During class on Tuesday night, I reflected on my inability to write things that are descriptive. I decided that it is because I do not think in images, but in concepts. Por ejemplo, when I think about the tree that grew in front of my parents' house, here is my thought process:
It was taller than our humble abode and a conifer. The pine needles fell all over the driveway and any car that was parked near or under its branches. One day, Dana and I came from home school and found our neighbor chopping branches off our tree. We freaked the fuck out, but my parents were glad that he took matters into his own hands because it had become overgrown and blocked part of the driveway. My sister and I, however, felt that the tree was rendered bald and ugly by the indignity visited upon it. Years after that, my mom noticed that the branches at the crown of the tree looked lame. She asked my dad to call a tree doctor. By the time one of them finally put the call in seven years later, the tree was ridden with some sort of tree disease and past saving. It was chopped down. Now no one can find my house, as my friends used to look for the ginormous evergreen tree as a landmark.
While this is a very nice story, it is not terribly descriptive. Anyway, once I realized that I do not think in images, and images are central to writing that is "literary," I realized that "I am about as literary as a potato sprouting eyes." (Actually, I love that image. Potatoes with "eyes" gross me out and fascinate me.) Without writing images, it is hard to include metaphors in my stories. Seriously, I would not think to include a metaphor if one walked up to me at a cocktail party, introduced itself politely, and then punched me in the face when I did not recognize it. If I was to write a metaphor about the tree, it would be something cheesy like, "The tree was an angel that guarded our house against the darkness of the night that wasn't really all that dark because we faced a busy highway that was brightly illuminated by street lights." No good.
Despite my lack of "literary" credentials, I think I can write well in a few styles. Hence my other new motto is, "This cubic zirconium has many facets." Bwa ha ha ha. Fuck being literary.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Fast Fast
Sundown on Sunday (doesn't that sound lovely - how alliterate or onomatopoeic or whatever literary term) marked the start of Yom Kipur, the most serious Jewish holiday. Observers are supposed to spend all day begging God for forgiveness, giving him one last reason to inscribe their names in the Book of Life for another year.* The need to focus on atonement is so intense that fasting is required.
Even when I was a believer of sorts (as opposed to just a cultural Jew), I never fasted. Children, pregnant/breastfeeding women, and people with health conditions are exempt from starving themselves for 24 hours to show repentance. I gave up on the whole traditional God thing my freshman year of high school, when I learned that the story of Moses coincidentally appeared in Jewish liturgy when the Jews were slaves in Babylonia, and lo and behold, there was a Babylonian myth about a baby in a basket leading people out of bondage. Hence, I never had to fast.
Yesterday, though, I arose from a night of much needed beauty rest and discovered that my usual morning appetite was not present. Well, I thought, maybe I'll see what it is like to fast. It'll be some type spiritual cleansing. (I'd already failed to fully observe the dietary rules of Yom Kipur by eating a large chocolate bar well after the holiday began on Sunday night.)
My fast lasted about 17 hours. I slept through eight of them, which is almost half, so I suppose that helps. Putting 1% milk in my tea around 4:15 probably means I cheated, but whatever. At 5 pm, when I wolfed down a cheese stick. For dinner, I rapidly absorbed a double cheeseburger (milk with meat - how kosher!) and cheese fries, which made me feel rather ill. Later, I ate more chocolate.
Although I totally kept with my concept that foods that begin with the letter "c" are the best, I think it is a day I'll not repeat soon. Stomach is not so happy this morning.
*Now that I think about it, how awful is that? If someone then dies over the course of the year, is it their fault because they did not atone enough? How blame the victim!
Even when I was a believer of sorts (as opposed to just a cultural Jew), I never fasted. Children, pregnant/breastfeeding women, and people with health conditions are exempt from starving themselves for 24 hours to show repentance. I gave up on the whole traditional God thing my freshman year of high school, when I learned that the story of Moses coincidentally appeared in Jewish liturgy when the Jews were slaves in Babylonia, and lo and behold, there was a Babylonian myth about a baby in a basket leading people out of bondage. Hence, I never had to fast.
Yesterday, though, I arose from a night of much needed beauty rest and discovered that my usual morning appetite was not present. Well, I thought, maybe I'll see what it is like to fast. It'll be some type spiritual cleansing. (I'd already failed to fully observe the dietary rules of Yom Kipur by eating a large chocolate bar well after the holiday began on Sunday night.)
My fast lasted about 17 hours. I slept through eight of them, which is almost half, so I suppose that helps. Putting 1% milk in my tea around 4:15 probably means I cheated, but whatever. At 5 pm, when I wolfed down a cheese stick. For dinner, I rapidly absorbed a double cheeseburger (milk with meat - how kosher!) and cheese fries, which made me feel rather ill. Later, I ate more chocolate.
