It's been too long since my last update.
And by this, I mean "it's been too long since my last writing assignment at Pitt."
I've had high hopes of having this paper written by now. I promised myself at the beginning of the semester, "Sammi - do yourself a favor. Don't get work done on time: get it done early." So far, this promise has been broken at least once a week. In the case of this paper, multiple days in a row.
I received an email from my independent study leader (aka, a teacher for a self-paced class; aka, I should not be taking this). He suggested that, in order to stay on track with the course, it would behoove us to submit paper #1 by the weekend.
That was two weeks ago.
"Behoove," of course, was my word choice just now. Perhaps if he had used that word, I would have attacked the paper immediately, but that's all behind us now.
Last week, I decided to be a good girl and write this paper. Then a friend of mine suggested we go to a bookstore together and both work on our respective assignments and as anyone could guess, that quickly fell by the wayside. Though in my defense, I did try - I got as far as the heading for the paper. I even inserted the page numbers in the footer. According to my own writing process, I'm already a tenth of the way there.
So now I am sitting in the David Lawrence building on a Saturday, having been asked to take my brother to his ACT testing here, and once again I'm faced with the unrelenting temptation - nay, desire, to completely slack off and allow myself to be distracted. I even planned for a way to distract myself: I brought not one, but two novels I have either started or want to start reading. These, however, will be last resorts.
First, I started combing through my hair with my fingers. It's too hot and humid to bother straightening my hair, so it's wavy, tangled mess and certainly needs for this to be done.
Once I can't do that any longer, I decide to at least make a go at the paper. I get out my laptop, my book, my notes. I decide to jot down an outline. I realize I have no pen, no pencil, not even a marker with which to write. But I am in a college lecture building's lobby, so I decide to go on a pen hunt. I've had many classes in this building and have often found abandoned pens on tables, under chairs, or in the middle of the lobby, having fallen from the backpacks or purses of their previous owners.
After about seven minutes of this, I realize I probably look pretty silly crouching about in this way, so I resign myself back to the table with my laptop etc. and decide to just take the notes on my computer in a Word.doc.
And as fate would have it, Facebook calls to me and I waste fifteen minutes checking it and then my email.
And now, we come to this: me updating. I must ask myself the question - why do I do this to myself? I know that I am a good writer, that I could (and do) pull words out of a hat and, with little effort, splatter them on a page like a modern artist. And, like the modern artist's audience, my teachers seem to deem them as masterpieces. Does this make me proud to say this? I'm merely stating a fact. But perhaps even recognizing this fact makes me proud. No - humble writers wouldn't mention this...they wouldn't stall the way I do, either. They'd see this ability as a gift not to be squandered, a weapon only to be used in the most dire of situations, to be held back for only the emergency situations.
I know I'm wasting my potential by doing this. I know I could be putting so much more into my work, so much more depth, so much more detail.
I broke my nail. Great, now I'm a proud, vain writer.
I need to stop this. End of. I need to write my paper.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Monday, November 29, 2010
Movin' on Up!
We've changed the date for the better: we'll now be getting hitched on Friday, October 7th, 2011!
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Check out what's been keeping me from posting...
My latest essay for Pitt entitled "Naughty Bones," or "Sinister Ribs."
[[and for some exciting news, see my last post!]]
[[and for some exciting news, see my last post!]]
I decided to take a “from the ground, up" approach to this post, looking not for a question’s answer but rather for a question, and I was surprised at what I found. I tried to think of a word that I knew was used throughout the text, and the word rib came to mind. It turns out that it’s used in many different contexts and is not exclusive to the Adam and Eve story. Rib is first used in Book I’s narration of the establishment of Pandemonium:
…Soon had his crew
Opened into the hill a spacious wound, 690
And digged out ribs of gold.
One definition of rib is “a bar or rod that strengthens, supports, or reinforces a structure.” (OED, –8. a.) My original intention, however, was to look at this word in context to Book X during Adam’s angry rant about his disobedience being Eve’s fault:
…But for thee
I had persisted happy, had not thy pride
And wand’ring vanity, when least was safe, 875
Rejected my forewarning, and disdained
Not to be trusted, longing to be seen
Though by the Devil himself, him overweening[…]
And understood not all was but a show
Rather than solid virtue, all but a rib
Crooked by nature, bent, as now appears, 885
More to the part sinister from me drawn,
Well if thrown out, as supernumerary
To my just number found.
