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
Monday, April 23, 2007
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."
Sunday, December 10, 2006
I Walked Through the Desert on a Blog with No Name
Blogging like nobody's ever blogged before, Matt Smith.
That's how I do. That's how I DO.
Once again, I come to you straight from the offices of I'm Supposed To Be Writing a Paper and I Can't So I'm Blogging, and boy, is it getting warm in here! I took a little side trip from my hard work (I've written three paragraphs about nothing important already for this paper, and there's plenty more to come) to fry up some tofu for a curry dish that I'm going to make tonight for Coco and her new boy, John. They're in visiting from New Hampshire... more visiting the Boston Opera House to see "The Nutcracker" than visiting me, but I get them here after the ballet to eat delicious tofu.
Holy bizarre train of thought, Batman.
Strange two day lapse of blogging. It could happen to you.
So that was Sunday night, and here it is, Tuesday, and I'm nearly finished with the aforementioned paper, and yet, still blogging the good blog. Visiting with Coco made me remember why I have the friends I have. I remembered that there are some people that will always be around, no matter what. (Don't look now. You're one of them. Don't think Seattle's going to exempt you from that. No, no, my good man.)
Not to say that new friends -- or Friends -- aren't just as great. My new friend, Emily, invited me to join her last night at the Cabaret ("Cabaret and dressy go together") on campus to see a... well, a slightly out-of-tune piano, an acoustic/indie artist, and a guy who wrote a song about "Thai food and flying first class" (according to Emily). I'm happy to be a cynical grad student with you, too, Emily. I'll have to put that in my Christmas card to the Big Pink Bunny.
Additional strange lapse in time, for now it is indeed Wednesday.
And now for something completely different. I give you the sequel to Brannenisms.
Bobisms 2006
Some of you are better at taking a big ol’ hatchet and whacking the thing apart.
Sorry, the metaphor is falling apart.
This might help you understand this.
War is always gonna suck, even if you win.
The minute you assign them to read Romeo & Juliet at home… good fucking luck.
Wah, wah, wah! I’m in rehearsals! Isn’t life bad?
I’ll come around like a collection plate.
Good activities start with tension.
The heart of all drama activities is to see your world from another perspective.
There are jokes about diarrahea. That holds kids’ interest.
Shut up, Bob.
I don’t want to make it sound like teaching drama is hard, but teaching drama is hard.
I’m a Civil War music whore.
My drag name would be Tippy Cox.
I guess I have a vulgar mind, but how else do you pronounce CSUQK?
Thank Bob for the five-cent Xeroxing.
Score the goddamn… I’m sorry. I have a problem with my language. I would be fired in a school.
Boy, am I making up bullshit!
GRASPS: It goes with CSUQK.
WHERE do you GRASP?
David Hornbrook says, “You fucking asshole. I can’t believe you did that.”
I mean, look at me! I’m a fucking teacher!
I’m a GAP kinda guy, so I’ll do this kind of practice.
You can be eccentric, but don’t be an asshole.
Gavin instantly relaxed and started eating the weenies.
She said, “Shit! What do I know about this?” Well… I don’t know if she said ‘shit.’
I love Edith.
When you want kids to tell you what they think, ask them what they feel.
Teaching is about learning how to withhold your expertise.
You can’t lurk in the corner the way that people lurk on the internet.
Every one of your strengths has a dark side… OOOOooh. Hear the chord there?
You go ahead and measure anything you like that’s about six inches. Think plants. Things that grow.
That sounded like I arrogantly know something about this, but I actually don’t.
“Teenagers.” Geez. I sound like an old fart.
Sorry. My pants are making noise.
You’re not slackers. I’m just being playful.
Assume everybody in the room doesn’t give a shit.
That won’t even help… I mean… It will help.
I am sure of nothing.
Be you… and never stop being you.
Dorothy Heathcote… She’s abroad.
You could start keying his car…
Drama is not about everyone agreeing all the time.
Rip things off from literature!
I need to pay attention to what comes out of my mouth.
Probably what'll happen is, Bob will get fired (as per his very own predictions) and then everyone will hate me for posting this post, and then I'll be sad as sad can be.
But for now, that's a risk I'm willing to take. I'm breaking all the rules... I'm dangerous.
Watch out behind you,
Meredith
That's how I do. That's how I DO.
Once again, I come to you straight from the offices of I'm Supposed To Be Writing a Paper and I Can't So I'm Blogging, and boy, is it getting warm in here! I took a little side trip from my hard work (I've written three paragraphs about nothing important already for this paper, and there's plenty more to come) to fry up some tofu for a curry dish that I'm going to make tonight for Coco and her new boy, John. They're in visiting from New Hampshire... more visiting the Boston Opera House to see "The Nutcracker" than visiting me, but I get them here after the ballet to eat delicious tofu.
Holy bizarre train of thought, Batman.
Strange two day lapse of blogging. It could happen to you.
So that was Sunday night, and here it is, Tuesday, and I'm nearly finished with the aforementioned paper, and yet, still blogging the good blog. Visiting with Coco made me remember why I have the friends I have. I remembered that there are some people that will always be around, no matter what. (Don't look now. You're one of them. Don't think Seattle's going to exempt you from that. No, no, my good man.)
Not to say that new friends -- or Friends -- aren't just as great. My new friend, Emily, invited me to join her last night at the Cabaret ("Cabaret and dressy go together") on campus to see a... well, a slightly out-of-tune piano, an acoustic/indie artist, and a guy who wrote a song about "Thai food and flying first class" (according to Emily). I'm happy to be a cynical grad student with you, too, Emily. I'll have to put that in my Christmas card to the Big Pink Bunny.
Additional strange lapse in time, for now it is indeed Wednesday.
And now for something completely different. I give you the sequel to Brannenisms.
Bobisms 2006
Some of you are better at taking a big ol’ hatchet and whacking the thing apart.
Sorry, the metaphor is falling apart.
This might help you understand this.
War is always gonna suck, even if you win.
The minute you assign them to read Romeo & Juliet at home… good fucking luck.
Wah, wah, wah! I’m in rehearsals! Isn’t life bad?
I’ll come around like a collection plate.
Good activities start with tension.
The heart of all drama activities is to see your world from another perspective.
There are jokes about diarrahea. That holds kids’ interest.
Shut up, Bob.
I don’t want to make it sound like teaching drama is hard, but teaching drama is hard.
I’m a Civil War music whore.
My drag name would be Tippy Cox.
I guess I have a vulgar mind, but how else do you pronounce CSUQK?
Thank Bob for the five-cent Xeroxing.
Score the goddamn… I’m sorry. I have a problem with my language. I would be fired in a school.
Boy, am I making up bullshit!
GRASPS: It goes with CSUQK.
WHERE do you GRASP?
David Hornbrook says, “You fucking asshole. I can’t believe you did that.”
I mean, look at me! I’m a fucking teacher!
I’m a GAP kinda guy, so I’ll do this kind of practice.
You can be eccentric, but don’t be an asshole.
Gavin instantly relaxed and started eating the weenies.
