Matt Smith!
I confess. I have nothing to comment on this afternoon. Absolutely nothing. I usually sit down with at least a concept -- an idea, an inkling even -- of something, but today? Nothing.
You know that feeling when you really need to go to the bathroom, but for some reason you just can't go? Not that you're physically unable to pass urine, but say, someone's in the bathroom. Or what's often my problem, you're at work, and there's only one key for the restroom ("The key is on that metal scoop on top of the boxes against the wall"), and whenever you have the mind to go use the bathroom, some brainless customer has already taken the key. And the cycle continues.
But you know the feeling, I'd wager.
That's comparable to the feeling I have about writing these letters of intent/essays for my grad school applications. It's almost like having to pee really bad, but something's gotten in your way. I have all this stuff I'm just itching to get out of me -- I want to let these people know I have worth! Meaning! Drive! A way with small children and dogs! -- but I can't make it all work in sentence form. Maybe I can video tape myself doing some sort of interpretive dance. That's definitely a way to go. Or maybe a haiku. Short and to the point. And cross-cultural. Completely awesome, right?
Or maybe I could recite the haiku AND dance. And, of course, there would have to be tiki torches. Nothing says "let me into your graduate school for theatre education" like torches of fire.
(Parenthetically -- 'cause I'm in parentheses now -- you'll have to let me know if there's anything you need for your Evans City abode. There's a family moving in to the house across the street from my apartment, and it'd be really easy to swipe, say, a dish or a house plant or a refrigerator.)
Keep me posted.
-- Meredith
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Oh, To Be a Fire Hydrant!
Matt Smith,
First and foremost, I think I should apologize for calling you simply "Matt" on the phone the other day. I think I caught you off-guard. But the Steelers won. So, really, no harm done.
A few days ago, while driving home from the South Side, I passed a James Dean lookalike who appeared to be humping a fire hydrant. He seemed so happy. Granted, he might have been severely tripped out on some potentially deadly substance, but he was just rocking, and rocking, and rocking -- like he could just ride that fire hydrant on home to the Promised Land.
Recently, I've been struggling to figure out what exactly makes me happy. A co-worker of mine asked me that awhile back, and even though I gave him an answer, I'm still not sure I was completely honest. I said, "Helping other people -- especially children -- see things in a new way." Textbook answer, really. Almost as if I was preparing to write some personal statements for graduate school applications... BUT. I digress.
In my high school yearbook, way, way, WAY in the back, there's a long listing of what everyone wants to do after graduation. Mine says (and I'm doing this from memory, yet I remember it verbatim), "To pursue a career in theatre... To be happy." Well, one out of two ain't bad.
Not that I'm UNhappy. I'm not. I'm content. Really. I'm doing a lot of things that I love to do, and a few things that I don't entirely despise. I'm getting by. I surround myself with people that I love. And that HAS to be something. I can't help but be happy with those things.
But I'm missing something. I wish that I could do one thing, stay in one place, stop all this running around, working at things that don't bring me satisfaction. I think grad school might help with that. I'll be certified to teach -- certified to make a difference with more than one kid at a time. It's a small step, but I have to keep telling myself I'm getting somewhere. Slowly. Very slowly.
All in all, I'm happy. I'm just not moth-in-a-flame happy. I'm not James Dean humping a fire hydrant happy.
I'll have to keep working on that.
Don't let the bed bugs bite,
Meredith
First and foremost, I think I should apologize for calling you simply "Matt" on the phone the other day. I think I caught you off-guard. But the Steelers won. So, really, no harm done.
A few days ago, while driving home from the South Side, I passed a James Dean lookalike who appeared to be humping a fire hydrant. He seemed so happy. Granted, he might have been severely tripped out on some potentially deadly substance, but he was just rocking, and rocking, and rocking -- like he could just ride that fire hydrant on home to the Promised Land.
Recently, I've been struggling to figure out what exactly makes me happy. A co-worker of mine asked me that awhile back, and even though I gave him an answer, I'm still not sure I was completely honest. I said, "Helping other people -- especially children -- see things in a new way." Textbook answer, really. Almost as if I was preparing to write some personal statements for graduate school applications... BUT. I digress.
In my high school yearbook, way, way, WAY in the back, there's a long listing of what everyone wants to do after graduation. Mine says (and I'm doing this from memory, yet I remember it verbatim), "To pursue a career in theatre... To be happy." Well, one out of two ain't bad.
Not that I'm UNhappy. I'm not. I'm content. Really. I'm doing a lot of things that I love to do, and a few things that I don't entirely despise. I'm getting by. I surround myself with people that I love. And that HAS to be something. I can't help but be happy with those things.
But I'm missing something. I wish that I could do one thing, stay in one place, stop all this running around, working at things that don't bring me satisfaction. I think grad school might help with that. I'll be certified to teach -- certified to make a difference with more than one kid at a time. It's a small step, but I have to keep telling myself I'm getting somewhere. Slowly. Very slowly.
All in all, I'm happy. I'm just not moth-in-a-flame happy. I'm not James Dean humping a fire hydrant happy.
I'll have to keep working on that.
Don't let the bed bugs bite,
Meredith
Monday, October 17, 2005
What's in the Trunk of my Car and Other Smelly Things
Grab a coat, Matt Smith.
Fall is officially here. I drove back and forth across the PA Turnpike last week, watching the fall colors appear. Whoa. That makes me sound ridiculous, doesn't it? I did it for a reason -- work. I didn't drive back and forth just willy-nilly, looking at colors. That could get pricey on the Turnpike. But, at any rate, it's time for scary stuff, pumpkining, cider, sweaters, scarves, and jumping in large piles of dry leaves. (Just the dry ones. They crunch better.)
It's also past due for me to schedule my GRE test, and start on my grad school applications. The more I say it, the more I think it's going to happen. Going to grad school. Getting certified to teach theatre and all that good stuff. But the trouble is, I never seem to find time to get to all of that important stuff. I can talk a mile a minute about it when people ask me what I'm doing back in town, but I have nothing to show for it but half a dozen grad school applications in PDF files on my computer and a pile of NYU information in the trunk of my car. Maybe I'll get to it after Marty and Emma get married.
Marty and Emma get married in less than two weeks.
Which is truly bizarre.
I'm mildly ready for that. As in, I've reserved a cabin, and purchased a dress. I have yet to pay off the cabin rental, or purchase shoes, jewelry, and the like for the dress, but I'm looking forward to the mini-vacation that will be the end of October. In a way, I'm almost thankful that they're getting married in two weeks. I could use a break.
I wish I had more interesting things to report, more comical things to comment on, more phrases to end with a preposition. But alas, alack, Alan Thicke -- I do not. I would like to add that I like that old Gorton's fish commercial where there's this gargantuan fish sitting on a playground swing, and the lady moves her child away from it. You know the one... with the tag, "Uncomfortable around fish?" I love that. I wish it played still. Maybe it does and I just haven't seen it in a while. I don't know. But, a plea to Gorton's: bring back the giant fish on the swing set. Bring it back. Now.
Hats, gloves, and Jumanji,
Meredith
Fall is officially here. I drove back and forth across the PA Turnpike last week, watching the fall colors appear. Whoa. That makes me sound ridiculous, doesn't it? I did it for a reason -- work. I didn't drive back and forth just willy-nilly, looking at colors. That could get pricey on the Turnpike. But, at any rate, it's time for scary stuff, pumpkining, cider, sweaters, scarves, and jumping in large piles of dry leaves. (Just the dry ones. They crunch better.)
It's also past due for me to schedule my GRE test, and start on my grad school applications. The more I say it, the more I think it's going to happen. Going to grad school. Getting certified to teach theatre and all that good stuff. But the trouble is, I never seem to find time to get to all of that important stuff. I can talk a mile a minute about it when people ask me what I'm doing back in town, but I have nothing to show for it but half a dozen grad school applications in PDF files on my computer and a pile of NYU information in the trunk of my car. Maybe I'll get to it after Marty and Emma get married.
Marty and Emma get married in less than two weeks.
Which is truly bizarre.
I'm mildly ready for that. As in, I've reserved a cabin, and purchased a dress. I have yet to pay off the cabin rental, or purchase shoes, jewelry, and the like for the dress, but I'm looking forward to the mini-vacation that will be the end of October. In a way, I'm almost thankful that they're getting married in two weeks. I could use a break.
I wish I had more interesting things to report, more comical things to comment on, more phrases to end with a preposition. But alas, alack, Alan Thicke -- I do not. I would like to add that I like that old Gorton's fish commercial where there's this gargantuan fish sitting on a playground swing, and the lady moves her child away from it. You know the one... with the tag, "Uncomfortable around fish?" I love that. I wish it played still. Maybe it does and I just haven't seen it in a while. I don't know. But, a plea to Gorton's: bring back the giant fish on the swing set. Bring it back. Now.
Hats, gloves, and Jumanji,
Meredith
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul
Mele Kalikimaka, Matt Smith.
It's officially fall. I can tell. I have that lingering feeling of dread, accompanied by a soft, chewy melancholic center. My emotions are very closely linked to the weather -- I told Dunegan it's a trade-off; I also get 43 separate channels even though the antenna's bent.
Fall also means that people are getting married. I think that's closely linked to the weather as well, really. There are more weddings at the tail end of summer and during the fall because our animal instincts kick in. Human beings know that the winter is coming, and they want to huddle together for warmth. It's like a long, long, familial hibernation.
At any rate, that's all to say that I've been to several weddings thus far this season, and I still have at least two more to go. One this Saturday, and then Emma and Marty's at the end of the next month. So, long and short and everywhere in between, there've been a lot of weddings.
Hmm. What else? What else? My play, "Big Matzah Balls," was selected in the Future Tenant "Future Ten Festival." So, I mean, that's cool. I wrote it as an assignment for a playwriting workshop at CLIMB, and it was purely experimental. I have a meeting about it tonight -- I'm not really sure how long it's supposed to take. The play's only 10 minutes long. How long could it take?
More from me later. Time to wash. (Jill Sobule tomorrow night! Yay!)
And all that jazz,
Meredith
It's officially fall. I can tell. I have that lingering feeling of dread, accompanied by a soft, chewy melancholic center. My emotions are very closely linked to the weather -- I told Dunegan it's a trade-off; I also get 43 separate channels even though the antenna's bent.
Fall also means that people are getting married. I think that's closely linked to the weather as well, really. There are more weddings at the tail end of summer and during the fall because our animal instincts kick in. Human beings know that the winter is coming, and they want to huddle together for warmth. It's like a long, long, familial hibernation.
At any rate, that's all to say that I've been to several weddings thus far this season, and I still have at least two more to go. One this Saturday, and then Emma and Marty's at the end of the next month. So, long and short and everywhere in between, there've been a lot of weddings.
Hmm. What else? What else? My play, "Big Matzah Balls," was selected in the Future Tenant "Future Ten Festival." So, I mean, that's cool. I wrote it as an assignment for a playwriting workshop at CLIMB, and it was purely experimental. I have a meeting about it tonight -- I'm not really sure how long it's supposed to take. The play's only 10 minutes long. How long could it take?
More from me later. Time to wash. (Jill Sobule tomorrow night! Yay!)
And all that jazz,
Meredith
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Who Put the Bop in the Bop-She-Bop-She-Bop?
Matt Smith! I'm a SAINT! Er, something.
You are Saint Francis of Assisi! You don't care
what you look like (or smell like) as long as
you can live simply and help the poor. You
should be receiving your stigmata any day now.
Which Saint Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
THIS, my constant reader, is HYSTERICAL.
When I was younger and was possessed of some french fried potato goodness or some such thing, my older brother would trick me into looking the other way by saying, "Look! It's Saint Francis of Assisi!" I lost a good many delicious french fried or sugary sweet items because of this particular saint. And now it turns out, I share some ridiculous personality traits.
Thanks, Anne. Whenever the stigmata arrive, I'll be sure to send a thank you card your way for pointing me towards this fun filled quiz at Quizilla.
Also, in related news (or completely unrelated, depending upon your point of view and how clean your underwear is), who sent my blog into the City Paper last week? If you're out there, I owe you a drink. Or some gummy worms.
Love, peace, and furry animals,
Meredith Kay
You are Saint Francis of Assisi! You don't care
what you look like (or smell like) as long as
you can live simply and help the poor. You
should be receiving your stigmata any day now.
Which Saint Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
THIS, my constant reader, is HYSTERICAL.
When I was younger and was possessed of some french fried potato goodness or some such thing, my older brother would trick me into looking the other way by saying, "Look! It's Saint Francis of Assisi!" I lost a good many delicious french fried or sugary sweet items because of this particular saint. And now it turns out, I share some ridiculous personality traits.
Thanks, Anne. Whenever the stigmata arrive, I'll be sure to send a thank you card your way for pointing me towards this fun filled quiz at Quizilla.
Also, in related news (or completely unrelated, depending upon your point of view and how clean your underwear is), who sent my blog into the City Paper last week? If you're out there, I owe you a drink. Or some gummy worms.
Love, peace, and furry animals,
Meredith Kay
Sunday, August 21, 2005
"... Like a Tea Tray in the Sky!"
Matt Smith,
Bizarro world, huh? One day I stopped in and you were there, and the next day I stopped by and the bed was gone. It occurred to me that it wasn't your bed, so the fact that the bed moved could have catapulted your move, but I digress.
