About the snow, Matt Smith.
Feets and feets of snow was a bit of an exaggeration, so no need to go slapping your co-worker around for being a smart-ass. Unless you want to. In which case, go right ahead.
I'm nearly halfway through a directed study project that I was supposed to have started months ago, but only really started yesterday. It's pretty awesome. And by awesome, I mean, of course, completely overwhelming and impossible. So, really, I think I'll be okay.
I mean, I think so.
I hope so.
I don't go home to Pittsburgh until Christmas Eve, and even then it is not flat at all. I hope that it is snow covered. I have a deep and persistent need for sledding, even though I do not think I own a sled anymore.
My roommate is jealous of everyone who has laundry in their building. By this I think she means "laundry facilities," not actual laundry, because if that were the case, she wouldn't need to be jealous. I have lots of laundry just sitting around, and I could show it to her so that her jealousy would not have to manifest itself in any harmful -- or even not harmful -- way. I have a lot of laundry leftover even though yesterday I did two loads of laundry, comprised entirely of underwear and socks. I am happy to have the socks and underwear, but I also would have liked to have the time to wash things that I might wear over the socks and underwear, for it is cold out and the snow is there and it might not be okay for me to go outside and get on a train without pants.
I am now halfway finished with my project. The end is in sight. There is still much work to be done, and now I have to go to yet another rehearsal for things I do not get paid for or credit for, but which people judge me on.
The world is a very strange place.
See you for dinner,
Meredith
Friday, December 14, 2007
Monday, December 03, 2007
The Despairing...est Despair.
I don't know how to respond to you and your despair, Matt Smith. In fact, I'm not even sure it was despair in that last post. It was something like despair... like playing an entire scoreless game in the rain against the Miami Dolphins until Jeff Reed and his centaurian legs kick a field goal. Like having a brainless, motorcycle-crashing, helmetless, twitchy quarterback on your team. Like not having a reason to live.
Oh. Wait. That is despair.
My despair is twofold. One, it snowed last night and this afternoon, which was a plus. But then it got warm and most of the snow turned to slush, which was a minus. Then it got really cold again, also a minus, and the slush turned to ice. Another minus. All the minuses really add up (or subtract down?) to despair. Especially when you live on a hill. And by you, I mean me, because I don't know whether you live on a hill or not.
Second, graduate school is hard. The first semester of the second year is the definition of despair. I despair because I have so much work yet to do, and I despair again when I realize how little time is left to do it. I despair when I don't have time to buy groceries, I despair when I'm hungry, and I despair again when I finally go to buy the groceries and I discover that because I've paid rent, I cannot realistically afford to eat this month. I despair when I think of changing my cat's litter, and I despair when I change the cat's litter. In short, there's a lot of despair...ing. Despair...age...ment. Despair. There's a lot of despair.
I'm reading this book about cadavers that Emily lent me called "Stiff." The woman who wrote it spent a lot of time chatting with anatomists and students at medical schools about what happens to a body after it's done being a person. I find that it's pretty fantastic. I'm a little worried though, because in every chapter that I've read (I've skipped Chapter 5 - the one about airplanes and dead bodies - because I might never get on a plane again if I read it), I find that there's a lot of things that I already know about dead bodies. As if I've done research on that sort of thing, which I haven't, I swear. I'm not THAT interested in dead people. I just... sort of... like them. In a good way. A good, completely innocent way.
You asked how all the homeless crazy people divvy up who gets what Starbucks? The answers are hard to come by, because, as you've noted, they're crazy. A lot of what they say doesn't really make much sense. I'm sure I've probably told you about Eddie Joe, my Starbucks homeless man. Eddie Joe used to frequent our store, bringing with him his various shirts, coats, bags, and sundry items, such as pens, gum wrappers, lighters, cigarettes, batteries, whatnots, and whosiwhatsits. Eddie Joe seemed to many of us to have been -- at one point -- a highly intelligent individual, who perhaps had a career in mathematics or engineering or some sciencey thing. He used a lot of big words that he seemed to be familiar with, but wasn't using in the right context. Also, he would tell stories about how he got this Bic pen on his college graduation day from the mayor, or about how batteries grew on trees and that's how we get batteries.
I could tolerate a great deal of Eddie Joe, but I had to find ways to get him to just... stop talking. I established my standard-Eddie-Joe-answers. These were as follows: "yeah," "uh-huh," "of course," "sure," "no," "don't do that," and my personal favorite, "that's incorrect." Eddie Joe would say something like, "This wallet is my wallet because I got it from the president of the United States," and I would say, "Of course." And then he would say, "I'm going to ditch this town, I'm getting out," and I'd say, "Uh-huh." And then he would say, "Batteries grow on trees," and I would say, "That's incorrect."
I'm not sure if that answers your question, but it was interesting for me to type it all out and see what Eddie Joe language looks like in Courier New.
I hope you enjoyed Pittsburgh in all its spectacular dampness.
Oh. Wait. That is despair.
My despair is twofold. One, it snowed last night and this afternoon, which was a plus. But then it got warm and most of the snow turned to slush, which was a minus. Then it got really cold again, also a minus, and the slush turned to ice. Another minus. All the minuses really add up (or subtract down?) to despair. Especially when you live on a hill. And by you, I mean me, because I don't know whether you live on a hill or not.
Second, graduate school is hard. The first semester of the second year is the definition of despair. I despair because I have so much work yet to do, and I despair again when I realize how little time is left to do it. I despair when I don't have time to buy groceries, I despair when I'm hungry, and I despair again when I finally go to buy the groceries and I discover that because I've paid rent, I cannot realistically afford to eat this month. I despair when I think of changing my cat's litter, and I despair when I change the cat's litter. In short, there's a lot of despair...ing. Despair...age...ment. Despair. There's a lot of despair.
I'm reading this book about cadavers that Emily lent me called "Stiff." The woman who wrote it spent a lot of time chatting with anatomists and students at medical schools about what happens to a body after it's done being a person. I find that it's pretty fantastic. I'm a little worried though, because in every chapter that I've read (I've skipped Chapter 5 - the one about airplanes and dead bodies - because I might never get on a plane again if I read it), I find that there's a lot of things that I already know about dead bodies. As if I've done research on that sort of thing, which I haven't, I swear. I'm not THAT interested in dead people. I just... sort of... like them. In a good way. A good, completely innocent way.
You asked how all the homeless crazy people divvy up who gets what Starbucks? The answers are hard to come by, because, as you've noted, they're crazy. A lot of what they say doesn't really make much sense. I'm sure I've probably told you about Eddie Joe, my Starbucks homeless man. Eddie Joe used to frequent our store, bringing with him his various shirts, coats, bags, and sundry items, such as pens, gum wrappers, lighters, cigarettes, batteries, whatnots, and whosiwhatsits. Eddie Joe seemed to many of us to have been -- at one point -- a highly intelligent individual, who perhaps had a career in mathematics or engineering or some sciencey thing. He used a lot of big words that he seemed to be familiar with, but wasn't using in the right context. Also, he would tell stories about how he got this Bic pen on his college graduation day from the mayor, or about how batteries grew on trees and that's how we get batteries.