Adam then proceeds to blame Eve excessively, wishing God had never created her. Here, rib is used in a very different way – he is referencing it in the anatomical sense (which anybody can tell), but also in a sort of slang, with rib being another word for a person's wife or – more generally put – a woman. (OED, –3.) First, he describes what the anatomical rib looks like: naturally crooked, “bent;” the same way he now sees Eve – “crooked” meaning deceitful. It was at this point that I noticed the word sinister. Today, we usually take this word to mean “given with intent to deceive or mislead, especially so as to create a prejudice against some person; prompted by malice or ill-will.” (OED, I. 1. a.) But while this does fit the description Adam has just assigned to Eve, there is more to sinister than our modern comprehension of the word. It also means “situated on the left side of the body.” (OED, II. 9. a.) This really brings about a separate interpretation when taken into account. The image created by these two interpretations is as follows: Adam saying (1.) that Eve was the evil which was drawn out of him and (2.) that Eve was drawn from his left side. One way this could be read is that God pulled the rib from the left side so that it would be closer to the heart, but another perspective is that God pulled the rib from Adam’s weaker side.* The left side of the body has never been regarded highly throughout Western history. During Milton’s era, many believed that being left-handed, for example, meant that you were demon-possessed; children, therefore, were broken of the habit when they started attending school (this practice – while likely not associated with this superstition any longer – was still in effect even as recent as the 1940s and ‘50s, even in America). In addition to these modern day opinions, Milton has given a more obvious comparison to this scene – in Book II, Satan’s offspring “Sin” is introduced as being
In darkness, while thy [Satan’s] head flames thick and fast
Threw forth, till on the left side op’ning wide, 755
Likest to thee in shape and count’nance bright,
As God created mankind in His own image, Sin was created (spawned) in Satan’s image. When Adam is describing the parallel event to this in Book X, he too remarks that the rib from which Eve was formed came from his left side (even though this isn’t actually ever stated in Genesis). By inserting this memory of Sin’s, Milton plays on the literal and metaphorical meanings of the word sinister, directly linking Eve - and women as a whole - to evil.
~~~~~~~~~~
RIB.
I. The bone, and related senses.
1. a. Each of the series of long, narrow curved bones articulated in pairs to the spine in humans and other vertebrates, enclosing or tending to enclose the thoracic (or body) cavity and protecting the main internal organs within it; usu. in pl. Also (in pl.): the part of the body in which the ribs are contained, the upper torso.
movable, short, skinny-rib, etc.: see the first element.
a1616 SHAKESPEARE MILTON T. HALL 3. With allusion to the biblical account of the creation of Eve from Adam's rib (Gen. 2:21): a person's wife; (occas. more generally) a woman. slang in later use. 1589 KING JAMES VI Let. 19 Feb. in Calderwood's Hist. Kirk of Scotl. (1844) V. 82 Recommending me and my new rib to your daylie prayers. 1732 H. FIELDING 8. a. A bar or rod that strengthens, supports, or reinforces a structure. Also fig. and in figurative contexts. 1600 SHAKESPEARE SINISTER. I. 1. a. Of information: Given with intent to deceive or mislead, esp. so as to create a prejudice against some person; prompted by malice or ill-will. Obs. 1411 Rolls of Parlt. III. 650/2 And of all that by sinistre information, I havyng doute of harme of my body,..dyd assemble thise persones. 1566 Reg. Privy Council Scot. I. 416 Upoun sinister informatioun maid to thair Lordships,..the said Robert wes lattin to libertie; albeit the saidis Lordis perfytelie now undirstandis the contrarie. 2. Of opinions, etc.: Prejudicial, adverse, unfavourable, darkly suspicious. Obs. 1432 Paston Lett. I. 35 That the said Erle may have knowleche therof, to th' entent that he may..not dwelle in hevy or synistre conceit or opinion. a1713 T. ELLWOOD Autobiog. (1765) 67 Some evil Suspicion or sinister Thoughts concerning me. 1795 Sewel's Hist. Quakers I. Pref. p. xv, This is a very sinister and preposterous conceit. II. 9. a. Situated on the left side of the body. c1475 Partenay 3049 The sinistre Arme smote he vppon. SHAKES. Tr. & Cr. IV. v. 128 My Mothers bloud Runs on the dexter cheeke, and this sinister Bounds in my fathers. 1682 DRYDEN Mac-Fl. 120 In his sinister hand..He placed a mighty mug of potent ale. Comb. a1658 LOVELACE Poems (1864) 158 That which still makes her mirth to flow, Is our sinister-handed woe. * I cannot take full credit for this idea: we discussed this in another class I’m currently taking. :-)
Saturday, November 20, 2010
I'm Engaged!
I love to write Steve letters. Letters and cards. As often as I can, I mail them, hide them somewhere for him to find, etc.
Friday night I get my Jeep back from a long month of repairs and decide I want to drive. We were going out that night so I picked him up at 6:30. He came out of the house with a USPS shipping box. When I asked, he told me it was his sister's Christmas gift.
We drive to the mall and park, and he asks me to turn on the interior light. From the box, he pulls out seven envelopes, numbered 1-7 on the front. "I know I've said I'd someday write you some notes too, so I'm catching up." As I take them in my lap, grinning ear to ear and eager to rip into them, he adds, "and since it's close to Thanksgiving, I'm sure you'll notice a trend."
I open the first note and find one line of words to the eff
ect of: "I'm SO THANKFUL that on July 4th, 2009, I met you at the Harrisville volleyball tournament." With it were three cute little girl volleyball player clip art pictures. The letters went on, each one further detailing our relationship with the "thankful trend" - "...thankful you said yes when I asked you out," "...thankful I could take care of you after your surgery," "...thankful you put up with my goofiness and faults." So when I read the last note and looked up at him to give him a hug and say "thank you," there he is with a black velvet ring box in hand, and he says, "And I'd be even MORE thankful if you would marry me."*insert "OMG! OMG! OMG! yes! oooooh my goodness!!! I don't believe it!" [hug, kiss, hug, kiss]*
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Happy Hump Day
How does one find herself going from a nice, cool bed under a soft sheet to a smelly bus stop with a deranged pregnant woman singing along with her iPod and digging at her crotch? Answer: slowly. Painfully, dreadfully, slowly.