My bed is still in my bedroom, but it'd be hard to tell because of all the crap I apparently own. One of the things I think I should become fond of is getting rid of stuff. What am I going to do with it all? I wish I could be a person that could put everything she owns in her car and take it wherever it needs to go next. Hell, some days I just wish I could be a person. I don't know if I'm meant to get to that point. I like owning random things. Like the red feather boa that used to live in the trunk of my car, or the ugly red lamp that now lives in the bottom of my closet. I also own a plethora of teapots. Someday I'll be a grandmother, and my grandchildren will identify me as Teapot Grandma, and ask me questions about why I own so many teapots or "Is that a new teapot, Grandma?" and I'll say, "No, it's older than you," and give them a Twinkie. That is, of course, contigent upon whether or not there will be Twinkies in the future.
As it stands, I have no Twinkies, but I have developed some sort of soft-boiled plan for the next year. I'll be Jamaican and work my three jobs. (Side note: My three jobs remind me of the Pepto-Bismol commercial with the pseudo-rap about stomach disorders, only mine is "Starbucks, Bradford, PrimeStage Theatre" instead of stomach problems.) And sometime in October or November (November, November!) I'll try to score high on my GRE and apply to grad school for Educational Theatre in some east coast city like New York or Boston. And then I'll be rejected and I'll go back to working my Jamaican jobs. Or something like that.
So the plan isn't SOLID. Especially that last part about getting rejected. In the meantime, I'm working hard at staying put and seeing the people that I love succeed in their endeavors.
And getting people who love me and think I'm great to write me glowing letters of recommendation.
Happy Sunday.
-- Meredith
Bizarro world, huh? One day I stopped in and you were there, and the next day I stopped by and the bed was gone. It occurred to me that it wasn't your bed, so the fact that the bed moved could have catapulted your move, but I digress.
My bed is still in my bedroom, but it'd be hard to tell because of all the crap I apparently own. One of the things I think I should become fond of is getting rid of stuff. What am I going to do with it all? I wish I could be a person that could put everything she owns in her car and take it wherever it needs to go next. Hell, some days I just wish I could be a person. I don't know if I'm meant to get to that point. I like owning random things. Like the red feather boa that used to live in the trunk of my car, or the ugly red lamp that now lives in the bottom of my closet. I also own a plethora of teapots. Someday I'll be a grandmother, and my grandchildren will identify me as Teapot Grandma, and ask me questions about why I own so many teapots or "Is that a new teapot, Grandma?" and I'll say, "No, it's older than you," and give them a Twinkie. That is, of course, contigent upon whether or not there will be Twinkies in the future.
As it stands, I have no Twinkies, but I have developed some sort of soft-boiled plan for the next year. I'll be Jamaican and work my three jobs. (Side note: My three jobs remind me of the Pepto-Bismol commercial with the pseudo-rap about stomach disorders, only mine is "Starbucks, Bradford, PrimeStage Theatre" instead of stomach problems.) And sometime in October or November (November, November!) I'll try to score high on my GRE and apply to grad school for Educational Theatre in some east coast city like New York or Boston. And then I'll be rejected and I'll go back to working my Jamaican jobs. Or something like that.
So the plan isn't SOLID. Especially that last part about getting rejected. In the meantime, I'm working hard at staying put and seeing the people that I love succeed in their endeavors.
And getting people who love me and think I'm great to write me glowing letters of recommendation.
Happy Sunday.
-- Meredith
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Egg-a-Mooby-Muffin-Plant
Matt Smith,
I saw you this morning. I'm glad you washed your hair and that you're "clean" now. I washed my bellybutton, so I'm "clean" now too.
I feel so unproductive.
Summer's awfully conducive to that particular feeling, but this summer more than others, I think. I'm home -- I think that has a bit to do with it. Usually I'm packing up to go somewhere and move many of my worldly belongings to another part of the country. This summer I'm staying where I landed. Weird.
I'm working, which isn't altogether that odd, but I'm working at Starbucks, which is never something I wanted to do more than once. What's more, I'm good at it, which makes me wonder if I actually have a brain. Yes, I'm working at several things OTHER than Starbucks (Matt says I'm Jamaican), but nothing's really off the ground yet. Maybe next week when my sell-out, smarmy public speaking position starts and I have to parade around in business attire, I'll feel like I'm doing something. More than likely, I'll just feel like a doofus.
I ate eggplant last night. You've got to wonder (and if you don't wonder, well, then maybe you work at a coffee shop) where eggplant got its name. I suppose it is egg-shaped, in a way, but it's also PURPLE. Eggs, to my knowledge, are not and have never been PURPLE. Maybe somewhere along the line there was a breed of purple-egg-laying chickens, and they found this plant shortly thereafter. And is eggplant a squash? Does it grow above ground? I can't imagine it would be a root. It's too squishy to be a root -- nothing like a carrot or a potato. Although it does go well with both.
I give you the above paragraph as evidence of my lack of productivity, and my lack of brain activity.
Ahoy,
Meredith
I saw you this morning. I'm glad you washed your hair and that you're "clean" now. I washed my bellybutton, so I'm "clean" now too.
I feel so unproductive.
Summer's awfully conducive to that particular feeling, but this summer more than others, I think. I'm home -- I think that has a bit to do with it. Usually I'm packing up to go somewhere and move many of my worldly belongings to another part of the country. This summer I'm staying where I landed. Weird.
I'm working, which isn't altogether that odd, but I'm working at Starbucks, which is never something I wanted to do more than once. What's more, I'm good at it, which makes me wonder if I actually have a brain. Yes, I'm working at several things OTHER than Starbucks (Matt says I'm Jamaican), but nothing's really off the ground yet. Maybe next week when my sell-out, smarmy public speaking position starts and I have to parade around in business attire, I'll feel like I'm doing something. More than likely, I'll just feel like a doofus.
I ate eggplant last night. You've got to wonder (and if you don't wonder, well, then maybe you work at a coffee shop) where eggplant got its name. I suppose it is egg-shaped, in a way, but it's also PURPLE. Eggs, to my knowledge, are not and have never been PURPLE. Maybe somewhere along the line there was a breed of purple-egg-laying chickens, and they found this plant shortly thereafter. And is eggplant a squash? Does it grow above ground? I can't imagine it would be a root. It's too squishy to be a root -- nothing like a carrot or a potato. Although it does go well with both.
I give you the above paragraph as evidence of my lack of productivity, and my lack of brain activity.
Ahoy,
Meredith
Monday, June 20, 2005
Lumps, Bumps, and The Mark of Vanity
Welcome to my Monday, Matt Smith.
Have you ever made a startling discovery about yourself, only to find out that you already knew? This is only slightly different than making a startling discovery about yourself, and finding out that everyone else around you already knew. I haven't had that experience yet -- although I must admit that I do say things aloud, like "I hate people" or "I have power issues," and people seem to know that. I guess I must give off that people-hating, power-hungry vibe.
I'm vain.
No, no. Don't argue. I am. I know it. I'm vain. And not in that "you probably think this song is about you" way. (That, of course, makes no sense. As Carrie Fisher said, "'But it IS about him -- so, does that mean he's less vain?")
I'm so vain, I WROTE the song about me.
For the past week, I've been nursing my damaged vanity as I watched a bump on my neck get larger and larger. I have no idea what it is ("It's cancer," I say to my co-workers. "I'm going to die"), but it's ugly. I know that I'm the only one who notices it all that much -- and maybe Matt, although it's not like the boy sits around and stares at my neck on a daily basis -- but it's there. And I know it's there. And it's getting bigger.
It's a cist. Or maybe a wart.
Whatever it is, I don't like it being there. I want it to leave. I want it to be frozen off or snipped or mailed to Abu Dabi or whatever they do to these sorts of things.
I could chalk it up (chalk it up? why not pen it up? and why can't it be down? you boil things down, but you chalk them up and it all means the same thing... stupid, stupid Americans) to being "in the theatre," but I don't think that's what it is. I think it's just that I know I'm nice to look at, and this lump is obstructing the view.
I suppose I'll just have to go on poking at it, making it redder and redder and redder, until Starbucks comes through with the health insurance.
Love and Indiana Jones,
Meredith
Have you ever made a startling discovery about yourself, only to find out that you already knew? This is only slightly different than making a startling discovery about yourself, and finding out that everyone else around you already knew. I haven't had that experience yet -- although I must admit that I do say things aloud, like "I hate people" or "I have power issues," and people seem to know that. I guess I must give off that people-hating, power-hungry vibe.
I'm vain.
No, no. Don't argue. I am. I know it. I'm vain. And not in that "you probably think this song is about you" way. (That, of course, makes no sense. As Carrie Fisher said, "'But it IS about him -- so, does that mean he's less vain?")
I'm so vain, I WROTE the song about me.
For the past week, I've been nursing my damaged vanity as I watched a bump on my neck get larger and larger. I have no idea what it is ("It's cancer," I say to my co-workers. "I'm going to die"), but it's ugly. I know that I'm the only one who notices it all that much -- and maybe Matt, although it's not like the boy sits around and stares at my neck on a daily basis -- but it's there. And I know it's there. And it's getting bigger.
It's a cist. Or maybe a wart.
Whatever it is, I don't like it being there. I want it to leave. I want it to be frozen off or snipped or mailed to Abu Dabi or whatever they do to these sorts of things.
I could chalk it up (chalk it up? why not pen it up? and why can't it be down? you boil things down, but you chalk them up and it all means the same thing... stupid, stupid Americans) to being "in the theatre," but I don't think that's what it is. I think it's just that I know I'm nice to look at, and this lump is obstructing the view.
I suppose I'll just have to go on poking at it, making it redder and redder and redder, until Starbucks comes through with the health insurance.
Love and Indiana Jones,
Meredith
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Happy Birthday, Little Miss Can-Crusher
Dear Sivie,
Before I begin, I must issue a brief apology to you, Matt Smith, for not addressing this post to you. Not only did I rip the post right from under your nose, I gave the post to someone that you haven't even met. Although if you've been standing there, nose to the screen for all this time, I suggest you step away from the computer, and get some fresh air. Sometimes a girl and her blog need a change of pace.
In speaking of "pace," "space" rhymes with "pace," and I certainly have given this blog some space lately, huh? I apologize to you, Sivie, and you can stop singing now. Although, if you're hell-bent on continuing, might I recommend "I'm Henry the Eighth, I Am" as sung by Whoopi Goldberg in the movie, "Ghost." Neighbors be damned.
Now that I'm quite through with the pleasantries, down to the nitty-gritty. Actually, I have neither nitty nor gritty, but I'll make some up.
Working at Starbucks again is... um... well, it's no fun, Sivie. I'm not going to get in to all the Not Fun of it, but I'll just leave it at that. I can't stand working for a corporation, and furthermore, I can't stand working for a corporation that pulls the mats, then mops the floors, then puts the dirty mats back on the floors, and THEN mops the mats. It's a vicious, vicious, dirty-floor-cycle, and it's, as aforementioned, Not Fun.
Brilliant segue: Matt cooked a wonderfully decadent dinner last night. And we didn't mop anything. Not one thing was mopped in the making of our dinner. It was delicious.
I had an interview yesterday for a sales/entertainment/public speaking position for a technical school in the area. I had been warned that it would be a group interview; I just sort of figured it'd be a less -- um -- elderly group? Yes. They were all old. Not like, kocking on death's door old, but older than me. Weird, weird stuff.
Yet another brilliant segue: My birthday is rapidly approaching, and I've taken 3 days off to go somewhere fun. However, my brain is all burnt out on coffee and customers and painting an apartment to think of anything remotely fun to do or anywhere remotely fun to go. Any ideas? (My latest: Jumping in a puddle and crushing cans on my head.)
Damn the man,
Meredith
Before I begin, I must issue a brief apology to you, Matt Smith, for not addressing this post to you. Not only did I rip the post right from under your nose, I gave the post to someone that you haven't even met. Although if you've been standing there, nose to the screen for all this time, I suggest you step away from the computer, and get some fresh air. Sometimes a girl and her blog need a change of pace.
In speaking of "pace," "space" rhymes with "pace," and I certainly have given this blog some space lately, huh? I apologize to you, Sivie, and you can stop singing now. Although, if you're hell-bent on continuing, might I recommend "I'm Henry the Eighth, I Am" as sung by Whoopi Goldberg in the movie, "Ghost." Neighbors be damned.
Now that I'm quite through with the pleasantries, down to the nitty-gritty. Actually, I have neither nitty nor gritty, but I'll make some up.
Working at Starbucks again is... um... well, it's no fun, Sivie. I'm not going to get in to all the Not Fun of it, but I'll just leave it at that. I can't stand working for a corporation, and furthermore, I can't stand working for a corporation that pulls the mats, then mops the floors, then puts the dirty mats back on the floors, and THEN mops the mats. It's a vicious, vicious, dirty-floor-cycle, and it's, as aforementioned, Not Fun.
Brilliant segue: Matt cooked a wonderfully decadent dinner last night. And we didn't mop anything. Not one thing was mopped in the making of our dinner. It was delicious.
I had an interview yesterday for a sales/entertainment/public speaking position for a technical school in the area. I had been warned that it would be a group interview; I just sort of figured it'd be a less -- um -- elderly group? Yes. They were all old. Not like, kocking on death's door old, but older than me. Weird, weird stuff.
Yet another brilliant segue: My birthday is rapidly approaching, and I've taken 3 days off to go somewhere fun. However, my brain is all burnt out on coffee and customers and painting an apartment to think of anything remotely fun to do or anywhere remotely fun to go. Any ideas? (My latest: Jumping in a puddle and crushing cans on my head.)
Damn the man,
Meredith
Thursday, May 26, 2005
All I Smell is Soap. And Dirt. Dirt and Soap.