I could tolerate a great deal of Eddie Joe, but I had to find ways to get him to just... stop talking. I established my standard-Eddie-Joe-answers. These were as follows: "yeah," "uh-huh," "of course," "sure," "no," "don't do that," and my personal favorite, "that's incorrect." Eddie Joe would say something like, "This wallet is my wallet because I got it from the president of the United States," and I would say, "Of course." And then he would say, "I'm going to ditch this town, I'm getting out," and I'd say, "Uh-huh." And then he would say, "Batteries grow on trees," and I would say, "That's incorrect."
I'm not sure if that answers your question, but it was interesting for me to type it all out and see what Eddie Joe language looks like in Courier New.
I hope you enjoyed Pittsburgh in all its spectacular dampness.
Monday, November 12, 2007
How Many Licks Does it Take? Or Do I Not Want to Know?
Smith, Matt (directory-style),
Should I worry that my cat compulsively licks the futon?
This is not a single lick. This is repeated, obsessively, hard-core licking.* He's doing it right now. It's... rhythmic. And annoying. It's rhythmically annoying. What's more, he's soaking the futon cushion. But back to the matter at hand, which is, of course, whether or not I should worry.
I'm sure there are those in the of-course-you-should-worry camp, but to those people, I say nay. Nay, people, I will not worry. Yes, it is a behavior that signifies compulsion and some other types of mental disease, but I'd argue that that is the nature of the cat. Er, any cat.
He's still licking, by the way.
Cats are ridiculous creatures. And my ridiculous creature is still licking.**
All this is to avoid tackling a real topic in this blog, like global warming or politics, or even something as la-de-da as knitting or crocheting or any other crafty pastime. I abhor... writing about things that matter?
Yes. I worry more about the fact that it costs more for public transportation than it does to buy a soda.
I worry about the feet of pigeons... have you seen them? There's something about the fact that a great deal of pigeons are born defective - clubbed feet, bent wings, screwed-up beaks - and yet they continue to survive. And they aren't outcasts amongst pigeon-kind. In fact, I'd bet they were a majority.
I worry that I might be going blind from sitting in front of a computer, typing in this font. Can I change the font? Would that even help?
He's still licking.
I worry that if I go to bed now, the cat will simply follow me into my room, make himself comfortable on the bed, and just... keep... licking.
It's nice to have a night off.
- Meredith
*I wonder how this sentence will be misinterpreted by the search engines. Here's hoping my blog ends up on some porn site that is truly bizarre.
** Also, this one.
Should I worry that my cat compulsively licks the futon?
This is not a single lick. This is repeated, obsessively, hard-core licking.* He's doing it right now. It's... rhythmic. And annoying. It's rhythmically annoying. What's more, he's soaking the futon cushion. But back to the matter at hand, which is, of course, whether or not I should worry.
I'm sure there are those in the of-course-you-should-worry camp, but to those people, I say nay. Nay, people, I will not worry. Yes, it is a behavior that signifies compulsion and some other types of mental disease, but I'd argue that that is the nature of the cat. Er, any cat.
He's still licking, by the way.
Cats are ridiculous creatures. And my ridiculous creature is still licking.**
All this is to avoid tackling a real topic in this blog, like global warming or politics, or even something as la-de-da as knitting or crocheting or any other crafty pastime. I abhor... writing about things that matter?
Yes. I worry more about the fact that it costs more for public transportation than it does to buy a soda.
I worry about the feet of pigeons... have you seen them? There's something about the fact that a great deal of pigeons are born defective - clubbed feet, bent wings, screwed-up beaks - and yet they continue to survive. And they aren't outcasts amongst pigeon-kind. In fact, I'd bet they were a majority.
I worry that I might be going blind from sitting in front of a computer, typing in this font. Can I change the font? Would that even help?
He's still licking.
I worry that if I go to bed now, the cat will simply follow me into my room, make himself comfortable on the bed, and just... keep... licking.
It's nice to have a night off.
- Meredith
*I wonder how this sentence will be misinterpreted by the search engines. Here's hoping my blog ends up on some porn site that is truly bizarre.
** Also, this one.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Double Coupons Up To 99 Cents
Matt Smith,
I hope Seattle is awesome because Boston sucks.
I entertained the idea of just leaving that as my blog entry, and I also entertained the idea of not using the phrase "blog entry," but seeing as how I've just managed to blow both of those entertaining ideas with one sentence, I'll continue.
Boston and I are trying to stay positive in this trying time, but it's... trying. There's only so much smiling one can do when a city is taking you and yours to the cleaners day after day. I try to tell Boston that I don't like to shower that much, that showering twice or three times a week is fine for me, that Matt doesn't have to be that clean either, that I'll take him anyway I get him as long as he's happy, that I don't care about a little stank... but then, wham, bam and off we go to the cleaners again.
This particular cleaner has a habit of bruising people easily, injecting their love handles with drugs with silly names, and making them really hate the situation in general. Needless to say, it's not a cleaner I would choose personally, but Boston seems to love it. Boston loves this cleaner and every horrible tragedy that they stand for.
I would love to put this cleaner... and Boston... out of business.
The plan goes like this, Matt Smith:
First, I show up with competitors' coupons. Then, while they're distracted by my seeming ineptitude yet savvy consumer-mindedness, you run in and steal... whatever it is that makes the suits and shirts and other items on hangers spin around. THAT way, whenever they have something brought to them, they have to WALK to go put it away. No more Mr. I-Just-Have-To-Push-This-Button-and-Everything-Moves-On-My-Command. No, no. In fact, not only will it work THAT way, it's twofold. When people come to PICK UP their cleaning, Mr. IJHTPTBAEMOMC (see above) will have to search endlessly to find it for them... or come up with some sort of innovative clothes filing system. Which he's probably not smart enough to anyway, even though he's smart enough to know which people can be kicked when they're down.
Does Seattle have cleaners that they take people to? Do they beat them up until they're barely recognizable and then throw them to the Seattle wolves, assuming, of course, that there are wolves in Seattle? Does Seattle delight in bringing pain to a select few undeserving citizens, and does it enjoy hearing their cries of agony?
Yes?
No?
Do tell. I'm eager to hear other tales of woe from other coastal towns. I think this is something they conspire to do to the people who move there from landlocked areas of the country.
Also, please let me know if you're down with the plan. And if you're down with the phrase "your momma." Those jokes are coming back in fashion now and I need some sort of definitive answer on the subject.
The blog has been beaten, Michael, and now it's crawling its way back to life. Hope you can snarkily forgive me. Matt Smith can. He's a role model for millions.
Scooters, vacation, fall,
Meredith
I hope Seattle is awesome because Boston sucks.
I entertained the idea of just leaving that as my blog entry, and I also entertained the idea of not using the phrase "blog entry," but seeing as how I've just managed to blow both of those entertaining ideas with one sentence, I'll continue.
Boston and I are trying to stay positive in this trying time, but it's... trying. There's only so much smiling one can do when a city is taking you and yours to the cleaners day after day. I try to tell Boston that I don't like to shower that much, that showering twice or three times a week is fine for me, that Matt doesn't have to be that clean either, that I'll take him anyway I get him as long as he's happy, that I don't care about a little stank... but then, wham, bam and off we go to the cleaners again.
This particular cleaner has a habit of bruising people easily, injecting their love handles with drugs with silly names, and making them really hate the situation in general. Needless to say, it's not a cleaner I would choose personally, but Boston seems to love it. Boston loves this cleaner and every horrible tragedy that they stand for.
I would love to put this cleaner... and Boston... out of business.
