I’ve been thinking about my commute a lot lately; I guess because I find myself stuck in it a lot. Well, not “stuck”…it’s getting more and more manageable every day, and I think when I add up all the time I spent waiting for buses, riding on buses, etc., it’s about the same amount of time in both Seattle and Atlanta. The difference is that I could sit there and read in Seattle, and let the bus driver worry about traffic. It was multi-tasking at its finest—getting to work and finishing Time Magazine. Now, as much as I like to look at people around me and listen to music, I feel like it’s so much wasted time when I’m in the car getting from one place to another.
Another little quirk is that, since it’s been almost 4 years since I lived in Atlanta, my shortcuts don’t always work like I remember them working. Sometimes that’s fine, and I learn where something else is by accident, and sometimes, like last night, I end up driving an extra hour to get to where I’m going. Last night I ended up, God knows how, in East Atlanta, and waiting for the light to change at Moreland and Memorial, watched ten police cars and two fire trucks pull up to the corner. What was going on? I have no idea. It was a fairly sketchy corner with a liquor store, some sort of bail bonds place, and a restaurant that sells both Chinese food and Philly cheese steaks. Surely, any one of them could have been victim to the kind of incident that requires ten police cars and two fire trucks.
But it was fitting I saw that, because I was on my way to a Richard Shindell concert. Richard Shindell is a singer-songwriter that I’ve mentioned before (http://iwiggleitjustalittlebit.blogspot.com/2007/11/under-infidel-skies.html), and one of the reasons I like him is that he would have seen all those police cars and made a song out of it, probably with a misunderstood protagonist at the center of it all. But another thing I realized tonight, listening to Richard, is that he probably has the most songs about driving and being stuck in traffic of any singer that I can think of.
Driving songs are probably most commonly divided into two categories. One is the really joyous kind of driving song, something like “Life is a Highway” or “Drive My Car” or “On the Road Again,” the kind of song where you turn it up loud and speed up a little bit and are fairly happy to be alive. The other kind is the broken-hearted driving song, where you’re just so sad all you can do is drive your car and pray that you make it home before you drive off a ledge. I’m thinking of things like “Nothing but the Wheel,” “A Day in the Life,” “Thunder Road” when it’s sung really slow live, or “Everybody Hurts” but in that case, there’s really no danger of driving off the road cause Michael Stipe has completely stopped traffic to sing his song.
But anyways, Richard Shindell has all these driving and trucking songs that fall into both categories, but not necessarily either category. When I hear his driving songs, it’s mostly about how driving’s just a fact of life. People in his songs struggle to merge onto highways. They get desperate for a motel on a long journey. They talk to God. They listen to the radio. They deal with the rain. Sometimes they’re going where they want to go, and sometimes they’re driving away from who they really want to be with.
We get stuck in our cars. Some people make phone calls or turn up the music and never feel alone, but I think it’s so odd that driving is a time when we’re by usually by ourselves yet surrounded by all these other people. When I was little, I used to think that cars should come with display screens that would show you what other people in the cars next to you were listening to or reading, so that you would know if you had something in common. Really all you can do is see a bumper sticker and agree or disagree with what it says, or feel some sort of commonality if it’s a school or a cause that you happen to have in common. But you have to hope that all these people you don’t know you won’t hit you. You have to accept that everyone wants to get to where they’re going as fast as possible. We’re rarely more physically dangerous to one another than when we’re driving, but if you thought about that every time you got in a car, you’d go crazy.
I don’t really have a conclusion for all of this, and I don’t mean to say that all Richard Shindell songs are about transportation. He has plenty of other beautiful songs about interesting people in unique situations, but I heard him on a night when I had been stuck in my car for awhile. So here’s a Richard Shindell song about driving:
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
I'm also having some problems with my ice maker
Obviously, I would hate it if this blog just dissolved in my housing complaints. For one, I hate blogs that just complain all the time, and for two, my housing complaints just aren’t that interesting. But you’ll have to indulge me here for a few moments, and allow me to speak about my tv stand.
As you’ll recall from the previous entry, I was having to spend several more hours than anticipated assembling a tv stand. As I mentioned last night, I am normally really great at putting furniture like this together. Like, put me on the clock and time me, I’m that good. Well, I have met my match. This tv stand made me break a sweat, what with its “connect bolts” and “connectors” that did not “connect”, and with its compression dowels that snapped in two at the slightest feel of compression, and its stupid cam bolts that don’t fit into the holes that they’re supposed to.
I took some pictures to show you how poorly this has all turned out, but frankly I’m so tired after this adventure that I don’t have the energy to find my camera cord. Instead, just imagine the crookedest thing that you can, and then imagine a few of the legs falling off, and imagine that where the legs are falling off, you can see the remnants of tacky glue where I got desperate.
I sent off an email to customer service and intend to place a very disapproving phone call to Lowe’s tomorrow, but until then, let’s enjoy a TV-related edition of “This Day in History”:
On this day in 814, Charlemagne died.
This is related to TV because Charlemagne served as an early prototype for the character of Raymond in “Everybody Loves Raymond.”
On this day in 1725, Peter the Great died.
This is related to TV because Peter the Great was the one who had the original idea for the record-breaking mini-series “Roots.”
On this day in 1814, Stendahl’s first book is published.
This is related to TV because Stendahl’s first book included a minor plot point about doctors in Seattle who take care of patients despite not being able to take care of themselves. Of course, Stendahl’s first book was criticized for its whiny, trite voiceover.
On this day in 1878, the Yale Daily News was first published, making it the first college daily newspaper.
This is related to TV because if the Yale Daily News had never been published, then Rory Gilmore would not have had a place to work, and maybe she wouldn’t have met that dead weight Logan, and maybe she would have had a more interesting boyfriend.
On this day in 1914, Beverly Hills, California is incorporated.
This is related to TV because it’s hard to imagine my middle school years without the joy that was watching 30-year-olds pretend to be in high school. Oh, Jason Priestley, our pretend love was so pure, so real.
On this day in 1915, the U.S. Coast Guard created the Life Saving and Revenue Cutter services.
This is related to TV because surely that relates to Baywatch somehow.
On this day in 1915, Woodrow Wilson refused to prohibit immigration of illiterates.
This is related to TV because as long as we have illiterates, we’ll have Lifetime, with all its after school specials related to illiteracy. And teen pregnancy, and adultery. Are they all related? I don’t know. It’s hard to watch my TV right now, because it’s on the floor.
On this day in 1918, Trotsky became leader of the Reds.
This is related to TV because Trotsky liked to cook, inspiring a young solider named Freddie Ray, who passed along a love of food and cooking to his granddaughter, Rachael, who would go on to dominate the Food Network, and dare I say, the world.
On this day in 1928, Christopher Hornsrud was chosen prime minister of Norway at age 101.
This is related to TV because then he got a reality show where he got to pick which hottie to date.
On this day in 1978, “Fantasy Island” premiered on ABC.
This is related to TV because it’s actually a tv show.
On this day in 1989, Rain Man and Working Girl won at the 46th Golden Globes.
This is related to TV because Rain Man liked to watch television too, and he probably could have done a better job with this frickin tv stand than I did.
On this day in 1990, there was an East German agreement to form all-party government.
This is related to TV because East German television was hilarious, especially in comparison to West German television.
On this day in 1996, Super Bowl 30 took place, with the Dallas Cowboys beating the Pittsburgh Steelers, 27-17.
This is related to TV because sometimes sports come on television too, for some reason.
As you’ll recall from the previous entry, I was having to spend several more hours than anticipated assembling a tv stand. As I mentioned last night, I am normally really great at putting furniture like this together. Like, put me on the clock and time me, I’m that good. Well, I have met my match. This tv stand made me break a sweat, what with its “connect bolts” and “connectors” that did not “connect”, and with its compression dowels that snapped in two at the slightest feel of compression, and its stupid cam bolts that don’t fit into the holes that they’re supposed to.
I took some pictures to show you how poorly this has all turned out, but frankly I’m so tired after this adventure that I don’t have the energy to find my camera cord. Instead, just imagine the crookedest thing that you can, and then imagine a few of the legs falling off, and imagine that where the legs are falling off, you can see the remnants of tacky glue where I got desperate.
I sent off an email to customer service and intend to place a very disapproving phone call to Lowe’s tomorrow, but until then, let’s enjoy a TV-related edition of “This Day in History”:
On this day in 814, Charlemagne died.
This is related to TV because Charlemagne served as an early prototype for the character of Raymond in “Everybody Loves Raymond.”
On this day in 1725, Peter the Great died.
This is related to TV because Peter the Great was the one who had the original idea for the record-breaking mini-series “Roots.”