Matt Smith and friends,
Let's all take a moment right now to lift a small paper sample cup of coffee to people who work in industries that do not fully utilize their talents nor their college degrees. Let's slurp very loudly in their general direction, signalling a true appreciation for every retail sale, meal served, or beverage made. Let's cup our hands and sniff, sniff, SNIFF -- let's believe that this really matters. Let's take a 10-minute break or a non-paid lunch that doesn't quite last long enough to digest food. Let's greet people without meaning it. Let's help people feel more appreciated but lose all dignity. Let's search and search and search for other job opportunities, but still get up in the morning while it's still dark.
Let's do all that.
And let's be thankful that we have a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and cat litter in the litterbox.
(And by "us," I mean "me." And by "our," I mean "my." And by "thankful," I mean "slightly on edge.")
Chips and salsa,
Meredith
Let's all take a moment right now to lift a small paper sample cup of coffee to people who work in industries that do not fully utilize their talents nor their college degrees. Let's slurp very loudly in their general direction, signalling a true appreciation for every retail sale, meal served, or beverage made. Let's cup our hands and sniff, sniff, SNIFF -- let's believe that this really matters. Let's take a 10-minute break or a non-paid lunch that doesn't quite last long enough to digest food. Let's greet people without meaning it. Let's help people feel more appreciated but lose all dignity. Let's search and search and search for other job opportunities, but still get up in the morning while it's still dark.
Let's do all that.
And let's be thankful that we have a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and cat litter in the litterbox.
(And by "us," I mean "me." And by "our," I mean "my." And by "thankful," I mean "slightly on edge.")
Chips and salsa,
Meredith
Monday, May 16, 2005
I Don't Like Working at Starbucks, I Don't Like Working at Starbucks, I Don't Like Working at Starbucks...
Salutations, Matt Smith.
There's something very circular -- cyclical, cylindrical, anything round and repetitive really -- about the way my life is going at the moment.
I went into Starbucks today to get my old job back. And when I say "old" job, I mean "stupid, repetitive, doesn't pay me quite enough to be nice to people" job. It wasn't exactly difficult to get the job back, but it was difficult to smile while I stomached the fact that I had to be re-trained for a job that had been so engrained in my brain that I still know the reason why mild brewed coffee has a higher caffienation level than a dark roast.
I have no idea where I'm going to use this in real life. It's sort of like geometry that way.
The thing of it is, I started at Starbucks thinking that it would only be temporary. I'd work there until I found something meaningful and useful and important. I'd work there until I find something "for good." And I left in August for Minnesota, knowing that it wouldn't be permanent, but that maybe it'd be a jumping off point for something greater.
I can't help being optimistic, thinking that that something greater is still on its way.
But at the moment, I'm back where I started. In the same job I was in last year at this time. In the same neighborhood that I lived in 5 years ago.
And worse yet, my sunroof still leaks.
I wonder if life will ever be like "Billy Madison" -- so I could sweep through time and responsibility and obstacles in 100 big budget minutes and be a success at the end.
And there would be a giant penguin.
Yes. There must also be a giant penguin.
So, the answer for all those people who ask me questions like, "Are you here for good?" and "What are you planning on doing?" is:
"As good as it gets and I don't know... why? Do you have a suggestion?"
Love and good vibrations,
Meredith
There's something very circular -- cyclical, cylindrical, anything round and repetitive really -- about the way my life is going at the moment.
I went into Starbucks today to get my old job back. And when I say "old" job, I mean "stupid, repetitive, doesn't pay me quite enough to be nice to people" job. It wasn't exactly difficult to get the job back, but it was difficult to smile while I stomached the fact that I had to be re-trained for a job that had been so engrained in my brain that I still know the reason why mild brewed coffee has a higher caffienation level than a dark roast.
I have no idea where I'm going to use this in real life. It's sort of like geometry that way.
The thing of it is, I started at Starbucks thinking that it would only be temporary. I'd work there until I found something meaningful and useful and important. I'd work there until I find something "for good." And I left in August for Minnesota, knowing that it wouldn't be permanent, but that maybe it'd be a jumping off point for something greater.
I can't help being optimistic, thinking that that something greater is still on its way.
But at the moment, I'm back where I started. In the same job I was in last year at this time. In the same neighborhood that I lived in 5 years ago.
And worse yet, my sunroof still leaks.
I wonder if life will ever be like "Billy Madison" -- so I could sweep through time and responsibility and obstacles in 100 big budget minutes and be a success at the end.
And there would be a giant penguin.
Yes. There must also be a giant penguin.
So, the answer for all those people who ask me questions like, "Are you here for good?" and "What are you planning on doing?" is:
"As good as it gets and I don't know... why? Do you have a suggestion?"
Love and good vibrations,
Meredith
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Cop-out
Matt Smith,
Before the cell phone explosion, people had answering machines. I remember. I owned one. Some people may actually still own answering machines, but no one will ever know about those people because they're ashamed to show their faces in public.
All this is true with one exception, and I've never known him to be ashamed of anything.
On an answering machine, it's important to leave your name and number. I know THIS because that's what the owners of the aforementioned machines would leave as a message for the message-leavers. "At the tone, please leave your name, number, and a brief message and we'll get back to you as soon as possible." (Don't believe me? It's true. Watch "Ferris Bueller's Day Off." Honest.)
This occurred because no one had a method of knowing who the voice on the machine actually was. In fact, even after the voice existed on the machine, it was often difficult to tell who was who. I remember a time in days past when my sister and I shared an answering machine, and I called home to let her know my plans for the evening. Later that night I arrived home to see that the machine's light was blinking. Blink. Blink. One big slow blink indicating that there was only one unheard message. Blink. I pressed the button. "Hi Melissa. I'm just calling to..." Wait. Why is Melissa calling herself? That's ludicrous. I mean, honestly. Why waste precious tape to record something that could just as easily become a written memo... Wait. Wait. That's me.
Today we have the benefit of Caller ID. Even if some idiot doesn't leave a name and number, your phone is smart enough to remember it for you, but only until its feeble little brain extends itself too far beyond the factory-set limitations.
Today you have free reign to call a cell phone and leave whatever silly message you want without having to leave your name OR number.
Say, for instance, you could call someone and just say, "I'm too cool to leave a message!" And as long as their phone was set to the "on" position, they'd know which person wanted to annoy them with that message.
All that to say, thanks for calling the other day.
I have been harassed recently from numerous individuals about my obvious lack of new posts on this blog. It is for these people alone (or maybe they're not alone... maybe they're with someone... or a cat) that I post now.
Herein lies the problem however: I am not in a posting mood. When I post, I've got to have something to say. I'm speechless at the moment, after my journey from Minnesota to Pennsylvania, after enduring the sights, smells, and sounds along the way.
I just want to take a nap.
So I thank Anne Brannen for providing the prompts to this lovely cop-out. I hope the Bloggerites (Bloggies? Bloggenoids?) are satisfied with this little glimpse into my head. (Watch your step. It's dark in there.)
You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451. Which book do you want to be?
If I'm to be burnt, I'd probably have to be "Island of the Blue Dolphins." I encountered that book in the fourth or fifth grade. I reencountered it this spring at a school book fair, where three boys were running amuck playing what I like to call The Midget Game. They'd read every book title, substituting the word "midget" for one of the words in the title. This particular book became, not surprisingly, "Island of the Blue Midget." I rather think I would have liked it more had it been written about blue midgets.
If I'm to be memorized at the end, I'd like to be either "The Catcher in the Rye" (I could write a treatise on how it's just a really nice story) or "Alice in Wonderland." I suppose I'm not very original, but again, this is merely a cop-out post.
Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?
Yes. Yes I have. A few years ago I developed a crush on the Weasley twins in the Harry Potter series. In my childhood, I had a love/hate relationship with Laurie in "Little Women." God. I mean, really. He's smarmy, marrying into the family like that.
The last book you bought is?
Sarah Vowell's "Take the Cannoli" for myself, and David Sedaris's "Me Talk Pretty One Day" for Matt.
What are you currently reading?
"Citizen Girl" by Nicola Kraus and Emma McLaughlin. Authors of "The Nanny Diaries." I am a book slut.
Five books you would take to a deserted island:
Hmmm. "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: The Complete Edition" (with the DON'T PANIC gift pin still attached), "Peter Pan," "Me Talk Pretty One Day," "Nine Stories," and "The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing." Again, book slut. I feel bad about it, but what can a girl do? Someday I'll clean up my act and read classics and other mind-expanding things. Someday. Just not right now.
Who will you pass this on to (3 people) and why?
Oh hell. Book slut free-for-all. First come, first served. And there was much rejoicing.
Enjoying my new found freedom for one last, sugar sweetened day,
Meredith
Before the cell phone explosion, people had answering machines. I remember. I owned one. Some people may actually still own answering machines, but no one will ever know about those people because they're ashamed to show their faces in public.
All this is true with one exception, and I've never known him to be ashamed of anything.
On an answering machine, it's important to leave your name and number. I know THIS because that's what the owners of the aforementioned machines would leave as a message for the message-leavers. "At the tone, please leave your name, number, and a brief message and we'll get back to you as soon as possible." (Don't believe me? It's true. Watch "Ferris Bueller's Day Off." Honest.)
This occurred because no one had a method of knowing who the voice on the machine actually was. In fact, even after the voice existed on the machine, it was often difficult to tell who was who. I remember a time in days past when my sister and I shared an answering machine, and I called home to let her know my plans for the evening. Later that night I arrived home to see that the machine's light was blinking. Blink. Blink. One big slow blink indicating that there was only one unheard message. Blink. I pressed the button. "Hi Melissa. I'm just calling to..." Wait. Why is Melissa calling herself? That's ludicrous. I mean, honestly. Why waste precious tape to record something that could just as easily become a written memo... Wait. Wait. That's me.
Today we have the benefit of Caller ID. Even if some idiot doesn't leave a name and number, your phone is smart enough to remember it for you, but only until its feeble little brain extends itself too far beyond the factory-set limitations.
Today you have free reign to call a cell phone and leave whatever silly message you want without having to leave your name OR number.
Say, for instance, you could call someone and just say, "I'm too cool to leave a message!" And as long as their phone was set to the "on" position, they'd know which person wanted to annoy them with that message.
All that to say, thanks for calling the other day.
I have been harassed recently from numerous individuals about my obvious lack of new posts on this blog. It is for these people alone (or maybe they're not alone... maybe they're with someone... or a cat) that I post now.
Herein lies the problem however: I am not in a posting mood. When I post, I've got to have something to say. I'm speechless at the moment, after my journey from Minnesota to Pennsylvania, after enduring the sights, smells, and sounds along the way.
I just want to take a nap.
So I thank Anne Brannen for providing the prompts to this lovely cop-out. I hope the Bloggerites (Bloggies? Bloggenoids?) are satisfied with this little glimpse into my head. (Watch your step. It's dark in there.)
You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451. Which book do you want to be?
If I'm to be burnt, I'd probably have to be "Island of the Blue Dolphins." I encountered that book in the fourth or fifth grade. I reencountered it this spring at a school book fair, where three boys were running amuck playing what I like to call The Midget Game. They'd read every book title, substituting the word "midget" for one of the words in the title. This particular book became, not surprisingly, "Island of the Blue Midget." I rather think I would have liked it more had it been written about blue midgets.
If I'm to be memorized at the end, I'd like to be either "The Catcher in the Rye" (I could write a treatise on how it's just a really nice story) or "Alice in Wonderland." I suppose I'm not very original, but again, this is merely a cop-out post.
Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?
Yes. Yes I have. A few years ago I developed a crush on the Weasley twins in the Harry Potter series. In my childhood, I had a love/hate relationship with Laurie in "Little Women." God. I mean, really. He's smarmy, marrying into the family like that.
The last book you bought is?
Sarah Vowell's "Take the Cannoli" for myself, and David Sedaris's "Me Talk Pretty One Day" for Matt.
What are you currently reading?
"Citizen Girl" by Nicola Kraus and Emma McLaughlin. Authors of "The Nanny Diaries." I am a book slut.
Five books you would take to a deserted island:
Hmmm. "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: The Complete Edition" (with the DON'T PANIC gift pin still attached), "Peter Pan," "Me Talk Pretty One Day," "Nine Stories," and "The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing." Again, book slut. I feel bad about it, but what can a girl do? Someday I'll clean up my act and read classics and other mind-expanding things. Someday. Just not right now.
Who will you pass this on to (3 people) and why?
Oh hell. Book slut free-for-all. First come, first served. And there was much rejoicing.
Enjoying my new found freedom for one last, sugar sweetened day,
Meredith
Saturday, April 23, 2005
"Wouldn't it Just Suck if I Fell Right Now?"
Matt Smith,
Have you ever watched a child try to tie their shoe? Did you ever ponder the preciousness of that ability, and think how fleeting childhood is as you watched the Herculean effort it took for that child to perform an act that -- to you -- seems to be just another of the day's activities? Knowing that to you it's something you barely give a thought to, but to that child, it's an Olympic event? Did you watch their face scrunched up with all the determination of a... a... well, a very determined thing? And did you wish for a moment that, just as they've given that determination and that effort, you could find something that you could give your all to as well?
Nope. Me neither.
Really, I just wanted the kid to hurry up.
Today is another shining week in the travels of Kate and Meredith. We're here now in Bemidji, MN (say that three times fast, why don't you?), teaching Stranger and Body Safety to every second grade class in the city. Since it's only taking up a week, it's safe to assume that Bemidji isn't exactly a bustling metropolis. It is, however, able to "nyah nyah-nyah, nyah-nyah nyah" in the faces of some other towns that I've been in. Which is to say that it has a university and more than enough grocery stores and eating establishments than two 20-something girls could ask for. Unless we asked for more than, say, 30. Then we'd be plum out of luck.