The plan goes like this, Matt Smith:
First, I show up with competitors' coupons. Then, while they're distracted by my seeming ineptitude yet savvy consumer-mindedness, you run in and steal... whatever it is that makes the suits and shirts and other items on hangers spin around. THAT way, whenever they have something brought to them, they have to WALK to go put it away. No more Mr. I-Just-Have-To-Push-This-Button-and-Everything-Moves-On-My-Command. No, no. In fact, not only will it work THAT way, it's twofold. When people come to PICK UP their cleaning, Mr. IJHTPTBAEMOMC (see above) will have to search endlessly to find it for them... or come up with some sort of innovative clothes filing system. Which he's probably not smart enough to anyway, even though he's smart enough to know which people can be kicked when they're down.
Does Seattle have cleaners that they take people to? Do they beat them up until they're barely recognizable and then throw them to the Seattle wolves, assuming, of course, that there are wolves in Seattle? Does Seattle delight in bringing pain to a select few undeserving citizens, and does it enjoy hearing their cries of agony?
Yes?
No?
Do tell. I'm eager to hear other tales of woe from other coastal towns. I think this is something they conspire to do to the people who move there from landlocked areas of the country.
Also, please let me know if you're down with the plan. And if you're down with the phrase "your momma." Those jokes are coming back in fashion now and I need some sort of definitive answer on the subject.
The blog has been beaten, Michael, and now it's crawling its way back to life. Hope you can snarkily forgive me. Matt Smith can. He's a role model for millions.
Scooters, vacation, fall,
Meredith
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
If a Nap Could Feed Me, I'd Sleep All the Time.
Matt Smith,
Yay for gainful (if painful) employment!
Here are the answers to your questions:
I'm in Boston at least until mid-May. I have no idea what I'm doing after that, but I'm with you on the same city thing. Chicago could be nice... I have some friends there, as I'm sure you do. And if we both lived there then we'd both have MORE friends there. And I hear there's some sweet comedy there. And if we were there, there'd be MORE sweet comedy there.
In answer to your question, "How's Boston treating you," I'd have to say Boston is not treating me. Boston is rudely making me pay for everything, including food, housing, clothing, and veterinary services. In fact, Boston has so far refused to treat me at all. I think we should break up. How dare Boston put all the financial burden on me?
I meant to tell you that the Steve dress is not a dress FOR Steve. It's actually a dress for me. It just says "Steve" on the front of it. I think it's some bizarre political thing, but to me, it's just an old t-shirt that says "Steve," and now it's a dress. Not Steve's. Mine.
I think you should make the job less dull by doing one (or several) of the following:
1. Affix the covers of the books of stamps onto envelopes, claiming you thought they were merely "really big stamps." The Asian woman who runs the laundromat that I go to asked me to explain why the envelope she attempted to mail this way came back to her. I had to use my teacher sensibilities to explain the reasons -- without making her feel like an idiot.
(Bonus: there are bar codes on the stamp book covers, too.)
2. Use crayons. I think America in its capitalism has really underestimated the wonderfulness of crayons. As I type this, I'm getting the word "crayons" visually confused with "crayfish" and that's concerning. America has probably NOT underestimated the wonderfulness of crayfish. I'd venture to guess, statistically speaking, that more Americans know what crayons are than crayfish, though.
3. Take a poll to find out how many people in your office know what crayfish are.
4. Create a system by which you only allow access to the restroom to those with "tokens." I find this to be only mildly empowering at my place of business, but it may work out better for you. Especially since you don't actually have tokens and could probably use nickels. Or dimes. Or quarters. Or those god-forsaken Sacagawea dollar coins. Your choice.
That's all for now, I suppose. I definitely think it's time for a nap.
Yum, yum... naps.
Meredith
Yay for gainful (if painful) employment!
Here are the answers to your questions:
I'm in Boston at least until mid-May. I have no idea what I'm doing after that, but I'm with you on the same city thing. Chicago could be nice... I have some friends there, as I'm sure you do. And if we both lived there then we'd both have MORE friends there. And I hear there's some sweet comedy there. And if we were there, there'd be MORE sweet comedy there.
In answer to your question, "How's Boston treating you," I'd have to say Boston is not treating me. Boston is rudely making me pay for everything, including food, housing, clothing, and veterinary services. In fact, Boston has so far refused to treat me at all. I think we should break up. How dare Boston put all the financial burden on me?
I meant to tell you that the Steve dress is not a dress FOR Steve. It's actually a dress for me. It just says "Steve" on the front of it. I think it's some bizarre political thing, but to me, it's just an old t-shirt that says "Steve," and now it's a dress. Not Steve's. Mine.
I think you should make the job less dull by doing one (or several) of the following:
1. Affix the covers of the books of stamps onto envelopes, claiming you thought they were merely "really big stamps." The Asian woman who runs the laundromat that I go to asked me to explain why the envelope she attempted to mail this way came back to her. I had to use my teacher sensibilities to explain the reasons -- without making her feel like an idiot.
(Bonus: there are bar codes on the stamp book covers, too.)
2. Use crayons. I think America in its capitalism has really underestimated the wonderfulness of crayons. As I type this, I'm getting the word "crayons" visually confused with "crayfish" and that's concerning. America has probably NOT underestimated the wonderfulness of crayfish. I'd venture to guess, statistically speaking, that more Americans know what crayons are than crayfish, though.
3. Take a poll to find out how many people in your office know what crayfish are.
4. Create a system by which you only allow access to the restroom to those with "tokens." I find this to be only mildly empowering at my place of business, but it may work out better for you. Especially since you don't actually have tokens and could probably use nickels. Or dimes. Or quarters. Or those god-forsaken Sacagawea dollar coins. Your choice.
That's all for now, I suppose. I definitely think it's time for a nap.
Yum, yum... naps.
Meredith
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
I Don't Have the Potter Book to Read Yet, So I'm Writing Instead.
Matt Smith,
I apologize for not giving you fair warning that I'd be ignoring you in my last post. Michael seems to be my... what number do I have now?... my third Constant Reader? I think it's three now. There's you, there's Anne, and there's Michael. Oh sure, there's a Now-and-Then Reader, but ah. My Constants. I have to give credit where it's due, Constants.
Consistency is something I've been giving a lot of thought lately. A co-worker and I were having a chat a few weeks back about some silly award-typey cards that keep being thrown about the coffee shop. They've got titles: Knowledgeable, Genuine, something else, another thing (you can plainly see how many I've gotten). People are supposed to pinpoint qualities that their co-workers exhibit on any given day, write them down on a corresponding award-typey card, and give it to them as a way of saying "thanks" for things that they do.
Well, frankly, I've got it all figured out. My minor complaint a few weeks back was that the Award-typey Cards (I think I've typed it enough for it to warrant capitalization now, don't you think?) continue to be handed out to employees who aren't always up to snuff. (What the hell does that even mean? Up to snuff?) So, really, we're just using these cards to train people that they get rewarded when they actually do what they're supposed to be doing. Like, "Hey Bob, Thanks for going that extra mile and showing up on time for work today." Or, "Thank you, Patty, for making coffee today. That really shows how much you care."
Um. No.
It doesn't.
Where's the reward for consistency? Where's the reward for doing the right thing, pretty much all the time? Frankly, it's just not something our society seems to think is very important.
