Tuesday,
November 25th, 2003
11:15 p.m.
First, some background: I have to be out of the dorm by eight
o'clock tomorrow morning. Not up and dressed by then, but packed,
checked, rechecked, and checked out by then.
This is not a blessing to me.
As a result, I was so busy all today getting
ready to leave (and napping) that I didn't have time to come up with
the nice long post I promised yesterday. So, to make up for it,
I'm posting a witty little riddle that I came up with earlier in the
evening. Here 'tis:
Q: What do France and the largest shower stall
in the dorm have in common?
A: Both are likely to be occupied.
Have a Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!
[comment]
Monday, November 24th, 2003
11:29 a.m.
God works in mysterious ways.
Much-Afraid got food poisoning over the
weekend. Normally, I wouldn't be happy about this fact, but when
she started throwing up last night I automatically went into Florence
Nightengale mode, getting her cold wet washcloths and taking care of
the trash can that she puked in. My kindness was, I think, very
unexpected (sad, that), and she warmed up to me almost
immediately. Neither of us got to sleep until after two o'clock
because we kept talking to each other in the dark. She's still
being friendly to me this morning and I hope it will last at least
until we both
go home for Christmas break, although there's really no telling what
things will be like between us at the start of the second
semester.
I got out of my philosophy class just in time
to see it start snowing. The high yesterday (and all last week)
was in the sixties, which is very unseasonable for Indiana, but last
night a cold front went through and the temperature had dropped to
about thirty-one degrees by the time I dragged myself out of bed at
six-thirty. The snow started at eight-thirty (the prof let us out
early) and kept up a fair pace until a little before eleven.
There is now about half an inch of snow on the ground, and it all looks
very pretty. Of course, all I could think when I saw it was
"Well, it's about freakin' time!" Sometimes having a cynical
streak isn't always a good thing.
Some people (myself included) have wondered
why I scheduled my philosophy class for eight in the morning. The
short answer: that was the only class with any seats left, and I needed
three more hours. You want the long answer? There isn't
one. It's not so bad, really--the professor is a short skinny man
from Uganda who paces around and talks in a high-pitched, staccato
accent. He reminds me a lot of the assistant band director at my
high school, except the director is tall and skinny, and doesn't have
an accent. The only real problem (besides the early hour) is that
right now, we're
studying DesCartes. This is a problem because last year, before I
even considered taking philosophy, I memorized Monty Python's song
about how the famous philosophers were all drunken sots, and it keeps
running through my head and distracting me. (If you aren't
familiar with the song, the lyrics are here.
It's a scream.)
I'm going home for Thanksgiving on Wednesday
morning, and I won't be back until Sunday night, so I'll be sure to
post something both witty and long to make up for the extended
weekend. You see, unlike Christmas break, when I plan transfer my
blog
to a disk and take it home to make sure I update it regularly, this
time
I'm not going to do that. Instead, I'm going to shamelessly
ignore both my blog and my diet while I stuff myself with my
grandmother's excellent
turkey and dressing and green beans and rolls and pumpkin pie and
possibly pecan pie, and candied apples and mashed potatoes and gravy
and all sorts of other homecooked delectables, and I while I'm doing
that I'm not going to give a whip about anything else except maybe
giving my cousins noogies/hugs. "But," you cry, "that only
accounts for one
day! What about the weekend?"
Ah, the weekend. Well, Friday is right
out--that's recovery day. Saturday and Sunday I'm going to be
baking Christmas cookies and helping to set up and decorate the tree,
so I'll be far too busy enjoying myself with my family to think about
blogging. Terribly sorry and all that. If you're too upset,
console yourself with the thought that you're getting to read me for
free, and then later when I'm a famous and wealthy writer, you can say
"I read her work when she was first getting started!" And if
you're lucky, I just might send you a check, or an autographed first
edition, whichever you prefer.
[comment]
November 19th, 2003
7:42 p.m.
I went to bed last night at about ten o'clock, thinking I would
get a good night's sleep.
Oh, how very wrong I was.