She said, “Shit! What do I know about this?” Well… I don’t know if she said ‘shit.’
I love Edith.
When you want kids to tell you what they think, ask them what they feel.
Teaching is about learning how to withhold your expertise.
You can’t lurk in the corner the way that people lurk on the internet.
Every one of your strengths has a dark side… OOOOooh. Hear the chord there?
You go ahead and measure anything you like that’s about six inches. Think plants. Things that grow.
That sounded like I arrogantly know something about this, but I actually don’t.
“Teenagers.” Geez. I sound like an old fart.
Sorry. My pants are making noise.
You’re not slackers. I’m just being playful.
Assume everybody in the room doesn’t give a shit.
That won’t even help… I mean… It will help.
I am sure of nothing.
Be you… and never stop being you.
Dorothy Heathcote… She’s abroad.
You could start keying his car…
Drama is not about everyone agreeing all the time.
Rip things off from literature!
I need to pay attention to what comes out of my mouth.
Probably what'll happen is, Bob will get fired (as per his very own predictions) and then everyone will hate me for posting this post, and then I'll be sad as sad can be.
But for now, that's a risk I'm willing to take. I'm breaking all the rules... I'm dangerous.
Watch out behind you,
Meredith
Monday, November 27, 2006
A Long December.** Starting. Now.
Fancy this, Matt Smith.
It's my turn, and I'm taking it. I'm taking it like nothing's ever been... taken. Ever. Before. Take that to your "I'm-definitely-going-to-get-to-some-blogging-today" bank.*
There was this lady on the T today that I wouldn't have gotten to see if I had bought cheese. I'm so glad I didn't get cheese, mainly because I would have missed this particular woman, but also because my roommate and I apparently communicated telepathically and she bought the cheese that I intended to buy. The lady, though. She was a trip. She had this kid with her. I say "kid," and I do think it was her daughter, but the daughter was definitely a teenager. Is that a "kid?" Let's say it is for the sake of argument.
But no arguing. I'm through with arguing and ridiculous emotional roller-coaster type sadness today.
So, without any argument, there was this lady and her kid. A girl kid. The kid had her Converse-clad feet propped up on the handicapped accessible seat in front of her, and looked to be asleep. Mom Lady poked Kid in the leg and said, "Move your feet." Kid woke up -- er, seemed to -- and very much didn't move her feet. Mom Lady shook her head. And shook her head some more. And continued shaking it.
Why was she shaking her head? Was she that upset? Was she just upset at her kid? Or was she upset that her life was the way it was? Did she have Parkinson's or some other head-shaking disorder? No. It looked like honest-to-god head shaking, controlled by the shaker, not the head.
Kid slept. As Kid slept, Kid's sleep fist would drift -- drift is a good word for what was actually occurring here -- drift up to her mouth and a finger would jettison from the rest of the fist and poke her face. Her finger was actually poking her face here. Bizarre finger. The fist itself seemed to have a mind of its own (not like Mom Lady's head shaking) and sometimes the finger would poke directly into her mouth and get a mini-vacation hanging on to her bottom lip. Like a hook. A little, drooly finger hook.
Why do I write all this? Why do I even watch all this in the first place? Why should anyone care that Mom Lady dialed the wrong number on her cell phone, probably because her head was shaking so much?
Well, I don't rightly know.
Maybe in life you create distractions when things don't seem so great. Maybe distractions don't have to be television, or radio, or iPods, or email, or even blogging... Maybe it's just beautiful when you can see that other people are just as strange and as awkward and as stupid as everything in your life is all the time. Even if it's just some woman that has a problem with her child and her cell phone. And even if it's just a kid that drools and pokes at her mouth in her sleep.
Nothing compares to seeing people for who they are without having them notice that you see them. You see right through them to who they are.
I'm going to go poke at my mouth and shake my head a little. Maybe it'll loosen all the crap that's gotten inside of it today.
And maybe I'll eat some cheese.
I'll take the A-train,
Meredith
*Not an actual bank, as you'd say. Don't bank there.
** "Yeeeeeah..."
It's my turn, and I'm taking it. I'm taking it like nothing's ever been... taken. Ever. Before. Take that to your "I'm-definitely-going-to-get-to-some-blogging-today" bank.*
There was this lady on the T today that I wouldn't have gotten to see if I had bought cheese. I'm so glad I didn't get cheese, mainly because I would have missed this particular woman, but also because my roommate and I apparently communicated telepathically and she bought the cheese that I intended to buy. The lady, though. She was a trip. She had this kid with her. I say "kid," and I do think it was her daughter, but the daughter was definitely a teenager. Is that a "kid?" Let's say it is for the sake of argument.
But no arguing. I'm through with arguing and ridiculous emotional roller-coaster type sadness today.
So, without any argument, there was this lady and her kid. A girl kid. The kid had her Converse-clad feet propped up on the handicapped accessible seat in front of her, and looked to be asleep. Mom Lady poked Kid in the leg and said, "Move your feet." Kid woke up -- er, seemed to -- and very much didn't move her feet. Mom Lady shook her head. And shook her head some more. And continued shaking it.
Why was she shaking her head? Was she that upset? Was she just upset at her kid? Or was she upset that her life was the way it was? Did she have Parkinson's or some other head-shaking disorder? No. It looked like honest-to-god head shaking, controlled by the shaker, not the head.
Kid slept. As Kid slept, Kid's sleep fist would drift -- drift is a good word for what was actually occurring here -- drift up to her mouth and a finger would jettison from the rest of the fist and poke her face. Her finger was actually poking her face here. Bizarre finger. The fist itself seemed to have a mind of its own (not like Mom Lady's head shaking) and sometimes the finger would poke directly into her mouth and get a mini-vacation hanging on to her bottom lip. Like a hook. A little, drooly finger hook.
Why do I write all this? Why do I even watch all this in the first place? Why should anyone care that Mom Lady dialed the wrong number on her cell phone, probably because her head was shaking so much?
Well, I don't rightly know.
Maybe in life you create distractions when things don't seem so great. Maybe distractions don't have to be television, or radio, or iPods, or email, or even blogging... Maybe it's just beautiful when you can see that other people are just as strange and as awkward and as stupid as everything in your life is all the time. Even if it's just some woman that has a problem with her child and her cell phone. And even if it's just a kid that drools and pokes at her mouth in her sleep.
Nothing compares to seeing people for who they are without having them notice that you see them. You see right through them to who they are.
I'm going to go poke at my mouth and shake my head a little. Maybe it'll loosen all the crap that's gotten inside of it today.
And maybe I'll eat some cheese.
I'll take the A-train,
Meredith
*Not an actual bank, as you'd say. Don't bank there.
** "Yeeeeeah..."
Saturday, November 04, 2006
The Simpsons Write a Paper. Er. Something.
Ah, Matt Smith. It's that time again.
That wonderful time of year when college students across the country hunker down at their desks, at their laptops, over their books, and over their triple-tall-soy-extra-hot-no-foam-lattes to study for their midterm exams.
Or, in my theatre education world, write a one page paper on a book I just finished.