Although I totally kept with my concept that foods that begin with the letter "c" are the best, I think it is a day I'll not repeat soon. Stomach is not so happy this morning.
*Now that I think about it, how awful is that? If someone then dies over the course of the year, is it their fault because they did not atone enough? How blame the victim!
Monday, September 28, 2009
Going to Hawaii Again!*
At the end of 2007, Husband had a lot of vacation time that he needed to use. (His employer does not let people roll over vacation days from year to year.) We decided to plan a blow out trip to Hawaii. Using large numbers of airmiles and hotel points, we were able to book one of the many luxury hotels on Oahu. Husband initially planned to stay at the historic Moana Surfrider, which was the first hotel in Waikiki, but it was full. This turned out to be an excellent, excellent thing, as we stayed next door at the Royal Hawaiian instead.
Known as the Pink Palace because everything - from the exterior to the linens - is pink, many famous people and presidents stayed at the Royal Hawaiian. (I love places steeped in history.) Because I like strange things that no one else cares about, I was particularly impressed that the doors to each room were a thick wood with a carving of Hawaiian royalty of some sort and a motto in Hawaiian. As always, I was a little obsessive about learning how to say things in the local language, so trying to pronounce the motto was a challenge. (We were in Hawaii during Christmas, so I managed to learn how to say "Merry Christmas" - Mele Kalikimaka! - which was fun. I love how that feels on my tongue. But I digress...)
Anyway, not only were we in Hawaii for Christmas and New Years, but I also celebrated my 32nd birthday while we were there. We indulged in the famous breakfast buffet at a restaurant that seems to no longer exist at the hotel. As always, I pocketed the little jars of jam that hotel restaurants always put on tables. (With flavors like Mango and guava, who can blame me?) I like giving them to people with the souvenirs that I actually purchase for them. I also like eating them at home. I don't really know why.
We pretended to be normal people and went to the beach once. Really, though, it was too chilly in December (for me, anyway) to spend much time in the water, plus I hate sand, and I had to protect the stab wounds I had on my feet from when I fell on a sea urchin or five while attempting to snorkel on the Big Island earlier in the trip. While on O'ahu, we spent most of our time hiking, meeting up with friends who happened to also be in Honolulu, eating, and enjoying our pink hotel room while I soaked my feet to prevent infection. We also snuck over to a local bar to watch the Giants game one afternoon. It was a good rest for my painful feet.
Man, I would love to go back. I am especially nostalgic because Husband is unable to take vacation in the foreseeable future. Those were the days, I tell you.
*Sadly, I am only revisiting this magnificent state on my blog. I wish I was heading over there...
This is a Traveling Mom dedicated post.
Known as the Pink Palace because everything - from the exterior to the linens - is pink, many famous people and presidents stayed at the Royal Hawaiian. (I love places steeped in history.) Because I like strange things that no one else cares about, I was particularly impressed that the doors to each room were a thick wood with a carving of Hawaiian royalty of some sort and a motto in Hawaiian. As always, I was a little obsessive about learning how to say things in the local language, so trying to pronounce the motto was a challenge. (We were in Hawaii during Christmas, so I managed to learn how to say "Merry Christmas" - Mele Kalikimaka! - which was fun. I love how that feels on my tongue. But I digress...)
Anyway, not only were we in Hawaii for Christmas and New Years, but I also celebrated my 32nd birthday while we were there. We indulged in the famous breakfast buffet at a restaurant that seems to no longer exist at the hotel. As always, I pocketed the little jars of jam that hotel restaurants always put on tables. (With flavors like Mango and guava, who can blame me?) I like giving them to people with the souvenirs that I actually purchase for them. I also like eating them at home. I don't really know why.
We pretended to be normal people and went to the beach once. Really, though, it was too chilly in December (for me, anyway) to spend much time in the water, plus I hate sand, and I had to protect the stab wounds I had on my feet from when I fell on a sea urchin or five while attempting to snorkel on the Big Island earlier in the trip. While on O'ahu, we spent most of our time hiking, meeting up with friends who happened to also be in Honolulu, eating, and enjoying our pink hotel room while I soaked my feet to prevent infection. We also snuck over to a local bar to watch the Giants game one afternoon. It was a good rest for my painful feet.
Man, I would love to go back. I am especially nostalgic because Husband is unable to take vacation in the foreseeable future. Those were the days, I tell you.
*Sadly, I am only revisiting this magnificent state on my blog. I wish I was heading over there...