This morning started like any other morning: the wind was blowing softly through my open window, my ceiling fan was merrily circulating the air throughout the room, and – of course – my alarm was going off. The only variable today was that instead of riding in with my father I would be driving myself.
I only do this if I must, mind you. Since two of my classes run past the normal four o’clock departure time, I now have to drive my Jeep in to Oakland on said days. Now, back to the alarm clock.
Instead of waking up at 5:30 like I typically do, I decided to live a little and sleep an extra fifteen minutes. But rather than hit the snooze three times, I opted to change the alarm time to 5:45. What I didn’t realize in my sleepy stupor though was that I accidentally changed it not to 5:45, but to 6:45. That’s right, a whole hour’s difference. This would be the mistake that would alter the entire morning for me. As I tomahawked myself out of bed and got dressed, I carefully made sure that I had packed everything I needed for the day. I bolted down the stairs and was about to run out the door when my mom yelled down, “Don’t forget to pack some food!” Throwing on the breaks, I circled back around to the kitchen and chucked a few items into my bag.
These items were: a yogurt tube, a cheese stick, a bag of red grapes, and a foil-wrapped piece of perogie pizza from the night before. I tell you this because it will play a part later in this post. Okay, resume in three, two, one…
Ready to leave a second time, I jog up to my Jeep and hop in. I’m half way down the street when I realize that I’ve left my cell phone. I throw the Jeep into reverse and back up my road to my house. After retrieving my phone, I am now ready to leave yet a third time. As I drive back down the road, my “low fuel” light comes on. Great. Another stop. Fifteen dollars later, I’m back on the trail that is Route 28.
This is where the fun starts, people, so buckle up.
The drive up until the RIDC exit had been the usual stop-and-go traffic one sees every morning on the inbound commute. I’m following a rather large SUV when out of nowhere, a doe leaps from the grassy area on the other side of the highway. I embellish not when I say that this SUV obliterated that deer. I for one was easily cruising at 80 mph, so the vehicle in front of me was probably going the same. The chunks that flew from the front of his car were the size of basketballs. I slammed on my breaks to avoid crashing into his backend then had to veer off the road to avoid getting rear-ended myself by the car behind me. Panting from the adrenaline that was now rushing through me, I came back up onto the road to press on.
The ride only got worse. Once I made it to the Fortieth Street Bridge, traffic slowed to a stop. Once I made it across the Bloomfield Bridge, I found myself trapped behind a street cleaning machine. The traffic opposite me was too steady to cross the line and go around it, so instead I had to move at 15 mph along a 30 mph road. At last I was in Oakland. I made it into the parking garage with no issues, unless you count not being able to find a parking space until the fourth tier an issue. After parking, I opened my door to allow the overhead light to come on so that I could see the mess that slamming on my breaks had caused. My lunch had spilled out of my bag onto the floor of my passenger side feet space. To aggravate me further, the keys in my ignition were making my car ding. DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING. I pulled the keys out slightly to stop this.
Pay attention now, because if you do you’ll catch what I did not. Ah, the advantages of spelling things like this out – you see the mistake before it even happens.
Another two minutes, and everything was back in its place. Closing the doors, I made my way to the elevator, rode it to G1, and started walking down to the nearest bus stop. As I turned onto Fifth Avenue, I saw a bus about to stop at the end of the block. Technically, I’m not yet cleared to run, but I’ve been able to jog lightly…you’ll never learn to fly unless you jump out of the nest, right? So I took off in a sprint towards the bus. Bad idea. My knee twinged, and I staggered into a light jog, and finally into a limping walk as the bus blew by me.
I know you’re thinking it, so let’s just all say it once together: FAIL.
Five minutes later, I was on a bus heading towards my office. I got off at the stop nearest to my building and walked down the hill awkwardly. I knew Caribou was at the end of the block, and I just had to stop. I felt as though I’d earned it this morning. I walked in, set my bag down on a table, and began rooting through the front zipper section for my wallet when it hit me: my keys. Where were my keys? In the ignition of your car a mile away, you blithering idiot. Crestfallen, I stepped to the counter – knowing full well what I was going to have to do after purchasing my size small, four dollar specialty drink – and placed my order.
Fact: perhaps the only thing that had merited a smile the whole morning was that coffee. It’s September 8th and any Caribou addict worth her salt knows that this means the fall line of drinks come out. Therefore, instead of my usual small, skim white chocolate mocha, this morning’s order was a small, skim pumpkin white chocolate mocha. And yes, it was incredible, thank-you-very-much.
I picked my beverage up at the end of the counter, sleeved it, exited the comforting confines of my favorite coffee shop, and walked across the street to the bus stop in order to catch yet another bus that would take me back up to my garage. Those keys and I had some reuniting to do.
For those who do not know me especially well, I think it might be a good time to note that I am not a particularly paranoid person; actually, I consider myself so laid back that I may very well be in the horizontal position at times with my easygoingness. But leaving my keys in a Jeep – even if it IS in an underground garage – is just a little too much for me to let go. Had I headed to my office, I would even now be playing scenes in my head pertaining to some hooligan roaming the lot looking for a car with the keys still in the ignition then hopping in and driving away with my precious volleyball in the backseat. So yes, my Jeep may have been perfectly safe the entire day, but I did go back for the keys. Don’t judge me.