I guess I find myself wondering which is the more difficult task. Of course, I also find myself in front of the television, watching a rerun of The Simpsons, and typing into this blog instead of actually writing the damn paper, but that's neither here nor there. What is here AND there is the truth that sometimes, writing a simple one page paper is... well, it IS more difficult. Especially when you have no structure. I have no structure. I have no plan. I have questions and no answers, and what's probably going to happen is I'll come up with more questions and still have no answers. Only then there'll be more of the No Answers. And then there'll be more of the Not Writing the Paper.
Sometimes having too much freedom is the same as not having enough.
That is all.
-- Meredith
That wonderful time of year when college students across the country hunker down at their desks, at their laptops, over their books, and over their triple-tall-soy-extra-hot-no-foam-lattes to study for their midterm exams.
Or, in my theatre education world, write a one page paper on a book I just finished.
I guess I find myself wondering which is the more difficult task. Of course, I also find myself in front of the television, watching a rerun of The Simpsons, and typing into this blog instead of actually writing the damn paper, but that's neither here nor there. What is here AND there is the truth that sometimes, writing a simple one page paper is... well, it IS more difficult. Especially when you have no structure. I have no structure. I have no plan. I have questions and no answers, and what's probably going to happen is I'll come up with more questions and still have no answers. Only then there'll be more of the No Answers. And then there'll be more of the Not Writing the Paper.
Sometimes having too much freedom is the same as not having enough.
That is all.
-- Meredith
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Drawing Crazy Patterns on Your Sheets.
Et tu, Matt Smith?
You know, some things are just darned funny to watch. Like two Boston College girls attempting to start a dead car in a dark parking lot. Or a stern faced business man running to catch a subway train that has just closed its doors. Or ducks. Or bunnies. All hysterical, let me tell you. It's amazing what you can observe by just watching.
This week has really been an observing week for me. Not that I've been particularly observant. I've just seen a lot, if that makes any sense. I've seen that man running for the train. There's actually been a run of running for trains, as it wasn't just him, but others as well. There are those two girls behind my apartment building in the parking lot. They're there right now, actually. I can't seem to figure out whether the car has died, or whether it's run out of gas... oh. Wait. There's definitely a gas can involved. I sympathize now, of course, rather than judging, since I have indeed run out of gas before... or would have if you hadn't loaned me ten bucks. There have been ducks, or rather, birds that act a great deal like ducks, but aren't ducks, since ducks are not seabirds. Matt and I have taken to calling these particular ducklike animals "rock-sitters," since they do a whole lot of just sitting... on rocks. I don't know what they are, but they're funny to watch. They stretch their wings out like the Batman insignia, and I imagine that they're lighting the Duck Signal, or rather, the Un-Duck Signal. Maybe there are such things as salt water ducks. I don't know. Google doesn't seem to know either.
The bunny thing was a lie. I really haven't seen any bunnies lately.
On Monday, I saw a man in a red polo shirt hauling a huge cart full of trash into the loading dock-slash-dumpster room in the building my store happens to be in. I was just minding my own, when Red Shirt Man wheels his trash cart in, and I noticed from my elevated position on the lift near the dumpster that Red Shirt has a wooden stick with a knife duct-taped to the end of it. He started to scream, "I'm going to kill you!" and "I'm going to f-ing kill you!" and other such lovelies, all the while stabbing the cardboard boxes at the top of his cart of trash with his wooden stick knife. I watched, dumbfounded, as he watched me, screamed, and stabbed his boxes. Not knowing what to say to him, I stupidly managed the only thing that came to me: "I'll be just a minute." I think he must have said "yeah" or something, but then only went back to his box stabbing.
Weird stuff. I mentioned it to my boss when I got back in from my trip to the dumpster, and he apparently knew who Red Shirt was, since he asked me, "Was he wearing a red shirt?" I guess it's a 7-Eleven employee that's gone off his meds. But, as a wise man once said, "That's not a valid reason to be allowed to threaten someone." Truer words have ne'er been spoken. So, wise up, Red Shirt. Swallow THAT bitter pill, why dontcha?
Today was relatively uneventful in the observing business. I did watch a bunch of auditions for a musical theatre directing class this evening, and one of the auditioners spoke his entire monologue to me. At me, more like it, come to think of it, since I wasn't really invested in what he was saying. I just kept thinking, "Why's he looking at me?" And then I couldn't look away, because I also thought that since he was auditioning, and was probably nervous, I should just be The Person He Could Look At, and deal. In case you were wondering, staring down your auditioners is not a good tactic for an audition. I can't even remember what his name is.
And now, for me... the sweet, sweet smell of sleep. Until tomorrow when I wash the sheets.
It's all over now, Baby Blue,
Meredith
You know, some things are just darned funny to watch. Like two Boston College girls attempting to start a dead car in a dark parking lot. Or a stern faced business man running to catch a subway train that has just closed its doors. Or ducks. Or bunnies. All hysterical, let me tell you. It's amazing what you can observe by just watching.
This week has really been an observing week for me. Not that I've been particularly observant. I've just seen a lot, if that makes any sense. I've seen that man running for the train. There's actually been a run of running for trains, as it wasn't just him, but others as well. There are those two girls behind my apartment building in the parking lot. They're there right now, actually. I can't seem to figure out whether the car has died, or whether it's run out of gas... oh. Wait. There's definitely a gas can involved. I sympathize now, of course, rather than judging, since I have indeed run out of gas before... or would have if you hadn't loaned me ten bucks. There have been ducks, or rather, birds that act a great deal like ducks, but aren't ducks, since ducks are not seabirds. Matt and I have taken to calling these particular ducklike animals "rock-sitters," since they do a whole lot of just sitting... on rocks. I don't know what they are, but they're funny to watch. They stretch their wings out like the Batman insignia, and I imagine that they're lighting the Duck Signal, or rather, the Un-Duck Signal. Maybe there are such things as salt water ducks. I don't know. Google doesn't seem to know either.
The bunny thing was a lie. I really haven't seen any bunnies lately.
On Monday, I saw a man in a red polo shirt hauling a huge cart full of trash into the loading dock-slash-dumpster room in the building my store happens to be in. I was just minding my own, when Red Shirt Man wheels his trash cart in, and I noticed from my elevated position on the lift near the dumpster that Red Shirt has a wooden stick with a knife duct-taped to the end of it. He started to scream, "I'm going to kill you!" and "I'm going to f-ing kill you!" and other such lovelies, all the while stabbing the cardboard boxes at the top of his cart of trash with his wooden stick knife. I watched, dumbfounded, as he watched me, screamed, and stabbed his boxes. Not knowing what to say to him, I stupidly managed the only thing that came to me: "I'll be just a minute." I think he must have said "yeah" or something, but then only went back to his box stabbing.
Weird stuff. I mentioned it to my boss when I got back in from my trip to the dumpster, and he apparently knew who Red Shirt was, since he asked me, "Was he wearing a red shirt?" I guess it's a 7-Eleven employee that's gone off his meds. But, as a wise man once said, "That's not a valid reason to be allowed to threaten someone." Truer words have ne'er been spoken. So, wise up, Red Shirt. Swallow THAT bitter pill, why dontcha?