(How did the plum get to be the unlucky fruit? As fruits go, I really don't think it's that unfortunate. Now a pomegranate. That's unlucky. Who wants a name like pomegranate? Who even BUYS pomegranates? Sometimes I confuse them with pomeranians, but I know I've never actually bought a pomegranate. Now THERE'S an unlucky fruit.)
A bit on the topic of Stranger/Body Safety -- although, really, by this time, I could tell you more than a bit. I could tell you a lot. In fact, I could teach you a 35-40 minute class on the topic, but I'll spare you the time. You might want to use that time later to tie your shoe.
Ever played the Penis Game? Being a Masquer, I assume that you probably have, but I'll explain it here in detail (which really doesn't take us all that far, it being a rather simple game), just on the offchance that I get old and forgetful someday and can't remember all the torrid tales of my youth. Simply put, it's a headset game. The Masquers on headset in the booth and the ASMs on headset near the stage try to say penis as quietly as possible, getting progressively louder. There's really no point to it -- as there is no point to a great many things in this American life -- but the word "penis" sure does warrant one snorkel of giggles from all of Masquerdom.
The same applies to second graders. During Body Safety, it was my job to address the male "private parts." Now I'm sure I said it loud enough for all parties involved, but I also said it at a high rate of speed while looking at the floor. I am now certain that if, God forbid, I was ever to have a child, I would be able to explain Good Touch/Bad Touch to them, but it would happen all in one breath....
"Theboy'sprivatepartslookdifferentandhaveadifferentnameHisprivatepartis
calledthepenisandit'sdownhereandhisswimsuitcoversitaswell."
Needless to say, I spent most of the beginning of that particular class looking at the ground. I could very easily tell you the colors and texture of every second grade classroom's carpet in Bemidji.
Stranger Danger is an entirely "other" subject, as most children already have some very strong opinions on what a stranger is, and how they should avoid them. More than once, in answer to the question "What is a stranger?" we got the answer, "Some guy who tries to take you," or "A guy with guns who tries to hurt you." (What are these parents teaching their kids? Are they just watching too much "Law & Order: SVU?")
The Child of the Week (or the COW) has to be the girl who, during our stranger safety class, asked, "What if, what if, um, what if you're not really home alone 'cause your parents are upstairs sleeping, and a stranger comes to the door, and your parents are sleeping really hard, they're having a really good time sleeping, what should you do?"
I, of course, had to spend some quality time looking at my old friend, the carpet, again. Kate swallowed and answered. "You should probably go home and ask your parents what they want you to do in that situation."
God love her. I always wondered how parents explained sex to their children. Now I know. "A really good time sleeping." Perhaps that's where the phrase "sleeping with someone" comes from. I might change it to "a really good time sleeping with someone," or maybe "sleeping really hard with someone." That's just perfect.
On Friday, Kate and I bought "School's a nice place, but I wouldn't want to live there" bumper stickers, which I thought was appropriate for our last week out of town in our final weeks at CLIMB. I would have bought the "I lived in Minnesota and all I got was this lousy bumper sticker" bumper sticker, but, of course, those don't actually exist.
Oh. And Kate fell into the Mississippi River.
Love, peace, and granola bars,
Meredith
Have you ever watched a child try to tie their shoe? Did you ever ponder the preciousness of that ability, and think how fleeting childhood is as you watched the Herculean effort it took for that child to perform an act that -- to you -- seems to be just another of the day's activities? Knowing that to you it's something you barely give a thought to, but to that child, it's an Olympic event? Did you watch their face scrunched up with all the determination of a... a... well, a very determined thing? And did you wish for a moment that, just as they've given that determination and that effort, you could find something that you could give your all to as well?
Nope. Me neither.
Really, I just wanted the kid to hurry up.
Today is another shining week in the travels of Kate and Meredith. We're here now in Bemidji, MN (say that three times fast, why don't you?), teaching Stranger and Body Safety to every second grade class in the city. Since it's only taking up a week, it's safe to assume that Bemidji isn't exactly a bustling metropolis. It is, however, able to "nyah nyah-nyah, nyah-nyah nyah" in the faces of some other towns that I've been in. Which is to say that it has a university and more than enough grocery stores and eating establishments than two 20-something girls could ask for. Unless we asked for more than, say, 30. Then we'd be plum out of luck.
(How did the plum get to be the unlucky fruit? As fruits go, I really don't think it's that unfortunate. Now a pomegranate. That's unlucky. Who wants a name like pomegranate? Who even BUYS pomegranates? Sometimes I confuse them with pomeranians, but I know I've never actually bought a pomegranate. Now THERE'S an unlucky fruit.)
A bit on the topic of Stranger/Body Safety -- although, really, by this time, I could tell you more than a bit. I could tell you a lot. In fact, I could teach you a 35-40 minute class on the topic, but I'll spare you the time. You might want to use that time later to tie your shoe.
Ever played the Penis Game? Being a Masquer, I assume that you probably have, but I'll explain it here in detail (which really doesn't take us all that far, it being a rather simple game), just on the offchance that I get old and forgetful someday and can't remember all the torrid tales of my youth. Simply put, it's a headset game. The Masquers on headset in the booth and the ASMs on headset near the stage try to say penis as quietly as possible, getting progressively louder. There's really no point to it -- as there is no point to a great many things in this American life -- but the word "penis" sure does warrant one snorkel of giggles from all of Masquerdom.
The same applies to second graders. During Body Safety, it was my job to address the male "private parts." Now I'm sure I said it loud enough for all parties involved, but I also said it at a high rate of speed while looking at the floor. I am now certain that if, God forbid, I was ever to have a child, I would be able to explain Good Touch/Bad Touch to them, but it would happen all in one breath....
"Theboy'sprivatepartslookdifferentandhaveadifferentnameHisprivatepartis
calledthepenisandit'sdownhereandhisswimsuitcoversitaswell."
Needless to say, I spent most of the beginning of that particular class looking at the ground. I could very easily tell you the colors and texture of every second grade classroom's carpet in Bemidji.
Stranger Danger is an entirely "other" subject, as most children already have some very strong opinions on what a stranger is, and how they should avoid them. More than once, in answer to the question "What is a stranger?" we got the answer, "Some guy who tries to take you," or "A guy with guns who tries to hurt you." (What are these parents teaching their kids? Are they just watching too much "Law & Order: SVU?")
The Child of the Week (or the COW) has to be the girl who, during our stranger safety class, asked, "What if, what if, um, what if you're not really home alone 'cause your parents are upstairs sleeping, and a stranger comes to the door, and your parents are sleeping really hard, they're having a really good time sleeping, what should you do?"
I, of course, had to spend some quality time looking at my old friend, the carpet, again. Kate swallowed and answered. "You should probably go home and ask your parents what they want you to do in that situation."
God love her. I always wondered how parents explained sex to their children. Now I know. "A really good time sleeping." Perhaps that's where the phrase "sleeping with someone" comes from. I might change it to "a really good time sleeping with someone," or maybe "sleeping really hard with someone." That's just perfect.
On Friday, Kate and I bought "School's a nice place, but I wouldn't want to live there" bumper stickers, which I thought was appropriate for our last week out of town in our final weeks at CLIMB. I would have bought the "I lived in Minnesota and all I got was this lousy bumper sticker" bumper sticker, but, of course, those don't actually exist.
Oh. And Kate fell into the Mississippi River.
Love, peace, and granola bars,
Meredith
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Normal is Me. Abnormal is Everybody Else.
I think better in the shower.
No, really. It's true. If I could, I'd probably be in there right now, hacking away at these keys, every now and then stopping to wipe the screen. Or better yet, I'd hook up some sort of intricate monitor wiper system. Or maybe I'd just bring the computer in there and use an umbrella.
Nah.
Umbrellas are for punks.
I know. You're thinking, "Meredith, this is the second post you've written today! What gives?" (Yup. Those were the exact words you used just now in your head. No matter that the phrase "what gives" is something that's been tossed out with the syndicated episodes of "Night Court." You used it, and you know who you are.) So, the answer, of course, is I do. I give. I give and give and give and am now writing a completely unprecedented second post to the blog for today, April 16.
Some days you just feel IT. I'm not sure what IT is, but IT'S there. Matt would call it "The Great Unspoken." (I'm always tempted to ask him what The Great Unspoken says, but I know better. IT'S The Great Unspoken. IT doesn't speak. IT'S unspoken.) My mother would call IT "a bad day." I beg to differ. (Please! Please? Let me differ!? Aw c'mon! I wanna differ!) IT can't be a bad day. Bad days don't pull you out of yourself just to watch yourself -- analyze yourself -- while you do something that you're already doing.
Confused yet?
Yeah. Me too.
The thing is, it's not a bad day. IT'S not The Great Unspoken, otherwise I wouldn't be writing about it. Whatever it is, though, it makes me want to go crazy. Tempt fate. Step on some cracks. Spill some salt. Go swimming less than 30 minutes after eating.
Once I remember Matt doing some crazy dance outside of a Blockbuster. I never knew why he did it. He was just returning a video tape. And all of a sudden, I looked up and he was dancing. Maybe he was just doing it for my benefit. Maybe he had an itch some place where it would have been impolite to scratch. Maybe he was merely amusing himself. But he danced. He did this nutsy, limbs flailing, eyes gawking, knees bending, Gumby-type of dance. Looking sort of like a monkey.
Yeah.
IT'S kind of like that.
Crazy for feeling so lonely,
Meredith
No, really. It's true. If I could, I'd probably be in there right now, hacking away at these keys, every now and then stopping to wipe the screen. Or better yet, I'd hook up some sort of intricate monitor wiper system. Or maybe I'd just bring the computer in there and use an umbrella.
Nah.
Umbrellas are for punks.
I know. You're thinking, "Meredith, this is the second post you've written today! What gives?" (Yup. Those were the exact words you used just now in your head. No matter that the phrase "what gives" is something that's been tossed out with the syndicated episodes of "Night Court." You used it, and you know who you are.) So, the answer, of course, is I do. I give. I give and give and give and am now writing a completely unprecedented second post to the blog for today, April 16.
Some days you just feel IT. I'm not sure what IT is, but IT'S there. Matt would call it "The Great Unspoken." (I'm always tempted to ask him what The Great Unspoken says, but I know better. IT'S The Great Unspoken. IT doesn't speak. IT'S unspoken.) My mother would call IT "a bad day." I beg to differ. (Please! Please? Let me differ!? Aw c'mon! I wanna differ!) IT can't be a bad day. Bad days don't pull you out of yourself just to watch yourself -- analyze yourself -- while you do something that you're already doing.
Confused yet?
Yeah. Me too.
The thing is, it's not a bad day. IT'S not The Great Unspoken, otherwise I wouldn't be writing about it. Whatever it is, though, it makes me want to go crazy. Tempt fate. Step on some cracks. Spill some salt. Go swimming less than 30 minutes after eating.
Once I remember Matt doing some crazy dance outside of a Blockbuster. I never knew why he did it. He was just returning a video tape. And all of a sudden, I looked up and he was dancing. Maybe he was just doing it for my benefit. Maybe he had an itch some place where it would have been impolite to scratch. Maybe he was merely amusing himself. But he danced. He did this nutsy, limbs flailing, eyes gawking, knees bending, Gumby-type of dance. Looking sort of like a monkey.
Yeah.
IT'S kind of like that.
Crazy for feeling so lonely,
Meredith
I Am Suck.
If there's one thing I hate about rainy days, Matt Smith, it's that my sunroof leaks.
If there's two things I hate about rainy days, it's that my sunroof leaks and it's cold.
If there's three things I hate about rainy days, it'd be that sunroof thing, the cold weather, and my mood.
No, I take that back. I can handle my mood. I just don't have faith in other people's ability to handle my mood. Therefore, I try to avoid human contact.
And there's nothing wrong with that.
I mean, think of all the people I've tried to save. The McDonald's employee that forgot to put cheese on my burger. The Jiffy Lube guys who didn't want to walk out in the rain. The girl running the check-out at the grocery store. Other people that suck.
Yeah. It's that kind of day.
Looking like a drowned rat,
Meredith
If there's two things I hate about rainy days, it's that my sunroof leaks and it's cold.
If there's three things I hate about rainy days, it'd be that sunroof thing, the cold weather, and my mood.
No, I take that back. I can handle my mood. I just don't have faith in other people's ability to handle my mood. Therefore, I try to avoid human contact.
And there's nothing wrong with that.
I mean, think of all the people I've tried to save. The McDonald's employee that forgot to put cheese on my burger. The Jiffy Lube guys who didn't want to walk out in the rain. The girl running the check-out at the grocery store. Other people that suck.
Yeah. It's that kind of day.
Looking like a drowned rat,
Meredith
Friday, April 08, 2005
Put On a Hat
Chicago makes my feet cold, Matt Smith.
Sometimes I wish the Midwest would just sit up straight and figure out what season it was going to have on any given day. It sure can fool you. You can never tell what the temperature actually is just by looking out the window... which, in case you were wondering, actually IS a time-proven way of weather forecasting. It could be sunny, but it sure as hell isn't going to get any warmer. Not unless someone grabs it by its shirt collar or pulls it up by its ear and tells it to shape up. The Midwest really just needs a grandmother. Or a really annoying aunt.