Ironically enough, across the street from the Caribou coffee shop is a Starbucks coffee shop. Don’t ask, it’s Pittsburgh. After maybe two or three minutes of waiting, a colossally pregnant woman waltzes out of the Starbucks, drink in one hand, iPod in the other, singing along with it to beat the band. She’s wearing a shirt that barely covers her bulging, infant-toting stomach along with a pair of jeans even I couldn’t fit in. To make matters worse, these jeans were giving her a serious case of the scratches, because she was quite literally clawing at her crotch to get the itch. To top it all off, she reeked of rotten eggs. I made it another three or four minutes before I decided it just wasn’t worth dying of stench inhalation and started walking to the next block’s bus stop. Suddenly, I was going toe to toe with the street cleaner again. He was hogging up the right lane and spraying the road and sidewalks with blasts of water. An extremely petite oriental girl was walking toward me, looking nowhere but down at her feet, presumably trying to avoid getting her shoes wet. Being sandwiched in on all sides, I tried to push my way past others to avoid a head-on collision with this completely oblivious girl. Instead, we clipped each other, and she managed to spill some of her drink on me. The lightbulb magically appeared above her head as she realized she’d plowed right into me; instead of an apology though, I got a shaky “No worry, it’s white tea,” and she shuffled hastily away. With my back wet with sweat and my torso wet with white tea, I stood waiting for the bus.
Incidentally, thirty seconds after the tea run-in, the last block’s bus came.
Ten minutes later, and I was on one of the campus’s buses getting shuttled over to the Cathedral of Learning. I made it off the bus first and elbowed my way through the impatient crowd of students who were trying to get on while others were still trying to get off. Up the hill I hiked, then down into the parking garage. I circled two levels before I realized I’d parked in section G3. Classic. I jogged to where I figured my car must be, praying that it would still be there or that, at least, that I could get a good look at the car thief as he pealed out of my stellar back-in job. Thankfully, Casper (the friendly Jeep) was still there, as were the keys. I paused for a moment, sighed, then ripped the keys from the ignition and stalked back to the elevator.
Walk down the hill, catch a bus, get off, walk to the office. Rinse and repeat.
I made it to my building without injury and took the elevator to my floor. When I came in and sat down, I decided to open my bag and take out my lunch. Keep in mind, I’ve been roaming all over Creation and the bag has been on my back the whole time, along for the ride. I loosen the drawstrings of my pack and am immediately punched in the nose by the most eye-watering odor of onions. My perogie pizza. In addition, my cheese stick is smashed into a mashed cheese strip and my grapes look like some Italian grandma has been squashing them in a wooden basin with her bare feet. But hey, even though my bag smells like onions and sweat, I can at least say that I smell of a quite fragrant blend of white tea and, by God, I’m really going to enjoy my yogurt tube.
Happy Hump Day, readers.
This morning started like any other morning: the wind was blowing softly through my open window, my ceiling fan was merrily circulating the air throughout the room, and – of course – my alarm was going off. The only variable today was that instead of riding in with my father I would be driving myself.
I only do this if I must, mind you. Since two of my classes run past the normal four o’clock departure time, I now have to drive my Jeep in to Oakland on said days. Now, back to the alarm clock.
Instead of waking up at 5:30 like I typically do, I decided to live a little and sleep an extra fifteen minutes. But rather than hit the snooze three times, I opted to change the alarm time to 5:45. What I didn’t realize in my sleepy stupor though was that I accidentally changed it not to 5:45, but to 6:45. That’s right, a whole hour’s difference. This would be the mistake that would alter the entire morning for me. As I tomahawked myself out of bed and got dressed, I carefully made sure that I had packed everything I needed for the day. I bolted down the stairs and was about to run out the door when my mom yelled down, “Don’t forget to pack some food!” Throwing on the breaks, I circled back around to the kitchen and chucked a few items into my bag.
These items were: a yogurt tube, a cheese stick, a bag of red grapes, and a foil-wrapped piece of perogie pizza from the night before. I tell you this because it will play a part later in this post. Okay, resume in three, two, one…
Ready to leave a second time, I jog up to my Jeep and hop in. I’m half way down the street when I realize that I’ve left my cell phone. I throw the Jeep into reverse and back up my road to my house. After retrieving my phone, I am now ready to leave yet a third time. As I drive back down the road, my “low fuel” light comes on. Great. Another stop. Fifteen dollars later, I’m back on the trail that is Route 28.
This is where the fun starts, people, so buckle up.
The drive up until the RIDC exit had been the usual stop-and-go traffic one sees every morning on the inbound commute. I’m following a rather large SUV when out of nowhere, a doe leaps from the grassy area on the other side of the highway. I embellish not when I say that this SUV obliterated that deer. I for one was easily cruising at 80 mph, so the vehicle in front of me was probably going the same. The chunks that flew from the front of his car were the size of basketballs. I slammed on my breaks to avoid crashing into his backend then had to veer off the road to avoid getting rear-ended myself by the car behind me. Panting from the adrenaline that was now rushing through me, I came back up onto the road to press on.