About half an hour after I had turned off the
overhead light, Much-Afraid came back from the shower. Normally,
this wouldn't be a problem, but tonight was different. First she
turned on the light above the mirror (a nice bright flourescent tube
that shines right in my eyes when I'm in bed), and then she started to
blow-dry her hair. I piped right up and asked her nicely if she
could do that in the bathroom. She said "fine, I just won't do
it." I mumbled "Suit yourself" in a kind of incredulous tone as I
rolled over.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing. Sorry. Talking to
myself." I continued trying to sleep.
Finally at around midnight, I asked her to
turn of the mirror light. She looked at me and said in a
but-I'm-doing-something-here-can't-you-see-that voice . . .
I kid you not . . .
This is a direct, word-for-word quote . . .
"I'm tweezing my eyebrows."
To which I replied, "Well, I have to get up at
six-thirty tomorrow."
I told her she could use the desk lamp, she
said "I'm not gonna move all my stuff around and blah blah blah," she
refused to do it in the bathroom (the light's better there than in our
room, ironically enough) and I found out (to my very great shock) that
she has indeed shared a room before--with her two older sisters.
Ah, now it comes out. They probably
treated her like crap, so now she thinks it's her turn to dish it
out. Well, I got news for her--there's only so much crap I'm
willing to take, and last night I reached my limit. I'm going to
see the hall director tomorrow, and see if we can sort things out--and
if we can't, then I'm going to try and get her moved. In the
meantime, I'm not going to pull any punches. She doesn't want to
pull her weight in making this place liveable? Fine. I'll make her pull her weight. She
can get angry for all I care--she can't touch my stuff because that
will get her in trouble and possibly fined--and I actually kinda like
it when she gives me the silent treatment. I get a kick out of
acting like everything's normal when she tries to 'punish' me--I can
tell that it really messes with her head. If she starts telling
me not to use her stuff, it'll backfire on her--she uses my stuff more
than I do hers. The toaster's mine, the coffeemaker's mine, and
most importantly, the ethernet hub is mine. If things go much
further, she'll have to cough up thirty dollars to pay for half of it,
otherwise I'm taking it home and saving it for next year.
I almost hope she tries to bring up everything
I supposedly do that annoys her when we talk to the hall director--I
can then point out to her that if she never said anything, I had no way
of knowing and am therefore blamless before both God and man.
I like being blameless.
[comment]
Monday, November 17th, 2003
5:41 a.m.
Insomnia is a very bad thing.
Moving on: next week's inaugural meeting of
Apathetics Anonymous has been cancelled due to lack of interest,
Thursday's Over-committers Anonymous has been cancelled due to
scheduling conflicts, and tonight's meeting of the Mad Scientists'
Guild has been cancelled; apparently they finished the monster early
and, what with last night's rather spectacular thunderstorm, they won't
be needing our facilities after all. Also, the janitors have
asked me to mention that some of you have not been keeping the snack
area clean; you know who you are. Now, our first order of
business . . .
Like I said:
it's a Very Bad Thing.
[comment]
10:46 p.m.
I'm having an uncomfortable day. I think a big part of
that is due to my worries about my grades--I missed a lot of work there
for a while, and it's going to be tough to keep my grades at an
acceptable level. I highly doubt I'm going to flunk out or
anything, but it's still a bother.
It could also just be that I have two painful
hangnails on the same hand, and my Sensory Integration stuff has
decided to wig out on me (which means I've been jittery and ill-at-ease
all day), and I can't wait to go home, and most of all that I want to
be done with school once and for all. I'm starting to burn out,
and vacation can't come soon enough. Really, I just want to
finish as quickly as I can, get a good job, get a small apartment that
allows cats, and get my student loans paid off as quickly as possible
so I can backpack through Europe.
I just broke a nail. This is so not my day.
Sorry about all the whingeing. I just
needed somebody to whine to for a moment.
Whine, whine, whine.
There, I'm done now. If you'll excuse
me, I need to go to bed and get some sleep (hah!).