This is a Traveling Mom dedicated post.
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Definition of Ironic
On Wednesday, I went to the Museum of Jewish Heritage, which is a Holocaust and Jewish culture museum, in lower Manhattan to do some research. Upon my emergence from the subway, I looked for a food vendor from whom I could buy a carbonated diet beverage in a bottle. The first cart in my path was a hot dog purveyor. I asked for a bottle of Diet Coke.
"That's $3," he said.
"What?" There was a lot of traffic, so I figured that I didn't hear him. Who on earth would pay $3 for a 16 ounce bottle of pop? Usually, the street vendors sell such drinks for $1.75, or $2 at the most.
"Three dollars," he nodded.
I was offended. "No, that is ridiculous. I don't want it."
He shrugged, as if it were not possible for me to find a better deal. In a huff, I continued toward the museum. A Duane Reade pharmacy loomed. Ah, in the past I have purchased my chemical refreshments there for $1.79 plus tax. I went in. I nearly fell down when I saw the price rose to $1.99. Still, better than the stupid hot dog guy, and I get bonus points on my card, which eventually will get me $5 worth of goods for free.
I paid (and told the cashier about the hot dog vendor - she agreed that he was outrageously overpriced) and went on my merry way. My next obstacle was a police barricade. A metal detector was set up at the opening between gates. What the fuck? I stood for a minute before I noticed a sign routing museum visitors around the labyrinth.
At the museum, I asked the man at the admissions desk what the hubbub was about. "Oh, Ahmadinejad is staying at the hotel across the street."
"You mean the president of Iran?" I asked like an idiot.
"Yes, him."
"The one who denies that the Holocaust happened?"
He peered at me above the wire rims of his little round glasses. "Uh huh."
"He's staying across the street from the Holocaust museum?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Wow, does he pick it on purpose to poke a stick in your eye?"
"No, he's actually assigned there by the NYPD. It's the most isolated hotel, so it is easier to secure."
I felt slightly better, although it seemed wrong that the man got to enjoy the luxurious accommodations of the Ritz Carlton and not face any of the protesters. The admissions desk guy made a whaddya-gonna-do gesture, sort of like the hot dog vendor. I did my research (which was useless), and on the way out, decided to stop in the gift shop.
The clearance table in the entrance caught my eye. A book called "Letters from My Sister: On Love, Life, and Hair Removal" was on sale for $1. I thought this would be a good use for the dollar I saved from that overpriced hot dog seller. When I brought it to the counter, the shubbly cashier told me that books were two for the price of one.
"But this is only $1," I noted.
"Yes. I know this. You get another one at the same price or less for free."
Man, my refusal to overpay for Diet Coke was really turning out to be smart! I got another copy of the book. I figured that my friend would enjoy it. (It turns out that she knew one of the sisters, who directed a documentary about a corset shop on the Lower East Side. I missed it in theaters, and was quite disappointed.)
Anyway, I was very proud of my bargain. Take that, Ahmadinejad. Your absurd lies cannot stop us from telling our stories and saving money.
"That's $3," he said.
"What?" There was a lot of traffic, so I figured that I didn't hear him. Who on earth would pay $3 for a 16 ounce bottle of pop? Usually, the street vendors sell such drinks for $1.75, or $2 at the most.
"Three dollars," he nodded.
I was offended. "No, that is ridiculous. I don't want it."
He shrugged, as if it were not possible for me to find a better deal. In a huff, I continued toward the museum. A Duane Reade pharmacy loomed. Ah, in the past I have purchased my chemical refreshments there for $1.79 plus tax. I went in. I nearly fell down when I saw the price rose to $1.99. Still, better than the stupid hot dog guy, and I get bonus points on my card, which eventually will get me $5 worth of goods for free.
I paid (and told the cashier about the hot dog vendor - she agreed that he was outrageously overpriced) and went on my merry way. My next obstacle was a police barricade. A metal detector was set up at the opening between gates. What the fuck? I stood for a minute before I noticed a sign routing museum visitors around the labyrinth.
At the museum, I asked the man at the admissions desk what the hubbub was about. "Oh, Ahmadinejad is staying at the hotel across the street."
"You mean the president of Iran?" I asked like an idiot.
"Yes, him."
"The one who denies that the Holocaust happened?"
He peered at me above the wire rims of his little round glasses. "Uh huh."
"He's staying across the street from the Holocaust museum?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Wow, does he pick it on purpose to poke a stick in your eye?"
"No, he's actually assigned there by the NYPD. It's the most isolated hotel, so it is easier to secure."