On this day in 1814, Stendahl’s first book is published.
This is related to TV because Stendahl’s first book included a minor plot point about doctors in Seattle who take care of patients despite not being able to take care of themselves. Of course, Stendahl’s first book was criticized for its whiny, trite voiceover.
On this day in 1878, the Yale Daily News was first published, making it the first college daily newspaper.
This is related to TV because if the Yale Daily News had never been published, then Rory Gilmore would not have had a place to work, and maybe she wouldn’t have met that dead weight Logan, and maybe she would have had a more interesting boyfriend.
On this day in 1914, Beverly Hills, California is incorporated.
This is related to TV because it’s hard to imagine my middle school years without the joy that was watching 30-year-olds pretend to be in high school. Oh, Jason Priestley, our pretend love was so pure, so real.
On this day in 1915, the U.S. Coast Guard created the Life Saving and Revenue Cutter services.
This is related to TV because surely that relates to Baywatch somehow.
On this day in 1915, Woodrow Wilson refused to prohibit immigration of illiterates.
This is related to TV because as long as we have illiterates, we’ll have Lifetime, with all its after school specials related to illiteracy. And teen pregnancy, and adultery. Are they all related? I don’t know. It’s hard to watch my TV right now, because it’s on the floor.
On this day in 1918, Trotsky became leader of the Reds.
This is related to TV because Trotsky liked to cook, inspiring a young solider named Freddie Ray, who passed along a love of food and cooking to his granddaughter, Rachael, who would go on to dominate the Food Network, and dare I say, the world.
On this day in 1928, Christopher Hornsrud was chosen prime minister of Norway at age 101.
This is related to TV because then he got a reality show where he got to pick which hottie to date.
On this day in 1978, “Fantasy Island” premiered on ABC.
This is related to TV because it’s actually a tv show.
On this day in 1989, Rain Man and Working Girl won at the 46th Golden Globes.
This is related to TV because Rain Man liked to watch television too, and he probably could have done a better job with this frickin tv stand than I did.
On this day in 1990, there was an East German agreement to form all-party government.
This is related to TV because East German television was hilarious, especially in comparison to West German television.
On this day in 1996, Super Bowl 30 took place, with the Dallas Cowboys beating the Pittsburgh Steelers, 27-17.
This is related to TV because sometimes sports come on television too, for some reason.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
fashion choices
Today I was at the mall, and I saw one woman talking to another in the little girls’ clothing. She held up a big puffy shiny gold jacket, with this gigantic furry collar. The woman said, “we’re trying to pick out something that will really make a statement at school.” Then she leaned in a little more to the other woman, and said, “she’s having trouble with some of the other girls.”
I really wanted to go over and tell the woman that a big puffy shiny gold jacket with a gigantic furry collar probably wouldn’t help her daughter solve any interpersonal problems at school, unless it was a problem over who had the biggest ugly jacket. But I didn’t. Cause maybe school is different these days, and I just don’t know.
I’d write more, but I’m approaching hour 5 of putting together my frickin’ tv stand, and I wouldn’t want to lose the momentum that I never had. Usually I’m really good at putting wooden furniture together, but this one needs some sort of structural engineer or something.
I really wanted to go over and tell the woman that a big puffy shiny gold jacket with a gigantic furry collar probably wouldn’t help her daughter solve any interpersonal problems at school, unless it was a problem over who had the biggest ugly jacket. But I didn’t. Cause maybe school is different these days, and I just don’t know.
I’d write more, but I’m approaching hour 5 of putting together my frickin’ tv stand, and I wouldn’t want to lose the momentum that I never had. Usually I’m really good at putting wooden furniture together, but this one needs some sort of structural engineer or something.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
chewing gum for something to do
Trident Splash gum is becoming kind of a problem for me. Here’s the thing. I don’t even really like chewing gum. I mean, I am very good at bubble blowing, and every now and then, I like a piece of cinnamon or minty if I don’t have access to my toothbrush. But Trident Splash pulled me in with their alluring combinations of fruit flavors, such as strawberry and lime, or apple and raspberry. Here’s the twist, or the splash, if you will: The shell of the gum is one of those fruit flavors, and on the inside is a burst of the other flavor.
This gum is pretty tasty, BUT ONLY FOR FIVE SECONDS. The time in which you get the flavor splash is really the only enjoyable thing about this gum. But that part is soooo good, that I’ve become like a drug addict trying to get that hit, that little burst of satisfaction. But it’s gotta be the shortest high ever. I’ll chew the gum for five seconds, spit it out, put in another piece of gum. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
I just can’t stop. Sometimes I’ll chew the gum for a little bit, but I just think it gets so tasteless and gross, and all I can think about is another burst of flavor. One particular complication to my addiction is that I don’t have a trash can in my cubicle right now. I don’t want to be constantly reaching into this other girl’s cubicle to throw away my gum, so I’ve been adopting sort of gross ways of storing the gum until I’m in the vicinity of a trash can. I won’t really write too much about that.
Apparently this gum cleans your teeth after eating and is low in calories, so it’s better than snacking. I don’t know. My teeth hurt.
Tonight I went to a reading by Rob Sheffield, who wrote the book “Love is a Mix Tape,” which I read last year (here is my review: http://iwiggleitjustalittlebit.blogspot.com/2007/03/book-11-love-is-mix-tape.html). It was pretty fun, but low-key. He barely did any talking other than reading from the book. Readings are kind of a mixed bag when it comes to audience questions…there’s nothing worse than someone dumb asking stupid questions that just reflect poorly on your city as a whole. But no one asked any questions tonight. Is that worse than dumb questions? I don’t know. Rob Sheffield is so funny in Rolling Stone; I wouldn’t have minded hearing him wax rhapsodically about Britney Spears or reality television for awhile. But that’s kind of an odd request to frame.
This gum is pretty tasty, BUT ONLY FOR FIVE SECONDS. The time in which you get the flavor splash is really the only enjoyable thing about this gum. But that part is soooo good, that I’ve become like a drug addict trying to get that hit, that little burst of satisfaction. But it’s gotta be the shortest high ever. I’ll chew the gum for five seconds, spit it out, put in another piece of gum. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
I just can’t stop. Sometimes I’ll chew the gum for a little bit, but I just think it gets so tasteless and gross, and all I can think about is another burst of flavor. One particular complication to my addiction is that I don’t have a trash can in my cubicle right now. I don’t want to be constantly reaching into this other girl’s cubicle to throw away my gum, so I’ve been adopting sort of gross ways of storing the gum until I’m in the vicinity of a trash can. I won’t really write too much about that.
Apparently this gum cleans your teeth after eating and is low in calories, so it’s better than snacking. I don’t know. My teeth hurt.
Tonight I went to a reading by Rob Sheffield, who wrote the book “Love is a Mix Tape,” which I read last year (here is my review: http://iwiggleitjustalittlebit.blogspot.com/2007/03/book-11-love-is-mix-tape.html). It was pretty fun, but low-key. He barely did any talking other than reading from the book. Readings are kind of a mixed bag when it comes to audience questions…there’s nothing worse than someone dumb asking stupid questions that just reflect poorly on your city as a whole. But no one asked any questions tonight. Is that worse than dumb questions? I don’t know. Rob Sheffield is so funny in Rolling Stone; I wouldn’t have minded hearing him wax rhapsodically about Britney Spears or reality television for awhile. But that’s kind of an odd request to frame.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
it won't be long
In 1999, Playboy Magazine asked singer-songwriter Richard Thompson for his favorite songs of the millennium. He knew they wanted a list of “Hey Jude” and “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”….big hits going back a few decades, but probably no more. Instead, he went back a thousand years, and gave them some of the oldest songs in the English language. Mining songs, sea chanteys, madrigals, opera, show tunes, etc. Playboy didn’t print the list, but Richard Thompson turned it into a show, where he more or less consecutively traces the history of music.
The show has been captured on CD and DVD, but Richard still tours with that set list occasionally. My dad and I went to see the “1000 Years of Popular Music” show in Asheville on Sunday night. It was really great. Frankly, Richard Thompson could probably sing the phone book and I would post something laudatory, but it really did felt like being in the audience for a living legend.
You can read about the songs that were chosen here: http://www.richardthompson-music.com/catch_of_the_day.asp?id=118. The show kind of switches out a few here and there to keep it interesting for people who already have the CD, but you get the point. It always seems like on the modern hit that is chosen, be it Britney Spears’ “Oops, I Did it Again,” or Nelly Furtado’s “Maneater,” the band throws a little segment of medieval music in there, to show that pop music may look different, but it’s all based on the same chords, sounds, etc.