Today was relatively uneventful in the observing business. I did watch a bunch of auditions for a musical theatre directing class this evening, and one of the auditioners spoke his entire monologue to me. At me, more like it, come to think of it, since I wasn't really invested in what he was saying. I just kept thinking, "Why's he looking at me?" And then I couldn't look away, because I also thought that since he was auditioning, and was probably nervous, I should just be The Person He Could Look At, and deal. In case you were wondering, staring down your auditioners is not a good tactic for an audition. I can't even remember what his name is.
And now, for me... the sweet, sweet smell of sleep. Until tomorrow when I wash the sheets.
It's all over now, Baby Blue,
Meredith
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Subject Matter Makes a Difference
(I should tell you right now, Matt Smith. It's a hard day's blogging. It's a long post. If you're feeling up to it, read the whole damn thing. If you're not, just read the part at the bottom that looks like this.)
Today I'm writing with a purpose.
I suppose I would have written in response to you, but I had other things on my mind while I was reading it -- and perhaps someday in the very near future I'll have a clear head and then things will be different. But as it stands, I have to write a paper on a "Teaching/Learning Experience," and I can't think unless I'm talking it out with someone.
So here I am. Talking it out with you. And my blog.
This past week I shared a teaching/learning experience with one of my classmates. Let's call her Jill -- first and foremost, the internet, as aforementioned, is a scary place. Secondly, there's no one named Jill in my class, so even if some complete weirdo in a monkey suit was trying to stalk this nameless girl, he'd have no luck. So THERE, Weirdo!
The point of the exercise, all in all, was to have the participants (Jill & I) figure out something new and different about our learning styles, or our teaching styles, or any combination of the two. However, in the course of the afternoon, I think I learned more about the differences of subject matter more than anything else. Wow. Subject Matter Makes a Difference. It's a great title for a horrible children's book (or for that matter, ANY book, unless it's a book about porn), and it's the title of this paper that I'm about to write.
Jill & I were setting out for the afternoon to accomplish two things: I was to teach her some practical piano skills, and Jill was to teach me some... er... fashion... skills? ("How to put together a really great outfit for not a whole lot of money" is, I believe, how she marketed the skill in the very beginning stages of this project.) For the sake of this paper, I'd like to set up both scenarios, so that you, Reader, can get an idea of the vast differences between the two undertakings.
Scenario #1: Meredith attempts to teach Jill some basic piano skills.
I think it was definitely to Jill's advantage that she had, in her youth, played the violin, if even for a very brief period of time. Those things that we learn in our youth seem to stay with us, put away in the junk drawer in the kitchen of our brains, and only brought out when we say to ourselves, "I think I saw that in there SOMEwhere." That being said, in the junk drawer of the kitchen of Jill's brain was some note recognition skills. She told me at the outset -- a few days before I even had her sit down at a piano -- that she knew how to read "violin music." I interpreted that to mean that she understood the treble clef (since that's what violin music would be written in) and my assumption was generally correct. I started off with that basic understanding and planned to do some reviewing.
I brought out some makeshift staff paper, drew some musical notation on it, and pointed out to Jill things that she recognized, but hadn't made use of in quite a few years. Already we were getting off to a great start. My job had just been made worlds easier because of her memory of the subject matter. I named notes, and matched the pictures of the notes on the page to the actual notes on the piano, and together, we ran through a C-major scale. Once I was certain that she had these concepts in her head, along with the concept of basic rhythmic notation, I set in front of her a piece of music called "Good King Wenceslas" -- and much to her glee -- she managed to play it with her right hand very nicely.
Then, on to the bass clef. We were now entering foreign territory, since in her youth, Jill never had to read the bass clef (what, in piano skills, would be the music written primarily for your left hand). Again, we matched the musical notation on the page to the notes on the piano, and using a basic hand position, managed to stumble through the bass clef.
Then the best part: putting the hands together.
Normally, with a younger student, I don't think I would have gotten to this point in the first, one-hour session. But, based on what Jill already brought with her in her musical knowledge suitcase (her brain), I figured we were already half way to a larger goal. The piece I chose on the spot was "Jolly Old Saint Nicholas," mainly because it was a simple piece that used a simple left-hand bass line, but also because we had already gotten into a Christmas spirit with the first piece of music. I used what I had just learned was the "part to whole" method -- taking the right-hand and reading that line through alone, then moving on to the left-hand, and playing that line alone, and then putting both hands together -- because that's how I had always learned as a beginner pianist. (I explained before the outset to Jill, however, that if she felt that method wasn't working, we could always move on to another way of thinking.)
It was a good lesson. It made me think of music as a certain type of subject matter, and I suppose, I'll have to get to that at the very end, so as not to give away the real nitty-gritty of "the things I learned during this project."
Scenario #2: Jill attempts to create for Meredith a really great outfit for not a whole lot of money, and instill in her a sense of what makes that outfit great for her.
The long description of the scenario sets the scene here for what the lesson was about for me. Jill said at numerous points during our trip to the stores that this was harder than she'd thought it would be, and I think, after all of it, I know why.
I followed Jill to Downtown Crossing -- home of Macy's, Filene's, Filene's Basement, Marshalls, and other name-y shops. The first bit of teaching that Jill did here was to tell me that these sorts of stores (Filene's, TJMaxx, Marshall's) all carry interesting things and fashionable things, but here you can find them without feeling that you're going bankrupt. End of first piece of teaching.
On to the inside of Filene's, and up through the basement. On the way up to Filene's, I noticed piles of galoshes (which I love) and I told Jill this. She said, "GREAT!" The one thing I needed to keep in mind, though, was that I should try to go with a funky pattern to spice them up. I confessed that I actually own a pink plaid pair of galoshes but lack the bravery to wear them in public, and really, that's one of my greater problems: taking the risk. Here, Jill looked me dead in the eye and said, "Take the risk. But only when it's raining." When you wear things that serve a purpose or a function, I shouldn't be worried about what I look like, she said. We moved on to the upstairs to the greater purpose of creating an inexpensive outfit.
Upstairs, Jill assessed the colors that I do and do not wear. "Look at this rack of shirts," she said. "I want you to pick out a color of shirt that you would not normally wear." I looked the rack over. All tank tops, but in a variety of bright colors. I explained that I typically go for functionality, and in that vein, I pick neutral colors that go with a lot of things, like black or white or brown. "I hate pink," I think I must have said.
Jill picked up a bright pink shirt with a grin.
We moved on to skirts.
I admitted I'd never worn army print. Jill loved army print. She picked up an army print skirt.
This sort of reverse-psychology thing happened throughout the trip. I would say I didn't typically wear things, or I would ask a ton of questions about fashion that I didn't understand (white after Labor Day? those really long shirts that girls wear now? beads or no beads?), and Jill would fill me in on the latest trend and pick out an outfit based on those types of things. She would explain why she agreed with it or didn't, but often she would just explain that a lot of things are just personal preference. If you like something -- a trend, a color, a style of whatevers -- you should just wear them, and not care about what other people think. Some standards, of course, applied. One pattern (not two or three), one focus of the outfit (like a bright green blazer), one or two pieces of jewelry (don't go overboard), but the rest is really up to who you are.