Well, Matt Smith. Here I am to give out the 2007 Consistency Awards. I know it's a little early (or a little late, depending on how you look at it) for an awards show, but there aren't any awards programs during the month of July. And my July has pretty much bit the big one, so it'd be great to have something to spruce it up.
The awards go to:
* Google, for consistently searching for (and finding) all manner of goofy things that I always desperately need to find out. Right. Now.
* The fans of the Boston Red Sox, for being simultaneously consistent in both stupidity and dedication. For crying out loud though, buy yourselves a good map of the MBTA light rail system and let the rest of us go home easy.
* Books, for always being consistently commerical-free and with no rental fees.
and finally,
* you, Matt Smith. Along with Emily, Bailey, Matt, Drew, Tina, my sister, and my mother (and possibly a handful of others that I've missed), you deserve a reward for consistent... something. Consistent okay-ness? Consistent general behavior? Consistent checking-in-to-make-sure-that-people-are-doing-alright? Consistent friendship seems to fit, but it's more than that really. It's more like "consistent humanity." Yes. Thank you, Matt Smith, for consistently knowing what it's like to be a human, and treating people accordingly.
(It's a brief awards program, and the music's not great, but at least the acceptance speeches are short... what with two of the recipients being inanimate objects.)
Levicorpus and all that,
Meredith
I apologize for not giving you fair warning that I'd be ignoring you in my last post. Michael seems to be my... what number do I have now?... my third Constant Reader? I think it's three now. There's you, there's Anne, and there's Michael. Oh sure, there's a Now-and-Then Reader, but ah. My Constants. I have to give credit where it's due, Constants.
Consistency is something I've been giving a lot of thought lately. A co-worker and I were having a chat a few weeks back about some silly award-typey cards that keep being thrown about the coffee shop. They've got titles: Knowledgeable, Genuine, something else, another thing (you can plainly see how many I've gotten). People are supposed to pinpoint qualities that their co-workers exhibit on any given day, write them down on a corresponding award-typey card, and give it to them as a way of saying "thanks" for things that they do.
Well, frankly, I've got it all figured out. My minor complaint a few weeks back was that the Award-typey Cards (I think I've typed it enough for it to warrant capitalization now, don't you think?) continue to be handed out to employees who aren't always up to snuff. (What the hell does that even mean? Up to snuff?) So, really, we're just using these cards to train people that they get rewarded when they actually do what they're supposed to be doing. Like, "Hey Bob, Thanks for going that extra mile and showing up on time for work today." Or, "Thank you, Patty, for making coffee today. That really shows how much you care."
Um. No.
It doesn't.
Where's the reward for consistency? Where's the reward for doing the right thing, pretty much all the time? Frankly, it's just not something our society seems to think is very important.
Well, Matt Smith. Here I am to give out the 2007 Consistency Awards. I know it's a little early (or a little late, depending on how you look at it) for an awards show, but there aren't any awards programs during the month of July. And my July has pretty much bit the big one, so it'd be great to have something to spruce it up.
The awards go to:
* Google, for consistently searching for (and finding) all manner of goofy things that I always desperately need to find out. Right. Now.
* The fans of the Boston Red Sox, for being simultaneously consistent in both stupidity and dedication. For crying out loud though, buy yourselves a good map of the MBTA light rail system and let the rest of us go home easy.
* Books, for always being consistently commerical-free and with no rental fees.
and finally,
* you, Matt Smith. Along with Emily, Bailey, Matt, Drew, Tina, my sister, and my mother (and possibly a handful of others that I've missed), you deserve a reward for consistent... something. Consistent okay-ness? Consistent general behavior? Consistent checking-in-to-make-sure-that-people-are-doing-alright? Consistent friendship seems to fit, but it's more than that really. It's more like "consistent humanity." Yes. Thank you, Matt Smith, for consistently knowing what it's like to be a human, and treating people accordingly.
(It's a brief awards program, and the music's not great, but at least the acceptance speeches are short... what with two of the recipients being inanimate objects.)
Levicorpus and all that,
Meredith
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Ready for My Close-up, Mister...
Dear Mr. Brownlee,
Since you asked oh-so-many months ago about who Matt Smith is -- and everyone asks, so don't think you're the first -- you can follow the link the the right? The one that says "The Real Matt Smith?" Yeah. That's the one. Go on. Click it. In fact, open it in a New Browser Window so that you and I can still have this happy little chat. You can read all about my buddy, Matt Smith, later on, and I can tell you about my day. I'm sure you're interested.
Actually, you're probably throwing around some camera-object right now, hoping to get the right angle on this computer screen, hoping to find a place where you can avoid the glare, but still put my blog in the right light for photos. Don't worry. That's been done before. It IS picturesque. It's really good about sitting still and posing for photographs. And if you're doing candids, it can act natural. No problem. Just remind it to take it's glasses off before you ask it to smile pretty.
By the way, how's that photography thing going these days? Picking up? Taken any fine paparazzi-type shots yet while riding at top speed on your Harley? If so, why aren't they posted on MySpace?
That being said, I apologize for my blogging absence. Wow. That sentence gives a whole new meaning to the word "blog." I mean, it does have four letters, meaning it can be used as a "four-letter word." I might have to go back and edit that entry where I typed "bloggity blog blog," for fear someone else might have misinterpreted it, the way the Google people misinterpreted my entry about "peeing for freedom."
Truth be told (which is a phrase I'm starting to use all too often, which makes me wonder if I'm lying the rest of the time), I've just now found the something in me that can only be satiated by writing. I think I must have misplaced it for a few months, or tried to starve it somehow by only feeding it work and school and work and school and the occasional fillet of orange roughy. I fully intended on participating in "Script Frenzy" during the month of June, attempting to complete a full-length play by June 30, but didn't get around to it. And here it is, now already mid-July, and all I have to show for myself is a pile of dirty laundry, a cowboy hat, and a bib that reads "Time to get crackin'!" with a picture of a lobster on it.
But I don't miss June. I'm happy it's July -- even if it is MID-July. Things like my birthday and the 4th have passed, and now we're headed for other things... my brother's birthday, the 19th of July (which has no significance to me whatsoever), and then it'll be the 31st and I'll be on a plane to Charleston. Time for hanging out at the beach, eating some delicious food made by wonderful friends, and watching some sea turtles head out to sea.
Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to make like a sea turtle, and try not to pick the wrong direction when I crawl my way into bed. Like any good sea turtle, I'll head AWAY from the glowing Coke machine, and TOWARDS the moonlit sea.
Nighty-night, photo man.
- Meredith
Since you asked oh-so-many months ago about who Matt Smith is -- and everyone asks, so don't think you're the first -- you can follow the link the the right? The one that says "The Real Matt Smith?" Yeah. That's the one. Go on. Click it. In fact, open it in a New Browser Window so that you and I can still have this happy little chat. You can read all about my buddy, Matt Smith, later on, and I can tell you about my day. I'm sure you're interested.
Actually, you're probably throwing around some camera-object right now, hoping to get the right angle on this computer screen, hoping to find a place where you can avoid the glare, but still put my blog in the right light for photos. Don't worry. That's been done before. It IS picturesque. It's really good about sitting still and posing for photographs. And if you're doing candids, it can act natural. No problem. Just remind it to take it's glasses off before you ask it to smile pretty.
By the way, how's that photography thing going these days? Picking up? Taken any fine paparazzi-type shots yet while riding at top speed on your Harley? If so, why aren't they posted on MySpace?