The ride only got worse. Once I made it to the Fortieth Street Bridge, traffic slowed to a stop. Once I made it across the Bloomfield Bridge, I found myself trapped behind a street cleaning machine. The traffic opposite me was too steady to cross the line and go around it, so instead I had to move at 15 mph along a 30 mph road. At last I was in Oakland. I made it into the parking garage with no issues, unless you count not being able to find a parking space until the fourth tier an issue. After parking, I opened my door to allow the overhead light to come on so that I could see the mess that slamming on my breaks had caused. My lunch had spilled out of my bag onto the floor of my passenger side feet space. To aggravate me further, the keys in my ignition were making my car ding. DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING. I pulled the keys out slightly to stop this.
Pay attention now, because if you do you’ll catch what I did not. Ah, the advantages of spelling things like this out – you see the mistake before it even happens.
Another two minutes, and everything was back in its place. Closing the doors, I made my way to the elevator, rode it to G1, and started walking down to the nearest bus stop. As I turned onto Fifth Avenue, I saw a bus about to stop at the end of the block. Technically, I’m not yet cleared to run, but I’ve been able to jog lightly…you’ll never learn to fly unless you jump out of the nest, right? So I took off in a sprint towards the bus. Bad idea. My knee twinged, and I staggered into a light jog, and finally into a limping walk as the bus blew by me.
I know you’re thinking it, so let’s just all say it once together: FAIL.
Five minutes later, I was on a bus heading towards my office. I got off at the stop nearest to my building and walked down the hill awkwardly. I knew Caribou was at the end of the block, and I just had to stop. I felt as though I’d earned it this morning. I walked in, set my bag down on a table, and began rooting through the front zipper section for my wallet when it hit me: my keys. Where were my keys? In the ignition of your car a mile away, you blithering idiot. Crestfallen, I stepped to the counter – knowing full well what I was going to have to do after purchasing my size small, four dollar specialty drink – and placed my order.
Fact: perhaps the only thing that had merited a smile the whole morning was that coffee. It’s September 8th and any Caribou addict worth her salt knows that this means the fall line of drinks come out. Therefore, instead of my usual small, skim white chocolate mocha, this morning’s order was a small, skim pumpkin white chocolate mocha. And yes, it was incredible, thank-you-very-much.
I picked my beverage up at the end of the counter, sleeved it, exited the comforting confines of my favorite coffee shop, and walked across the street to the bus stop in order to catch yet another bus that would take me back up to my garage. Those keys and I had some reuniting to do.
For those who do not know me especially well, I think it might be a good time to note that I am not a particularly paranoid person; actually, I consider myself so laid back that I may very well be in the horizontal position at times with my easygoingness. But leaving my keys in a Jeep – even if it IS in an underground garage – is just a little too much for me to let go. Had I headed to my office, I would even now be playing scenes in my head pertaining to some hooligan roaming the lot looking for a car with the keys still in the ignition then hopping in and driving away with my precious volleyball in the backseat. So yes, my Jeep may have been perfectly safe the entire day, but I did go back for the keys. Don’t judge me.
Ironically enough, across the street from the Caribou coffee shop is a Starbucks coffee shop. Don’t ask, it’s Pittsburgh. After maybe two or three minutes of waiting, a colossally pregnant woman waltzes out of the Starbucks, drink in one hand, iPod in the other, singing along with it to beat the band. She’s wearing a shirt that barely covers her bulging, infant-toting stomach along with a pair of jeans even I couldn’t fit in. To make matters worse, these jeans were giving her a serious case of the scratches, because she was quite literally clawing at her crotch to get the itch. To top it all off, she reeked of rotten eggs. I made it another three or four minutes before I decided it just wasn’t worth dying of stench inhalation and started walking to the next block’s bus stop. Suddenly, I was going toe to toe with the street cleaner again. He was hogging up the right lane and spraying the road and sidewalks with blasts of water. An extremely petite oriental girl was walking toward me, looking nowhere but down at her feet, presumably trying to avoid getting her shoes wet. Being sandwiched in on all sides, I tried to push my way past others to avoid a head-on collision with this completely oblivious girl. Instead, we clipped each other, and she managed to spill some of her drink on me. The lightbulb magically appeared above her head as she realized she’d plowed right into me; instead of an apology though, I got a shaky “No worry, it’s white tea,” and she shuffled hastily away. With my back wet with sweat and my torso wet with white tea, I stood waiting for the bus.
Incidentally, thirty seconds after the tea run-in, the last block’s bus came.
Ten minutes later, and I was on one of the campus’s buses getting shuttled over to the Cathedral of Learning. I made it off the bus first and elbowed my way through the impatient crowd of students who were trying to get on while others were still trying to get off. Up the hill I hiked, then down into the parking garage. I circled two levels before I realized I’d parked in section G3. Classic. I jogged to where I figured my car must be, praying that it would still be there or that, at least, that I could get a good look at the car thief as he pealed out of my stellar back-in job. Thankfully, Casper (the friendly Jeep) was still there, as were the keys. I paused for a moment, sighed, then ripped the keys from the ignition and stalked back to the elevator.
Walk down the hill, catch a bus, get off, walk to the office. Rinse and repeat.
I made it to my building without injury and took the elevator to my floor. When I came in and sat down, I decided to open my bag and take out my lunch. Keep in mind, I’ve been roaming all over Creation and the bag has been on my back the whole time, along for the ride. I loosen the drawstrings of my pack and am immediately punched in the nose by the most eye-watering odor of onions. My perogie pizza. In addition, my cheese stick is smashed into a mashed cheese strip and my grapes look like some Italian grandma has been squashing them in a wooden basin with her bare feet. But hey, even though my bag smells like onions and sweat, I can at least say that I smell of a quite fragrant blend of white tea and, by God, I’m really going to enjoy my yogurt tube.