I felt slightly better, although it seemed wrong that the man got to enjoy the luxurious accommodations of the Ritz Carlton and not face any of the protesters. The admissions desk guy made a whaddya-gonna-do gesture, sort of like the hot dog vendor. I did my research (which was useless), and on the way out, decided to stop in the gift shop.
The clearance table in the entrance caught my eye. A book called "Letters from My Sister: On Love, Life, and Hair Removal" was on sale for $1. I thought this would be a good use for the dollar I saved from that overpriced hot dog seller. When I brought it to the counter, the shubbly cashier told me that books were two for the price of one.
"But this is only $1," I noted.
"Yes. I know this. You get another one at the same price or less for free."
Man, my refusal to overpay for Diet Coke was really turning out to be smart! I got another copy of the book. I figured that my friend would enjoy it. (It turns out that she knew one of the sisters, who directed a documentary about a corset shop on the Lower East Side. I missed it in theaters, and was quite disappointed.)
Anyway, I was very proud of my bargain. Take that, Ahmadinejad. Your absurd lies cannot stop us from telling our stories and saving money.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
My Subway Pervert
Usually after class, I join my classmates for drinks and bonding at a restaurant/bar near school. I happen to loathe the gathering spot, as the waiters seem to count the second from when we walk in the door to when we will leave. Nothing makes me feel more like socializing than an ancient waiter in a red coat throwing my overpriced Diet Pepsi at me and demanding payment the second the mini bottle hits the dirty reddish table cloth. The free snacks do not make up for the general nasty atmosphere.
On Monday, we went elsewhere, and while I now fear that I misled the waitress about my interest in her, at least no one yelled at us or forced us to keep ordering as we chatted into the wee hours. Despite our positive experience, the group headed back to the crappy restaurant bar. I decided to go to a wacky open mic event instead.
The event was still going strong when I slipped out at 12:30. I could barely keep my eyes open. Fortunately, I did not have to wait too long for the subway. I sat toward the front of the train, reading a magazine. A few stops into my journey, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone with grey-ish colored jeans walking rapidly toward me.
The woman sat in the seat on the bench next to me. What the fuck? I thought. The entire car was empty. What was wrong with this asshole? Then she pressed her thigh against mine.
It took me a nanosecond to decide that this was bullshit. I didn't even look at her. Eye contact seemed like an invitation to chat. I got up, walked out of the car, and re-boarded the one behind it. I had just settled down to read again, when the jeans reappeared. Fuck fuck fuck!!! I knew I shouldn't wear a dress that was so low cut. Now I have stalker.
The woman sat down on the same bench on which my ass resided. I looked over at her. It was my friend T. from school. I burst out laughing, as did she.
On Monday, we went elsewhere, and while I now fear that I misled the waitress about my interest in her, at least no one yelled at us or forced us to keep ordering as we chatted into the wee hours. Despite our positive experience, the group headed back to the crappy restaurant bar. I decided to go to a wacky open mic event instead.
The event was still going strong when I slipped out at 12:30. I could barely keep my eyes open. Fortunately, I did not have to wait too long for the subway. I sat toward the front of the train, reading a magazine. A few stops into my journey, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone with grey-ish colored jeans walking rapidly toward me.
The woman sat in the seat on the bench next to me. What the fuck? I thought. The entire car was empty. What was wrong with this asshole? Then she pressed her thigh against mine.
It took me a nanosecond to decide that this was bullshit. I didn't even look at her. Eye contact seemed like an invitation to chat. I got up, walked out of the car, and re-boarded the one behind it. I had just settled down to read again, when the jeans reappeared. Fuck fuck fuck!!! I knew I shouldn't wear a dress that was so low cut. Now I have stalker.
The woman sat down on the same bench on which my ass resided. I looked over at her. It was my friend T. from school. I burst out laughing, as did she.
Notes on the Economic "Recovery"
Several times in recent weeks, I read blurbs in newspapers about how the economy is recovering. It's not like economists are all gung-ho about it, but there are supposedly glimmers of a happy smiley sun peeking through the rain clouds of economic woe. Let's take a moment to sing:
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
It's been gone for such a long time
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
Now it's back and things'll be fine
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
Didn't that feel good? No? Well, there's good reason for that. As the 99.9% of the time right on NY Times columnist Bob Herbert wrote last week, Wall Street may be be on the rise again, but so is unemployment.
When I resigned from my job at a nonprofit organization in May, I joined the ranks of jobseekers. I knew that the economy was bad when I decided to leave, but there were other considerations that were stronger. It was a scary and tough decision, but I noticed that the various places that advertised jobs in my field offered lots of interesting opportunities.