This will be clumsily expressed, but those kinds of touches are things I really like about “1000 Years of Popular Music,” or Bruce Springsteen’s “The Seeger Sessions,” or Nanci Griffith’s “Other Voices” albums. It’s an acknowledgment that music is handed down through generations, and that it’s important to acknowledge history, but in a way that is fresh, so that each generation can take a stab at it. Everything came from somewhere, and we might as well know where.
This might not make any sense. I bought the tickets guessing that if I worked in Atlanta I’d have Monday off for the MLK holiday. But I didn’t, so I had to drive back at 5 am today. So I’m tired. But I digress. I would say the only drawback of the night is that I really love Richard Thompson’s original stuff as well, and I hope I get to see him again singing his own songs. At the end of the night, folks were calling out requests for RT originals, and he had to be like, “no, we don’t do that at this show; I don’t put myself in this category of song, the best of the millennium.” And someone shouted back, “but you are in that category,” and I whole-heartedly agree. Plus that dry British wit is so funny!
In apartment news, I came home to my alarm system beeping continually. I haven’t activated the alarm system yet (which might have really helped me last Friday morning), so after an hour of beeping I finally called maintenance. They talked me through pulling all the plugs that need to be pulled to make the thing go completely blank. It really doesn’t make a difference, since it wasn’t activated anyway, but now I feel even more unsafe, like the beeping was engineered by the police so they can come back tonight and I will be even more defenseless. I figure if they really are the police, they had the weekend and also the holiday off, and they might be back tomorrow morning. In happier news, I assembled my end tables and carried 40 boxes of books in from my car.
The show has been captured on CD and DVD, but Richard still tours with that set list occasionally. My dad and I went to see the “1000 Years of Popular Music” show in Asheville on Sunday night. It was really great. Frankly, Richard Thompson could probably sing the phone book and I would post something laudatory, but it really did felt like being in the audience for a living legend.
You can read about the songs that were chosen here: http://www.richardthompson-music.com/catch_of_the_day.asp?id=118. The show kind of switches out a few here and there to keep it interesting for people who already have the CD, but you get the point. It always seems like on the modern hit that is chosen, be it Britney Spears’ “Oops, I Did it Again,” or Nelly Furtado’s “Maneater,” the band throws a little segment of medieval music in there, to show that pop music may look different, but it’s all based on the same chords, sounds, etc.
This will be clumsily expressed, but those kinds of touches are things I really like about “1000 Years of Popular Music,” or Bruce Springsteen’s “The Seeger Sessions,” or Nanci Griffith’s “Other Voices” albums. It’s an acknowledgment that music is handed down through generations, and that it’s important to acknowledge history, but in a way that is fresh, so that each generation can take a stab at it. Everything came from somewhere, and we might as well know where.
This might not make any sense. I bought the tickets guessing that if I worked in Atlanta I’d have Monday off for the MLK holiday. But I didn’t, so I had to drive back at 5 am today. So I’m tired. But I digress. I would say the only drawback of the night is that I really love Richard Thompson’s original stuff as well, and I hope I get to see him again singing his own songs. At the end of the night, folks were calling out requests for RT originals, and he had to be like, “no, we don’t do that at this show; I don’t put myself in this category of song, the best of the millennium.” And someone shouted back, “but you are in that category,” and I whole-heartedly agree. Plus that dry British wit is so funny!
In apartment news, I came home to my alarm system beeping continually. I haven’t activated the alarm system yet (which might have really helped me last Friday morning), so after an hour of beeping I finally called maintenance. They talked me through pulling all the plugs that need to be pulled to make the thing go completely blank. It really doesn’t make a difference, since it wasn’t activated anyway, but now I feel even more unsafe, like the beeping was engineered by the police so they can come back tonight and I will be even more defenseless. I figure if they really are the police, they had the weekend and also the holiday off, and they might be back tomorrow morning. In happier news, I assembled my end tables and carried 40 boxes of books in from my car.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Welcome to Atlanta
My first week in Atlanta was slightly stressful. I waged war with a furniture store, trying to liberate my coffee table, but they kept dropping it in the warehouse, and not telling me until I’d driven 25 miles in rush hour to the store. It snowed on Wednesday, and it never snows in Atlanta, and I hate snow, so that was sort of off-putting. Then, on Friday morning, a governmental agency knocked on my door at 6 a.m. For the purposes of this blog entry, I’m going to call them the Department of Momemand Mecurity.
So, there I am, sweetly sleeping, when there’s this very authoritative knock on my door. It’s 6 a.m. on the button. It’s pitch black dark. It was the kind of knock that I didn’t think I could ignore, so I crawl out of bed and ask who’s there.
“Department of Momemand Mecurity,” a voice yells at me. “Police! Open up and let us in!”
I look out my peephole, and see 5 guys wearing black sweatshirts that say “Police” on them in yellow letters. My first thought is that you can probably get a sweatshirt like that at Spencer Gifts, and these people are here to rape and kill me.
“Why?”
“Department of Momemand Mecurity, we need to get in there and search for Person X. We need to speak with him.”
“That person isn’t here,” I say.
“Well, open up, we need to search the apartment and talk to him. We’re the police, let us in.”
“Are you going to every apartment?” I asked, thinking that if they were going door-to-door, I’d watch how my neighbor across the way handled this.
“No, ma’am, this is his last known address, and we need to come in and search. Just this apartment.”
“He’s not in here,” I said.
“Well, let us in, and we’ll see about that.”
“Do you have a badge?” I asked. He showed me his badge. “What about all your buddies?” I asked. They showed me their badges, but something that bothered me was that instead of shining their flashlights directly on their badges, they kind of shone them all around the badges. “Now, let us in,” the guy said for the millionth time. “We’re the police, now let us in. There’s five of us. It’s no big deal.”
Well, five strangers were actually kind of a really big deal to me, and I asked him, that if he was really the police, would he tell someone to open the door to five strangers at 6 a.m. It just seemed like a headline in the making. He didn’t really answer me, again repeating his chorus that he was the police and I had to let him in.
“I don’t know who you’re searching for. I just moved here on Friday and I live alone,” I said, at this point pretty close to tears.
Now, I will say that when I mentioned I moved there on Friday, I think they knew that they were sunk. But they asked me to let them in so we could talk about it. And I just kept saying no.
Finally, one of the guys whispered, “tell her just to open her door with the chain if it will make her feel better, and we can talk like that.” Well, one, you can shoot me just as easily through a crack in the door as you can through an open door, so that wasn’t really the most appealing option. Two, I don’t have a chain, and I told them so.
“Look ma’am,” the guy said. “We’re going to wake up the neighbors if we keep yelling through the door like this. Just let us in so we can talk about it.”
Well, tough shit on that one, buddy. I really kind of hope you do wake up the neighbors so I can get a little help on this one.
Then they started asking if I had gotten any mail for Person X, and when I thought about it, I had. And I told them so, and they said, “well, please let us in so we can talk about it, because we’re the police, we’re from the Department of Momemand Mecurity, and we’re sick of yelling through the door.”
Then one guy FINALLY had the bright idea that we talk by phone, and I really had no problem giving then my cell phone number because by this point, they already knew that I lived alone, and they had my address, and frankly the door wasn’t seeming too strong by that point. We talked by phone, and they just confirmed that I moved there on Friday, and that I had gotten that one piece of mail for Person X, and then they finally, finally left. The whole thing probably took 15-20 minutes, and I would say that I’d be hard pressed to find a time when I had felt more scared in my entire life.
Once they left, I felt fine. I thought the whole thing was over, and that it probably legitimately was the Department of Momemand Mecurity, and that I’d never hear from them again. As I’ve told the story to people, though, I have gotten a little freaked out about it. Because:
1 - What if they weren’t the Department of Momemand Mecurity? What if they were thugs who are going to come back? (The counter argument for this is that if they’d wanted to get in, they could have)
2 - If they are the Department of Momemand Mecurity, what’s their deal? Why were they so mean and not understanding of my concern for personal mecurity? Are they going to come back with a warrant?
3 - If they are the Department of Momemand Mecurity, I am in such trouble when I try to fly or file taxes or whatever. You know I gotta be on all sorts of watch lists as someone who is uncooperative.
4 - Who in hell was living in my apartment before me, and who else might be looking for them?
5 – I’m out of town currently. When I get back, am I going to find my door knocked down and my new couch slashed and the coffee table that I had to work so hard to get broken? I really don’t think I can handle driving to that furniture store again.
Well, that’s my story. If this blog entry ever disappears, it will be because you-know-who found it, and hopefully I will not have any sad news to report about the state of my apartment when I return to Atlanta tomorrow. Think good thoughts for me.