That being said, I apologize for my blogging absence. Wow. That sentence gives a whole new meaning to the word "blog." I mean, it does have four letters, meaning it can be used as a "four-letter word." I might have to go back and edit that entry where I typed "bloggity blog blog," for fear someone else might have misinterpreted it, the way the Google people misinterpreted my entry about "peeing for freedom."
Truth be told (which is a phrase I'm starting to use all too often, which makes me wonder if I'm lying the rest of the time), I've just now found the something in me that can only be satiated by writing. I think I must have misplaced it for a few months, or tried to starve it somehow by only feeding it work and school and work and school and the occasional fillet of orange roughy. I fully intended on participating in "Script Frenzy" during the month of June, attempting to complete a full-length play by June 30, but didn't get around to it. And here it is, now already mid-July, and all I have to show for myself is a pile of dirty laundry, a cowboy hat, and a bib that reads "Time to get crackin'!" with a picture of a lobster on it.
But I don't miss June. I'm happy it's July -- even if it is MID-July. Things like my birthday and the 4th have passed, and now we're headed for other things... my brother's birthday, the 19th of July (which has no significance to me whatsoever), and then it'll be the 31st and I'll be on a plane to Charleston. Time for hanging out at the beach, eating some delicious food made by wonderful friends, and watching some sea turtles head out to sea.
Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to make like a sea turtle, and try not to pick the wrong direction when I crawl my way into bed. Like any good sea turtle, I'll head AWAY from the glowing Coke machine, and TOWARDS the moonlit sea.
Nighty-night, photo man.
- Meredith
Monday, July 09, 2007
I Wouldn't Step on Your Dog if He Took Up More Space.
YOUR blog is behind, Matt Smith? Let's talk for a second about THIS blog. MY blog.
And yes, since you mention it, everything DOES have to be about me. And at least one word in each of these sentences DOES have to be in all-caps. SOMETIMES TWO. Just so we're on the same page.
I'm glad you're in Seattle. Not that I'm glad that you're not, y'know, in Boston with me, but I am glad that you took a bold step in a direction that may not have seemed entirely right at the time. I think we all need to do that at least once. With most people, that bold, perhaps misguided, step is not a move across the country... or even a move to the Northeast or Midwest or anywhere else. Sometimes that bold step is simply a final decision, unprompted and unadvised by others. Sometimes that step is buying a house. Or quitting a despised job with a good salary. Or marriage.
But for you and me, our bold steps say, "Let's get the hell out of here and try someplace new for a change." We move. We move to places like Minnesota where we know no one, to Evans City where we converse with folks we normally wouldn't even dare approach, to Boston and Seattle where we thrive only with the advice and help of a few dear friends.
The thing about us, Matt Smith, is that we'll make it. We'll manage just about anywhere. We're malleable, adaptable. The places we go can take our red and blue Play-Doh selves and mix it up on their preschool desks and we'll blend into that disgusting brownish gray ball that doesn't really look like anything, until you look a little closer and you see that there's a streak of blue Matt Smith here, writing an article for some kitschy paper about his comical observations of a fishing boat, and a smear of red Meredith there, trying to get kids to understand the world by allowing them to attack each other with yellow felt top hats.
It's a rough life, and a strange life that we're pulling ourselves through. And moving our stuff within. I'm constantly realizing how BIZARRE everything seems to be lately. For instance:
Why does a certain mother on the D-line insist on breast-feeding her FOUR-year old son ON THE TRAIN, let alone breast-feeding him at all? Buy him a hot dog, for Christ's sake.
Why do people think that Starbucks orders are so confusing, and why do they equate that confusion with the French language? "Venti" and "grande" are not French words, so don't tell me, "I don't know what size. I don't speak French." I don't speak French either.
Why do Bostonians cuss as if the four-letter words were merely interjections? And why do they do this at 7 in the morning while remodeling the deck outside my apartment?
Why is a small beverage in Texas 32-ounces?
Why does the bank charge you a FEE for overdrawing your account?
Why do people carry their small dogs in handbags? Throughout history, dogs have WALKED. They have FOUR LEGS, for goodness sake. Let them use them.
Like I said, everything's wild and weird and wonderful. Someday, Matt Smith, we'll find our places where we can settle. Hopefully they're at least a driveable distance from each other.
And I'm glad your stuff fits in your car.
My stuff didn't. And I had to sell my car.
And yes, since you mention it, everything DOES have to be about me. And at least one word in each of these sentences DOES have to be in all-caps. SOMETIMES TWO. Just so we're on the same page.
I'm glad you're in Seattle. Not that I'm glad that you're not, y'know, in Boston with me, but I am glad that you took a bold step in a direction that may not have seemed entirely right at the time. I think we all need to do that at least once. With most people, that bold, perhaps misguided, step is not a move across the country... or even a move to the Northeast or Midwest or anywhere else. Sometimes that bold step is simply a final decision, unprompted and unadvised by others. Sometimes that step is buying a house. Or quitting a despised job with a good salary. Or marriage.
But for you and me, our bold steps say, "Let's get the hell out of here and try someplace new for a change." We move. We move to places like Minnesota where we know no one, to Evans City where we converse with folks we normally wouldn't even dare approach, to Boston and Seattle where we thrive only with the advice and help of a few dear friends.
The thing about us, Matt Smith, is that we'll make it. We'll manage just about anywhere. We're malleable, adaptable. The places we go can take our red and blue Play-Doh selves and mix it up on their preschool desks and we'll blend into that disgusting brownish gray ball that doesn't really look like anything, until you look a little closer and you see that there's a streak of blue Matt Smith here, writing an article for some kitschy paper about his comical observations of a fishing boat, and a smear of red Meredith there, trying to get kids to understand the world by allowing them to attack each other with yellow felt top hats.
It's a rough life, and a strange life that we're pulling ourselves through. And moving our stuff within. I'm constantly realizing how BIZARRE everything seems to be lately. For instance:
Why does a certain mother on the D-line insist on breast-feeding her FOUR-year old son ON THE TRAIN, let alone breast-feeding him at all? Buy him a hot dog, for Christ's sake.
Why do people think that Starbucks orders are so confusing, and why do they equate that confusion with the French language? "Venti" and "grande" are not French words, so don't tell me, "I don't know what size. I don't speak French." I don't speak French either.
Why do Bostonians cuss as if the four-letter words were merely interjections? And why do they do this at 7 in the morning while remodeling the deck outside my apartment?
Why is a small beverage in Texas 32-ounces?
Why does the bank charge you a FEE for overdrawing your account?
Why do people carry their small dogs in handbags? Throughout history, dogs have WALKED. They have FOUR LEGS, for goodness sake. Let them use them.
Like I said, everything's wild and weird and wonderful. Someday, Matt Smith, we'll find our places where we can settle. Hopefully they're at least a driveable distance from each other.
And I'm glad your stuff fits in your car.
My stuff didn't. And I had to sell my car.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Don't Drink the Ocean. Just Rub it in Your Wounds.
Matt Smith,
I feel like this email that you wrote me is a "break-up email." Only, in this case, you're breaking up with someone you're not dating and only with the idea that you might have lived in the same city with them. Um. All I can say is, I don't want you to break up with me. You can't. As aforementioned, we aren't dating, and you're still my friend. Only now, you're my friend in Seattle.