This was also a very good lesson. Jill kept second-guessing herself, but I think a lot of what she was teaching me was governed by a ton of constraints, like what the store had to offer, or what my natural instincts were with any particular fashion trend.
The summary:
Taking us back to the title, which, if you recall was "Subject Matter Makes a Difference."
Looking back at the entire experience, it occurred to me that what I was trying to teach Jill and what Jill was trying to teach me were not only different subjects, but different ways of thinking. One uses a scientific, more concrete way of thinking. The other uses a more abstract, ethereal way of thinking.
One is math. The other is a big, pink bunny.
I was trying to teach Jill a method. This method is generally the same any way you look at it. There are rules, and the rules never change. Any way that you attempt to teach this particular subject, the answer always has to be the same. There are different ways of seeing the subject, there are different ways of teaching the subject or approaching it -- but the end result is always the same. Two plus two is always four. You can look at it upside-down, sideways or eight ways from Sunday, but it's never going to change. Middle C always looks the same on paper and its position on the keyboard never changes. A C-major scale on the piano is always played, and always sounds, pretty much the same. Octaves may change, the way you use your hands to play the notes may change, but a C-major scale is a C-major scale is a C-major scale. No sharps, no flats, and no bones about it.
I suppose I could have started out somewhere in the middle of the learning, or taught her the more difficult things first, or looked at the Big Picture and then picked it apart to get at the learning, but in the end, no matter which way I taught her to play, the sound would be the same.
(On a side note: I told Jill at the outset, if you recall, that if she had a different way of thinking, we could move on to a different method. I never told her the other part of that, which is that I wasn't sure what that method was going to be. I generally teach piano to a person in much the same way I taught the last person, not leaving me much room for creative thinkers. I once had to teach a guitarist some piano skills, and it took me a week to come up with the concept that "the right hand is like your rhythm guitar and your left hand is like a bass guitar." That's the only other way of looking at it I've ever had.)
Music is very mathematical. Piano playing is extremely mathematical. It's only when you can get beyond the basic skills that you can even begin to see its artistic side. Like a great art teacher once told me, "You have to be able to do it the right way, before you can do it your way." First, learn the math. Then, you can learn how to make the math be M.C. Escher.
Jill was trying to teach me art. Moreover, she was trying to teach me to see the art in what I choose to do, and beyond that, be brave enough to do it. It's a difficult concept, and I think I asked enough questions to get beyond the fact that everybody is looking at me (which, as it turns out, they aren't) and that since everybody else is wearing that, I shouldn't wear it too. (Also, not true. Jill says I should wear whatever the hell I want, since it's my life, and besides that, everybody else isn't looking at you.)
There's a million different ways to look at art. Art is tangible, insomuch as you can often pick it up and spin it around and hang it on a wall. But it's intangible. What I think is art, the way I choose to display art, or even the school photo of art that I carry around in my wallet of a head is different from anybody else's way of looking at art. Their art is not my art. Even if it looks that way on the surface.
Art is opinionated, and is an opinion, and is colorful, and can be a completely white canvas if you want it to be. Anything goes, and if you want to wear cowboy boots with a big fluffy purple skirt, go right ahead. And if you really wanted to wear the skirt on your head, you could do that too.
Art is brave and it's hard to teach bravery. You are brave, or you aren't, or you learn what it takes to be brave. Often, you learn the hard way. Art has no right answer, and it takes bravery to see that. It takes bravery to say there is no right answer and then demonstrate that fact right there on your body for everyone to see. (But it doesn't matter because they're not looking.)
Subject Matter Makes a Difference. That, in a nutshell, was what I learned during my Teaching/Learning experience. Some subjects are best taught in one way, and others taught another. And if you throw different types of learners into the mix, then it's an entirely Different Subject altogether.
Today I'm writing with a purpose.
I suppose I would have written in response to you, but I had other things on my mind while I was reading it -- and perhaps someday in the very near future I'll have a clear head and then things will be different. But as it stands, I have to write a paper on a "Teaching/Learning Experience," and I can't think unless I'm talking it out with someone.
So here I am. Talking it out with you. And my blog.
This past week I shared a teaching/learning experience with one of my classmates. Let's call her Jill -- first and foremost, the internet, as aforementioned, is a scary place. Secondly, there's no one named Jill in my class, so even if some complete weirdo in a monkey suit was trying to stalk this nameless girl, he'd have no luck. So THERE, Weirdo!
The point of the exercise, all in all, was to have the participants (Jill & I) figure out something new and different about our learning styles, or our teaching styles, or any combination of the two. However, in the course of the afternoon, I think I learned more about the differences of subject matter more than anything else. Wow. Subject Matter Makes a Difference. It's a great title for a horrible children's book (or for that matter, ANY book, unless it's a book about porn), and it's the title of this paper that I'm about to write.
Jill & I were setting out for the afternoon to accomplish two things: I was to teach her some practical piano skills, and Jill was to teach me some... er... fashion... skills? ("How to put together a really great outfit for not a whole lot of money" is, I believe, how she marketed the skill in the very beginning stages of this project.) For the sake of this paper, I'd like to set up both scenarios, so that you, Reader, can get an idea of the vast differences between the two undertakings.
Scenario #1: Meredith attempts to teach Jill some basic piano skills.
I think it was definitely to Jill's advantage that she had, in her youth, played the violin, if even for a very brief period of time. Those things that we learn in our youth seem to stay with us, put away in the junk drawer in the kitchen of our brains, and only brought out when we say to ourselves, "I think I saw that in there SOMEwhere." That being said, in the junk drawer of the kitchen of Jill's brain was some note recognition skills. She told me at the outset -- a few days before I even had her sit down at a piano -- that she knew how to read "violin music." I interpreted that to mean that she understood the treble clef (since that's what violin music would be written in) and my assumption was generally correct. I started off with that basic understanding and planned to do some reviewing.
I brought out some makeshift staff paper, drew some musical notation on it, and pointed out to Jill things that she recognized, but hadn't made use of in quite a few years. Already we were getting off to a great start. My job had just been made worlds easier because of her memory of the subject matter. I named notes, and matched the pictures of the notes on the page to the actual notes on the piano, and together, we ran through a C-major scale. Once I was certain that she had these concepts in her head, along with the concept of basic rhythmic notation, I set in front of her a piece of music called "Good King Wenceslas" -- and much to her glee -- she managed to play it with her right hand very nicely.
Then, on to the bass clef. We were now entering foreign territory, since in her youth, Jill never had to read the bass clef (what, in piano skills, would be the music written primarily for your left hand). Again, we matched the musical notation on the page to the notes on the piano, and using a basic hand position, managed to stumble through the bass clef.
Then the best part: putting the hands together.