[comment]
Friday, November 14th, 2003
3:32 p.m.
Follow-up time!
Yesterday I blogged about my experience ADHD
and Ritalin, and my first two years of public school. The post
was inspired by a story
on Mrs. du Toit's
blog, where I commented several times under the name 'Minstrelhawk' (my
AIM name). Read the thread if you want to know my comments,
although they mostly just repeat what I've already said here. I
was a bit surprised by Mrs. du Toit's comments, though; she seems to
have a bit of a knee-jerk reaction to ADD/ADHD and Ritalin, and I'm not
so sure that such a great thing. She made some statements which I
considered pretty uninformed, and it's obvious that she has never had
ADD/ADHD, nor has she lived with anyone who does. Still, there's
no way I can know for sure, and I'm not about to judge anyone based on
the comments section of their blog.
I also recieved a bit of reader feedback,
expressing sympathy for my experiences and emathy for my social
situation. Faithful Reader Scott had this to say:
"Heh.
Being a social outcast isn't that bad. You just
need to get a massive superiority complex going. Trust me, it's
fun!
"Seriously, I am exactly the same
way. I have one good
friend (other than my wife), and I am
perfectly happy
that way. I live in the middle of nowhere (by
choice), and don't really interact with people that
much. I see you as me a few years ago - you have a
choice to attempt to change your nature and become a
social animal, or to accept your nature and make a
life for yourself. Neither is better than the other,
but they have very different consequences. I've made my choice,
and I'm very happy with it."
Well, Scott, I'm glad you're happy--your
example gives me hope for my future. However, for the present,
I'm stuck up at school with a roommate straight out of the abyss, and
no one to really talk to on a daily basis. It pretty much sucks
(sorry, Mom), because when I'm someplace where I feel like the people
accept me, I really open up and have a good time. I would like to
amend what I said earlier about having no friends: I do have two
cousins here at school with me, and I'm pretty good friends with a girl
who lives on my floor. But I don't see them very much at all, and
what I would really like is someone I can talk to on a daily basis
without having a computer screen between us. Next year will be
better--Livingstone is going to start attending school with me.
Of course, that leaves Sausage Girl at home by herself, but she's
easily the most socially active of the three of us, plus she'll get the
Little Furry Animal all to herself. I think she'll be fine, once
she gets over the inevitable initial loneliness.
[comment]
Thursday,
November 13th, 2003
8:52 p.m.
I just thought I should put a disclaimer on the post below this
one: I don't blame my parents for any of this. They did the best
they could with the knowledge they had, and I don't fault them for
anything.
Mrs. Monk had no excuse: she refused to
learn.
[comment]
7:44 p.m.
I have been remiss; I have not posted since Monday.
Forgive me, faithful readers, forgive me.
Mrs. du Toit has
an excellent (and scary) story up about her
adventures with the public school system. She makes some good
points, and I agree with her except when she claims that children
should not be put on Ritalin. I was a Ritalin kid, and boy oh boy
did I need it. I had (and still have, to a lesser degree) sever
ADHD, coupled with Sensory
Integration Dysfunction (that's still in full swing). Add an
agressive Type A personality into the mix, and you get an
explosion. I would flip out over unbelievably trivial
things. I usually blacked out (like a drunk) when that happened,
but my sisters were always crying when I came around. Part of my
SID is that I don't know my own strength, and it's a very great miracle
that my sisters never came out with more than just a few red marks and
(occasionally) bruises. Ritalin brought peace to our house, and
made me
sane. Once I hit puberty, the ADHD lessened quite a bit, and I am
not currently on any medication for it. I've even been
considering volunteering to help parents of children with severe
ADHD--our brains are wired differently, so it's sometimes hard for Mom
or Dad to understand just what's going on in little Johnny's head;
whereas I, having been wired by the same electrician, can usually guess
what's going on. When it came to school, I had
a similar experience to Mrs. du Toit's son. I wasn't
diagnosed with learning difficulties (at least, none that I know of),
and was in fact pretty far ahead of my peers academically when I
entered kindergarten (I was the only one who could read). My
kindergarten class was great. Mrs. Julian was a wonderful
teacher, who did more for me than any teacher besides my mom.