Maybe after all these years, I can finally drop the "Smith" from your name and just call you "Seattle Matt." Or perhaps the other way 'round. Not that I think I should drop the "Seattle" from your name -- I never called you anything to do with Seattle before that I can recall, even that one time you looked just like the marketplace at Pike Place. I don't know really. "Matt Seattle" sounds like a building, or a superhero, or a superhero shaped like a building. I suppose I'll just have to flesh that one out when we cross that bridge. Or when you cross that bridge. Or the many bridges that you'll inevitably have to cross in order to get to Seattle.
I can't say I'm happy about this choice of yours... this West Coast thing. Nope. Can't say that at all. I can say that I'm happy a choice has been made. Choice-making is totally underrated, as far as I can tell, and more people should be made aware of their ability to make choices. Better choices. Faster choices. Quicker than I can say, "What size?" kind of choices. The point is, you should know how thirsty you are before you order a drink, and you should know that you need to move suddenly, throwing caution to the winds (or to the suburb cluttered Northwest), and then do it. So. Don't get too thirsty. There's only saltwater out there. And coffee. And I think there's an ocean, too.
I will miss you. I miss you already.
Love,
Meredith
I feel like this email that you wrote me is a "break-up email." Only, in this case, you're breaking up with someone you're not dating and only with the idea that you might have lived in the same city with them. Um. All I can say is, I don't want you to break up with me. You can't. As aforementioned, we aren't dating, and you're still my friend. Only now, you're my friend in Seattle.
Maybe after all these years, I can finally drop the "Smith" from your name and just call you "Seattle Matt." Or perhaps the other way 'round. Not that I think I should drop the "Seattle" from your name -- I never called you anything to do with Seattle before that I can recall, even that one time you looked just like the marketplace at Pike Place. I don't know really. "Matt Seattle" sounds like a building, or a superhero, or a superhero shaped like a building. I suppose I'll just have to flesh that one out when we cross that bridge. Or when you cross that bridge. Or the many bridges that you'll inevitably have to cross in order to get to Seattle.
I can't say I'm happy about this choice of yours... this West Coast thing. Nope. Can't say that at all. I can say that I'm happy a choice has been made. Choice-making is totally underrated, as far as I can tell, and more people should be made aware of their ability to make choices. Better choices. Faster choices. Quicker than I can say, "What size?" kind of choices. The point is, you should know how thirsty you are before you order a drink, and you should know that you need to move suddenly, throwing caution to the winds (or to the suburb cluttered Northwest), and then do it. So. Don't get too thirsty. There's only saltwater out there. And coffee. And I think there's an ocean, too.
I will miss you. I miss you already.
Love,
Meredith
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Lassie! Help! Help! Timmy's Been Inundated with Phone Calls!
Matt Smith?
What do people who get phone calls talk about?
I get, like, a phone call. Maybe two. Rarely both in the same day, unless there's something truly spectacular happening... like, the earth ran into the sun. Well. Maybe not that spectacular. Maybe just California-is-falling-into-the-Pacific spectacular. At any rate, I don't get phone calls unless one of two things is happening: 1) someone is returning my phone call to them, or 2) something/one is crashing/falling into something/one else.
Yes. That sums it up right nicely.
With that in mind, I wonder what the hell this girl sitting across from me had going for her that she should get not one, not two, not THREE phone calls while riding the T... but six. Six phone calls. During a 15-minute train ride. It upsets me enough to just have used two sentence fragments in a row. It upsets me enough so that there may be an indeterminate amount of sentence fragments yet to be written in this blog entry.
The thing that really got me was, the six phone calls seemed to be about the same topic. Her doctor's appointment. She missed it. Know how I know? She told the people on the other end of the phone. She told each of them individually. I don't know six people who need to know that I missed my doctor's appointment. My doctor doesn't even care that I miss my doctor's appointment. What the hell does she care? She still gets paid. In fact, if I don't give her enough notice, she gets paid more than she would have had I actually shown up. So the doctor phone call is right out.
Would my mother care if I missed a doctor's appointment? The answer to that is -- simply put -- no. My mother hadn't been to the doctor's office in almost 25 years until some random physical for a job dragged her there. So there you have it. Mother phone call. Out of the running.
Would my friends care if I missed that doctor's appointment? Probably not. Certainly not six friends, all at practically the same time. How would they even know that I missed it? Did I call them first? Is this a subject that I just randomly bring up on the phone? Now, looking back on that doctor-avoiding train-girl, I think she must have brought it up at least twice. But not every time. Sometimes she just agreed with them that missing the doctor's appointment was a bad thing and didn't it suck that she was stuck in the office working all day. Yeah.
Do I even have six friends? More than likely. Are any of them doctors whose appointments I've missed? Absolutely not. (And of course we now know that even if they were, they wouldn't call. They would just collect the payments.) Does the conversation take a turn for the better? Well, in train-girl's case, no. She just got phone call after phone call, never changing the subject, never letting the other person tell her about their doctor's appointment. Strange conversation manipulating girl.
Maybe the six phone calls were all from the same person who just happened to have short term memory loss? Maybe there weren't really six phone calls, and I was experiencing some sort of rapid-fire deja-vu? Maybe the train was simply moving back and forth across the space-time continuum?
The world may never... I mean... I may never know. The world simply doesn't care.
Not about me. And not about my silly doctor's appointments.
That is all.
- Meredith
P.S. I hear the job search is not so hot. Keep on keeping on, my friend. And if you need a change of scenery, me and Boston will still be here, greeting you with open arms and lots of non sequitur phone calls. Or maybe just lots of non sequitur. Something. We'll be here with something. (Maybe cheese. Or greeting cards. Or greeting cards made of cheese.)
What do people who get phone calls talk about?
I get, like, a phone call. Maybe two. Rarely both in the same day, unless there's something truly spectacular happening... like, the earth ran into the sun. Well. Maybe not that spectacular. Maybe just California-is-falling-into-the-Pacific spectacular. At any rate, I don't get phone calls unless one of two things is happening: 1) someone is returning my phone call to them, or 2) something/one is crashing/falling into something/one else.
Yes. That sums it up right nicely.
With that in mind, I wonder what the hell this girl sitting across from me had going for her that she should get not one, not two, not THREE phone calls while riding the T... but six. Six phone calls. During a 15-minute train ride. It upsets me enough to just have used two sentence fragments in a row. It upsets me enough so that there may be an indeterminate amount of sentence fragments yet to be written in this blog entry.
The thing that really got me was, the six phone calls seemed to be about the same topic. Her doctor's appointment. She missed it. Know how I know? She told the people on the other end of the phone. She told each of them individually. I don't know six people who need to know that I missed my doctor's appointment. My doctor doesn't even care that I miss my doctor's appointment. What the hell does she care? She still gets paid. In fact, if I don't give her enough notice, she gets paid more than she would have had I actually shown up. So the doctor phone call is right out.
Would my mother care if I missed a doctor's appointment? The answer to that is -- simply put -- no. My mother hadn't been to the doctor's office in almost 25 years until some random physical for a job dragged her there. So there you have it. Mother phone call. Out of the running.
Would my friends care if I missed that doctor's appointment? Probably not. Certainly not six friends, all at practically the same time. How would they even know that I missed it? Did I call them first? Is this a subject that I just randomly bring up on the phone? Now, looking back on that doctor-avoiding train-girl, I think she must have brought it up at least twice. But not every time. Sometimes she just agreed with them that missing the doctor's appointment was a bad thing and didn't it suck that she was stuck in the office working all day. Yeah.