But there I go again, turning this blog into a weather almanac instead of what it's truly supposed to be -- a blog about nothing in particular. And I really have nothing in particular to write about tonight. That's what makes it so damned perfect.
I'm in Chicago now, visiting my friend, Britt, for the weekend I have to spare between trips to the Milwaukee area. I got here and promptly met her boyfriend, Alex, and took over her fridge. Well, more rightly, Kate took over her fridge -- because Kate is the goddess of all foodstuffs. Give her a hotpot and a package of curry powder and she'll work miracles. I've never seen such ingenuity in a hotel room before. Well, never such ingenuity that directly involved food.
I'm not exactly sure what I'm planning on doing in Chicago this weekend, really. Alex asked me at one point this evening if I wanted to do something special while I was here, and for the life of me (has anyone ever said "for the death of me?" would that just be asking for it?), I couldn't think of one thing that I'd especially like to do. I think the point of coming here this weekend was merely to get away from the hotel, save myself from a 5-hour drive back to the Twin Cities (only to have to turn around and come back again on Sunday), get out of rehearsing, and visit with Britt. So far, so good. Except for the Britt part. She's out at a meeting for the union's union. Confusing, I know. Apparently the "union's union" can be explained best in ketchup art. This I'll HAVE to see.
I really wish I had enough brain power to be witty and wonderful this evening. I've had a number of people -- adults and children -- tell me that I'm funny over the course of the past week. Apparently, that's the quality that stands out around here. At CLIMB, while I'm teaching, while I'm hanging out with CLIMB-related folk, I'm the funny one. Thank God I'm not fat. Then I'd just be a stereotype.
And I'd be fat.
I don't know. I don't think I like my only noticeable character trait to be that I'm funny. I feel like Joe Pesci ("Pesci. I could or could not eat fish.") in "Goodfellas." I'm funny. What? Like funny like a clown? Sometimes I just want to start shooting at people's feet, shouting, "Dance! Dance!" And then they'd hop all over the place, dancing around. Not because I'd be shooting -- because I don't own a gun -- but because they'd just happen to be an expert in Greek dancing or something. Suddenly plates would start crashing to the floor, everyone would be shouting "Oopah!" and I'd sneak out the back door while the party started heading for the prime rib.
Now THAT would be funny.
Love,
Meredith the Funny
Sometimes I wish the Midwest would just sit up straight and figure out what season it was going to have on any given day. It sure can fool you. You can never tell what the temperature actually is just by looking out the window... which, in case you were wondering, actually IS a time-proven way of weather forecasting. It could be sunny, but it sure as hell isn't going to get any warmer. Not unless someone grabs it by its shirt collar or pulls it up by its ear and tells it to shape up. The Midwest really just needs a grandmother. Or a really annoying aunt.
But there I go again, turning this blog into a weather almanac instead of what it's truly supposed to be -- a blog about nothing in particular. And I really have nothing in particular to write about tonight. That's what makes it so damned perfect.
I'm in Chicago now, visiting my friend, Britt, for the weekend I have to spare between trips to the Milwaukee area. I got here and promptly met her boyfriend, Alex, and took over her fridge. Well, more rightly, Kate took over her fridge -- because Kate is the goddess of all foodstuffs. Give her a hotpot and a package of curry powder and she'll work miracles. I've never seen such ingenuity in a hotel room before. Well, never such ingenuity that directly involved food.
I'm not exactly sure what I'm planning on doing in Chicago this weekend, really. Alex asked me at one point this evening if I wanted to do something special while I was here, and for the life of me (has anyone ever said "for the death of me?" would that just be asking for it?), I couldn't think of one thing that I'd especially like to do. I think the point of coming here this weekend was merely to get away from the hotel, save myself from a 5-hour drive back to the Twin Cities (only to have to turn around and come back again on Sunday), get out of rehearsing, and visit with Britt. So far, so good. Except for the Britt part. She's out at a meeting for the union's union. Confusing, I know. Apparently the "union's union" can be explained best in ketchup art. This I'll HAVE to see.
I really wish I had enough brain power to be witty and wonderful this evening. I've had a number of people -- adults and children -- tell me that I'm funny over the course of the past week. Apparently, that's the quality that stands out around here. At CLIMB, while I'm teaching, while I'm hanging out with CLIMB-related folk, I'm the funny one. Thank God I'm not fat. Then I'd just be a stereotype.
And I'd be fat.
I don't know. I don't think I like my only noticeable character trait to be that I'm funny. I feel like Joe Pesci ("Pesci. I could or could not eat fish.") in "Goodfellas." I'm funny. What? Like funny like a clown? Sometimes I just want to start shooting at people's feet, shouting, "Dance! Dance!" And then they'd hop all over the place, dancing around. Not because I'd be shooting -- because I don't own a gun -- but because they'd just happen to be an expert in Greek dancing or something. Suddenly plates would start crashing to the floor, everyone would be shouting "Oopah!" and I'd sneak out the back door while the party started heading for the prime rib.
Now THAT would be funny.
Love,
Meredith the Funny
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Who Does That?
Matt Smith,
Remember that stint at Duquesne when all the Masquers were saying "Who does that?"
Someone tripped going up the stairs. "Who does that?"
Someone yelled at someone else. "Who does that?"
Someone skipped a class. "Who does that?
Someone messed up their lines at rehearsal. "Who does that?"
Someone got annoyed when someone else said "Who does that?" "Who does that?
Today was a very large "Who does that?" day.
I had an accident with my garage.
Go ahead. Say it. You know you want to.
Who does that?
The answer, of course, is that I do. I do that. The powers that be knew that I had been having way too, too long a streak where very little had gone wrong for me. On the contrary, things had been looking up. I have a month left in my contract with CLIMB. I don't have to buy out my lease; another CLIMBer is planning on taking over our lease. I did my taxes. I'm on time, in line, doing well, and aside from the increase in gas prices, life is good.
And then I crashed into my garage.
The thing that gets me is, usually I think "Don't turn the wheel too soon, or you'll crash into the garage." Today I didn't do that. Today I just backed up. And turned the wheel. To shamelessly quote Bernadette Peters, "Bang! Crash! The lightning flashed."
So now, the car has a dent in it with some lovely white paint scratches, and the garage is seriously gacked up.
But I'm eating carrot cake.
That's got to count for something right. Carrot cake equals good day? Isn't that written down somewhere?
Having a "smashingly" good evening,
Meredith
** Happy birthday, Matt Dunegan. Have lots of people buy you drinks.**
Remember that stint at Duquesne when all the Masquers were saying "Who does that?"
Someone tripped going up the stairs. "Who does that?"
Someone yelled at someone else. "Who does that?"
Someone skipped a class. "Who does that?
Someone messed up their lines at rehearsal. "Who does that?"
Someone got annoyed when someone else said "Who does that?" "Who does that?
Today was a very large "Who does that?" day.
I had an accident with my garage.
Go ahead. Say it. You know you want to.
Who does that?
The answer, of course, is that I do. I do that. The powers that be knew that I had been having way too, too long a streak where very little had gone wrong for me. On the contrary, things had been looking up. I have a month left in my contract with CLIMB. I don't have to buy out my lease; another CLIMBer is planning on taking over our lease. I did my taxes. I'm on time, in line, doing well, and aside from the increase in gas prices, life is good.
And then I crashed into my garage.
The thing that gets me is, usually I think "Don't turn the wheel too soon, or you'll crash into the garage." Today I didn't do that. Today I just backed up. And turned the wheel. To shamelessly quote Bernadette Peters, "Bang! Crash! The lightning flashed."
So now, the car has a dent in it with some lovely white paint scratches, and the garage is seriously gacked up.
But I'm eating carrot cake.
That's got to count for something right. Carrot cake equals good day? Isn't that written down somewhere?
Having a "smashingly" good evening,
Meredith
** Happy birthday, Matt Dunegan. Have lots of people buy you drinks.**
Monday, March 28, 2005
"Cran-ber-ry SAUCE."
Matt Smith,
I can only assume that you're home from gallavanting all over the West Coast -- although I think you were only vanting your galla in Seattle. I vanted in Pittsburgh for Jesus's half-birthday (that's what Easter IS, right?) and my galla is TIRED, let me tell you. I'm in the Pittsburgh airport, "surfing the 'net" as the kids are saying these days, drinking my cranberry juice, and waiting for my flight to be called. I usually like the Pittsburgh airport. I like seeing planes take off. I'd just rather not be on them. Really, when you get right down to it (where did that phrase COME from? was it for someone really TALL? or on a ladder? why is "it" always down?), if I had the time, I'd rather walk. I hear that Indiana's really a wonderful place to take a stroll this time of year.
It was a completely unwasted trip to Pittsburgh. I saw my family -- they're nice to look at. We even ate together. Twice. I saw my friends -- also nice to look at. I talked to them, too. They're still funny. They still drink, which is great. I lost two card games. I saw my boyfriend. He was the first and last person I spent time with -- like bookends. (Side note: Matt and I both got bookends from our mothers for Christmas this year. I guess we're just bookend types of people.) He bought me the cranberry juice that I'm currently enjoying and the trail mix which I plan to eat on the plane (not on a trail).
I also had an interview/meeting with PrimeStage Children's Theatre for an educational childreny theatrey type of job, as-of-yet untitled, but already part-time. They're looking forward to working with me; I'm looking forward to sending them more information about me so they can go out and get a grant to pay me to do all the wonderful, magical things I know how to do.
I left a note at Starbucks for my old boss, asking if she had any room to take me back on staff when I get settled back in Pittsburgh again. The answer, of course, is yes -- she called today to let me know that she'd love to have me come back part-time.
The theatre thing is wonderful. I'm excited to work magic in the children's theatre realm.
The Starbucks thing is just another way to pay the rent. Sort of disappointing, but it will inevitably create most of the fodder for this blog in the warmer days to come.
My friend, Sivie, asked me to tell her about what I'm currently doing/thinking/wearing. I don't think the wearing thing was part of it, but I'm going to throw that into the mix just for kicks -- yet another odd turn of phrase, because frankly, is kicking all that fun? I guess it depends on who you're kicking. So, there you have it, Sivie. I'm in the Pittsburgh airport. I had a nice weekend. I'm coming back to Minnesota, only to tour for 4 more weeks with CLIMB. Yes. Tour. I'm literally going to be out of town for the next four weeks. (Sometimes I wonder why they have an employee manual at all. What good are rules about those sorts of things if you're not going to use them?) I'm looking forward to the end of April when I can stay in one place and pack stuff, enjoying the idea of being in the apartment that I pay for every month just so my stuff can live there.
I'm wearing jeans, a yellow button-down shirt over a pink tank top, checker-print socks that say "TAXI" on them, a red coat from Old Navy, and red tennis shoes.
And my hair looks kick-ass.
Love,
Meredith
I can only assume that you're home from gallavanting all over the West Coast -- although I think you were only vanting your galla in Seattle. I vanted in Pittsburgh for Jesus's half-birthday (that's what Easter IS, right?) and my galla is TIRED, let me tell you. I'm in the Pittsburgh airport, "surfing the 'net" as the kids are saying these days, drinking my cranberry juice, and waiting for my flight to be called. I usually like the Pittsburgh airport. I like seeing planes take off. I'd just rather not be on them. Really, when you get right down to it (where did that phrase COME from? was it for someone really TALL? or on a ladder? why is "it" always down?), if I had the time, I'd rather walk. I hear that Indiana's really a wonderful place to take a stroll this time of year.
It was a completely unwasted trip to Pittsburgh. I saw my family -- they're nice to look at. We even ate together. Twice. I saw my friends -- also nice to look at. I talked to them, too. They're still funny. They still drink, which is great. I lost two card games. I saw my boyfriend. He was the first and last person I spent time with -- like bookends. (Side note: Matt and I both got bookends from our mothers for Christmas this year. I guess we're just bookend types of people.) He bought me the cranberry juice that I'm currently enjoying and the trail mix which I plan to eat on the plane (not on a trail).
I also had an interview/meeting with PrimeStage Children's Theatre for an educational childreny theatrey type of job, as-of-yet untitled, but already part-time. They're looking forward to working with me; I'm looking forward to sending them more information about me so they can go out and get a grant to pay me to do all the wonderful, magical things I know how to do.
I left a note at Starbucks for my old boss, asking if she had any room to take me back on staff when I get settled back in Pittsburgh again. The answer, of course, is yes -- she called today to let me know that she'd love to have me come back part-time.
The theatre thing is wonderful. I'm excited to work magic in the children's theatre realm.
The Starbucks thing is just another way to pay the rent. Sort of disappointing, but it will inevitably create most of the fodder for this blog in the warmer days to come.
My friend, Sivie, asked me to tell her about what I'm currently doing/thinking/wearing. I don't think the wearing thing was part of it, but I'm going to throw that into the mix just for kicks -- yet another odd turn of phrase, because frankly, is kicking all that fun? I guess it depends on who you're kicking. So, there you have it, Sivie. I'm in the Pittsburgh airport. I had a nice weekend. I'm coming back to Minnesota, only to tour for 4 more weeks with CLIMB. Yes. Tour. I'm literally going to be out of town for the next four weeks. (Sometimes I wonder why they have an employee manual at all. What good are rules about those sorts of things if you're not going to use them?) I'm looking forward to the end of April when I can stay in one place and pack stuff, enjoying the idea of being in the apartment that I pay for every month just so my stuff can live there.
I'm wearing jeans, a yellow button-down shirt over a pink tank top, checker-print socks that say "TAXI" on them, a red coat from Old Navy, and red tennis shoes.
And my hair looks kick-ass.