Instead of stifling me, she kept me in line firmly, but with love, and
didn't punish me for being my cross-wired self. I learned a lot
in that class, and Mrs. Julian set my feet
on a promising path.
Then I entered first grade.
My first grade teacher was the exact opposite
of Mrs. Julian: she was stern, firm but not loving, and didn't care to
learn anything about my ADHD (we didn't know about the SID until I was
in high school). Each day there would be a set of assignments,
called 'tasks', that we had to finish by the end of the day. At
the start of the year I think there were five tasks, by Thanksgiving
there were at least seventeen. They weren't big things--do five
math problems, spell a few words, things like that--but we Had To Do
Them In Order. We couldn't start number four until we'd finished
number three, etc. As the list of tasks got longer, the
higher-numbered ones got more interesting; in November, they put up a
big teepee in the middle of the room, and some of the tasks were done
in there. But you couldn't go in unless you'd finished all the
tasks leading up to it. Herein lay the problem: I don't do things
in a linear manner. It's an effort to do so now, and it was
nearly impossible for me then. Since the very nature of the
classroom was linear, I would get hung up on one task, panic because I
was taking too long on it, and completely melt down. I was unable
to function (this was before I was put on Ritalin). I only
finished the entire set of tasks once during the whole time I was
there, and that was towards the beginning of the year when there were
fewer of them. I remember one time, Mrs. Monk (my teacher) sat me
and two boys (at least one of which had ADHD as bad as I did) at our
desks, gave us each a spelling kit, and set a
timer. I don't even remember why she did that, or what was going
on--all I remember is that the fifth word on the list required a W, and
I searched and searched all through the pile of little cardboard
letters and couldn't find one, and I grew very agitated because I
wasn't going to finish on time and then I would be in Trouble.
There would be no punishment, but there would be Disapproval, because a
normal child would have been able to finish on time.
I can only remember two other specific
instances of punishment for crimes I didn't realize I was
commiting--once, I was made to stay indoors during recess and finish an
'art' project that I hadn't done properly (all the normal children did
it right), and once we were going to make Christmas angels out of
big paper cones, and a boy kept putting his on his head like a dunce
cap, and I kept laughing, and I was made to stand in the corner and was
not allowed to make my angel. The boy was not punished.
Mrs. du Toit mentions, while
talking about a little girl treated in a similar fashion, "She’ll probably always wonder why
she has feelings of anxiety and distance from her classmates and a
suspicious lack of trust for authority figures." This describes
me to a T. My mom took me out of school after the third quarter
that year; in her words, school was literally killing me. I and
my sisters were then homeschooled until I was in eighth grade, and
while we all started out as loners, my sisters were quick to make
friends and are now two of the most popular, well-liked girls in a
school of almost 2000 students. I, on the other hand, have no
close friends my own age. I always felt anxious and distant from
my peers, as though there were this unbridgeable chasm between myself
and the 'normal' kids that kept us apart and kept me from letting
myself be accepted. Being in marching band in high school helped
some with this,
but I had no friends outside of the band and now that it's over and I'm
at college, I have no
friends outside of my family that I can really communicate with.
Differences in temperment (and there are many) between my sisters and
myself can't possibly account for the sharp contrast of our social
lives, and I think it goes back to my first grade experience. I
was the only girk treated in this way, and while my sisters are
vivacious, outgoing and trusting, I am reclusive, shy and
paranoid. If you went to a party and my sisters and I were there,
the youngest one (severe ADD, but never punished because of it) would
be in the thick of a large group
of laughing people, the middle one (normal) would be either
dancing or talking and laughing with a small group of people, and I
would be either in a far too serious conversation with one or two other
wallflowers, or skulking in a corner nursing a cup of punch. I'm
completely unable to mingle, and it's not for lack trying. My
social development is stunted by a year or two, sure, but I'm getting
better all the time, and I'm a brilliant conversationist once I get
going. The problem is that I simply feel like I do not belong
there, that these are not my people, and that they will not accept
me.