Normally, with a younger student, I don't think I would have gotten to this point in the first, one-hour session. But, based on what Jill already brought with her in her musical knowledge suitcase (her brain), I figured we were already half way to a larger goal. The piece I chose on the spot was "Jolly Old Saint Nicholas," mainly because it was a simple piece that used a simple left-hand bass line, but also because we had already gotten into a Christmas spirit with the first piece of music. I used what I had just learned was the "part to whole" method -- taking the right-hand and reading that line through alone, then moving on to the left-hand, and playing that line alone, and then putting both hands together -- because that's how I had always learned as a beginner pianist. (I explained before the outset to Jill, however, that if she felt that method wasn't working, we could always move on to another way of thinking.)
It was a good lesson. It made me think of music as a certain type of subject matter, and I suppose, I'll have to get to that at the very end, so as not to give away the real nitty-gritty of "the things I learned during this project."
Scenario #2: Jill attempts to create for Meredith a really great outfit for not a whole lot of money, and instill in her a sense of what makes that outfit great for her.
The long description of the scenario sets the scene here for what the lesson was about for me. Jill said at numerous points during our trip to the stores that this was harder than she'd thought it would be, and I think, after all of it, I know why.
I followed Jill to Downtown Crossing -- home of Macy's, Filene's, Filene's Basement, Marshalls, and other name-y shops. The first bit of teaching that Jill did here was to tell me that these sorts of stores (Filene's, TJMaxx, Marshall's) all carry interesting things and fashionable things, but here you can find them without feeling that you're going bankrupt. End of first piece of teaching.
On to the inside of Filene's, and up through the basement. On the way up to Filene's, I noticed piles of galoshes (which I love) and I told Jill this. She said, "GREAT!" The one thing I needed to keep in mind, though, was that I should try to go with a funky pattern to spice them up. I confessed that I actually own a pink plaid pair of galoshes but lack the bravery to wear them in public, and really, that's one of my greater problems: taking the risk. Here, Jill looked me dead in the eye and said, "Take the risk. But only when it's raining." When you wear things that serve a purpose or a function, I shouldn't be worried about what I look like, she said. We moved on to the upstairs to the greater purpose of creating an inexpensive outfit.
Upstairs, Jill assessed the colors that I do and do not wear. "Look at this rack of shirts," she said. "I want you to pick out a color of shirt that you would not normally wear." I looked the rack over. All tank tops, but in a variety of bright colors. I explained that I typically go for functionality, and in that vein, I pick neutral colors that go with a lot of things, like black or white or brown. "I hate pink," I think I must have said.
Jill picked up a bright pink shirt with a grin.
We moved on to skirts.
I admitted I'd never worn army print. Jill loved army print. She picked up an army print skirt.
This sort of reverse-psychology thing happened throughout the trip. I would say I didn't typically wear things, or I would ask a ton of questions about fashion that I didn't understand (white after Labor Day? those really long shirts that girls wear now? beads or no beads?), and Jill would fill me in on the latest trend and pick out an outfit based on those types of things. She would explain why she agreed with it or didn't, but often she would just explain that a lot of things are just personal preference. If you like something -- a trend, a color, a style of whatevers -- you should just wear them, and not care about what other people think. Some standards, of course, applied. One pattern (not two or three), one focus of the outfit (like a bright green blazer), one or two pieces of jewelry (don't go overboard), but the rest is really up to who you are.
This was also a very good lesson. Jill kept second-guessing herself, but I think a lot of what she was teaching me was governed by a ton of constraints, like what the store had to offer, or what my natural instincts were with any particular fashion trend.
The summary:
Taking us back to the title, which, if you recall was "Subject Matter Makes a Difference."
Looking back at the entire experience, it occurred to me that what I was trying to teach Jill and what Jill was trying to teach me were not only different subjects, but different ways of thinking. One uses a scientific, more concrete way of thinking. The other uses a more abstract, ethereal way of thinking.
One is math. The other is a big, pink bunny.
I was trying to teach Jill a method. This method is generally the same any way you look at it. There are rules, and the rules never change. Any way that you attempt to teach this particular subject, the answer always has to be the same. There are different ways of seeing the subject, there are different ways of teaching the subject or approaching it -- but the end result is always the same. Two plus two is always four. You can look at it upside-down, sideways or eight ways from Sunday, but it's never going to change. Middle C always looks the same on paper and its position on the keyboard never changes. A C-major scale on the piano is always played, and always sounds, pretty much the same. Octaves may change, the way you use your hands to play the notes may change, but a C-major scale is a C-major scale is a C-major scale. No sharps, no flats, and no bones about it.
I suppose I could have started out somewhere in the middle of the learning, or taught her the more difficult things first, or looked at the Big Picture and then picked it apart to get at the learning, but in the end, no matter which way I taught her to play, the sound would be the same.
(On a side note: I told Jill at the outset, if you recall, that if she had a different way of thinking, we could move on to a different method. I never told her the other part of that, which is that I wasn't sure what that method was going to be. I generally teach piano to a person in much the same way I taught the last person, not leaving me much room for creative thinkers. I once had to teach a guitarist some piano skills, and it took me a week to come up with the concept that "the right hand is like your rhythm guitar and your left hand is like a bass guitar." That's the only other way of looking at it I've ever had.)
Music is very mathematical. Piano playing is extremely mathematical. It's only when you can get beyond the basic skills that you can even begin to see its artistic side. Like a great art teacher once told me, "You have to be able to do it the right way, before you can do it your way." First, learn the math. Then, you can learn how to make the math be M.C. Escher.
Jill was trying to teach me art. Moreover, she was trying to teach me to see the art in what I choose to do, and beyond that, be brave enough to do it. It's a difficult concept, and I think I asked enough questions to get beyond the fact that everybody is looking at me (which, as it turns out, they aren't) and that since everybody else is wearing that, I shouldn't wear it too. (Also, not true. Jill says I should wear whatever the hell I want, since it's my life, and besides that, everybody else isn't looking at you.)
There's a million different ways to look at art. Art is tangible, insomuch as you can often pick it up and spin it around and hang it on a wall. But it's intangible. What I think is art, the way I choose to display art, or even the school photo of art that I carry around in my wallet of a head is different from anybody else's way of looking at art. Their art is not my art. Even if it looks that way on the surface.
Art is opinionated, and is an opinion, and is colorful, and can be a completely white canvas if you want it to be. Anything goes, and if you want to wear cowboy boots with a big fluffy purple skirt, go right ahead. And if you really wanted to wear the skirt on your head, you could do that too.
Art is brave and it's hard to teach bravery. You are brave, or you aren't, or you learn what it takes to be brave. Often, you learn the hard way. Art has no right answer, and it takes bravery to see that. It takes bravery to say there is no right answer and then demonstrate that fact right there on your body for everyone to see. (But it doesn't matter because they're not looking.)
Subject Matter Makes a Difference. That, in a nutshell, was what I learned during my Teaching/Learning experience. Some subjects are best taught in one way, and others taught another. And if you throw different types of learners into the mix, then it's an entirely Different Subject altogether.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Snoopy was right.
No. It really happens, Matt Smith.