Love,
Meredith
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
LeRoytes
LeRoy,
Usually on this blog, I write to my friend, Matt Smith. But since so recently you wrote to me of the color of our friendship, I feel you deserve a bit more than a reply that's been run through spell check.
Oh, okay. Let's be honest. I don't use spell check, and neither do you. (That's "neither," just as the Mother in A Raisin in the Sun would say.)
There's a lot to be said about long-term friendships, LeRoy. I used to think that they were just for men -- like the hair color that comes in a box? -- but I'd also like to think that our friendship is able to do more than just cover unwanted greys. Even now.
More and more, though, I think I'm a bad friend. Or at least a friend with a poor attendance record. I'm a no-show in a lot of ways. Maybe that makes me a bad person. Maybe that makes me stupid and/or wrong. Maybe that makes me totally suck as a human being, but I still love my friends. They contribute so much to who I am. And even if who I am isn't all that good... even if who I am is a completely shut-off, jaded, sour girl -- that's got to count for something.
And I credit you with a great deal of that. Thanks. Or something.
I thank you for yelling at me when I become the Wicked Witch of Hell -- or at least making me laugh. I thank you for always showing me the reality of who I am at any given moment. I thank you for being more like yourself than any other person in the entire world. Ever. I thank you for remembering everything I ever did while in your presence. I thank you for never letting me go completely. I thank you for calling me names -- like whore, and bitch, and slut -- even though I'm not any of those things... most of the time. I thank you for being someone that will always mean "comfort" and "home" to me, even when those are the last things I really want. I thank you for not ending the friendship after that trip to New York City, even after I snapped at you for taking 60 million pairs of shoes. (I instantly forgave you for that when I refused to help you carry the bags back to the bus through the Greyhound station.) I thank you for getting in trouble and staying out of trouble with me throughout our adolescence -- depending on the circumstances. I thank you for never letting my head get too big. (I admit to an ego, but it's significantly deflated when you're around. You keep me in check.) I thank you for letting me be me.
And because of all that I'm thankful for, I feel that I should apologize for breaking that desk that one time in high school.
Love,
Ophelia
Usually on this blog, I write to my friend, Matt Smith. But since so recently you wrote to me of the color of our friendship, I feel you deserve a bit more than a reply that's been run through spell check.
Oh, okay. Let's be honest. I don't use spell check, and neither do you. (That's "neither," just as the Mother in A Raisin in the Sun would say.)
There's a lot to be said about long-term friendships, LeRoy. I used to think that they were just for men -- like the hair color that comes in a box? -- but I'd also like to think that our friendship is able to do more than just cover unwanted greys. Even now.
More and more, though, I think I'm a bad friend. Or at least a friend with a poor attendance record. I'm a no-show in a lot of ways. Maybe that makes me a bad person. Maybe that makes me stupid and/or wrong. Maybe that makes me totally suck as a human being, but I still love my friends. They contribute so much to who I am. And even if who I am isn't all that good... even if who I am is a completely shut-off, jaded, sour girl -- that's got to count for something.
And I credit you with a great deal of that. Thanks. Or something.
I thank you for yelling at me when I become the Wicked Witch of Hell -- or at least making me laugh. I thank you for always showing me the reality of who I am at any given moment. I thank you for being more like yourself than any other person in the entire world. Ever. I thank you for remembering everything I ever did while in your presence. I thank you for never letting me go completely. I thank you for calling me names -- like whore, and bitch, and slut -- even though I'm not any of those things... most of the time. I thank you for being someone that will always mean "comfort" and "home" to me, even when those are the last things I really want. I thank you for not ending the friendship after that trip to New York City, even after I snapped at you for taking 60 million pairs of shoes. (I instantly forgave you for that when I refused to help you carry the bags back to the bus through the Greyhound station.) I thank you for getting in trouble and staying out of trouble with me throughout our adolescence -- depending on the circumstances. I thank you for never letting my head get too big. (I admit to an ego, but it's significantly deflated when you're around. You keep me in check.) I thank you for letting me be me.
And because of all that I'm thankful for, I feel that I should apologize for breaking that desk that one time in high school.
Love,
Ophelia
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
A Frog in a Sombrero Does Not a Party Make
Dear Matt Smith,
I wish I had some pithy, succinct things to write regarding the past week. As it stands, I'm in Oshkosh, Wisconsin -- home of overalls, coveralls, and anything else that ends in -alls -- teaching children about self-control.
Self-control is truly one of my least favorite lessons to teach, especially to children of the "small" persuasion. I feel like I'm stifling them. No, no. Scratch that. I feel like SOMEONE is stifling them. When they give me answers like "don't interrupt adults when they're speaking" or "do what your parents tell you to do" to the question "How can you use your self-control?" I just want to hug them... or yell at them... or teach them an improv class. I don't know. Kids are supposed to be kids.
Don't get me wrong. I don't mind that they tell me that interrupting is a lack of self-control. It's the "adult" tag that gets me. You're not really supposed to interrupt anyone (unless you're having an emergency and your arm is falling off or something) in life.
Adults have this skewed view of their importance.
I mean, seriously. Get over yourselves. You're just taller than them. (Who do you think you're fooling?)
Okay. So I lied. I DO have pith.
In other pith-related news, this month's been the "what-do-you-want-to-do-when-you-grow-up" month for me. I just got word that my contract has been extended to May 3. Which really means that I'll be in Minnesota til after May 7, what with all the end-of-year celebrations (can you say "CLIMB PROM?!") and packing craziness. Maybe I can solicit some help with those things and I'll be home ON May 7. Anyway, hopefully, I'll figure a way to get my foot in the door of educational theatre administration and I won't have to kill myself paying for rent... which seems to be the answer to the above question these days. ("What do you want to do when you leave here, Meredith?" "Figure out a way to pay my rent." Sigh.)
Fun side note: I'm in this coffee shop now, right? And there are these two girls doing... something. And they're sitting around doing their something and they're complaining about the cold. Um. It's the Midwest? It's SUPPOSED to be cold? Uh, and you're wearing t-shirts. Temperature is not a state of mind, people. It's a reality. Wake up and smell the wind chill. Put some clothes on.
But what I'd really like to do with the rest of my life is to inspire children to be themselves. So much of childhood gets stepped upon by the public education system; children are literally afraid to be who they are. Children learn how to express themselves by being exposed to theatre. Theatre helps them put their thoughts into words. They become better, more ardent communicators. They're not afraid to just BE. I constantly think that if I'd had a theatre class everyday -- or even once a week! -- when I was younger, I wouldn't be as bottled up as I am today.
So there's my long-range goal. To get theatre into every child's education. It's a big, hairy, audacious goal (as CLIMB would say), but it's a goal all the same.
Here's where I count my blessings that I'm only 22.
Love,
Meredith
I wish I had some pithy, succinct things to write regarding the past week. As it stands, I'm in Oshkosh, Wisconsin -- home of overalls, coveralls, and anything else that ends in -alls -- teaching children about self-control.
Self-control is truly one of my least favorite lessons to teach, especially to children of the "small" persuasion. I feel like I'm stifling them. No, no. Scratch that. I feel like SOMEONE is stifling them. When they give me answers like "don't interrupt adults when they're speaking" or "do what your parents tell you to do" to the question "How can you use your self-control?" I just want to hug them... or yell at them... or teach them an improv class. I don't know. Kids are supposed to be kids.
Don't get me wrong. I don't mind that they tell me that interrupting is a lack of self-control. It's the "adult" tag that gets me. You're not really supposed to interrupt anyone (unless you're having an emergency and your arm is falling off or something) in life.
Adults have this skewed view of their importance.
I mean, seriously. Get over yourselves. You're just taller than them. (Who do you think you're fooling?)
Okay. So I lied. I DO have pith.
In other pith-related news, this month's been the "what-do-you-want-to-do-when-you-grow-up" month for me. I just got word that my contract has been extended to May 3. Which really means that I'll be in Minnesota til after May 7, what with all the end-of-year celebrations (can you say "CLIMB PROM?!") and packing craziness. Maybe I can solicit some help with those things and I'll be home ON May 7. Anyway, hopefully, I'll figure a way to get my foot in the door of educational theatre administration and I won't have to kill myself paying for rent... which seems to be the answer to the above question these days. ("What do you want to do when you leave here, Meredith?" "Figure out a way to pay my rent." Sigh.)
Fun side note: I'm in this coffee shop now, right? And there are these two girls doing... something. And they're sitting around doing their something and they're complaining about the cold. Um. It's the Midwest? It's SUPPOSED to be cold? Uh, and you're wearing t-shirts. Temperature is not a state of mind, people. It's a reality. Wake up and smell the wind chill. Put some clothes on.
But what I'd really like to do with the rest of my life is to inspire children to be themselves. So much of childhood gets stepped upon by the public education system; children are literally afraid to be who they are. Children learn how to express themselves by being exposed to theatre. Theatre helps them put their thoughts into words. They become better, more ardent communicators. They're not afraid to just BE. I constantly think that if I'd had a theatre class everyday -- or even once a week! -- when I was younger, I wouldn't be as bottled up as I am today.
So there's my long-range goal. To get theatre into every child's education. It's a big, hairy, audacious goal (as CLIMB would say), but it's a goal all the same.
Here's where I count my blessings that I'm only 22.
Love,
Meredith
Saturday, February 19, 2005
When in Duluth, Go to the Boat Show
Matt Smith,
No matter how bad things get, they can always get worse.
Unless you die. Then things have pretty much hit bottom.
Bad things that happened to me yesterday include, but were not limited to: being in Duluth, teaching a group of completely unresponsive eighth graders about higher education ("any form of schooling that happens after high school"), not eating breakfast, not having ANY tea (AT ALL), my car not starting in the morning -- probably due to the negative-cold lake effect windchill that came directly from Lake Superior and onto my car, my phone calls to AAA which took me on a whirlwind tour of various forms of hold music, transfers from one state to another ("Where are you calling from again?" and "Is that Duluth, MINNESOTA?"), and a recorded man that asked me repeatedly if I knew about the car insurance AAA has to offer and "Did you know that you can now request emergency road side service ONLINE?" (No, Recorded Man. I didn't know. But could you help me, say, RIGHT NOW?), then the heartache that was having to call AAA yet AGAIN to cancel the service because my car started after work.
So, all sum total, yesterday wasn't what I would call a GOOD day. But I kept comparing it to Sivie's day. No. Really. Check it out. It's a really good read, and it'll make you feel better about your life.
Unless, of course, you too have been wrongfully arrested in North Dakota.
I really can't complain, though. Spending a week in Duluth is funny enough to cover all losses. First off, I was working with Tony (if there were two of him, he'd be called "Twony") and that was funny. Secondly, we were in Duluth. Thirdly, our co-workers were staying in a room with a clock/radio that wanted to take over the world. Add that to a hotel employee who constantly asked everyone if they were going to the boat show and you've got something pretty funny.
But, I can't say I'm looking forward to going back to Duluth. With or without the boat show.
"No, no... we won't go,"
Meredith
No matter how bad things get, they can always get worse.
Unless you die. Then things have pretty much hit bottom.
Bad things that happened to me yesterday include, but were not limited to: being in Duluth, teaching a group of completely unresponsive eighth graders about higher education ("any form of schooling that happens after high school"), not eating breakfast, not having ANY tea (AT ALL), my car not starting in the morning -- probably due to the negative-cold lake effect windchill that came directly from Lake Superior and onto my car, my phone calls to AAA which took me on a whirlwind tour of various forms of hold music, transfers from one state to another ("Where are you calling from again?" and "Is that Duluth, MINNESOTA?"), and a recorded man that asked me repeatedly if I knew about the car insurance AAA has to offer and "Did you know that you can now request emergency road side service ONLINE?" (No, Recorded Man. I didn't know. But could you help me, say, RIGHT NOW?), then the heartache that was having to call AAA yet AGAIN to cancel the service because my car started after work.
So, all sum total, yesterday wasn't what I would call a GOOD day. But I kept comparing it to Sivie's day. No. Really. Check it out. It's a really good read, and it'll make you feel better about your life.
Unless, of course, you too have been wrongfully arrested in North Dakota.
I really can't complain, though. Spending a week in Duluth is funny enough to cover all losses. First off, I was working with Tony (if there were two of him, he'd be called "Twony") and that was funny. Secondly, we were in Duluth. Thirdly, our co-workers were staying in a room with a clock/radio that wanted to take over the world. Add that to a hotel employee who constantly asked everyone if they were going to the boat show and you've got something pretty funny.
But, I can't say I'm looking forward to going back to Duluth. With or without the boat show.
"No, no... we won't go,"
Meredith
Thursday, February 10, 2005
In Which We Learn that Sitcoms Don't Have to be Good to be Entertaining
Let's be honest.
Everyone had a minor television obsession when they were younger.
(Alright, so I still pretty much have one that's hung on since I was 10. But "Law & Order" doesn't count. I'm talking family-oriented sitcom here.)
I'm only slightly embarrassed to say that mine was TGIF.
I LIVED for TGIF.
At the very beginning -- the first years of "Perfect Strangers" and "Full House." During its adolescent years, in which we experienced that odd modern Brady Bunch thing, "Step By Step"," and learned to love Steve Urkel. Even when it was failing, it was funny. (Case in point: "Alien in the Family." Does anyone REMEMBER that show? I swear it existed.)
So, needless to say, I love this site. It brings joy to my life. And it allows me to entertain others with the plethora of useless knowledge that I have collected in my head over the past 22 years.
I guess TGIF shows my youth.
But you see... I don't care.