Do I even have six friends? More than likely. Are any of them doctors whose appointments I've missed? Absolutely not. (And of course we now know that even if they were, they wouldn't call. They would just collect the payments.) Does the conversation take a turn for the better? Well, in train-girl's case, no. She just got phone call after phone call, never changing the subject, never letting the other person tell her about their doctor's appointment. Strange conversation manipulating girl.
Maybe the six phone calls were all from the same person who just happened to have short term memory loss? Maybe there weren't really six phone calls, and I was experiencing some sort of rapid-fire deja-vu? Maybe the train was simply moving back and forth across the space-time continuum?
The world may never... I mean... I may never know. The world simply doesn't care.
Not about me. And not about my silly doctor's appointments.
That is all.
- Meredith
P.S. I hear the job search is not so hot. Keep on keeping on, my friend. And if you need a change of scenery, me and Boston will still be here, greeting you with open arms and lots of non sequitur phone calls. Or maybe just lots of non sequitur. Something. We'll be here with something. (Maybe cheese. Or greeting cards. Or greeting cards made of cheese.)
Friday, March 09, 2007
Jerry Seinfeld Can't Write THIS Much Nothing
Matt Smith.
When I was younger, I used to say, "Someday I'm going to write a book." Later on, when I discovered that I didn't really have anything to write about compared to everyone else, I expanded that idea into, "Someday I'm going to write a book about nothing."
Then Jerry Seinfeld "stole"/simply used that idea, and so began my lifelong hatred of Jerry Seinfeld.
That's a lie. I actually don't hate him. I just hate that he does things. Just in general.
I only bring up books because this blog entry, for all intents and purposes (just what IS the purpose of a blog?), has the capacity to BE a book. No. Not just a book, but a Book. That's right. Watch out. I'm capitalizing things. Randomly. I have the alphabet in upper-case and I know how to use it.
I thought about just being a little shit and typing "bloggity blog-blog-blog" for the entire time here in front of the computer, but then I thought about all the insignificant things I could write and complain about, all the things that people have done that bother me, all the wonderfulness of simply taking the things in my head and putting them in print... and I thought... "bloggity blog-blog-blog" would really probably cut it.
But I'm not going to do that. If only for the simple reason that Google (and all those other search engines that may indeed just catalogue porn sites) would have a field day with all the "blog" words. Or all the two blog words.
Now I'm just rambling, honestly, since I've been accused of "not blogging enough" and "having nothing good to write about" or "sitting with my thumb up my ass" or "being a child of the 60s." All of those are real accusations, all of them are things that I have, of course, been accused of, but not all of them have been spit at me in the past few months. All kinds of folks are apparently up in arms over the lack of blog. And, certainly, when I say "all kinds of," I really mean "all two."
Speaking of the last few months, a bunch of things have happened in amongst the getting up early to earn my dollar, going to class sleepy and without my work done, going back to work to deal with smelly customers, and making Emily not eat cheese slices. Working mostly backwards, and leaving out a lot of things, here's the list:
- Emily and I went on Spring Break 2007 (Woo-oo!) to Pittsburgh. I bet you remember this one, since you were there. There was much merriment, much bar-hopping. Three whole bars in four whole days. We hop slowly. And demonstratively. Emily chronicled the whole thing with her camera, Squinty. (I've named the camera "Squinty." Emily won't know this until she reads this, but I think it's a fitting name and I'm not taking it back.) We ate dinner with you, of course (that's the part you might remember, along with bar number one of the hopping), and went to the Warhol where we had a dance party with some helium- and air-filled balloon/cloud things. Good times. Great oldies.
- I'm designing a set! For a show that will never be put on! It's awesome! There's a big trestle on it. Well, to be honest, it's really a little trestle, since I'm building it out of foam core and paper in 3/8 inch scale, and I'll never see it be any larger except in my head. And I don't know if you've noticed lately, but my head isn't quite large enough to house a 14 1/2 foot high trestle. No, sir. Not a one. (I have no idea what "not a one" has to do with anything, but it seemed like something that should rightly follow a comment like "no, sir." I also have no idea what "rightly" has to do with following.)
- Matt and I went on what I like to call a "snowboarding mini-break" in New Hampshire at the end of February. I've got to say, throwing yourself (okay, myself) down a mountain at high rates of speed is enough to scare the snot out of you. And indeed, if you fall hard enough, and on the right type of hill, and hit the right spot on your body, the snot will fall right out. It's snot-falling fun. Better than the snot, though (and what wouldn't be), was Saturday night at the mountain when they built a big bonfirey type thing where kids could toast marshmallows and get glow necklaces and keep their hands warm. I did all of those things. It was post-beer wonderful.
- I lost a manager when he decided to work at a restaurant. Our assistant manager got promoted and became our manager. For two weeks. Then she left to manage another store. Then, a shift supervisor left to work some swanky job where people buy her food and drink all the time. Then we got another manager. This is all new and different and strange. I fear change in the workplace. Or, more correctly, I fear change because I have some dark, deep-seated belief that no one really knows how to do anything when change occurs. Yeah. That's it.
- Melissa bought a new bed. This has absolutely nothing to do with me, but there's some satin sheets on it that I fell off of.
I'm sure there's more, but I can't remember all of the complaints that I had with everything in between. I do recall that I had a complaint about someone that smells all the time of onions, and I can't for the life of me figure out why he smells like onions, nor why no one has ever pointed it out to him before. It's bizarre. And oniony.
Happy job hunting. Make sure to aim for the big one with antlers.
- Meredith
When I was younger, I used to say, "Someday I'm going to write a book." Later on, when I discovered that I didn't really have anything to write about compared to everyone else, I expanded that idea into, "Someday I'm going to write a book about nothing."
Then Jerry Seinfeld "stole"/simply used that idea, and so began my lifelong hatred of Jerry Seinfeld.
That's a lie. I actually don't hate him. I just hate that he does things. Just in general.
I only bring up books because this blog entry, for all intents and purposes (just what IS the purpose of a blog?), has the capacity to BE a book. No. Not just a book, but a Book. That's right. Watch out. I'm capitalizing things. Randomly. I have the alphabet in upper-case and I know how to use it.
I thought about just being a little shit and typing "bloggity blog-blog-blog" for the entire time here in front of the computer, but then I thought about all the insignificant things I could write and complain about, all the things that people have done that bother me, all the wonderfulness of simply taking the things in my head and putting them in print... and I thought... "bloggity blog-blog-blog" would really probably cut it.
But I'm not going to do that. If only for the simple reason that Google (and all those other search engines that may indeed just catalogue porn sites) would have a field day with all the "blog" words. Or all the two blog words.
Now I'm just rambling, honestly, since I've been accused of "not blogging enough" and "having nothing good to write about" or "sitting with my thumb up my ass" or "being a child of the 60s." All of those are real accusations, all of them are things that I have, of course, been accused of, but not all of them have been spit at me in the past few months. All kinds of folks are apparently up in arms over the lack of blog. And, certainly, when I say "all kinds of," I really mean "all two."