There's a downward spiral of despair. But I'm okay now.
Which, of course, is what brought me out of my long non-Blog into Blogland yet again. It's all thanks to you. So, that's right. Go right ahead and pat yourself firmly on your back and say congratulatory phrases like, "Good job!" or "Way to go!" or "This macaroni and cheese is great!"
Interesting plan you've got there, my friend. Seattle's, y'know, awesome. I'd live in Seattle. The problem, of course, is that I live in Boston. So you should definitely just change your mind. Go ahead. Change it. And then move here. Remember the original plan? To move all of Pittsburgh to Boston? What happened to THAT plan?
Honestly, though? (Your answer: "Yes, Meredith. Honestly." Because why would you EVER ASK SOMEONE TO LIE? That's just stupid. Don't ever do that.) I think you've got a great idea. Getting that experience of another, completely new city before making any decisions about where you want to plant your feet for school, or life, or work, or horse-shoe tournaments is always a good idea. I mean, I lived in Minnesota. And boy, those were some friendly folks. I'm glad I got the hell out of there.
Nah. They were all right. It's going to be a nice place to visit.
And so is Seattle. (I'm excited!)
I've got to ask though. Are you looking for a job there? Or are you just going to make the move and then look? Or how is that going to work? 'Cause I don't really have any suggestions, but if you want me to make some up on the spot suggestions, then you know where to find me. Right here. I'm not going anywhere.
Except maybe Seattle. And even then, not until March.
In related news, sometimes I think the cursor is taunting me. Like, "C'mon, lady! You think YOU'RE so smart?! Do ya? DO YA?!" But then I realize that I'm just not typing anything. And maybe I should stop staring.
I've been staring a lot recently. I think it's just a side effect of being highly observant in a new environment. I like to think that I'm highly observant all the time, and then I remember that time that I tripped over my own feet. That equals NO fun. I was staring (I guess I was staring) at some folks on the T the other day, and I could swear that one of them looked over at me and said "Stop looking at me" in Spanish. Which is probably pretty accurate, but there might have been something else happening over there. I don't know. They were speaking Spanish.
So I've taken to trying to focus my eyes on quieter, more non-aggressive individuals. Which is to say that I look at old people a lot. Particularly the ones that speak Russian. I mean, I think they're speaking Russian. Maybe they're saying "Stop looking at me" in Russian, but they say it in a nicer way. 'Cause they're old, and even when they are being loud, they're still pretty quiet. They have old vocal chords. It works out.
I also saw a gangly, tripped out man in a hoody try to put a cigarette out on the back of an Asian gentleman the other night when I was in Back Bay.
The Asian Guy took Hoody Trippy Man DOWN. I mean, literally. On. The. Ground. And then Asian Guy pointed and screamed, "You do NOT do that!" at Trippy Man.
And he meant it. Dude.
That is all.
Give Pittsburgh some love for me. Buy it a cold, frosty. And then take it away, and drink it yourself.
Love,
Meredith
There's a downward spiral of despair. But I'm okay now.
Which, of course, is what brought me out of my long non-Blog into Blogland yet again. It's all thanks to you. So, that's right. Go right ahead and pat yourself firmly on your back and say congratulatory phrases like, "Good job!" or "Way to go!" or "This macaroni and cheese is great!"
Interesting plan you've got there, my friend. Seattle's, y'know, awesome. I'd live in Seattle. The problem, of course, is that I live in Boston. So you should definitely just change your mind. Go ahead. Change it. And then move here. Remember the original plan? To move all of Pittsburgh to Boston? What happened to THAT plan?
Honestly, though? (Your answer: "Yes, Meredith. Honestly." Because why would you EVER ASK SOMEONE TO LIE? That's just stupid. Don't ever do that.) I think you've got a great idea. Getting that experience of another, completely new city before making any decisions about where you want to plant your feet for school, or life, or work, or horse-shoe tournaments is always a good idea. I mean, I lived in Minnesota. And boy, those were some friendly folks. I'm glad I got the hell out of there.
Nah. They were all right. It's going to be a nice place to visit.
And so is Seattle. (I'm excited!)
I've got to ask though. Are you looking for a job there? Or are you just going to make the move and then look? Or how is that going to work? 'Cause I don't really have any suggestions, but if you want me to make some up on the spot suggestions, then you know where to find me. Right here. I'm not going anywhere.
Except maybe Seattle. And even then, not until March.
In related news, sometimes I think the cursor is taunting me. Like, "C'mon, lady! You think YOU'RE so smart?! Do ya? DO YA?!" But then I realize that I'm just not typing anything. And maybe I should stop staring.
I've been staring a lot recently. I think it's just a side effect of being highly observant in a new environment. I like to think that I'm highly observant all the time, and then I remember that time that I tripped over my own feet. That equals NO fun. I was staring (I guess I was staring) at some folks on the T the other day, and I could swear that one of them looked over at me and said "Stop looking at me" in Spanish. Which is probably pretty accurate, but there might have been something else happening over there. I don't know. They were speaking Spanish.
So I've taken to trying to focus my eyes on quieter, more non-aggressive individuals. Which is to say that I look at old people a lot. Particularly the ones that speak Russian. I mean, I think they're speaking Russian. Maybe they're saying "Stop looking at me" in Russian, but they say it in a nicer way. 'Cause they're old, and even when they are being loud, they're still pretty quiet. They have old vocal chords. It works out.
I also saw a gangly, tripped out man in a hoody try to put a cigarette out on the back of an Asian gentleman the other night when I was in Back Bay.
The Asian Guy took Hoody Trippy Man DOWN. I mean, literally. On. The. Ground. And then Asian Guy pointed and screamed, "You do NOT do that!" at Trippy Man.
And he meant it. Dude.
That is all.
Give Pittsburgh some love for me. Buy it a cold, frosty. And then take it away, and drink it yourself.
Love,
Meredith
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
La De Da De Da.
And the beat goes on, Matt Smith.
YAY!
Yay, I say.
Today is yay.
I yay today.
And then I realized I'd become a Dr. Seuss poem... and then I became a hermit.
Okay. So that's a worst-case scenario. I'm not a hermit. Sometimes I feel hermitish, though. Which is different from hermitage, which is a word I'd have trouble defining if put on the spot. (Other words I'd have trouble defining: "trouble," "if," and "spot.")
Well, I'm glad to hear you're on board for the fundraiser. It's shaping up to be a swinging shindig, I must say. The more people get involved, the more real it becomes. My brother's a cappella group, DoubleShot, will more than likely be performing. Sean from WhiteMeat is donating some goodies. Danielle C. told me she'll be donating some environmentally fun stuff; Little Lake Theatre is donating tickets. And then, of course, there's the Gab & Autumn contingent. Which is awesome.
Furthermore, yay. I'm totally psyched. (In that early '90s sort of way.)
Til next time,
Meredith
YAY!
Yay, I say.
Today is yay.
I yay today.
And then I realized I'd become a Dr. Seuss poem... and then I became a hermit.
