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Thursday, 19 November 2009

Senior

Senior-itis, yeah right.. like I have time for that.

I'm pretty sure they told me when I was senior I would get to do fun stuff-

I do if by fun stuff they mean more research and more writing than I've ever done before.

Is it normal to feel like you're working all the time and getting no closer to graduation??

Yeah... I'm applying to grad school, what's your point?

- I'm going to nerd out with some geek television now, thank you and goodnight -

Sunday, 08 November 2009

Harry

For class we were assigned a very short story. As far as requirements go: use two things we hate when other writers do them.
I wrote this using things I hate, but I think it turned out alright. It needs to cover a lot of ground in 750 words.

Harry-
Every day I crossed the length of the intersection at Main and Sixth streets to say hello to the dirty, toothless, homeless Harry loudly proclaiming his property to be whichever of the four corners he felt most suited him that morning. Coworkers looked on curiously as they hurried past us towards the Research and Development center at Milk Maiden Inc.

“Which is your most likely to purchase demographic?” Harry asked me one morning.

“Newborns to three year olds,” the words fell out of my mouth of their own accord. Every day in the lab it was the same question repeated over and over: what about the New Threes? The New Threes. Interviewees, coached by whichever other lactose loving dork they roomed with in college, offered up the phrase like a shiny gold coin. Then, always, leaning back into their chairs smiling, they licked their lips knowing they had just paid the admission price allowing them entrance into a world full of creaming, cheesing, and homogenizing.

“You must be kidding me,” Harry leaned up against his box, “I believe the children’s buying power would be insufficient to affect your company’s economic projections.”

I ran his sentence through my mind a few times trying to understand what that meant before a light went off. “Yes! Of course you’re right. It is really their parents, mothers mostly, who do all the buying.”

Harry chewed on this idea for a while before breaking open a gummy grin, “Perhaps, then, you should call them Zombies Bearing Progeny.” He clapped his hands together in a quick succession, “Zomberprog!”

I left Harry laughing on the corner excited to tell his joke to my co-workers. They weren’t particularly amused. I know because Sue, a large black-haired woman sipped her morning milk and coffee, mostly milk, while she frowned at me over her dark-red rimmed glasses. “I’m not amused,” she said. Sue was a poster child of Milk Maiden Inc. She put the creamy white nectar we love so much into everything from her morning coffee to her white Russian night cap. Her passion for this work showed in her paycheck, and her hips. The former she was quite proud of “accidentally” leaving promotion percentages out for everyone to see, while the latter she covered in dark floral patterns and busy little cows enamored with the moon under their hooves.

After work I saw Harry still crouched over a drain cover and thought I would offer to buy him some dinner. In the few steps it took to reach him I had already imagined his enthusiastic reply. I was about to be one of those good people. I was about to become a philanthropist, a hero. I would sit over a sandwich with him and look on kindly as he crowed about pickles, and ketchup. I wouldn’t tell him about how much more there could be. I would let him have that moment, and, wow, wouldn’t I be impressive. I nearly shouted at him when my foot pounded onto the sidewalk.

“No need,” he rejected my invitation without a second thought as he huffed careening his neck closer to the iron design around his exposed toes, “I’m looking into this byzantine plate to discover the meaning of life.”

My tie, like the super hero cape I had been wearing seconds ago, flew up and smacked me in the face. The sting did not pass unnoticed.

“Well,” I demanded this mad man, unaware of my bravery, make penance, “What is it then?” As I leaned forward to examine the ruddy plate garnering all of his foolish attention the bottle I held in my hands spilled forward a stream of white splashing against Harry, and his drain cover.

“Ah ha!” he cried out turning to look at me with wide blue eyes, “It appears to be milk!” Harry stood up laughing, and cheering “Milk! Milk! Milk!"

Monday, 05 October 2009

The past present

I read back through a year or so of my blogs tonight. I fell back and out of love twice. I relearned hardlearned lessons three times, and decided life is moving along just fine.

I'm very happy with blogging right now.