So, there I am, sweetly sleeping, when there’s this very authoritative knock on my door. It’s 6 a.m. on the button. It’s pitch black dark. It was the kind of knock that I didn’t think I could ignore, so I crawl out of bed and ask who’s there.
“Department of Momemand Mecurity,” a voice yells at me. “Police! Open up and let us in!”
I look out my peephole, and see 5 guys wearing black sweatshirts that say “Police” on them in yellow letters. My first thought is that you can probably get a sweatshirt like that at Spencer Gifts, and these people are here to rape and kill me.
“Why?”
“Department of Momemand Mecurity, we need to get in there and search for Person X. We need to speak with him.”
“That person isn’t here,” I say.
“Well, open up, we need to search the apartment and talk to him. We’re the police, let us in.”
“Are you going to every apartment?” I asked, thinking that if they were going door-to-door, I’d watch how my neighbor across the way handled this.
“No, ma’am, this is his last known address, and we need to come in and search. Just this apartment.”
“He’s not in here,” I said.
“Well, let us in, and we’ll see about that.”
“Do you have a badge?” I asked. He showed me his badge. “What about all your buddies?” I asked. They showed me their badges, but something that bothered me was that instead of shining their flashlights directly on their badges, they kind of shone them all around the badges. “Now, let us in,” the guy said for the millionth time. “We’re the police, now let us in. There’s five of us. It’s no big deal.”
Well, five strangers were actually kind of a really big deal to me, and I asked him, that if he was really the police, would he tell someone to open the door to five strangers at 6 a.m. It just seemed like a headline in the making. He didn’t really answer me, again repeating his chorus that he was the police and I had to let him in.
“I don’t know who you’re searching for. I just moved here on Friday and I live alone,” I said, at this point pretty close to tears.
Now, I will say that when I mentioned I moved there on Friday, I think they knew that they were sunk. But they asked me to let them in so we could talk about it. And I just kept saying no.
Finally, one of the guys whispered, “tell her just to open her door with the chain if it will make her feel better, and we can talk like that.” Well, one, you can shoot me just as easily through a crack in the door as you can through an open door, so that wasn’t really the most appealing option. Two, I don’t have a chain, and I told them so.
“Look ma’am,” the guy said. “We’re going to wake up the neighbors if we keep yelling through the door like this. Just let us in so we can talk about it.”
Well, tough shit on that one, buddy. I really kind of hope you do wake up the neighbors so I can get a little help on this one.
Then they started asking if I had gotten any mail for Person X, and when I thought about it, I had. And I told them so, and they said, “well, please let us in so we can talk about it, because we’re the police, we’re from the Department of Momemand Mecurity, and we’re sick of yelling through the door.”
Then one guy FINALLY had the bright idea that we talk by phone, and I really had no problem giving then my cell phone number because by this point, they already knew that I lived alone, and they had my address, and frankly the door wasn’t seeming too strong by that point. We talked by phone, and they just confirmed that I moved there on Friday, and that I had gotten that one piece of mail for Person X, and then they finally, finally left. The whole thing probably took 15-20 minutes, and I would say that I’d be hard pressed to find a time when I had felt more scared in my entire life.
Once they left, I felt fine. I thought the whole thing was over, and that it probably legitimately was the Department of Momemand Mecurity, and that I’d never hear from them again. As I’ve told the story to people, though, I have gotten a little freaked out about it. Because:
1 - What if they weren’t the Department of Momemand Mecurity? What if they were thugs who are going to come back? (The counter argument for this is that if they’d wanted to get in, they could have)
2 - If they are the Department of Momemand Mecurity, what’s their deal? Why were they so mean and not understanding of my concern for personal mecurity? Are they going to come back with a warrant?
3 - If they are the Department of Momemand Mecurity, I am in such trouble when I try to fly or file taxes or whatever. You know I gotta be on all sorts of watch lists as someone who is uncooperative.
4 - Who in hell was living in my apartment before me, and who else might be looking for them?
5 – I’m out of town currently. When I get back, am I going to find my door knocked down and my new couch slashed and the coffee table that I had to work so hard to get broken? I really don’t think I can handle driving to that furniture store again.
Well, that’s my story. If this blog entry ever disappears, it will be because you-know-who found it, and hopefully I will not have any sad news to report about the state of my apartment when I return to Atlanta tomorrow. Think good thoughts for me.
Monday, January 14, 2008
The best hotel in Atlanta (and possibly the world)
Something that really bothered me about the movie “Little Miss Sunshine” was the scene where they go to the hotel. In that scene, a family that is supposed to be so poor that they can’t even get their van fixed, gets THREE hotel rooms for six people. Now, my family was never so poor that they had to provide a manual running start to their van, but I can tell you, that when we traveled, there was never ever an option for more than one hotel room. We were all sleeping in that hotel room, no matter what sleeping accommodations that involved.
As you might expect, with three children and two adults, that might get a little crowded, particularly as we all got older and bigger. But there is one place on God’s green earth where a family of five can get a reasonable rate on accommodation big enough for all of them, as well as the best continental breakfast in town, and that place is the Embassy Suites north of Atlanta.
This hotel is mainly a businessman/conference kind of hotel, so I don’t know what it’s like to stay there during the week. But on the weekends, when the businessmen leave, the prices plummet and the place is a haven for families. First of all, the rooms are gigantic, and as they are suites, there was usually a sitting room area, so that everyone is not right on top of each other. Yet the prices, as I have mentioned, are comparable to one room at a regular hotel.
But this hotel has way more amenities than a regular hotel! For starters, there is the aforementioned continental breakfast. This breakfast includes an omelet station, pancakes, breakfast meats, potatoes, breakfast breads, and things I don’t even know about because I never get around to eating them. You could eat there for a week and not eat the same thing twice.
There is also a complimentary happy hour with beer, wine, sodas, and chips and salsa. If you have parents like mine, perhaps they will sneak you some alcohol if you are not quite of age.
The hotel is one of those that’s open all around, with an atrium in the middle, and there are glass elevators that go all the way to the top, which is good for young children who like to do things like ride elevators to look down at people, and also to have elevator races.
For some, the location might be a downside. It is 25 minutes north of the heart of Atlanta. But it’s right next to a mall, movie theaters, and every single chain store you can think of, which was nice if you were from a small town in North Carolina and didn’t necessarily have access to things like an Old Navy or a Best Buy growing up. If you are traveling with small children, they will probably enjoy these things more than what downtown Atlanta can offer them.
It often happens that one’s childhood memories can’t match up to the current experience, but friends, I was at that Embassy Suites just that very weekend, because my parents were in town to help me move in to my new apartment. And the omelets are still as delicious, the rooms are still as spacious, and that glass elevator still goes all the way to the top. That Embassy Suites is truly a marvel among hotels.
So yes, I am all moved in. I had my first day of work today. Everything is going well, and I will write more about it when I am not utilizing my neighbor’s wireless internet.
As you might expect, with three children and two adults, that might get a little crowded, particularly as we all got older and bigger. But there is one place on God’s green earth where a family of five can get a reasonable rate on accommodation big enough for all of them, as well as the best continental breakfast in town, and that place is the Embassy Suites north of Atlanta.
This hotel is mainly a businessman/conference kind of hotel, so I don’t know what it’s like to stay there during the week. But on the weekends, when the businessmen leave, the prices plummet and the place is a haven for families. First of all, the rooms are gigantic, and as they are suites, there was usually a sitting room area, so that everyone is not right on top of each other. Yet the prices, as I have mentioned, are comparable to one room at a regular hotel.
But this hotel has way more amenities than a regular hotel! For starters, there is the aforementioned continental breakfast. This breakfast includes an omelet station, pancakes, breakfast meats, potatoes, breakfast breads, and things I don’t even know about because I never get around to eating them. You could eat there for a week and not eat the same thing twice.
There is also a complimentary happy hour with beer, wine, sodas, and chips and salsa. If you have parents like mine, perhaps they will sneak you some alcohol if you are not quite of age.
The hotel is one of those that’s open all around, with an atrium in the middle, and there are glass elevators that go all the way to the top, which is good for young children who like to do things like ride elevators to look down at people, and also to have elevator races.
For some, the location might be a downside. It is 25 minutes north of the heart of Atlanta. But it’s right next to a mall, movie theaters, and every single chain store you can think of, which was nice if you were from a small town in North Carolina and didn’t necessarily have access to things like an Old Navy or a Best Buy growing up. If you are traveling with small children, they will probably enjoy these things more than what downtown Atlanta can offer them.