I'm just going to go back to watching the "Full House" marathon on Nick at Nite now. Right now, it's the one about the television marathon. There's something very "not-to-be-missed" about watching a television marathon that includes a show about a television marathon.
Or perhaps it's one of the signs that the world is coming to an end.
Everyone had a minor television obsession when they were younger.
(Alright, so I still pretty much have one that's hung on since I was 10. But "Law & Order" doesn't count. I'm talking family-oriented sitcom here.)
I'm only slightly embarrassed to say that mine was TGIF.
I LIVED for TGIF.
At the very beginning -- the first years of "Perfect Strangers" and "Full House." During its adolescent years, in which we experienced that odd modern Brady Bunch thing, "Step By Step"," and learned to love Steve Urkel. Even when it was failing, it was funny. (Case in point: "Alien in the Family." Does anyone REMEMBER that show? I swear it existed.)
So, needless to say, I love this site. It brings joy to my life. And it allows me to entertain others with the plethora of useless knowledge that I have collected in my head over the past 22 years.
I guess TGIF shows my youth.
But you see... I don't care.
I'm just going to go back to watching the "Full House" marathon on Nick at Nite now. Right now, it's the one about the television marathon. There's something very "not-to-be-missed" about watching a television marathon that includes a show about a television marathon.
Or perhaps it's one of the signs that the world is coming to an end.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Jump Up and Down Really Fast
Matt Smith,
There's something to be said about people who work with students in the sixth grade.
I'm still trying to figure out what exactly that is.
I'm working with sixth graders this week. All this week. As in, Monday through Friday. Maybe sixth grade is that precious age where nothing works just right. I've been trying to think back to when I was in the sixth grade.
All I can really remember was that I had bangs.
We're supposed to be getting these kids to "perform" a "theatrical presentation" for the "other classes" in which the students will communicate their views and ideas on bullying prevention. My team lead and I have taken to calling this end-of-the-week sharing session as a Theatrical Cookie. (The idea being, of course, that one can SHARE a cookie.)
Needless to say, bangs or no bangs, I'm having a hard time connecting with these particular kids. Leads me to wonder if -- at some point during the eleventh year of a child's life -- their brains sink to the soles of their feet... and then spends the next 10 years working its way back up. And also, is there some sort of calesthenic exercise that can assist in the process?
Hell.
I don't know.
I'm just the moon.
Luminescently yours,
Meredith
There's something to be said about people who work with students in the sixth grade.
I'm still trying to figure out what exactly that is.
I'm working with sixth graders this week. All this week. As in, Monday through Friday. Maybe sixth grade is that precious age where nothing works just right. I've been trying to think back to when I was in the sixth grade.
All I can really remember was that I had bangs.
We're supposed to be getting these kids to "perform" a "theatrical presentation" for the "other classes" in which the students will communicate their views and ideas on bullying prevention. My team lead and I have taken to calling this end-of-the-week sharing session as a Theatrical Cookie. (The idea being, of course, that one can SHARE a cookie.)
Needless to say, bangs or no bangs, I'm having a hard time connecting with these particular kids. Leads me to wonder if -- at some point during the eleventh year of a child's life -- their brains sink to the soles of their feet... and then spends the next 10 years working its way back up. And also, is there some sort of calesthenic exercise that can assist in the process?
Hell.
I don't know.
I'm just the moon.
Luminescently yours,
Meredith
Whoops. I'm Weirder than I Thought.
Somehow, while taking the "State Quiz" (I know, I know... it's really the last quiz, folks... honest), I ended up as the MOON.
Does this worry anyone else?
Does this worry anyone else?
You're The Moon!
You frequently take small steps, but you think very highly of each and
every one of them. This aloof attitude doesn't begin to reflect how high and mighty you
actually are, though you are able to reflect light onto others when it seems appropriate.
Whether the glass is half full, half empty, waxing pedantic, or even crescent-shaped is
something ever-changing in your perspective. These mood swings at least follow a
consistent cycle, one that makes others believe you have mystical powers. Ultimately,
your head is always in the clouds and you just can't seem to stay grounded.
Take the State Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Shocking news, folks...
I AM a mess, Country Quiz. How'd you know?
You're Lebanon!
Your room's a mess. Your house is a mess. Heck, your life
is a mess. It all used to be really beautiful, and someone even compared you to Paris
once, but that's all been replaced with heartache and struggle. You're small, have been
influenced by outsiders for too long, and don't know what to think about religion. At
least you smell rather pleasant!
Take
the Country Quiz at the Blue Pyramid.
Me, Me, Me, Me, Me.
Matt Smith,
Have you ever googled yourself? (I think that's the first time I've ever used "google" as a verb. Should it be capitalized? Is it a "proper verb?" I don't know. There should be rules about these things.)
Well, if you haven't googled yourself -- stop giggling -- you really should give it a shot. Regardless of whether you believe yourself to have the most boring name on the planet, it's amusing to see what comes up.
My friend, Sivie, recently googled herself. (Don't panic; I wasn't there when she did it. That would just be SICK.) Mind you, when every so often I have to ask Sivie again what her name actually MEANS, she breaks out into a rousing chorus of "Do: A deer, a female deer."
Which, when one writes "do" as such (a syllable in solfege), comes off looking just as sick and twisted as "google."
At any rate (2 1/2 percent!), Sivie's a unique-ish name, and she found some unique-ish results. You'll have to visit her Sivilicious blog to read them.
To make a long story a bit longer, Sivie also discovered she was not only Sivie, but THE Sivie. THE Sivie. How awesome is that? (If you don't know, I'll tell you. It's pretty awesome.)
So I did some "googling" of my own. I'll tell you right off the bat (where did that cliche even COME from? Who thought "off the bat" was a good way to describe starting points? It reminds me of "off your rocker." Which is also a good way to describe starting points. But then, that only works if you're crazy.) that if you go poking your nose around the World Wide Web for "Meredith Kay" or "Botticellophelia," you'll inevitably only come up with my blog. Which would be redundant, I think, because you've already seen my blog. This IS my blog.
HOWEVER, if you go searching merely for "Meredith," you'll get a bushel full of other interesting tidbits. For example:
Meredith College - the largest private women's college in the Southeast
Meredith Corporation - a very large media corporation (so heads up other Meredith fans, "www.meredith.com" is already taken)
Radio Free Meredith - A site I like more for the catchy name than the actual content. It's like, "Meredith doesn't like radio. She just won't stand for it. She's radio-free." Like trans fatty acids.
Chez Merde - Twofold funny. One: my sister -- and this is a longer, more drawn-out and intricate story if you were to be talking to me in person, but on a blog, it's short, I guess -- used to (and, okay, still does) call me "Merde." That's French for "shit." Funny #2: the site name actually translates to www.house-of-shit.org. Holy funny, Batman.
But my FAVORITE has to be this site:
The Meredith Music Festival, which is subtitled "The 14th Meredith." It's really worth a gander (which means "look," but also somehow means "male goose;" who comes up with these?). Reading you'll find clever turns of phrase such as:
"Every little last ticket for The Fourteenth Meredith is now sold."
"Remember how you were sitting around at Meredith last year and you all wished you had brought that one pesky thing?"
"...the idea of an 'Indoor Meredith' was floated and then sunk..."
"Meredith of course couldn't possibly have just a beer tent, no, no, no."
"Meredith started in 1991 when 250 friends had a party in the bush, and it grew from there."
"Yes, The Meredith Gift involves full nudity."
And my personal favorite:
"YES, JK IS RUNNING NUDE FROM LANGWARRIN TO MEREDITH."
....Um. Okay....?
Love,
Meredith
Have you ever googled yourself? (I think that's the first time I've ever used "google" as a verb. Should it be capitalized? Is it a "proper verb?" I don't know. There should be rules about these things.)
Well, if you haven't googled yourself -- stop giggling -- you really should give it a shot. Regardless of whether you believe yourself to have the most boring name on the planet, it's amusing to see what comes up.
My friend, Sivie, recently googled herself. (Don't panic; I wasn't there when she did it. That would just be SICK.) Mind you, when every so often I have to ask Sivie again what her name actually MEANS, she breaks out into a rousing chorus of "Do: A deer, a female deer."
Which, when one writes "do" as such (a syllable in solfege), comes off looking just as sick and twisted as "google."
At any rate (2 1/2 percent!), Sivie's a unique-ish name, and she found some unique-ish results. You'll have to visit her Sivilicious blog to read them.
To make a long story a bit longer, Sivie also discovered she was not only Sivie, but THE Sivie. THE Sivie. How awesome is that? (If you don't know, I'll tell you. It's pretty awesome.)
So I did some "googling" of my own. I'll tell you right off the bat (where did that cliche even COME from? Who thought "off the bat" was a good way to describe starting points? It reminds me of "off your rocker." Which is also a good way to describe starting points. But then, that only works if you're crazy.) that if you go poking your nose around the World Wide Web for "Meredith Kay" or "Botticellophelia," you'll inevitably only come up with my blog. Which would be redundant, I think, because you've already seen my blog. This IS my blog.
HOWEVER, if you go searching merely for "Meredith," you'll get a bushel full of other interesting tidbits. For example:
Meredith College - the largest private women's college in the Southeast
Meredith Corporation - a very large media corporation (so heads up other Meredith fans, "www.meredith.com" is already taken)
Radio Free Meredith - A site I like more for the catchy name than the actual content. It's like, "Meredith doesn't like radio. She just won't stand for it. She's radio-free." Like trans fatty acids.
Chez Merde - Twofold funny. One: my sister -- and this is a longer, more drawn-out and intricate story if you were to be talking to me in person, but on a blog, it's short, I guess -- used to (and, okay, still does) call me "Merde." That's French for "shit." Funny #2: the site name actually translates to www.house-of-shit.org. Holy funny, Batman.
But my FAVORITE has to be this site:
The Meredith Music Festival, which is subtitled "The 14th Meredith." It's really worth a gander (which means "look," but also somehow means "male goose;" who comes up with these?). Reading you'll find clever turns of phrase such as:
"Every little last ticket for The Fourteenth Meredith is now sold."
"Remember how you were sitting around at Meredith last year and you all wished you had brought that one pesky thing?"
"...the idea of an 'Indoor Meredith' was floated and then sunk..."
"Meredith of course couldn't possibly have just a beer tent, no, no, no."
"Meredith started in 1991 when 250 friends had a party in the bush, and it grew from there."
"Yes, The Meredith Gift involves full nudity."
And my personal favorite:
"YES, JK IS RUNNING NUDE FROM LANGWARRIN TO MEREDITH."
....Um. Okay....?
Love,
Meredith
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Wheeee-hooo! Wheeeee-heeee-heeee-hooooo!
You're One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest!
by Ken Kesey
You're crazy. This has led people to attempt to confine you to a safe
place so that you don't pose a danger to yourself or others. You feel like you pose a
great danger to the man (or maybe the woman) or whatever else is keeping you down. But
most of the time, you just end up being observed. Were you crazy before you were
confined?
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
Okay.
While I'm fairly sure that this particular test delivers random results, I can't say I'm surprised. I found this "test" while browsing one of my "reader's" blogs... He (or she... I suppose she could be a she) ended up being "The Poisonwood Bible." I was hoping for a classic -- and I guess, one should be careful what one wishes for.
I mean, I AM crazy. Everyone knows it.
But it's part of my charm.
Love,
MereCRAZYdith
Saturday, January 29, 2005
One is the Loneliest Number
Hey there, Matt Smith.
Today I spent a glorious day with one of my most favorite people. She is intelligent, she is witty, she is clever, and she is amazing.
Today I spent a day alone.
Sheesh! Did I ever need it! Sometimes things can pile up and pile up, and soon you're just another hack of a person, talking in circles, spending too much time with Detectives Green and that other guy, and confusing "its" and "it's."
Luckily, I'm out of that funk now. No longer are the signs in front of Protestant churches mocking me with their messages -- "Jesus cares for you" or "God listens to you." And I'm not weeping at the mere hint of a country song.
I'm glad you've been cast in "Midsummer..." I guess my recent "antsy-ness" is due to a lack of stage performance. There's only so much that a girl can take, really. This week, I got invited to "come play at my house" by a little girl named Maddy. I can honestly say that never happened to me when I did Shakespeare. No one wants Portia to play with their dolls.
Good luck with the show, then. Just say your lines really fast. I'm sure John'll love it.
As always,
Meredith
Today I spent a glorious day with one of my most favorite people. She is intelligent, she is witty, she is clever, and she is amazing.
Today I spent a day alone.
Sheesh! Did I ever need it! Sometimes things can pile up and pile up, and soon you're just another hack of a person, talking in circles, spending too much time with Detectives Green and that other guy, and confusing "its" and "it's."
Luckily, I'm out of that funk now. No longer are the signs in front of Protestant churches mocking me with their messages -- "Jesus cares for you" or "God listens to you." And I'm not weeping at the mere hint of a country song.
I'm glad you've been cast in "Midsummer..." I guess my recent "antsy-ness" is due to a lack of stage performance. There's only so much that a girl can take, really. This week, I got invited to "come play at my house" by a little girl named Maddy. I can honestly say that never happened to me when I did Shakespeare. No one wants Portia to play with their dolls.
Good luck with the show, then. Just say your lines really fast. I'm sure John'll love it.
As always,
Meredith
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Someone Should Really Help Sioux Get Up
Greetings from Sioux Falls, Matt Smith.