I saw many positions that interested me, and I cast my net far and wide. I went to interviews. I took consulting jobs. I worked on my thesis for my master's degree. It was difficult, but busy. Then mid-August hit. No one ever advertises on mid-August, so I only worried a little bit. Things did not pick up after Labor Day. I worried a lot. Classes started again, so I went to school and continued writing. I worried more.
I'm far luckier than most unemployed people - Husband works and we can live comfortably on his income. Still, I thought I'd contribute my anecdotal evidence that the overall economic situation is getting worse in some parts, not better.
Hey na, hey na - bring the job market back.
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
It's been gone for such a long time
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
Now it's back and things'll be fine
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
Didn't that feel good? No? Well, there's good reason for that. As the 99.9% of the time right on NY Times columnist Bob Herbert wrote last week, Wall Street may be be on the rise again, but so is unemployment.
When I resigned from my job at a nonprofit organization in May, I joined the ranks of jobseekers. I knew that the economy was bad when I decided to leave, but there were other considerations that were stronger. It was a scary and tough decision, but I noticed that the various places that advertised jobs in my field offered lots of interesting opportunities.
I saw many positions that interested me, and I cast my net far and wide. I went to interviews. I took consulting jobs. I worked on my thesis for my master's degree. It was difficult, but busy. Then mid-August hit. No one ever advertises on mid-August, so I only worried a little bit. Things did not pick up after Labor Day. I worried a lot. Classes started again, so I went to school and continued writing. I worried more.
I'm far luckier than most unemployed people - Husband works and we can live comfortably on his income. Still, I thought I'd contribute my anecdotal evidence that the overall economic situation is getting worse in some parts, not better.
Hey na, hey na - bring the job market back.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The Accidental Encounter
After class last night, my compadres and I went to a bar. When we arrived, a tired-looking waitress testily sat us at a table. Slllllllooooooowwwwwwly, she brought us our drinks. No one minded terribly. She looked like she had had a long day.
She also looked like Thandie Newtown, but skinnier, which was a little frightening, but whatever. Everyone has their own body equilibrium, so who am I to comment? Over the course of the night, pseudo-Thandie warmed up to us. I especially liked her because she did not bother me about nursing my Diet Coke over several hours. Plus she gave it to me for free because she forgot to bring it initially, which also cheerfully disposed me to her. I thought it a little odd that she did not comp a guy his cider after she forgot it, but I figured maybe it is easy to write off a glass of pop and not a $6 bottle.
At the end of the night, I went to the bathroom. As I finished my business, someone entered the facilities, humming. I discovered it was the waitress, which for no real reason made me wash my hands extra well. As I rinsed, she chatted me up.
"Are you an actress, too?" she asked.
I chuckled. "No, I'm a writer-wannabe."
"I'm an actress."
"Everyone at my table agreed that you look like Thandie Newtown."
"Really? Wow! That's so nice of you to say, especially as an actress."
"Well, you do look like her, and actress or not, it's a good thing. She's pretty hot." I had to shout above the racket the hand dryer made.
Pseudo-Thandie stuck out her hand and fluttered her eyelashes as she introduced herself to me. As I shook and told her my name, Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain) woke up from his nap and galloped on the wheel. The rusty gears screeched turned to process the situation. Crap. I think I just hit on her. Ooops.
She also looked like Thandie Newtown, but skinnier, which was a little frightening, but whatever. Everyone has their own body equilibrium, so who am I to comment? Over the course of the night, pseudo-Thandie warmed up to us. I especially liked her because she did not bother me about nursing my Diet Coke over several hours. Plus she gave it to me for free because she forgot to bring it initially, which also cheerfully disposed me to her. I thought it a little odd that she did not comp a guy his cider after she forgot it, but I figured maybe it is easy to write off a glass of pop and not a $6 bottle.
At the end of the night, I went to the bathroom. As I finished my business, someone entered the facilities, humming. I discovered it was the waitress, which for no real reason made me wash my hands extra well. As I rinsed, she chatted me up.
"Are you an actress, too?" she asked.
I chuckled. "No, I'm a writer-wannabe."
"I'm an actress."
"Everyone at my table agreed that you look like Thandie Newtown."
"Really? Wow! That's so nice of you to say, especially as an actress."
"Well, you do look like her, and actress or not, it's a good thing. She's pretty hot." I had to shout above the racket the hand dryer made.
Pseudo-Thandie stuck out her hand and fluttered her eyelashes as she introduced herself to me. As I shook and told her my name, Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain) woke up from his nap and galloped on the wheel. The rusty gears screeched turned to process the situation. Crap. I think I just hit on her. Ooops.
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