It often happens that one’s childhood memories can’t match up to the current experience, but friends, I was at that Embassy Suites just that very weekend, because my parents were in town to help me move in to my new apartment. And the omelets are still as delicious, the rooms are still as spacious, and that glass elevator still goes all the way to the top. That Embassy Suites is truly a marvel among hotels.
So yes, I am all moved in. I had my first day of work today. Everything is going well, and I will write more about it when I am not utilizing my neighbor’s wireless internet.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Little Molly and Thomas Jefferson
Okay, I have one more childhood writing sample. I wrote this when I was in elementary school...maybe 4th or 5th grade. It's undated. I don't remember the exact assignment but I guess it had something to do with researching a famous historical person. It might be the best thing I've ever written. I might have peaked creatively at the age of 10.
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“We will now move into the bedroom,” droned the tour guide.
She was a fast talker and I wasn’t done on my notes on the kitchen. You see, we’re at Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s home in Charlottesville, Virginia. I have a report due about Thomas Jefferson next week so I decided to come and see in person the great things Thomas Jefferson invented and owned. Well, even though I wasn’t done, I walked on. I was hoping to see Jefferson’s famous diaries.
On my way upstairs, I saw a statue of Jefferson. I stopped to look. The statue looked so real I thought I was actually looking into the eyes of the great architect, inventor, diplomat, and scholar. Then all of a sudden he winked. He paused, blinked, and spoke.
“Hello, my name is Thomas Jefferson.”
I said, “My name is Molly. Not to sound rude, but aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
“Well, I was,” he explained, “but I happened to notice the trouble you were having with your tour guide. Talking too fast or something like that. Never could understand why they hired her. I have trouble understanding her myself.” He chuckled. “Now, where was I? Oh yes. Why don’t I lend you my assistance in telling you my life story. You seem like a nice girl. I’ll be glad to help you in any way that I can. Let’s talk over lunch.”
“Okay. McDonald’s or Burger King?” I said.
“McDonald’s? Burger King?” He looked puzzled. “I was thinking of lunch with the Governor or maybe introducing you to my friend Lafayette. He’s probably at the tavern by now.”
Suddenly it occurred to me that Jefferson might not know where he was.
“How long has it been since you died?” I asked.
“Why only a week or two,” he replied.
“Sorry Tom, more like almost two centuries. All of your friends are dead. Wait. Allow me to introduce you to the wonderful world of fast food.”
We walked in silence to McDonald’s but as we passed his tombstone he spoke. “Wait, let me read it.” He read it and nodded with approval. “I left a book with this in it for them to put on my tombstone. I see they did it.” Here’s what it said:
“Here was buried Thomas Jefferson
Author of the Declaration of American Independence
Of the Statute of Virginia for religious freedom
and Father of the University of Virginia.”
When we reached McDonald’s, Mr. Jefferson looked a bit afraid.
“What is it? A time traveler?” he asked.
“No, it’s a restaurant, and that’s a car and that’s a…” I went on pointing things out until that lost feeling left his face. Then I went in, ordered for us, and led him to a table.
“So when did you live? I mean like the years.” I asked.
“The years were from April 13, 1743 to July 4, 1826. I was 83.”
“What are you famous for?”
“Mostly for being the third president. I guess I worked a lot for religious freedom and fought for free schools for the poor. You already know that I founded the University of Virginia. Plus, I wrote the Declaration of Independence in just eighteen days. I had some time left over to invent things; doors that opened by themselves, little elevators to carry food, a clock that could run for seven days without being wound, and I grew things that people had never seen before. You know, if there was a machine where you could just punch in your topic, say Thomas Jefferson, and all the facts would flash up somehow, it would make life a lot easier.”
“We already have that,” I explained. “It’s called a computer.”
Suddenly a lady walked in asking the manager if he could turn the playground lights on.
“You know,” Thomas Jefferson remarked, “wouldn’t it be grand if there was something that you could turn stuff on without having to get up?”
“We have that,” I said. “It’s called a clapper.”
“Well then, you don’t need me anymore. I’m going back.” As he stood up to leave, he groaned. “I don’t feel too good.”
“You ate too many French fries. You see there’s a ton of fat in this.”
“Well then, why doesn’t somebody invent something to take fat out of fast food?”
“Bingo Mr. Jefferson. Let’s do it.”
All day we worked on the invention. At dinner time it was finally finished. We needed to see if it really worked. We went up, bought a Big Mac, and ran it through the machine. It worked! It was 100% healthy.
“Gosh,” I said in admiration, “you’re a great inventor.”
“Well, why don’t we go back to Monticello again,” he said.
This time I became so engrossed in the tour guide that when I looked around the room, he was gone; but the statue seemed to wink at me.
As I left the house, I reached into my pocket to protect my hands from the cold. As I reached in, I pulled out a note. On it was scrawled the writing of Thomas Jefferson: “Had to go. Many thanks. Good luck on the report and good luck in life. You’ll have a lot of healthy eating with the fat free machine.”
As I read the comment, only one thought was in my mind—Thomas Jefferson was one of the greatest people who ever touched this planet.
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“We will now move into the bedroom,” droned the tour guide.
She was a fast talker and I wasn’t done on my notes on the kitchen. You see, we’re at Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s home in Charlottesville, Virginia. I have a report due about Thomas Jefferson next week so I decided to come and see in person the great things Thomas Jefferson invented and owned. Well, even though I wasn’t done, I walked on. I was hoping to see Jefferson’s famous diaries.
On my way upstairs, I saw a statue of Jefferson. I stopped to look. The statue looked so real I thought I was actually looking into the eyes of the great architect, inventor, diplomat, and scholar. Then all of a sudden he winked. He paused, blinked, and spoke.
“Hello, my name is Thomas Jefferson.”
I said, “My name is Molly. Not to sound rude, but aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
“Well, I was,” he explained, “but I happened to notice the trouble you were having with your tour guide. Talking too fast or something like that. Never could understand why they hired her. I have trouble understanding her myself.” He chuckled. “Now, where was I? Oh yes. Why don’t I lend you my assistance in telling you my life story. You seem like a nice girl. I’ll be glad to help you in any way that I can. Let’s talk over lunch.”
“Okay. McDonald’s or Burger King?” I said.
“McDonald’s? Burger King?” He looked puzzled. “I was thinking of lunch with the Governor or maybe introducing you to my friend Lafayette. He’s probably at the tavern by now.”
Suddenly it occurred to me that Jefferson might not know where he was.
“How long has it been since you died?” I asked.
“Why only a week or two,” he replied.
“Sorry Tom, more like almost two centuries. All of your friends are dead. Wait. Allow me to introduce you to the wonderful world of fast food.”
We walked in silence to McDonald’s but as we passed his tombstone he spoke. “Wait, let me read it.” He read it and nodded with approval. “I left a book with this in it for them to put on my tombstone. I see they did it.” Here’s what it said:
“Here was buried Thomas Jefferson
Author of the Declaration of American Independence
Of the Statute of Virginia for religious freedom
and Father of the University of Virginia.”
When we reached McDonald’s, Mr. Jefferson looked a bit afraid.
“What is it? A time traveler?” he asked.
“No, it’s a restaurant, and that’s a car and that’s a…” I went on pointing things out until that lost feeling left his face. Then I went in, ordered for us, and led him to a table.
“So when did you live? I mean like the years.” I asked.
“The years were from April 13, 1743 to July 4, 1826. I was 83.”
“What are you famous for?”
“Mostly for being the third president. I guess I worked a lot for religious freedom and fought for free schools for the poor. You already know that I founded the University of Virginia. Plus, I wrote the Declaration of Independence in just eighteen days. I had some time left over to invent things; doors that opened by themselves, little elevators to carry food, a clock that could run for seven days without being wound, and I grew things that people had never seen before. You know, if there was a machine where you could just punch in your topic, say Thomas Jefferson, and all the facts would flash up somehow, it would make life a lot easier.”
“We already have that,” I explained. “It’s called a computer.”
Suddenly a lady walked in asking the manager if he could turn the playground lights on.
“You know,” Thomas Jefferson remarked, “wouldn’t it be grand if there was something that you could turn stuff on without having to get up?”
“We have that,” I said. “It’s called a clapper.”
“Well then, you don’t need me anymore. I’m going back.” As he stood up to leave, he groaned. “I don’t feel too good.”
“You ate too many French fries. You see there’s a ton of fat in this.”
“Well then, why doesn’t somebody invent something to take fat out of fast food?”
“Bingo Mr. Jefferson. Let’s do it.”
All day we worked on the invention. At dinner time it was finally finished. We needed to see if it really worked. We went up, bought a Big Mac, and ran it through the machine. It worked! It was 100% healthy.
