoric sounding screams, they do not maintain the macaws in their residence, but place them in an outdoor aviary.
Tarantino also stated in his complaint that "one would assume, that as a fellow writer,  Mr. Ball would understand and respect a writer's need for peace and quiet." Tarantino said that assumption would be wrong."

 So now you know. Birds are loud.

And whodathought Quentin and I would have similar problems. Go figure.

Dizzy Teddy and Brah-ms

I think it's safe to say that the worst word pair you can hear in a classroom is "group project."

...followed closely by "gas leak" or "cumulative final."

My Happiness class (which is slowly becoming an ironic title) has a group project component. We have to make up our own research question about happiness and design a research study and...

I already don't want to do this. I hope this isn't a reflection on my interest level in the subject! It's probably just a representation of my horrible work ethic. For example, I have a research paper due next Wednesday and I was all gung-ho to start writing/accumulating research and instead I sat down to my computer and started blogging. Blerg.

Anyway, group projects. Every group project is the same.  No matter how many members, it could be two, it could be ten, there will be ONE person whose schedule is days ahead of everyone else. This person makes the others feel lazy, but to appease this member, the others pump out whatever they were supposed to contribute according to the Proactive Person's schedule. How is that fair? It's not. But life isn't fair, as I was reminded constantly as a child.

There is also always AT LEAST one  incompetent slacker who has decided to ride on the coattails of the other group members, who are all really just towed behind the Proactive Person. Incompetent Slacker will finish his/her assignment at the last possible second and rarely be on time/show up to group meetings in the library.

During my last group project, I discovered that I was the slacker for the first time in the history of my education. I felt terrible to be bringing down my group, but then I discovered how liberating it was not having to carry the rest of the group as Ms. Proactive. And now I am spoiled and I don't want to be that person ever again. It's a vicious cycle. Actually, it's more like when you realize that the backpack you have been lugging around all day is 470 pounds and if you carry your books to class one at a time instead of being prepared for everything all the time, you are much more comfortable.
I mean I guess. I haven't taken my books to class since freshman year.

So in Happiness class, we are charged to make groups of four. I look at the three people in my immediate area.

1. Thom (see RLS: MetalSlayer) 
2. Thom's metal friend, who looks like a teddy bear that has been through the dryer one-too-many times. His hair sticks up, fluffy, and there is a slight dizzy look to him as he talks about the freaktacular MetalSlayer album out next month.
3. Brah-guy, named for his propensity to refer to people as "brah," which is slightly acceptable given our proximity to the beach. He has short red hair and clothes that look like he's been wearing them for years, not in a dirty way but in a loose and comfortable way. He's the kind of person who insists on wearing flip flops year-round.

 I really need to stop judging people.

Upon seeing my prospects for my group, I decided to talk to my professor after class and request a random assignment. But then, I thought, what if she assigns me to these dudes anyway? Decisions, decisions. I thought, for sure I will be Proactive Patty for this group. Damn.

As I sat lost in my own worry and ignoring the last few minutes of class, I write my contact info on the sheet of paper Brah-guy has handed me, and I hear Dazed Teddy addressing me from his seat directly behind me.

"Cookies. You want cookies? Cookies?"
Oh, man. This guy is high.
"I mean," he clarifies, "would you like some cookies? I work at a bakery and I took a bunch home today."

It turns out he works at Baked, one of my favorite bakeries in Charleston and just as I am about to say "sure! do you have any Monster cookies? They're my favorite," he says
"Do you want a Monster cookie? And I have chocolate chip. Take a few!"



Maybe this group thing will work out after all.

OK, I haven't written anything in a while, so here goes.

I am done applying to the scholarship! Which means two things:

1. I don't feel as guilty when I am doing nothing at all.
2. My to-do lists are shorter and/or non-existent!

That's about it. Still school to be dealt with, work to be done, and events to attend. Now I have to apply for housing next year, and soon sign up for senior classes. Weird.


 also,

my grandmother is recovering from heart surgery, so if you pray please pray for her.

shark farts!

I am about to blerg all over this blog.

But first I need a Coke because I am getting a caffeine-withdrawal headache.

So I am finally in the final stages of finally being final with my final draft of the scholarship application. Finally.

I have the body filled out (ex:  list your awards and scholarships in order of significance. answer: voted Cougar Call Center Puzzle Master 2010) and I have all my essays finished. They just need...lots of touch ups. And a new paint job. Maybe some body work. It'll get there.
It is all officially due on February 1, only 12 days away. And then I promise I will stop talking about it.