Okay. So that's a worst-case scenario. I'm not a hermit. Sometimes I feel hermitish, though. Which is different from hermitage, which is a word I'd have trouble defining if put on the spot. (Other words I'd have trouble defining: "trouble," "if," and "spot.")
Well, I'm glad to hear you're on board for the fundraiser. It's shaping up to be a swinging shindig, I must say. The more people get involved, the more real it becomes. My brother's a cappella group, DoubleShot, will more than likely be performing. Sean from WhiteMeat is donating some goodies. Danielle C. told me she'll be donating some environmentally fun stuff; Little Lake Theatre is donating tickets. And then, of course, there's the Gab & Autumn contingent. Which is awesome.
Furthermore, yay. I'm totally psyched. (In that early '90s sort of way.)
Til next time,
Meredith
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
There Are A Lot of Roads to Boston. This Is One of Them.
Matt Smith.
Two words: August 26th. Technically speaking, I suppose that's one word and one hyphenated word, but I'm not picky. Are you?
What's August 26th, you might ask? Well, even if you're not curious in the slightest, I'll tell you anyway. Because that's just the type of overachieving, annoying, artsy-fartsy person I am. Yup. All of that. And then some.
August 26th just HAPPENS to be the date of my fundraiser/party/going-away wonderfulness that will be held at the Square Cafe in Regent Square. Of course, I don't know what TIME the whole thing is going to kick off (and by "kick off" I mean "start," not "die"), but that can be solved later.
"What can I do?" you ask? (I thought you'd never ask.)
You can write me a catchy sketch or two that might be performed that night. You can find ways to entertain and amuse all of our mutual friends on that evening. You can write a song to be accompanied by air guitar. You can create a puppet show that involves both lightbulbs and garden hoses. You can lip sync to "Freebird" while standing on your head.
Or... y'know... you could just show up and buy a beer or two.
It's going to be truly kick-ass. (And that's only because Gab Bonesso will be performing.
Oh. And that thing about the lightbulbs and garden hoses? Yeah. Um. It's already on the bill. So get to stitching, Sparky, and I'll bring the puppet theatre.
Word to your mother,
Meredith
Two words: August 26th. Technically speaking, I suppose that's one word and one hyphenated word, but I'm not picky. Are you?
What's August 26th, you might ask? Well, even if you're not curious in the slightest, I'll tell you anyway. Because that's just the type of overachieving, annoying, artsy-fartsy person I am. Yup. All of that. And then some.
August 26th just HAPPENS to be the date of my fundraiser/party/going-away wonderfulness that will be held at the Square Cafe in Regent Square. Of course, I don't know what TIME the whole thing is going to kick off (and by "kick off" I mean "start," not "die"), but that can be solved later.
"What can I do?" you ask? (I thought you'd never ask.)
You can write me a catchy sketch or two that might be performed that night. You can find ways to entertain and amuse all of our mutual friends on that evening. You can write a song to be accompanied by air guitar. You can create a puppet show that involves both lightbulbs and garden hoses. You can lip sync to "Freebird" while standing on your head.
Or... y'know... you could just show up and buy a beer or two.
It's going to be truly kick-ass. (And that's only because Gab Bonesso will be performing.
Oh. And that thing about the lightbulbs and garden hoses? Yeah. Um. It's already on the bill. So get to stitching, Sparky, and I'll bring the puppet theatre.
Word to your mother,
Meredith
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Get Out From Behind That Hedge and Go to Grad School
Matt. Smith.
Sorry about your loss in the preliminary race for Congress. Your signs were really awesome though. Maybe you should have put up more of them, and it might have been a smart move to stop hiding them behind hedges. Better luck next time.
I've got a half hour before I put on ye olde apron and start my work day here at the 'Bucks. And what better thing could I be doing except posting on my blog? Oh. Yes. I recall now. I could be typing up all my notes from my theatre gig and emailing them out to the correct individual. I'm supposed to have that done by tomorrow... and I'm going away tomorrow. So what do I do? I procrastinate. It's not a verb. It's a lifestyle.
Plus, it helps me get stuff done quicker. How's that for logic?
Twenty minutes and counting -- only twenty minutes before work now. Hard to believe that that last paragraph took me 10 minutes to complete, huh? Well, I can only attribute it to my complete lack of brain activity. I can form complete sentences and everything, which is great -- believe me -- but I can't seem to get the brain bone connected to the mouth bone or the finger-typey bone lately. It's a shame, what with me just headed in to grad school and all.
Grad school! (Fifteen minutes now.) I just recently signed off on my loans and am still on the prowl (like a tiger... or a housecat... or an opossum) for an apartment in the Boston area. With or without roommate(s), but still semi-affordable on a Starbucks 30-hour per week salary. Yes. It's going to work out. No. I have no idea how yet. Time will tell.
Speaking of time, I have less than 10 minutes to get myself all set up for work. (I'm not that inept. I got a phone call in there and had to stop typing. Stop looking at me that way.) And when I say "set up," I really mean "put my hat and apron on and stand somewhere behind the counter."
And when I say "hat and apron," I really mean "standoffish ice-queen attitude."
And when I say "ice-queen," I really mean "ice-queen."
So stay the hell away from me and my coffee urns. I have to wash the floors.
Bedknobs and broomsticks,
Meredith
Sorry about your loss in the preliminary race for Congress. Your signs were really awesome though. Maybe you should have put up more of them, and it might have been a smart move to stop hiding them behind hedges. Better luck next time.
I've got a half hour before I put on ye olde apron and start my work day here at the 'Bucks. And what better thing could I be doing except posting on my blog? Oh. Yes. I recall now. I could be typing up all my notes from my theatre gig and emailing them out to the correct individual. I'm supposed to have that done by tomorrow... and I'm going away tomorrow. So what do I do? I procrastinate. It's not a verb. It's a lifestyle.
Plus, it helps me get stuff done quicker. How's that for logic?
Twenty minutes and counting -- only twenty minutes before work now. Hard to believe that that last paragraph took me 10 minutes to complete, huh? Well, I can only attribute it to my complete lack of brain activity. I can form complete sentences and everything, which is great -- believe me -- but I can't seem to get the brain bone connected to the mouth bone or the finger-typey bone lately. It's a shame, what with me just headed in to grad school and all.
Grad school! (Fifteen minutes now.) I just recently signed off on my loans and am still on the prowl (like a tiger... or a housecat... or an opossum) for an apartment in the Boston area. With or without roommate(s), but still semi-affordable on a Starbucks 30-hour per week salary. Yes. It's going to work out. No. I have no idea how yet. Time will tell.
Speaking of time, I have less than 10 minutes to get myself all set up for work. (I'm not that inept. I got a phone call in there and had to stop typing. Stop looking at me that way.) And when I say "set up," I really mean "put my hat and apron on and stand somewhere behind the counter."
And when I say "hat and apron," I really mean "standoffish ice-queen attitude."
And when I say "ice-queen," I really mean "ice-queen."
So stay the hell away from me and my coffee urns. I have to wash the floors.
Bedknobs and broomsticks,
Meredith
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Packing My Bags and Taking My Show on the Road.
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.
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.
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
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