Greetings once again, old friend.
I suppose -- no, I KNOW -- it's been a while since I wrote anything down on this piece of cyberspace. Not that material's been lacking, but the mental overload of my life has kept me from caring.
I do not mean to say I don't care about YOU. I do. I care very deeply about you and a great many other things. Like macaroni and cheese. I care about that. And baseball. Not the object, but the idea of it as the great American pastime. And what's more, I care about having clean underwear... because what would happen if I got hit by a car? Actually, to be honest, I know very well what would happen to me if I got hit by a car, but I haven't parsed it out to the point of figuring out what would happen if I got hit by a car in dirty underwear. I guess one could speculate that I might dirty my underwear as the car hit me. Lose control of my bowels, so to speak. And then what would be the point of wearing them in the first place?
Maybe the better option would be to carry a pair of clean underwear around with me in my bag or purse or what-have-you. Then, should I get hit by the car -- any car -- I'd be prepared. Yes. Yes, that's what I'll do.
On to more pressing matters...
I have been accepted to Emerson and NYU, and although my heart will always be with NYU, I'm headed to Emerson in the fall. It's going to be weird, but maybe, as you say, all of our friends can move to Boston too, and we'll infiltrate. An invasion of Pittsburghers. In fact, let's just move all of Pittsburgh to Boston, and then I won't miss anything while I'm gone for the next few years.
So pack your things, Pittsburgh. We're moving to Boston.
Don't forget that extra pair of clean underwear.
Til the next time,
Meredith
P.S. Sunday is Mother's Day. Sunday is Mother's Day. Sunday is Mother's Day.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
I Think There Must Be a Duck in Here.
Well, Matt Smith. I'm back. (Were you worried?)
This past Sunday, a group of us went out to see a matinee and got some dinner. At Piper's Pub, I had a fight with a Kleenex and lost. While I was de-snotting, Melissa looked at me from across the table and said, "You've been sick for, like, a month."
I nodded, my mouth being occupied by tissue, snot, and disgust. "You work too much," she said.
Well, that's a keen observation. (Notice she said "too much," not "too hard." There's a fine line.) I do. I work too much. But really, I think we all work too much. And it's boring work we do. It's coffee and papers and writing and being someone you're not after you get done with work. It's 50-minute hours and 30-minute lunches and 10-minute breaks and sneaking cigarettes out on the stoop. And we're dull at work.
If you're lucky enough to be an interesting person both at work and at play, then bully for you. I'd like to be one of those people. Sometimes I'm even boring at home. Like -- oh, I don't know -- right now for example. I can't even keep myself interested in what I'm writing.
I'm not sure what my point is here. My nose has been bleeding recently and I think the loss of blood has affected my thinking. I'm also eating baked beans, and I think my system has gone into shock.
On the other hand, sometimes boring work pays off. I guess some of my groaning over the past few months got me somewhere -- I got accepted to Emerson. I'm playing the waiting game for BU and NYU. I'll probably have some real decisions to make in the next few months. I'm not thinking about them quite yet. I'm eating baked beans instead.
In conclusion, I didn't even know they'd made a "Lethal Weapon 4." Wow.
Itchy and scratchy,
Meredith
This past Sunday, a group of us went out to see a matinee and got some dinner. At Piper's Pub, I had a fight with a Kleenex and lost. While I was de-snotting, Melissa looked at me from across the table and said, "You've been sick for, like, a month."
I nodded, my mouth being occupied by tissue, snot, and disgust. "You work too much," she said.
Well, that's a keen observation. (Notice she said "too much," not "too hard." There's a fine line.) I do. I work too much. But really, I think we all work too much. And it's boring work we do. It's coffee and papers and writing and being someone you're not after you get done with work. It's 50-minute hours and 30-minute lunches and 10-minute breaks and sneaking cigarettes out on the stoop. And we're dull at work.
If you're lucky enough to be an interesting person both at work and at play, then bully for you. I'd like to be one of those people. Sometimes I'm even boring at home. Like -- oh, I don't know -- right now for example. I can't even keep myself interested in what I'm writing.
I'm not sure what my point is here. My nose has been bleeding recently and I think the loss of blood has affected my thinking. I'm also eating baked beans, and I think my system has gone into shock.
On the other hand, sometimes boring work pays off. I guess some of my groaning over the past few months got me somewhere -- I got accepted to Emerson. I'm playing the waiting game for BU and NYU. I'll probably have some real decisions to make in the next few months. I'm not thinking about them quite yet. I'm eating baked beans instead.
In conclusion, I didn't even know they'd made a "Lethal Weapon 4." Wow.
Itchy and scratchy,
Meredith
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Same Old Song
Break out the pinata, Matt Smith.
Two of my three grad school applications are complete. Complete. Meaning submitted online, with essay and resume. Complete. Transcripts and letters of recommendation. In. The. Mail. D-U-N. Done.
So, there really aren't enough words to illustrate my relief. Mainly because "relief" really does seem to get the job done on its own. And again, it's only two of the three. NYU still hasn't heard word one from me.
So all I'm saying is, there's still time for me to go with the tiki torch and interpretive dance option for my next essay.