During this whole process I have had so many weeks where I've said "as long as I can get through _____ I'll be OK" like "I just need to get through Wednesday and I'm scott free." Sometimes I don't even make plans for the day after that because I can not see that far into the future. Seriously. Well, I am saying it again. As long as I can get through Tuesday, I'll be fine.
Lemme splain.

This weekend will be fine, but Monday and Tuesday bear the mark of the beast.
Monday: first Conditioning and Learning quiz- a class I still haven't received my book for.
Then, immediately after my Happiness class (ironically [well, Alanis Morissette ironic]) I get to make up the Spanish final that I missed for the funeral. Three hours. of Spanish. that I haven't seen in two months.

Tuesday: First Spanish quiz. With maps.
Two papers due for Learning Disabilities.

and oh yeahs this other little thing I might get around to called my TRUMAN SCHOLARSHIP INTERVIEW. Gonna be grilled on NCLB and ESEA and what was in the NYT this morning and how many pages were in Psychology Today three months ago and would I die for my country and if I had to pick which Supreme Court justice would I invite to my birthday and what's a henweigh and how many licks does it really take to get to the center of a tootsie pop and what is the exact national debt at this moment... and anything else I might be expected to know as a person of the world that I defintiely don't know.

I thought it would be easy. Interviewers ask questions about you, and I like to talk about myself. A match made by Patti herself.  But alas, it is a bit more complicated and I may need a pint or two of ice cream afterward. But all I have to do is get through the interview and then I am scott free. Right?

I wish...

I wish it would stop being cold.
I know it's not that cold. I still don't like it.

I wish people from my high school/university would quit getting married. It's freaking me out.

I wish my scholarship would apply for itself. ...wait.

I wish I hadn't eaten popcorn for dinner. Or seen How Do You Know. How do you know it's gonna be an awful movie? Answer: you don't. Not for a while. You get drawn in by Paul Rudd and Reese Witherspoon, who (separately) have not steered you wrong in the past, and you spend the whole two hours wondering how this movie is going to pull itself together and then it doesn't.

I wish Facebook would stop showing me pictures of people I don't want to see. I am sure there is a way to block this, but I am too lazy to do anything but complain.

I wish Hogwarts was real. Wait, no. Then that would mean...nevermind.

I wish that the groundhog sees his damn shadow. Or whatever means no more winter.

I wish Brother would put more songs up.

I wish I could go back to Charleston without having to go back to class.

Happy Epiphany everyone!

RLS: I am being courted by a hipster, part 4

I am as shocked as you are. I thought this whole thing was over and done with. To be fair, at this point I don't think it counts as courting, but I would like to share this with you anyway.

Those of you who are friends with me on Facebook (so, basically, anyone reading this) may have even seen this today. He wrote on my wall, saying:

"te dije de una pelicula que yo hacia... la se ha estrenado en este sitio. nagevalo si quieres..."

which translates as "I told you about a movie I made...it has been released on this website. Peruse it if you want..." And true, he did make mention of a movie he made (possibly at the college level? I'm starting to forget things already), and we did share an interest in Spanish.  This isn't the weird part. I'm gonna let you go to the website and see for yourself.

The title of this is "divine being." ...I have no words.

 Personally, I can't even find the movie. If it exists. But I'm glad I looked at this during the day because it kinda freaks me out. 

www.templeofholy.com

?

I really want to write today, but I have nothing to say. Not that that usually stops me.

It's at times like this I wish I had a huuuuge readership and I could just say: "I have nothing to say. Post some questions in the comments and I'll answer them."

So I'm gonna try it anyway.


I have nothing to say. Post some questions in the comments and I'll answer them!


Oh, and in the mean time, do read Ask the Bloggess and enjoy.

The Lost Continent

I'm back. Now to business.

I've been reading a lot as I've been driving to and from New Orleans and Isle of Palms, and also spending a lot of downtime either on a beach, porch, or atop a mound of unmade bedclothes in the center of the chaotic den of mess that is my bedroom.

I finally finished Bill Bryson's first book: The Lost Continent. and thank goodness.