Happy Hump Day, readers.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Personality
There is a really cool site I just found from another blog - it's called the Typealyzer, and it analyzes blogs to determine the "personality" of them. Mine took about a second to yield a result, and this is what it said:
For those who know me, this is spot on. Pretty cool! : )
For those who know me, this is spot on. Pretty cool! : )
Friday, July 16, 2010
Nostalgia Fail
I recently had ACL surgery on my right knee, so for the last several weeks I’ve been regularly going to physical therapy a few miles from my house. Since I couldn’t drive myself, my mom or boyfriend Steve had been taking me. Just caddy-corner from the PT office is a Ponderosa.
For those of you unfamiliar with this franchise, it’s a steakhouse/all-you-can-eat buffet. I have the fondest childhood memories of this restaurant: when I was a little girl, my grandfather would take me there for any occasion he could think up. Birthday? Let’s go to Ponderosa! A long day of fishing? Ponderosa! I loved it there. It was a very family-friendly place – no alcoholic beverages, lots of different kinds of food that all kids enjoyed (like tacos, chicken tenders, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese…you get the idea);
they even had a “Kids Korner” where children could sit and play after eating, complete with a chalkboard, coloring books, and Etch-a-Sketches. Heck, you even got a free Mr. Swirly cup if you were 12 or younger PLUS pick from the Swirly hat to win fun stuff like stick-on tattoos or crazy straws. Let me reiterate: I LOVED that place. And yes, the food was probably cheap, the potatoes were probably instant, but even as a 12 year-old I still thought it tasted pretty darn good. The best part? The ice cream machines. Picture what you see behind a Dairy Queen counter, only it’s right before your child’s eager, pudgy little fingers. They had chocolate, vanilla, or twist, and you could top it with a variety of toppings like syrup, sprinkles, or nuts. Ponderosa was the bomb.
So a couple weeks ago, my mom and I are pulling out of my physical therapy’s parking lot discussing what we’re going to fix for dinner. And – as we so often do – we both suggest at the same time, “We should totally go to Ponderosa.” Then a warning I heard not too long ago broke through to the front of my mind, and I answered us with, “…actually, I heard they kinda suck now.” So there we sat at the stop sign that separated us from the legendary restaurant of our past. Finally, we decided to throw caution to the wind and go – I mean, how bad could it really be?
We pull into the parking lot – Rule #1, kids: if the parking lot looks like they poured some cement over a mountain top then painted some lines on it, then they obviously care little about what you think of their restaurant externally; and if they don’t give a crap about what you think before you go in for a meal, they really don’t care about what you think once you're inside about to eat their food – finding a legit place to park was almost as hard as the ridiculous leg lifts I had to do in PT.
As we’re entering through the first set of double doors, there’s an old man in suspenders sitting on a bench just outside the building who eerily resembles Uncle Joe from Petticoat Junction, and he’s glaring at us. We walk through the second door and up to the counter. The girl at the register rings us up for two buffet meals, a water, and a tea. It’s just over $20. I look at my mom and mouth “What the???” Buffets used to be like, five bucks for crying out loud. At this point we’re feeling pretty bummed, but at least we get as much food as we want – we can make it worth nearly ten dollars a pop, right? Wrong. We round the corner and walk into the large seating area which also includes the buffet. My stomach drops as a waitress walking by wafts a wretched smell towards my nose – whether it was her lack of hygiene or the grease-logged food, I can’t be sure. We sit down and are brought our drinks. As I pray for the meal, I close it with, “…and Lord, please don’t let this be as much of a letdown as it has been thus far.” We walk to the buffet, grab a plate, and begin inspecting. Peeking into the covered soup caldron to check out the chicken soup, I pulled the spoon out and let it run over…it was like pouring yellow mud – consider it dodged. Instead, I started with a simple tossed salad with ranch dressing – the salad was limp and borderline SOGGY and the ranch tasted sour. So after two bites of that, I decided it would be best to move on. So I grabbed a new plate and walked back up. Now remember what I said about all that great food Ponderosa had when I was a wee one? None of it was there. And I’m not saying they were out: I’m saying they had all of about 10 dishes on their “buffet.” So I ended up standing at the buffet for a good three minutes waiting for these two cowboy hat-donning old farts to pick out a slice of this Mexican-looking casserole, followed by a scoop of corn. One bite of the casserole disaster and I was done with that dish. The corn, while still hard, was at least edible. Although I so desperately wanted to, I decided I wouldn’t give up just yet – I had noticed that they had soft taco shells up there. So I limped back up to the smorgasbord of epic failure and grabbed myself a soft taco. I cautiously added something that looked a little like ground beef to it and some cheese, but that was it – there was no lettuce or salsa or sour cream to be found. I dragged myself back to the table and tried it. I choked back a gag. I was so beside myself. Ponderosa was a complete and absolute letdown. My mom looked like someone had just shot Max. I suggested we call it quits on the buffet and just get some dessert. So we walked up to the dessert bar and poked around a bit, hoping to have at least one success story we could bring home. My mom took a bite of one of the cookies up there and immediately began looking for somewhere to spit it out. I continued my search until I found the familiar ice cream machine around a corner. I felt the smile creep across my face. Surely they couldn’t mess up ice cream. I got a bowl, pulled down the chocolate lever, and made it swirl at the top as it circled the bowl the third time. I hobbled back to the table, grinning. And just as quickly as that smile had come, it disappeared. Fact: ice cream CAN get freezer burn. We sat silently in utter disbelief for several minutes, Mom sipping her water and I my watered down, incorrectly-refilled as lemonade “tea.” I watched with horror as a family with young children hollered at their rude little boys and how no one in the restaurant seemed to think this was out of the ordinary for the place. The two old John Wayne wannabees were as covered in sloppy food as the floor was. As a pregnant woman walked to the buffet, I leaned across the table to my mother and asked her if I should warn the lady that eating this crap may harm the development of her unborn child.