Ever have a day where you wake up, roll out of bed, and suddenly everything gets on your nerves? Even the smallest of things: dropping a glob of toothpaste in the sink, not being able to find something (car keys, a hairband, the remote), the sound of the fan in the bathroom, a malfunctioning cell phone. A day where even starting the car is a chore. (Okay. So starting MY car is a chore everyday. But everyone can't be that pitiful.)
TODAY is that day.
It's 9 o'clock in the evening now.
And, believe me... the hits just keep on coming.
I have no idea what causes these stupid annoyances during any given day. A bad night's sleep? Dinner the night before? A chemical imbalance?
All I know is, this morning when I went to get breakfast in the hotel lobby, I got mad at my tea bag.
A stupid, paper-tagged, Lipton tea bag.
And now... "Law & Order" isn't on. Katie-frickin'-Couric's doing some documentary on teens and sex. Hell. Is this really worth taking the highlight of my evening away from me? Is it? Tell me, Katie, because I need to know. This can't possibly be new information that you're spotlighting this evening -- teens and sex? Yes? They have sex. Ooooo! Such TABOOS you're covering! Such INSIDE information! After all, who wouldn't want to tell Katie Couric about their sex life?
But Sioux Falls is nice. If you're into that sort of thing. You know, Sioux. Falls. (Side note: The newscasts here keep calling the region "the Sioux Empire." Isn't that great? "The Sioux Empire." Makes me want to go buy an ottoman.) I haven't actually gotten in to see the falls of Sioux, but they do exist. I wonder if they're wearing a robe and crown or something.
Cheers,
Meredith
Ever have a day where you wake up, roll out of bed, and suddenly everything gets on your nerves? Even the smallest of things: dropping a glob of toothpaste in the sink, not being able to find something (car keys, a hairband, the remote), the sound of the fan in the bathroom, a malfunctioning cell phone. A day where even starting the car is a chore. (Okay. So starting MY car is a chore everyday. But everyone can't be that pitiful.)
TODAY is that day.
It's 9 o'clock in the evening now.
And, believe me... the hits just keep on coming.
I have no idea what causes these stupid annoyances during any given day. A bad night's sleep? Dinner the night before? A chemical imbalance?
All I know is, this morning when I went to get breakfast in the hotel lobby, I got mad at my tea bag.
A stupid, paper-tagged, Lipton tea bag.
And now... "Law & Order" isn't on. Katie-frickin'-Couric's doing some documentary on teens and sex. Hell. Is this really worth taking the highlight of my evening away from me? Is it? Tell me, Katie, because I need to know. This can't possibly be new information that you're spotlighting this evening -- teens and sex? Yes? They have sex. Ooooo! Such TABOOS you're covering! Such INSIDE information! After all, who wouldn't want to tell Katie Couric about their sex life?
But Sioux Falls is nice. If you're into that sort of thing. You know, Sioux. Falls. (Side note: The newscasts here keep calling the region "the Sioux Empire." Isn't that great? "The Sioux Empire." Makes me want to go buy an ottoman.) I haven't actually gotten in to see the falls of Sioux, but they do exist. I wonder if they're wearing a robe and crown or something.
Cheers,
Meredith
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Friends Don't Let Friends Drive Over an Embankment
Matt Smith,
The fog is clearing.
By "fog," I mean the mild dizzy feeling that my cabernet sauvignon has created and also the "BLIZZARD of 2005!" (that's what the news is calling it, after all) and by "clearing," I mean that it's stopped snowing, and I'm all out of wine.
I drove back from North Dakota last night with my tour partner, Brandon; it took us about 8 1/2 hours, travelling at about 40 MPH. Every 10 miles or so (okay... I'm exaggerating), we'd see a little compact car (is there such a thing as a big compact car? and why do people tell you to put your arms up when you're choking?) that flew over the side of the highway.
"That's not going to happen to us," I'd say.
"Of course not," Brandon would reply. "Don't look at that."
A pause.
"Is that someone I should be helping?" he'd say.
"No. Look," I'd say. "They're on a phone."
Okay, so they weren't ALWAYS on a phone. But really, who doesn't have a cell phone nowadays?
(Ahem, ahem... side note: cell phones are useful, cell phones are great, if you don't have one, you can't call when you're late! Cell phones are nifty, cell phones are swell, you'll be able to call someone if you're stuck in a well!)
And.... end scene.
So, yes. To sum up this entry:
1) Slow down. The roads are icy.
2) You'll start to sweat after shoveling 2 feet of snow from in front of a garage.
3) Drink wine. It makes the night go faster. (And you'll be warmer. Hell. This should just be a blog for wine, huh?)
4) The benefits of cell phones are many. Besides... you'll always be able to see who's calling... And then you'll be able to not talk to people. It's great.
Stormy weather,
Meredith
The fog is clearing.
By "fog," I mean the mild dizzy feeling that my cabernet sauvignon has created and also the "BLIZZARD of 2005!" (that's what the news is calling it, after all) and by "clearing," I mean that it's stopped snowing, and I'm all out of wine.
I drove back from North Dakota last night with my tour partner, Brandon; it took us about 8 1/2 hours, travelling at about 40 MPH. Every 10 miles or so (okay... I'm exaggerating), we'd see a little compact car (is there such a thing as a big compact car? and why do people tell you to put your arms up when you're choking?) that flew over the side of the highway.
"That's not going to happen to us," I'd say.
"Of course not," Brandon would reply. "Don't look at that."
A pause.
"Is that someone I should be helping?" he'd say.
"No. Look," I'd say. "They're on a phone."
Okay, so they weren't ALWAYS on a phone. But really, who doesn't have a cell phone nowadays?
(Ahem, ahem... side note: cell phones are useful, cell phones are great, if you don't have one, you can't call when you're late! Cell phones are nifty, cell phones are swell, you'll be able to call someone if you're stuck in a well!)
And.... end scene.
So, yes. To sum up this entry:
1) Slow down. The roads are icy.
2) You'll start to sweat after shoveling 2 feet of snow from in front of a garage.
3) Drink wine. It makes the night go faster. (And you'll be warmer. Hell. This should just be a blog for wine, huh?)
4) The benefits of cell phones are many. Besides... you'll always be able to see who's calling... And then you'll be able to not talk to people. It's great.
Stormy weather,
Meredith
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
A-Tisket, A-Tasket, A-Choo!
Greetings, friend.
I've somehow come down with a cold this week, so before I delve too far into the subject of "What's Going On in My Life Out Here in the Truly Bizarre Midwest," I should warn you... If my typing cuts out from time to time and suddenly you find yourself covered head to toe in warm snot, that's why.
The past week or so has been decidedly stressful for me and my relationship with my job. (Perhaps that's why I've got the cold. Occupational hazard due to undue stress on the immune system.) There's got to be a way to have near-perfect communication in a business, yes? I hate to pick up the phone to check my voice mail and hear passive-aggressive messages on what someone did or said that might have meant this or that or the other thing. I hate being told that I'm not allowed to dispute things that are within my rights as an employee to dispute.
I hate North Dakota. I have to teach there next week. I once had a professor who didn't believe that anyone lived in North Dakota. It's unfortunate that I have to be the one to prove the man wrong.
Aside from my cold though, and my job-related goofiness (ooh, and a fever... I think I have a fever too), everything here is slowly being covered in what Minnesotans call "snow." "Snow" is a frozen, ice-slushy substance that can build up and cause dangerous road conditions, slippery sidewalks, and depression. So far, it's just given me a headache. Last Sunday while watching TV, one of the local news channels shot out a "blurb"-type thing between commercials of one of the newscasters. That goober sat there smiling at us from the happy warmth of his studio and said, "It's going to be SO cold this weekend!"
I hated him. I hated him with a hatred that I reserve only for North Dakota.
Really, I think Minnesota has ridiculous weather because if it weren't for the weather, no one would have anything to talk about. The forecast takes up a good 60-70% of the news broadcast here. I'm not sure anything else ever happens here. Once Prince moved out, and Ventura was out of office, so did all the excitement.
But I'm here now, so everyone's surely happy by now.
Until I leave for North Dakota.
Sneezes and wheezes,
Meredith
I've somehow come down with a cold this week, so before I delve too far into the subject of "What's Going On in My Life Out Here in the Truly Bizarre Midwest," I should warn you... If my typing cuts out from time to time and suddenly you find yourself covered head to toe in warm snot, that's why.
The past week or so has been decidedly stressful for me and my relationship with my job. (Perhaps that's why I've got the cold. Occupational hazard due to undue stress on the immune system.) There's got to be a way to have near-perfect communication in a business, yes? I hate to pick up the phone to check my voice mail and hear passive-aggressive messages on what someone did or said that might have meant this or that or the other thing. I hate being told that I'm not allowed to dispute things that are within my rights as an employee to dispute.
I hate North Dakota. I have to teach there next week. I once had a professor who didn't believe that anyone lived in North Dakota. It's unfortunate that I have to be the one to prove the man wrong.
Aside from my cold though, and my job-related goofiness (ooh, and a fever... I think I have a fever too), everything here is slowly being covered in what Minnesotans call "snow." "Snow" is a frozen, ice-slushy substance that can build up and cause dangerous road conditions, slippery sidewalks, and depression. So far, it's just given me a headache. Last Sunday while watching TV, one of the local news channels shot out a "blurb"-type thing between commercials of one of the newscasters. That goober sat there smiling at us from the happy warmth of his studio and said, "It's going to be SO cold this weekend!"
I hated him. I hated him with a hatred that I reserve only for North Dakota.
Really, I think Minnesota has ridiculous weather because if it weren't for the weather, no one would have anything to talk about. The forecast takes up a good 60-70% of the news broadcast here. I'm not sure anything else ever happens here. Once Prince moved out, and Ventura was out of office, so did all the excitement.
But I'm here now, so everyone's surely happy by now.
Until I leave for North Dakota.
Sneezes and wheezes,
Meredith
Sunday, January 02, 2005
ATA Airlines is boarding all passengers at this time... or something.
Dear "Mat,"
I once took a stuffed pink flamingo through airport security.
Yep. That's right. A stuffed pink flamingo.
It was a toy, of course, and I wasn't really travelling with it. In fact, I wasn't really travelling at all.
Sometimes you just want to hang out at the airport.
The Pittsburgh International Airport is a unique place as, I suppose, all airports are -- international or what-have-you. There's a great deal of diversity here. Not everyone's a Yinzer. Not everyone is wearing Steelers paraphenalia. If the United States is a melting pot, then the airports of the world are side salads. There's a lot of carrots walking around. A lot of grape tomatoes. A lot of radishes, rutabega, raddichio. There are West Coastal folks, Midwesterners, foreigners, locals. Dressed up with a slice or two of "I'm home now" or "I'm going home" or "I'm getting the hell out of this place." It's all in here.
My flight boards in a little over half an hour. I'm not entirely ready to LEAVE Pittsburgh, but I'm not altogether willing to STAY either. I kept telling people this last week in town that I liked Pittsburgh now because I didn't have to work there. I just vacation there. (Here. I'm actually still Here.) I suppose it was vacation-like. I spent a great deal of time with Matt and my family and Me, Too. And a great deal of time gifting and holidaying and eating and drinking and making merriment and the like.
(I apparently also spend a great deal of time saying the phrase "great deal of." I guess I like that phrase a great deal.)
(A BOGO is also a great deal. Especially if it's the type where, if you really don't want two, you can get one at half price. That's a great deal.)
Where was I? Oh yes. The airport. Vacationing. I suppose that's all through now. (Except I'm still at the airport. Where's my plane? Flying makes me nervous. I get all jumpy and talky and typey.) I'll be back Here sometime in the next few months -- Easter, maybe. Until then I'll be There -- that other place I call home now. Then in May I'll move from There to Here in order to figure out the next step on my journey.
Boy, life is ever so confusing.
Love,
Bwaaaaaa
I once took a stuffed pink flamingo through airport security.
Yep. That's right. A stuffed pink flamingo.
It was a toy, of course, and I wasn't really travelling with it. In fact, I wasn't really travelling at all.
Sometimes you just want to hang out at the airport.
The Pittsburgh International Airport is a unique place as, I suppose, all airports are -- international or what-have-you. There's a great deal of diversity here. Not everyone's a Yinzer. Not everyone is wearing Steelers paraphenalia. If the United States is a melting pot, then the airports of the world are side salads. There's a lot of carrots walking around. A lot of grape tomatoes. A lot of radishes, rutabega, raddichio. There are West Coastal folks, Midwesterners, foreigners, locals. Dressed up with a slice or two of "I'm home now" or "I'm going home" or "I'm getting the hell out of this place." It's all in here.
My flight boards in a little over half an hour. I'm not entirely ready to LEAVE Pittsburgh, but I'm not altogether willing to STAY either. I kept telling people this last week in town that I liked Pittsburgh now because I didn't have to work there. I just vacation there. (Here. I'm actually still Here.) I suppose it was vacation-like. I spent a great deal of time with Matt and my family and Me, Too. And a great deal of time gifting and holidaying and eating and drinking and making merriment and the like.
(I apparently also spend a great deal of time saying the phrase "great deal of." I guess I like that phrase a great deal.)
(A BOGO is also a great deal. Especially if it's the type where, if you really don't want two, you can get one at half price. That's a great deal.)
Where was I? Oh yes. The airport. Vacationing. I suppose that's all through now. (Except I'm still at the airport. Where's my plane? Flying makes me nervous. I get all jumpy and talky and typey.) I'll be back Here sometime in the next few months -- Easter, maybe. Until then I'll be There -- that other place I call home now. Then in May I'll move from There to Here in order to figure out the next step on my journey.
Boy, life is ever so confusing.
Love,
Bwaaaaaa
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