Thursday, 01 October 2009

Currently
No Plot? No Problem!: A Low-Stress, High-Velocity Guide to Writing a Novel in 30 Days
By Chris Baty
see related
Token

As I posted before, my creative writing class is participating in National Novel Writing Month this year. The down side: 80% of our grade is based on 30 days writing 50,000 words. The up side: Our textbook cost $12.00, and is 50,000 interesting words long. The book, No Plot No Problem, says we should get a writing token. We need something to focus all our creative mojo. My professor uses an old sweater and gloves with the fingers cut off. The author of No Plot No Problem uses a viking helmet, or any of his other ridiculous head gear.
I want to use the rain. Every time I begin to write I want the clouds to break and the streets to flood. I want rolling thunder, and blinding white lightening. That... or pancakes.

Monday, 07 September 2009

Subservient

That word. That stupid word. Ok, it's not the words fault. In fact I kind of like the word. I like the last 'e.' But the idea! You know it means excessively submissive? That entire concept just crawls right under my skin.

At least it did. Until now.

Jared and I take turns doing the dishes. I'd start in on how we came to this arrangement and how I pointed out him that doing the dishes was his only household chore besides taking out the trash (I mean, did he think the floor, shelves, bathrooms, and counter tops just cleaned themselves?) but that is over there in the past, and this is the present. So, Jared and I take turns doing the dishes. When I do the cooking (and I always do, just saying) he is supposed to clean the dishes I cooked with. It is a trade in his favor. I also plan the menu, and do the grocery shopping. I know, I'm a saint.

But no, I'm not. It's that thing again... subservient. I am so not that girl. I've been keeping score. If you were wondering: yes, I am winning. The prize for winning this game? Deep bitterness resulting in long lasting resentment, and angry explosions apparently out of no where.

Jared disappeared for two days. He calls to tell me if he isn't coming home because I am particular about locks when I'm sleeping. This particular text message read, "Staying in Irving tonight. See you tomorrow! I'm drunk." I laughed. It is hilarious. So I called him today. "Hey drunky," I was very nice, "You coming home today?" He said he was, and I said that's good because the dishes he said he would do four days ago, and every day after were starting to grow things. He laughed. "Right!" hahaha, "I forgot all about that." Sure, my heart pounded up into my ears, my blood pressure soared, but I kept a smile in my voice. Midnight rolls around so I text to ask him if I should lock up. I would have text him sooner but it took my a couple hours to figure out how to phrase "Where the hell are you?" in an polite way. He replied yes and he'd be back in the morning.
Alright, I'm not perfect. I spent a few minutes cursing at the phone. Two particular words came up more than others. That's when I started feeling foolish. If there's one thing I hate more than feeling submissive it's feeling foolish. I went to brush my teeth. (What? It calms me down.) When I went into the kitchen to spit out the toothpaste I couldn't because their were dishes everywhere!
I'd like to say I took a look at my metaphorical scoreboard and realized the folly of my point keeping ways, but I didn't. Nope, I marched outside determined not to do his damned dishes for him. I cleaned off the patio table, but when I went to throw away the trash I couldn't... because the trash can was full. Cue total meltdown? Yes... usually. But not tonight. Nope, something weird happened.
Angels on both shoulders.

Angel 1: Just do the dishes.
Me: Hell no.
Angel 2: It won't take very long.
Me: So not the point.
Angel 1: And take out the trash too.
Me: I'm certain now you have no idea who I am.
Angel 2: If it helps, you're not doing it for Jared.

Oh. OH! Did you see this coming? Did you know this? Look, I get it. So I did it. I did the dishes, and took out the trash. Screw the score. Do you know what a relief it is not to make a lesson plan for my roommate's behavior?

Having a servant's heart isn't about being subservient, because it isn't a power play. I feel really good about my clean kitchen, and my hands are all soft from the dish soap. Jared doesn't have anything to answer for because I didn't do it for him. He doesn't owe me, and that's nice because I'm don't want to try and collect.

What's more, I feel all sorts of warm fuzzies like God just stepped down and gave me a big hug. :) This is better than winning.