“Gosh,” I said in admiration, “you’re a great inventor.”
“Well, why don’t we go back to Monticello again,” he said.
This time I became so engrossed in the tour guide that when I looked around the room, he was gone; but the statue seemed to wink at me.
As I left the house, I reached into my pocket to protect my hands from the cold. As I reached in, I pulled out a note. On it was scrawled the writing of Thomas Jefferson: “Had to go. Many thanks. Good luck on the report and good luck in life. You’ll have a lot of healthy eating with the fat free machine.”
As I read the comment, only one thought was in my mind—Thomas Jefferson was one of the greatest people who ever touched this planet.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Here's something else I wrote when I was eleven
Here's another writing sample from the sixth grade. As I mentioned in the previous entry, for the writing test, you basically had to write an intro, write three supporting paragraphs, and a closing paragraph. I think each supporting paragraph had to have about 5 sentences. The prompt for this one was, "My favorite restaurant." As before, I did not change a word.
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My Favorite Restaurant, September 30, 1993
The restaurant I like most is Bojangle’s. My reasons for liking it are: its fantastic food, the comfortable atmosphere and appearance, and its good quality.
I love the food! Bojangle’s serves southern or Cajun chicken, biscuits, or any serving you could imagine. You can get juicy nuggets, a thigh, a breast, a leg, or make a combination. The mouthwatering side dishes cover almost anything you could want with your chicken. All of the food has good flavor and is hard to match.
The attractive atmosphere and appearance will make you feel right at home. It is sparkling clean. The walls have a few decorations. They put beautiful colors together to decorate the tables, chairs, and walls. There is faint music in the background.
The good quality is hard to beat! The food is pleasantly hot. The prices are decent. The service people are friendly. You will get what you paid for!
Bojangle’s is my favorite restaurant because of the delicious food, its friendly appearance and atmosphere, and their overall quality. It’s a must for all chicken and biscuit lovers!!
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Okay, it is the present day again. Like the sixth grade post about my bedroom, this post holds true today. Bojangle's is still my favorite restaurant, and my room is still decorated the same. Is that weird? Shouldn't my tastes have evolved a little bit since I was 11?
If I had to write this essay over, I would probably not write about the atmosphere. That really isn't important. Supporting paragraph #1 would have been all about the chicken. Supporting paragraph #2 would have been all about the biscuits. Supporting paragraph #3 would have been all about the side dishes. Overall, the biscuits get really shortchanged in this middle school essay. Now that I am older, I understand how difficult it is to find a biscuit so perfectly fluffy, so decadantly buttered, and so golden brown.
Good news! I just did a little internet research, and my new apartment is only 15 miles from a Bojangle's! That might seem like too far to go, but in Seattle I was 2,900 miles from a Bojangle's! This is definitely a move in the right direction!
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My Favorite Restaurant, September 30, 1993
The restaurant I like most is Bojangle’s. My reasons for liking it are: its fantastic food, the comfortable atmosphere and appearance, and its good quality.
I love the food! Bojangle’s serves southern or Cajun chicken, biscuits, or any serving you could imagine. You can get juicy nuggets, a thigh, a breast, a leg, or make a combination. The mouthwatering side dishes cover almost anything you could want with your chicken. All of the food has good flavor and is hard to match.
The attractive atmosphere and appearance will make you feel right at home. It is sparkling clean. The walls have a few decorations. They put beautiful colors together to decorate the tables, chairs, and walls. There is faint music in the background.
The good quality is hard to beat! The food is pleasantly hot. The prices are decent. The service people are friendly. You will get what you paid for!
Bojangle’s is my favorite restaurant because of the delicious food, its friendly appearance and atmosphere, and their overall quality. It’s a must for all chicken and biscuit lovers!!
------------------------
Okay, it is the present day again. Like the sixth grade post about my bedroom, this post holds true today. Bojangle's is still my favorite restaurant, and my room is still decorated the same. Is that weird? Shouldn't my tastes have evolved a little bit since I was 11?
If I had to write this essay over, I would probably not write about the atmosphere. That really isn't important. Supporting paragraph #1 would have been all about the chicken. Supporting paragraph #2 would have been all about the biscuits. Supporting paragraph #3 would have been all about the side dishes. Overall, the biscuits get really shortchanged in this middle school essay. Now that I am older, I understand how difficult it is to find a biscuit so perfectly fluffy, so decadantly buttered, and so golden brown.
Good news! I just did a little internet research, and my new apartment is only 15 miles from a Bojangle's! That might seem like too far to go, but in Seattle I was 2,900 miles from a Bojangle's! This is definitely a move in the right direction!
Where I've been living, through 11-year-old eyes
I am moving this weekend, so I've been trying to pack and clean. It's hard because it's my childhood bedroom, so I have to move around a lot of old stuff that never really found a home but that can't be thrown away, since I keep everything. I was cleaning out my desk and found a folder of 6th grade writing samples. In 6th grade, we took the North Carolina Writing Test, so I have lots of assignments where I was trying to describe things, or trying to explain why I like things with three supporting reasons. It was one of those tests where there was a distinct formula and you just write to meet the requirements.
Anyways, one of the assignments I found was "describe your bedroom," and what I found, basically, is that my bedroom hasn't changed since the 6th grade. So I thought I'd share my 6th grade writing sample with you, so you can have a better sense of where I've been living for the past three months. I didn't change a word; everything below is what I wrote when I was 11 years old:
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Describe your bedroom—November 1993
This is my description of my personal, Victorian styled bedroom in an almost circular fashion.
The first thing that will catch your eye as you enter would be the Waverly print wallpaper with flowers of yellow, blue, pink, and green. This is off-set with the airy tie-back curtains with a pink and white flounce.
One whole wall is covered with ceiling to floor bookshelves that are filled with books, dolls, collectibles, sports and dance trophies, my stereo, and special mementoes. In the middle of the shelves, there is a cozy windowseat where I can be lost in a book.
Aside from the oak shelves there is a high spindle bed that once belonged to my maternal grandmother, when she was my age. The cherry backboard goes well with the off-white, homespun bedspread, with a frilly dust ruffle.
Over my bed there is a watercolor painting of a Cabbage Patch Doll that my uncle creatively painted for me.
Beside my bed is a white nightstand that has my annoying alarm clock and antique lamp. It is usually piled high with my books and magazines.
Adjacent to that is a wooden chair that has pale green cushions with red roses. The chair is in front of my other window.
Beside that is my large closet filled with some of my clothes and boxes. Above that there is a shelf that has dusty old games, puzzles, and “memories.”
To the left of that is my antique vanity which belonged to my paternal grandmother. It is cluttered with hair ties, barrettes, accessories, and two jewelry boxes that are filled with knick-knacks I’ve collected over the years. The vanity also has two deep drawers that are filled with old valentines and artwork I did in younger grades. It also has tacky costume jewelry in it. The vanity dresser mirror has pictures and post cards along the edges.
A green wicker trash can to match my wallpaper is beside the dresser.
The last but not least wall is devoted to two things; my chest of drawers and desk. My chest of drawers is to the brim filled with the rest of my clothes. On top there are old photographs, and a green box, and other odds and ends. There are posters hanging lopsidedly over it.
My desk is always a mess. It’s piled to the sky with papers, projects, and other stuff I can’t find a home for. Above my desk is a bulletin board that has posters pinned up, along with pictures, banners, and illustrations.
Well, I think that’s the best way I can begin to describe my humble little home to you. I hope you’ll come to see it in person, and I’ll try to have it clean when you come.
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This is 2008 Molly again. I don't have much to add, except clearly this assignment (which I don't remember doing) asked for a lot of adjectives. It's also pretty clear to me that my mom helped very extensively with that paragraph about the Waverly print wallpaper and the curtains with the flounces. Because I don't think I knew what a flounce was, either in 1993 or 2008. My 11-year-old self taught me a new word yesterday.
Anyways, one of the assignments I found was "describe your bedroom," and what I found, basically, is that my bedroom hasn't changed since the 6th grade. So I thought I'd share my 6th grade writing sample with you, so you can have a better sense of where I've been living for the past three months. I didn't change a word; everything below is what I wrote when I was 11 years old:
---------------
Describe your bedroom—November 1993
This is my description of my personal, Victorian styled bedroom in an almost circular fashion.
The first thing that will catch your eye as you enter would be the Waverly print wallpaper with flowers of yellow, blue, pink, and green. This is off-set with the airy tie-back curtains with a pink and white flounce.
One whole wall is covered with ceiling to floor bookshelves that are filled with books, dolls, collectibles, sports and dance trophies, my stereo, and special mementoes. In the middle of the shelves, there is a cozy windowseat where I can be lost in a book.