Most normal people would just revamp the essay they've used for other schools and send it to the last school. But noooo. Not me. I have to write a completely new essay. I have to tailor this one just for the lovelies at New York University's Graduate School of Education. And I hope they're satisfied. After all, the only reason I'm doing this is that the essay's supposed to be 2- to 3-pages long, DOUBLE SPACED.
Double spaced?
I'm sorry. I never really got the double-spaced phenomenon. I suppose they want to make notes, and corrections, and write all over it in green ink. But puh-lease. It's a waste of paper.
Oh. Okay. So I'm a whiner. If writing this next essay is the worst of my troubles today, I should be counting my Bing Crosby blessings. The thing of it is, I can't get myself back on track to write the damn thing.
Ah well. Let's take a rain check on the pinata. The weather's really bad for it anyway.
Bop-shabop-shabop-doowop-a-doobie-doo,
Meredith
Two of my three grad school applications are complete. Complete. Meaning submitted online, with essay and resume. Complete. Transcripts and letters of recommendation. In. The. Mail. D-U-N. Done.
So, there really aren't enough words to illustrate my relief. Mainly because "relief" really does seem to get the job done on its own. And again, it's only two of the three. NYU still hasn't heard word one from me.
So all I'm saying is, there's still time for me to go with the tiki torch and interpretive dance option for my next essay.
Most normal people would just revamp the essay they've used for other schools and send it to the last school. But noooo. Not me. I have to write a completely new essay. I have to tailor this one just for the lovelies at New York University's Graduate School of Education. And I hope they're satisfied. After all, the only reason I'm doing this is that the essay's supposed to be 2- to 3-pages long, DOUBLE SPACED.
Double spaced?
I'm sorry. I never really got the double-spaced phenomenon. I suppose they want to make notes, and corrections, and write all over it in green ink. But puh-lease. It's a waste of paper.
Oh. Okay. So I'm a whiner. If writing this next essay is the worst of my troubles today, I should be counting my Bing Crosby blessings. The thing of it is, I can't get myself back on track to write the damn thing.
Ah well. Let's take a rain check on the pinata. The weather's really bad for it anyway.
Bop-shabop-shabop-doowop-a-doobie-doo,
Meredith
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Stupid is as Stupid Takes the GRE
Matt Smith,
I, like a lot of people, have been doing a bit of thinking as of late. The details of this thinking are sketchy at best, and they in no way lead to a coherent grad school essay, but they do lead me to do, like, nothing. For example, right now? I'm sitting on my couch, drinking tea and watching "City Slickers." I had planned to study for my GREs and clean my bedroom. My thinking has led me here. You just can't depend on anything anymore.
On the subject of GREs: No one should be subjected to such terror. Quite honestly, I believe they were created simply to make every grad school applicant feel inadequate to the task of life. No. That can't be right. The GREs don't test you on life. They test you on things very far removed from real life. For example, I can identify the right time to change the oil in my Subaru, but I have trouble distinguishing the relationship between the words "mollify" and "engender." I've lived in six different apartments in 5 years, and I've lived through the moving process just as many times, but I cannot live through practice tests with illuminated pictures of Einstein and sparkling brains. That, my friends, makes me feel stupid. I am not stupid. I'm not.
I can't write a grad school essay. I can't draft my statement of purpose. I can't seem to get out of bed in the morning at a decent hour. I can't bring myself to change out of these pajamas, and I can't decide what I want for lunch.
But there you have it. My test is tomorrow morning at 8:30.
Get ready. Get set. Get stupid.
-- Meredith
P.S. The best place to keep those receipts is attached to the sun visor above your driver's seat. Use a really, really big paper clip.
I, like a lot of people, have been doing a bit of thinking as of late. The details of this thinking are sketchy at best, and they in no way lead to a coherent grad school essay, but they do lead me to do, like, nothing. For example, right now? I'm sitting on my couch, drinking tea and watching "City Slickers." I had planned to study for my GREs and clean my bedroom. My thinking has led me here. You just can't depend on anything anymore.
On the subject of GREs: No one should be subjected to such terror. Quite honestly, I believe they were created simply to make every grad school applicant feel inadequate to the task of life. No. That can't be right. The GREs don't test you on life. They test you on things very far removed from real life. For example, I can identify the right time to change the oil in my Subaru, but I have trouble distinguishing the relationship between the words "mollify" and "engender." I've lived in six different apartments in 5 years, and I've lived through the moving process just as many times, but I cannot live through practice tests with illuminated pictures of Einstein and sparkling brains. That, my friends, makes me feel stupid. I am not stupid. I'm not.
I can't write a grad school essay. I can't draft my statement of purpose. I can't seem to get out of bed in the morning at a decent hour. I can't bring myself to change out of these pajamas, and I can't decide what I want for lunch.
But there you have it. My test is tomorrow morning at 8:30.
Get ready. Get set. Get stupid.
-- Meredith
P.S. The best place to keep those receipts is attached to the sun visor above your driver's seat. Use a really, really big paper clip.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Another Post About Urine
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
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
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
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