We finished our drinks and were heading for the door – the door that no one held for us, the door that no one stood at just to tell us “thank you for coming” – and I noticed a “Comments and Suggestions Welcome” box. My eyes lit up. I quickly yanked a scrap of paper from my purse and dug for a pen. Quickly I scrolled my “comments” and “suggestion” – “If you have even a shred of integrity left, you’ll step up this menu and the condition of your restaurant. The food was awful. YOUR STEAKS CAN’T REDEEM YOU.” With glee, I popped that thing into the box, making a point to make eye contact with the young female employee leaning against the wall nearby who looked bored out of her mind. That was the best part of the whole experience. We walked out together, a tad queasy, vowing never to tell the rest of the family of this encounter but to warn anyone who we can ever catch darkening the doorstep of this hell hole.
The good news? If you have a worst enemy, suggest they eat there. Or, better – go get some of their food to go: I’m betting it would work well for pest control since it nearly turned an adult’s stomach inside-out.
For those of you unfamiliar with this franchise, it’s a steakhouse/all-you-can-eat buffet. I have the fondest childhood memories of this restaurant: when I was a little girl, my grandfather would take me there for any occasion he could think up. Birthday? Let’s go to Ponderosa! A long day of fishing? Ponderosa! I loved it there. It was a very family-friendly place – no alcoholic beverages, lots of different kinds of food that all kids enjoyed (like tacos, chicken tenders, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese…you get the idea);
they even had a “Kids Korner” where children could sit and play after eating, complete with a chalkboard, coloring books, and Etch-a-Sketches. Heck, you even got a free Mr. Swirly cup if you were 12 or younger PLUS pick from the Swirly hat to win fun stuff like stick-on tattoos or crazy straws. Let me reiterate: I LOVED that place. And yes, the food was probably cheap, the potatoes were probably instant, but even as a 12 year-old I still thought it tasted pretty darn good. The best part? The ice cream machines. Picture what you see behind a Dairy Queen counter, only it’s right before your child’s eager, pudgy little fingers. They had chocolate, vanilla, or twist, and you could top it with a variety of toppings like syrup, sprinkles, or nuts. Ponderosa was the bomb.So a couple weeks ago, my mom and I are pulling out of my physical therapy’s parking lot discussing what we’re going to fix for dinner. And – as we so often do – we both suggest at the same time, “We should totally go to Ponderosa.” Then a warning I heard not too long ago broke through to the front of my mind, and I answered us with, “…actually, I heard they kinda suck now.” So there we sat at the stop sign that separated us from the legendary restaurant of our past. Finally, we decided to throw caution to the wind and go – I mean, how bad could it really be?
We pull into the parking lot – Rule #1, kids: if the parking lot looks like they poured some cement over a mountain top then painted some lines on it, then they obviously care little about what you think of their restaurant externally; and if they don’t give a crap about what you think before you go in for a meal, they really don’t care about what you think once you're inside about to eat their food – finding a legit place to park was almost as hard as the ridiculous leg lifts I had to do in PT.