Aside from the oak shelves there is a high spindle bed that once belonged to my maternal grandmother, when she was my age. The cherry backboard goes well with the off-white, homespun bedspread, with a frilly dust ruffle.
Over my bed there is a watercolor painting of a Cabbage Patch Doll that my uncle creatively painted for me.
Beside my bed is a white nightstand that has my annoying alarm clock and antique lamp. It is usually piled high with my books and magazines.
Adjacent to that is a wooden chair that has pale green cushions with red roses. The chair is in front of my other window.
Beside that is my large closet filled with some of my clothes and boxes. Above that there is a shelf that has dusty old games, puzzles, and “memories.”
To the left of that is my antique vanity which belonged to my paternal grandmother. It is cluttered with hair ties, barrettes, accessories, and two jewelry boxes that are filled with knick-knacks I’ve collected over the years. The vanity also has two deep drawers that are filled with old valentines and artwork I did in younger grades. It also has tacky costume jewelry in it. The vanity dresser mirror has pictures and post cards along the edges.
A green wicker trash can to match my wallpaper is beside the dresser.
The last but not least wall is devoted to two things; my chest of drawers and desk. My chest of drawers is to the brim filled with the rest of my clothes. On top there are old photographs, and a green box, and other odds and ends. There are posters hanging lopsidedly over it.
My desk is always a mess. It’s piled to the sky with papers, projects, and other stuff I can’t find a home for. Above my desk is a bulletin board that has posters pinned up, along with pictures, banners, and illustrations.
Well, I think that’s the best way I can begin to describe my humble little home to you. I hope you’ll come to see it in person, and I’ll try to have it clean when you come.
----------------------
This is 2008 Molly again. I don't have much to add, except clearly this assignment (which I don't remember doing) asked for a lot of adjectives. It's also pretty clear to me that my mom helped very extensively with that paragraph about the Waverly print wallpaper and the curtains with the flounces. Because I don't think I knew what a flounce was, either in 1993 or 2008. My 11-year-old self taught me a new word yesterday.
Monday, January 7, 2008
The role of staircases in "Gone with the Wind"
This weekend I was three kinds of sick, so I took the day off from life and watched "Gone With the Wind", as well as several hours of bonus features. Something I had never noticed before is just how many staircases are in that movie, and how many important things happen on staircases. I guess if you haven’t seen the movie (and why haven’t you? It’s like the greatest movie EVER), you shouldn’t read anymore, because I am about to reveal all the things that happen on staircases.
Sure, there are the famous scenes that take place on staircases—Rhett carrying Scarlett up the stairs in a passionate rage, then Scarlett falling down the stairs a few weeks later, miscarrying the child that had been conceived on the passionate rage night. But here are all the other stairs scenes:
Scenes where the people are walking UP the steps:
• Scarlett and her friend Cathleen walking up the stairs at the barbeque at Twelve Oaks. On this walk, she flirts with local boys and sees Rhett Butler for the first time (standing at the bottom of the steps)
• Melanie and Ashley walk up the steps to their bedroom during Ashley’s three day furlough from fighting the war. Scarlett watches from the bottom.
• The scene where Rhett carries Scarlett up the stairs.
• Mammy and Melanie walk up the stairs after Bonnie’s death, and talk about the issues between Scarlett and Rhett, as well as Rhett’s refusal to bury his child.
Scenes where the people are walking DOWN the steps:
• Rhett, Scarlett, Melanie, and Prissy descend the steps of Aunt Pittypat’s house in Atlanta, escaping a burning Atlanta to return to Tara.
• Ashley meets Scarlett at the bottom of the steps in Atlanta, when he is about to return to the war. She confesses her love again.
• Scarlett falls down the stairs and has a miscarriage.
Scenes where the people STAND ON OR NEAR STEPS and things happen to them:
• Scarlett stands under the steps at Twelve Oaks and hears all the other girls talking about her. She cries.
• Scarlett accepts Charles Hamilton’s proposal on the steps of Twelve Oaks, after being rejected by Ashley and spying Ashley and Melanie saying goodbye.
• Prissy confesses that she doesn’t know nothing bout birthing no babies, and Scarlett realizes that she’ll have to deliver her nemesis’ baby.
• Scarlett stares up at the remains of Twelve Oaks, after it’s been burned by the Yankees. All that’s left is the staircase.
• Scarlett kills a Yankee deserter who’s entered Tara on the stairs.
• The final scene, where Scarlett sits on the steps and decides to return to Tara.
So, why does all that matter? I guess I am not convinced that it does, but here’s what I’m reading into it. Based on dream symbolism, going up stairs in a dream is making progress. Going down is regressing or a setback. Based on the song “Stairway to Heaven,” I am going to guess that up is heaven, and down is hell. I think any way you look at it, up is good, and down is bad. Standing in the middle of a staircase is like being in the middle of a journey. Gone with the Wind is the story of how Scarlett O’Hara met every challenge that was handed to her, in the face of great adversity, and I’m thinking this staircase motif provides a visual cue as to how she was dealing with any challenge at the given moment.
First, let’s look at the staircase at Twelve Oaks. When Scarlett first walks up that staircase with her friend Cathleen, she is filled with all the confidence in the world. She has decided to tell Ashley that she loves him, so that he can’t marry Melanie, and she is easily flirting with all the boys in town. Later, after she’s rejected, she hides under the stairs, listening to what an awful person she is. But as she will continue to do throughout the story, she perseveres, wipes her eyes, and starts climbing again. Midway up, she accepts Charles’ proposal, thinking that the spiteful marriage will make Ashley jealous. She thinks she is making progress with Ashley, hence why she is halfway up the stairs.
When we see the Twelve Oaks staircase again, it’s all that’s left of Twelve Oaks. Scarlett looks up at it longingly, this burned-out staircase representing all the work she has in front of her in restoring herself and her family after this terrible war. She is in the midst of great challenges, having just walked down that staircase in Atlanta. That one doesn’t represent a setback, just the fact that Scarlett was descending into hardship and struggle, with no one to help her---she has two helpless women (Melanie and Prissy), Melanie’s baby, and Rhett, who will soon desert her to fend for herself. Soon she’ll have to take care of her entire family and her home.
Most of Scarlett’s personal setbacks are based on loving the wrong man, Ashley. Scarlett is left at the bottom of the steps as she watches Melanie and Ashley go to their bedroom on Christmas break, and that’s where she is in the next scene as well—waiting for Ashley to come downstairs to catch his train. Scarlett can never get any higher, or further on her journey, while she’s hung up on Ashley.
Scarlett gets halfway up the stairs when she’s realizing her unknown strengths and overcoming obstacles. For example, when she kills the Yankee deserter to protect her home, she is standing about halfway up Tara’s staircase. Also, when she realizes that she’ll have to deliver Melanie’s baby without the help of a doctor, she is on a landing between two staircases, and she has to drag Prissy back up to where Melanie is laboring.
So, now, the famous scene where Rhett carries Scarlett up the stairs. “The rape scene,” as it is commonly referred to. I don’t really want to get into the politics of it, and I can understand if the scene offends you. But I think that scene goes “up” the stairs not just because the bedroom is up there, but because it’s a forward progression in Scarlett’s life. It kind of helps her to realize that Rhett is the man for her. Unfortunately, she soon falls down the stairs, both physically and emotionally, and loses everything.
The movie ends with Scarlett sitting on the bottom of the steps, deciding to go home and try to win Rhett back. She’s at the bottom of the steps because she has yet another mountain to climb, another challenge to vanquish, another goal to reach. She has to climb the metaphorical stairs again. This determination is the hallmark of Scarlett’s character, and the steps help the viewer to determine how far she is on her journey.
Or maybe I’m reading too much into it.
Sure, there are the famous scenes that take place on staircases—Rhett carrying Scarlett up the stairs in a passionate rage, then Scarlett falling down the stairs a few weeks later, miscarrying the child that had been conceived on the passionate rage night. But here are all the other stairs scenes:
Scenes where the people are walking UP the steps:
• Scarlett and her friend Cathleen walking up the stairs at the barbeque at Twelve Oaks. On this walk, she flirts with local boys and sees Rhett Butler for the first time (standing at the bottom of the steps)
• Melanie and Ashley walk up the steps to their bedroom during Ashley’s three day furlough from fighting the war. Scarlett watches from the bottom.
• The scene where Rhett carries Scarlett up the stairs.
• Mammy and Melanie walk up the stairs after Bonnie’s death, and talk about the issues between Scarlett and Rhett, as well as Rhett’s refusal to bury his child.