I remember once asking my classmate (a
blonde-haired girl named Jennifer) if she would play with me at
recess. She replied, "Only if you do all the tasks."
Ouch.
[comment]
Monday, November 10th, 2003
10:30 a.m.
James
Lileks has done it
again: this time with a bit about orchestras and classical
music. It's not the paen to the great classical masters that you
would expect; no, this time James takes a more earthy approach.
The money quote, in my mind: "Orchestras are the world's greatest air
guitar." All hail Lileks!
[comment]
9:39 a.m.
This
thread over at LGF
is starting to give me the willies. Not in a bad way, not in an
I'm-scared,
cower-under-the-bed-in-a-fetal-position-while-sucking-my-thumb kinda
way, but in a geez-that's-creepy, I-hope-nothing-comes-of-it kinda
way. Hopefully, nothing will come of it, but in the meantime I'm
going to pray just a little bit harder than I normally do.
[comment]
9:35 a.m.
I said this in a comment on Kim du Toit's blog,
but I think I'll repeat it here:
"It strikes me that the biggest difference
between a Man and a girl with chin stubble is sensitivity. Real
men know how to be tender and understanding, but if it comes down to
it, they'll kick your can from here to Hoboken. Girly men just
cry and feel your pain, and don't kick anything except maybe themselves
in a fit of self-loathing societal guilt."
I think that about sums up my feelings on the
subject.
[comment]
Sunday, November 9th, 2003
9:20 p.m.
Much-Afraid is back from her weekend, and I know
how to handle her now. I'll explain why, but first I'll
need to give some background.
On Thursday, I was expecting a call about a
job interview I'd had on Wednesday. Early in the day when she got
back from a class I said, "Oh, hey, Much-Afraid, I'm expecting a call
about a job, so I'd appreciate it if you stayed off the room phone as
much as possible today." She then gave me a
"I-am-sooo-much-better-and-more-polite-than-you" look, turned her back
the way a cat does when it's angry at you, and said "I hardly use that
phone anymore." She then gave off "huffy" vibes for the rest of
the afternoon.
Then, Friday afternoon, I came back from a
meeting to find that she had already left, and taken her tv home with
her. Now, it's her property, and I'm not about to say what she
can and can't do with it. But before, when I've spoken to her
about her excessive phone use (it's my phone line too, ya know), she
said--and I quote--"Well, if you don't want me using your phone then
maybe you shouldn't use my tv so much." Never mind that I wasn't
upset about her using my phone, but about her using the phone line. She has a cell phone; I
do not. So far I've missed at least two calls because of her
constant yapping, one of which was a happy birthday call from my
family. But I digress. Deep breath; move on. I've
come to the conclusion that she is extremely passive-agressive (big
surprise there), and that she took the tv home to punish me (she didn't
bring it back with her). Well, fine. I don't really miss
the thing; all it was good for was killing time. If she wants to
deprive herself over some imagined insult, that's her business. I'm not going to play into
it.
From now on, I'm not going to give two figs
about what she thinks of me, and I'm going to act accordingly. If
she's doing something that's bothering me, I'm going to ask her to
stop. Talking too loud on the phone? "Hey, lower your voice
please; I don't wanna hear that." Talking too loud on the phone
after I've gone to bed? "Hang it up or take it outside!" I
will continue to be considerate of her, of course. I have gone
out of my way to accomodate her from the beginning, and while I'm not
going to be a doormat anymore, I will treat her with the same courtesy
I afford everyone. The way I see it, if something's bothering her
but she doesn't say anything, I'm blameless. I'm not a
mindreader, so how am I supposed to know?
I finally faced facts: she doesn't like
me. Well, boo hoo hoo. I'm used to people harboring
distasteful feelings about me for irrational reasons. I'm not
going to let her spoil my sense of well-being anymore.