As we’re entering through the first set of double doors, there’s an old man in suspenders sitting on a bench just outside the building who eerily resembles Uncle Joe from Petticoat Junction, and he’s glaring at us. We walk through the second door and up to the counter. The girl at the register rings us up for two buffet meals, a water, and a tea. It’s just over $20. I look at my mom and mouth “What the???” Buffets used to be like, five bucks for crying out loud. At this point we’re feeling pretty bummed, but at least we get as much food as we want – we can make it worth nearly ten dollars a pop, right? Wrong. We round the corner and walk into the large seating area which also includes the buffet. My stomach drops as a waitress walking by wafts a wretched smell towards my nose – whether it was her lack of hygiene or the grease-logged food, I can’t be sure. We sit down and are brought our drinks. As I pray for the meal, I close it with, “…and Lord, please don’t let this be as much of a letdown as it has been thus far.” We walk to the buffet, grab a plate, and begin inspecting. Peeking into the covered soup caldron to check out the chicken soup, I pulled the spoon out and let it run over…it was like pouring yellow mud – consider it dodged. Instead, I started with a simple tossed salad with ranch dressing – the salad was limp and borderline SOGGY and the ranch tasted sour. So after two bites of that, I decided it would be best to move on. So I grabbed a new plate and walked back up. Now remember what I said about all that great food Ponderosa had when I was a wee one? None of it was there. And I’m not saying they were out: I’m saying they had all of about 10 dishes on their “buffet.” So I ended up standing at the buffet for a good three minutes waiting for these two cowboy hat-donning old farts to pick out a slice of this Mexican-looking casserole, followed by a scoop of corn. One bite of the casserole disaster and I was done with that dish. The corn, while still hard, was at least edible. Although I so desperately wanted to, I decided I wouldn’t give up just yet – I had noticed that they had soft taco shells up there. So I limped back up to the smorgasbord of epic failure and grabbed myself a soft taco. I cautiously added something that looked a little like ground beef to it and some cheese, but that was it – there was no lettuce or salsa or sour cream to be found. I dragged myself back to the table and tried it. I choked back a gag. I was so beside myself. Ponderosa was a complete and absolute letdown. My mom looked like someone had just shot Max. I suggested we call it quits on the buffet and just get some dessert. So we walked up to the dessert bar and poked around a bit, hoping to have at least one success story we could bring home. My mom took a bite of one of the cookies up there and immediately began looking for somewhere to spit it out. I continued my search until I found the familiar ice cream machine around a corner. I felt the smile creep across my face. Surely they couldn’t mess up ice cream. I got a bowl, pulled down the chocolate lever, and made it swirl at the top as it circled the bowl the third time. I hobbled back to the table, grinning. And just as quickly as that smile had come, it disappeared. Fact: ice cream CAN get freezer burn. We sat silently in utter disbelief for several minutes, Mom sipping her water and I my watered down, incorrectly-refilled as lemonade “tea.” I watched with horror as a family with young children hollered at their rude little boys and how no one in the restaurant seemed to think this was out of the ordinary for the place. The two old John Wayne wannabees were as covered in sloppy food as the floor was. As a pregnant woman walked to the buffet, I leaned across the table to my mother and asked her if I should warn the lady that eating this crap may harm the development of her unborn child.
We finished our drinks and were heading for the door – the door that no one held for us, the door that no one stood at just to tell us “thank you for coming” – and I noticed a “Comments and Suggestions Welcome” box. My eyes lit up. I quickly yanked a scrap of paper from my purse and dug for a pen. Quickly I scrolled my “comments” and “suggestion” – “If you have even a shred of integrity left, you’ll step up this menu and the condition of your restaurant. The food was awful. YOUR STEAKS CAN’T REDEEM YOU.” With glee, I popped that thing into the box, making a point to make eye contact with the young female employee leaning against the wall nearby who looked bored out of her mind. That was the best part of the whole experience. We walked out together, a tad queasy, vowing never to tell the rest of the family of this encounter but to warn anyone who we can ever catch darkening the doorstep of this hell hole.
The good news? If you have a worst enemy, suggest they eat there. Or, better – go get some of their food to go: I’m betting it would work well for pest control since it nearly turned an adult’s stomach inside-out.
Monday, November 23, 2009
DUH.
Just realized I had a post still listed as "edit" in my "Edit Posts" tab. Lo and behold, a pretty much complete update that I never posted.
Ah well. Here is a link to it in case you're interested. :-)
Ah well. Here is a link to it in case you're interested. :-)
Friday, November 20, 2009
Bold Only the Truth:
I am a cuddler.
I am a morning person.
I am a perfectionist.
I am a night person.
I am an only child.
I am Catholic.
I am currently in my pajamas.
I am currently suffering from a broken heart.
I am okay at styling other people’s hair.
I am left handed.
I am addicted to my myspace.
I am very shy around the opposite gender.
I bite my nails.
I can be paranoid at times.
I currently regret something that I have said.
When I get mad I curse frequently.
I like someone a lot.
I enjoy jazz music.
I enjoy smoothies.
I enjoy talking on the phone.
I have a pet.
I have a secret that I am ashamed to reveal.
I have a tendency to fall for the wrong person.
I have all my grandparents.
I have at least one sibling.
I have been told that I am smart.
I have broken a bone.
I have Caller I.D. on my phone.
I have bathed/showered with someone.
I have changed a diaper.
I have changed a lot over the past year.
I have done something illegal.
I have friends who have never seen my natural hair.
I have had surgery.
I have killed another person.
I have had my hair cut within the last week.
I have had the cops called on me.
I have kissed someone I knew I shouldn’t.
I am a morning person.
I am a perfectionist.
I am a night person.
I am an only child.
I am Catholic.
I am currently in my pajamas.
I am currently suffering from a broken heart.
I am okay at styling other people’s hair.
I am left handed.
I am addicted to my myspace.
I am very shy around the opposite gender.
I bite my nails.
I can be paranoid at times.
I currently regret something that I have said.
When I get mad I curse frequently.
I like someone a lot.
I enjoy jazz music.
I enjoy smoothies.
I enjoy talking on the phone.
I have a pet.
I have a secret that I am ashamed to reveal.
I have a tendency to fall for the wrong person.
I have all my grandparents.
I have at least one sibling.
I have been told that I am smart.
I have broken a bone.
I have Caller I.D. on my phone.
I have bathed/showered with someone.
I have changed a diaper.
I have changed a lot over the past year.
I have done something illegal.
I have friends who have never seen my natural hair.
I have had surgery.
I have killed another person.
I have had my hair cut within the last week.
I have had the cops called on me.
I have kissed someone I knew I shouldn’t.
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