At the beginning of the summer, I devoured countless books of his; accounts of treks through the Appalachian wilderness or sunburnt Outback. When I began reading Lost Continent, I became slightly put off at his attitude, writing style and general view of the country he was exploring: small town America. At first I thought I had simply had too much Bill; this was the last book of his I was reading, as I had exhausted all the others in the used book store. Then I decided it was his position in life that made him sound different, annoying even. He was fresh from twenty years in England and back to his homeland to gripe about the changes since the 60s and the excessive number of spray cheese flavors. It was also his first novel. Maybe, I thought, he's just more charming as a self-deprecating, balding, old guy. However, my judgement early on began to affect how I was reading his book. My inner monologue became hostile towards him as he described the south as backwards and stupid (how original!) and frequently made up town names that show his general feelings on the area: "[it was] in some place like Firecracker, Georgia, or Bareassed, Alabama." This was dangerous. Once I make up my mind about something, it's hard to stay objective, and once I notice something, it tends to poke at me (like the frequency and consistency of my R.A. using the word 'um' while delivering the fire safety talk: "...and um, if you could um, just make sure you know um, how long to cook your um, popcorn, we'll um, avoid any um, annoying fire alarms. um. um. um."). So, naturally, I began to dislike this favorite author of mine line by line, comparison by comparison, state by state.

Many things that annoyed me I chucked up to being a sign of the times (published in the U.S. in 1989), like his relative lack of political correctness. Perhaps today we're just too restrictive of certain terms, but it still bothers me in any publication to hear Asians referred to as "orientals" or all of latinamericans summed up as Mexican. In Lost Continent, Bryson refers to a college student in the news as "a black." Not "a black person" but: "[the students] were a twenty two year old black from Mississippi...and two white guys from New York." Just doesn't sound right to me.

Bryson goes looking for the perfect small town to bring his British family to, or as he calls it 'Amalgam;' a mixture of all the perfect elements a small town can have that don't actually seem to exist in the same place. Basically he quests after the perfect pleasantville of Leave it to Beaver, or more currently, Stars Hollow from Gilmore Girls. In the end, I know from reading his books he ends up living in New Hampshire near Dartmouth. However, in looking for perfection, all he really finds is hatred. His attitudes seem too polar. Either he LOVES something, or it is despicable trailer trash. I do like that he describes Charleston as "perfect" but ultimately decides he could never live there because it is in the South which means upon moving his entire family would become uneducated and start speaking at the rate of dripping molasses. to which i say >:P

Overall, I did not enjoy the book nearly as much as his others (I highly recommend I'm a Stranger Here Myself). I was so eager to write about it, I began keeping a notepad next to my bed to write ideas, or more often criticisms. Among these are bullets like

• more cursing


• less apology for drunkeness??

or "he disses the Smithsonian!"

I can't even rate it. You read it and tell me how you feel.

captain obvious

I don't have much to say here, and that worries me. I've been worried that writing in a blog would just be white noise among a sea of witty needlepointers or fantastic oarswomen travelling across the Pacific. Solo. (see Roz Savage, Ocean Rower) I can't compete with that! Even if my summer life involved teaching seagulls to tapdance, I would still barely rely on the readership of my own blogging mother. Mostly because I walk downstairs and announce I have written a new blog post. However, I need to write for my sanity and will continue to do so no matter how few people actually see this site. :P

jumping off

So I've decided to start this blog in the hopes of solidifying my writing style and keeping my meager skills in practice during the summer months when I am not required to write boring essays for boring classes. I know I will have to write some doozies for the mandatory western civ class next semester and I can hardly wait to set my pen to that blue book. If you can't sense the sarcasm, I blame the forum. Usually I am very sarcastic, probably to a fault, and trying to convey this tone throught the written word is an assignment I am setting myself for this blog, so here goes (not right now, but trust me, it will come up eventually).

I have blogged before, but not seriously. I had an account on xanga that served as a text box for bitching my way through my high school years and also to read the bitchings of my high school friends. It was a great writing experience. AND due to the miracle of the internet, I can now look back on entries from say, the year of Hurricane Katrina and read and entry or ten about how frustrating it is to live with your paternal grandmother or the trials of AP World History (it really did suck). However, this will be different. This blog is for writing, not diary entries.

Oddly, I named this blog my sleeping foot because for some reason the most comfortable seating positions at my keyboard leave me with sleeping appendages. I might need computer chair therapy to repair this tendency. I find that after spending some time writing on my computer, I get up to walk out the door and discover I have tiny ants crawling all over my foot/feet (metaphorically of course, we have a very good pest guy). And so, I begin this foray into blogging. I don't expect anyone to read this, but I expect myself to write it. You are welcome to read along.