Scenes where the people are walking DOWN the steps:
• Rhett, Scarlett, Melanie, and Prissy descend the steps of Aunt Pittypat’s house in Atlanta, escaping a burning Atlanta to return to Tara.
• Ashley meets Scarlett at the bottom of the steps in Atlanta, when he is about to return to the war. She confesses her love again.
• Scarlett falls down the stairs and has a miscarriage.
Scenes where the people STAND ON OR NEAR STEPS and things happen to them:
• Scarlett stands under the steps at Twelve Oaks and hears all the other girls talking about her. She cries.
• Scarlett accepts Charles Hamilton’s proposal on the steps of Twelve Oaks, after being rejected by Ashley and spying Ashley and Melanie saying goodbye.
• Prissy confesses that she doesn’t know nothing bout birthing no babies, and Scarlett realizes that she’ll have to deliver her nemesis’ baby.
• Scarlett stares up at the remains of Twelve Oaks, after it’s been burned by the Yankees. All that’s left is the staircase.
• Scarlett kills a Yankee deserter who’s entered Tara on the stairs.
• The final scene, where Scarlett sits on the steps and decides to return to Tara.
So, why does all that matter? I guess I am not convinced that it does, but here’s what I’m reading into it. Based on dream symbolism, going up stairs in a dream is making progress. Going down is regressing or a setback. Based on the song “Stairway to Heaven,” I am going to guess that up is heaven, and down is hell. I think any way you look at it, up is good, and down is bad. Standing in the middle of a staircase is like being in the middle of a journey. Gone with the Wind is the story of how Scarlett O’Hara met every challenge that was handed to her, in the face of great adversity, and I’m thinking this staircase motif provides a visual cue as to how she was dealing with any challenge at the given moment.
First, let’s look at the staircase at Twelve Oaks. When Scarlett first walks up that staircase with her friend Cathleen, she is filled with all the confidence in the world. She has decided to tell Ashley that she loves him, so that he can’t marry Melanie, and she is easily flirting with all the boys in town. Later, after she’s rejected, she hides under the stairs, listening to what an awful person she is. But as she will continue to do throughout the story, she perseveres, wipes her eyes, and starts climbing again. Midway up, she accepts Charles’ proposal, thinking that the spiteful marriage will make Ashley jealous. She thinks she is making progress with Ashley, hence why she is halfway up the stairs.
When we see the Twelve Oaks staircase again, it’s all that’s left of Twelve Oaks. Scarlett looks up at it longingly, this burned-out staircase representing all the work she has in front of her in restoring herself and her family after this terrible war. She is in the midst of great challenges, having just walked down that staircase in Atlanta. That one doesn’t represent a setback, just the fact that Scarlett was descending into hardship and struggle, with no one to help her---she has two helpless women (Melanie and Prissy), Melanie’s baby, and Rhett, who will soon desert her to fend for herself. Soon she’ll have to take care of her entire family and her home.
Most of Scarlett’s personal setbacks are based on loving the wrong man, Ashley. Scarlett is left at the bottom of the steps as she watches Melanie and Ashley go to their bedroom on Christmas break, and that’s where she is in the next scene as well—waiting for Ashley to come downstairs to catch his train. Scarlett can never get any higher, or further on her journey, while she’s hung up on Ashley.
Scarlett gets halfway up the stairs when she’s realizing her unknown strengths and overcoming obstacles. For example, when she kills the Yankee deserter to protect her home, she is standing about halfway up Tara’s staircase. Also, when she realizes that she’ll have to deliver Melanie’s baby without the help of a doctor, she is on a landing between two staircases, and she has to drag Prissy back up to where Melanie is laboring.
So, now, the famous scene where Rhett carries Scarlett up the stairs. “The rape scene,” as it is commonly referred to. I don’t really want to get into the politics of it, and I can understand if the scene offends you. But I think that scene goes “up” the stairs not just because the bedroom is up there, but because it’s a forward progression in Scarlett’s life. It kind of helps her to realize that Rhett is the man for her. Unfortunately, she soon falls down the stairs, both physically and emotionally, and loses everything.
The movie ends with Scarlett sitting on the bottom of the steps, deciding to go home and try to win Rhett back. She’s at the bottom of the steps because she has yet another mountain to climb, another challenge to vanquish, another goal to reach. She has to climb the metaphorical stairs again. This determination is the hallmark of Scarlett’s character, and the steps help the viewer to determine how far she is on her journey.
Or maybe I’m reading too much into it.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
I support David Letterman's beard
Last night my old friend Dave was back on the television.
Lots of newspaper articles and blogs and tv shows have spent a lot of time talking about the late night hosts coming back. What did it mean, who would do better, who had writers, who didn’t. The gist of the back story is that Dave owns his own show, and he could negotiate separately with the Writer’s Guild, whereas Jay’s show, Conan’s show, etc., are owned by the networks. NBC essentially, as far as I understand it, told Jay and Conan to go back to work.
I’m not saying it’s necessarily unfair or wrong for Jay and Conan to go back; it is difficult to balance the needs of a staff of 200 or so that is out of work because of 20 people. And I’m not so naïve as to think that Dave wouldn’t have gone back to work eventually, with or without writers. I think it’s very clear that Dave works hard, and doesn’t relish sitting around when he could be doing his show.
Throughout the strike, however, I think Dave has shown that he is the class act of late night. He was the first to agree to pay non-striking staff out of pocket. He had a great financial stake in coming back to work as soon as possible. But I think what last night showed is that Dave didn’t need to come back with his writers. Yes, he had a top ten list and something of a monologue, but a lot of the filler between guests was the kind of segment that Dave would have done if he hadn’t had his writers, such as “Know Your Staff,” where an associate producer came out and just talked about what she did, her previous jobs, and showed pictures of her baby. Hal Gurnee was back with some network time killers. Dave even talked about having a guy come out and shave the now infamous strike beard, a reference to a way that he filled time during the 1988 writer’s strike.
So why do all that work to negotiate and come back with writers? Because he is a class act. Dave’s writers have also agreed to donate a percentage of their salaries to the striking writers’ fund, which I think speaks highly of them as well.
Perhaps I’m biased by how much I hate Jay Leno. He makes my skin crawl, he always has, and I wouldn’t watch him if he was the only thing on 2500 channels. And I know that a lot of people don’t find Dave very funny---I was explaining that 1988 writer’s strike shave to someone and they didn’t find it amusing at all.
All I know is I’m glad that my late-night TV friend is back, and that he’s back in a way that’s both typically goofy (in comedy), and particularly distinguished (in relation to the strike).
Lots of newspaper articles and blogs and tv shows have spent a lot of time talking about the late night hosts coming back. What did it mean, who would do better, who had writers, who didn’t. The gist of the back story is that Dave owns his own show, and he could negotiate separately with the Writer’s Guild, whereas Jay’s show, Conan’s show, etc., are owned by the networks. NBC essentially, as far as I understand it, told Jay and Conan to go back to work.
I’m not saying it’s necessarily unfair or wrong for Jay and Conan to go back; it is difficult to balance the needs of a staff of 200 or so that is out of work because of 20 people. And I’m not so naïve as to think that Dave wouldn’t have gone back to work eventually, with or without writers. I think it’s very clear that Dave works hard, and doesn’t relish sitting around when he could be doing his show.
Throughout the strike, however, I think Dave has shown that he is the class act of late night. He was the first to agree to pay non-striking staff out of pocket. He had a great financial stake in coming back to work as soon as possible. But I think what last night showed is that Dave didn’t need to come back with his writers. Yes, he had a top ten list and something of a monologue, but a lot of the filler between guests was the kind of segment that Dave would have done if he hadn’t had his writers, such as “Know Your Staff,” where an associate producer came out and just talked about what she did, her previous jobs, and showed pictures of her baby. Hal Gurnee was back with some network time killers. Dave even talked about having a guy come out and shave the now infamous strike beard, a reference to a way that he filled time during the 1988 writer’s strike.
So why do all that work to negotiate and come back with writers? Because he is a class act. Dave’s writers have also agreed to donate a percentage of their salaries to the striking writers’ fund, which I think speaks highly of them as well.
Perhaps I’m biased by how much I hate Jay Leno. He makes my skin crawl, he always has, and I wouldn’t watch him if he was the only thing on 2500 channels. And I know that a lot of people don’t find Dave very funny---I was explaining that 1988 writer’s strike shave to someone and they didn’t find it amusing at all.
All I know is I’m glad that my late-night TV friend is back, and that he’s back in a way that’s both typically goofy (in comedy), and particularly distinguished (in relation to the strike).
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