Speaking of the last few months, a bunch of things have happened in amongst the getting up early to earn my dollar, going to class sleepy and without my work done, going back to work to deal with smelly customers, and making Emily not eat cheese slices. Working mostly backwards, and leaving out a lot of things, here's the list:
- Emily and I went on Spring Break 2007 (Woo-oo!) to Pittsburgh. I bet you remember this one, since you were there. There was much merriment, much bar-hopping. Three whole bars in four whole days. We hop slowly. And demonstratively. Emily chronicled the whole thing with her camera, Squinty. (I've named the camera "Squinty." Emily won't know this until she reads this, but I think it's a fitting name and I'm not taking it back.) We ate dinner with you, of course (that's the part you might remember, along with bar number one of the hopping), and went to the Warhol where we had a dance party with some helium- and air-filled balloon/cloud things. Good times. Great oldies.
- I'm designing a set! For a show that will never be put on! It's awesome! There's a big trestle on it. Well, to be honest, it's really a little trestle, since I'm building it out of foam core and paper in 3/8 inch scale, and I'll never see it be any larger except in my head. And I don't know if you've noticed lately, but my head isn't quite large enough to house a 14 1/2 foot high trestle. No, sir. Not a one. (I have no idea what "not a one" has to do with anything, but it seemed like something that should rightly follow a comment like "no, sir." I also have no idea what "rightly" has to do with following.)
- Matt and I went on what I like to call a "snowboarding mini-break" in New Hampshire at the end of February. I've got to say, throwing yourself (okay, myself) down a mountain at high rates of speed is enough to scare the snot out of you. And indeed, if you fall hard enough, and on the right type of hill, and hit the right spot on your body, the snot will fall right out. It's snot-falling fun. Better than the snot, though (and what wouldn't be), was Saturday night at the mountain when they built a big bonfirey type thing where kids could toast marshmallows and get glow necklaces and keep their hands warm. I did all of those things. It was post-beer wonderful.
- I lost a manager when he decided to work at a restaurant. Our assistant manager got promoted and became our manager. For two weeks. Then she left to manage another store. Then, a shift supervisor left to work some swanky job where people buy her food and drink all the time. Then we got another manager. This is all new and different and strange. I fear change in the workplace. Or, more correctly, I fear change because I have some dark, deep-seated belief that no one really knows how to do anything when change occurs. Yeah. That's it.
- Melissa bought a new bed. This has absolutely nothing to do with me, but there's some satin sheets on it that I fell off of.
I'm sure there's more, but I can't remember all of the complaints that I had with everything in between. I do recall that I had a complaint about someone that smells all the time of onions, and I can't for the life of me figure out why he smells like onions, nor why no one has ever pointed it out to him before. It's bizarre. And oniony.
Happy job hunting. Make sure to aim for the big one with antlers.
- Meredith
Monday, January 01, 2007
It Takes a Whole Lot of Beans to Make Up a Whole Town
Nothing says New Year's quite like Beef Lo Mein.
Er, yeah.
Hi there, Matt Smith. I just saw you barely a week ago and already I'm feeling the sad, sad broken feeling of you not living in Boston. In case you didn't know, there's a sad, sad broken feeling that I get when you don't live in Boston. It's not something I've always experienced, since I lived in Pittsburgh up until this past fall -- for the most part. I do think it has some connection to the fact that we simply don't see enough of each other. And even when we do see each other, we're trying to talk over other people and eat and drink tea and get the waiter to refill the teapot and figure out who owes for the bill at dinner.
All of that, I suppose, simply says you should hurry up and visit.
There's a lot of marriage and child-bearing going around. I found out when I was around for the holidays that there are three couples who have either gotten engaged or have planned to elope. And now, just today, a friend called me to say that his wife is preggers.* I managed to pull up from the depths of my emotion drawer (I keep them in a drawer these days... very convenient) some moderate excitement. I think I might have done better had I not a) been put on the spot suddenly with the information, and b) known before I returned the phone call what the "big news" was going to be. I'm happy for him, really. He's gotten what he's always wanted. An adorably happy pregnant wife and a life full of family and possibilities for the future. I wish I knew what I wanted out of life, the universe, and everything as much as he knew that he wanted to get married and start a family. Boy. Some people just have everything figured out. Others, like me, won't have anything figured out. Not for a long... long... long time.
One of the few things I seem to have figured out is how to use the damned fare machines for the T here. Frankly, I don't see what's so difficult about them -- unless you can't read, or you can't read English -- but the majority of people require assistance from the MBTA employees positioned inside the stations, the people near them in line to purchase their fares, or God in Heaven. People just are in too much of a hurry to use a touchscreen? Really? All they have to do is TOUCH THE SCREEN. And, well, read the signs that tell them that This Machine takes only cash, while That Machine will accept credit and debit cards. And the screen itself, obviously, when it TELLS THEM EXACTLY WHAT TO DO. How hard is that? The answer, of course, is not hard. It is not hard to use the machines. Get over yourselves, Bostonians.
I took next weekend off. You'd better be coming to visit. Otherwise I'm going to have nothing to amuse myself during both Saturday AND Sunday. Get on that.
Aloha-Oy,
Meredith
* Any abbreviation of the word "pregnant" is in honor of my roommate, Jenna. She hates "preggers" almost as much as Emma hates "silly" and "belly."
Er, yeah.
Hi there, Matt Smith. I just saw you barely a week ago and already I'm feeling the sad, sad broken feeling of you not living in Boston. In case you didn't know, there's a sad, sad broken feeling that I get when you don't live in Boston. It's not something I've always experienced, since I lived in Pittsburgh up until this past fall -- for the most part. I do think it has some connection to the fact that we simply don't see enough of each other. And even when we do see each other, we're trying to talk over other people and eat and drink tea and get the waiter to refill the teapot and figure out who owes for the bill at dinner.
All of that, I suppose, simply says you should hurry up and visit.
There's a lot of marriage and child-bearing going around. I found out when I was around for the holidays that there are three couples who have either gotten engaged or have planned to elope. And now, just today, a friend called me to say that his wife is preggers.* I managed to pull up from the depths of my emotion drawer (I keep them in a drawer these days... very convenient) some moderate excitement. I think I might have done better had I not a) been put on the spot suddenly with the information, and b) known before I returned the phone call what the "big news" was going to be. I'm happy for him, really. He's gotten what he's always wanted. An adorably happy pregnant wife and a life full of family and possibilities for the future. I wish I knew what I wanted out of life, the universe, and everything as much as he knew that he wanted to get married and start a family. Boy. Some people just have everything figured out. Others, like me, won't have anything figured out. Not for a long... long... long time.
One of the few things I seem to have figured out is how to use the damned fare machines for the T here. Frankly, I don't see what's so difficult about them -- unless you can't read, or you can't read English -- but the majority of people require assistance from the MBTA employees positioned inside the stations, the people near them in line to purchase their fares, or God in Heaven. People just are in too much of a hurry to use a touchscreen? Really? All they have to do is TOUCH THE SCREEN. And, well, read the signs that tell them that This Machine takes only cash, while That Machine will accept credit and debit cards. And the screen itself, obviously, when it TELLS THEM EXACTLY WHAT TO DO. How hard is that? The answer, of course, is not hard. It is not hard to use the machines. Get over yourselves, Bostonians.
I took next weekend off. You'd better be coming to visit. Otherwise I'm going to have nothing to amuse myself during both Saturday AND Sunday. Get on that.
Aloha-Oy,
Meredith
* Any abbreviation of the word "pregnant" is in honor of my roommate, Jenna. She hates "preggers" almost as much as Emma hates "silly" and "belly."
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