Of course, I'll keep reporting on her
here. She just provides too much good material to pass up.
[comment]
2:52 p.m.
Well, as promised, here is my essay on Real Men, as inspired by
Kim du Toit's brilliant treatise on the subject.
My
father is a Real Man.
He
doesn't go hunting (although he does own a gun), and he doesn't drive a
flashy sports car or an oversized pickup truck. He doesn't drink
beer, he doesn't ogle women (besides my mom), and he doesn't smoke
cigars (or anything else).
But
he's more man than a lot of 'men' will ever be.
I
say this because of what he does do: he stands as the head of our
household, he loves, cherishes, and respects my mother, and he has
given my sisters and me an impossibly high standard to hold men up
to. I feel sorry for our future husbands--they're going to have
to be supermen in order to satisfy our image of what a Real Man should
be.
When I was a kid, he worked long hours to keep us fed, clothed, and
sheltered, and when he was laid off in a merger he unflinchingly took
on the role of 'Mr. Mom' while my mom got a full-time job. A lot
of men would feel emasculated in his situation, but not my dad.
If anything, he's more of a man now than he was before. He has
earned the respect of my mother, my sisters, and myself a thousand
times over, and although he is not the chief breadwinner, he is still
undeniably the leader of our family.
There are other things that make him a Real Man--for example, he has a
visceral reaction to Queer Eye for
the Straight Guy.
He likes to eat MEAT, and to grill it, and when he grills he uses
hickory chips from logs he cut himself. If it weren't for his
game leg, he'd play football with me and my sisters; as it is, he
settles for teaching us the rules so we can watch it with him on
weekends and Monday nights. In fact, one thing I miss the most
when I come up to school is watching sports with my dad. He has a
great love of wilderness and the American West (and especially Texas)
because that's where he spent his childhood. He moved around a
lot, because his father (my grandfather) was an officer in the United
States Air Force. My grandpa served in Vietnam, so my dad
understands what it's like for military families when their loved ones
go off to war, but he also understands why war is sometimes
necessary. If someone broke into our house, he wouldn't hesitate
to fight them, and if someone hurt one of my sisters or me, he'd
probably have to be physically restrained from tracking the guy down
and killing him. He likes to build things, and his pupils dialate
when he looks at power tools. He plays the drums. He is a
Real Man.
Most of all, though, what makes him a man is his love for us, and his
willingness to do anything to protect us, even if it meant giving up
his own life for us. Paul calls on husbands to love their wives
as Christ loves the church, and my father does just that. He
treasures my mother to a degree not seen very often in this day and
age. Every Friday night at dinner, he reads aloud the verses from
Proverbs 31 that describe the capable
wife. Now, some women (and men who try to be women) think that
those verses are degrading to women, but they're dead wrong. They
praise women, and extol their virtures and skills, and my father reads
them to my mother to show the love and appreciation he has for
her.
As
I said before, the result of all this is that my sisters and I have
riduculously high standards when it comes to men. We may like
ogling the pretty boys in magazines, but when it comes to possible
husbands, we want REAL MEN, doggonit. Personally, I want a guy
who's willing to carry me across the threshold, set me down, and then
go grill the steaks while I clean the house. I grew up with a
Real Man, and as a result I am a firm believer in the traditional
family model. I believe that a man's place is out earning money
to sustain his family, and a woman's place is in the home. Her
job is to raise her children into responsible, caring adults.
That's what my mother has done until recently, at which point my father
took over and rounded out our education, so to speak. Having a
Real Man about the house is something which too many young men and
women are deprived of these days, and I am eternally grateful that I
was so lucky.
So
I would just like to say thanks, Daddy, for being a man. I love
you.
[comment]
Wednesday, November 5th, 2003
11:28 p.m.
President Bush signed the partial-birth abortion ban into law
today--yay! But there is a downside: after watching him sign the
bill on CNN, I had to listen to Much-Afraid's phone call to her mother
on the subject. Some samples (nearly verbatim):
"It's such an ignorant thing, it's not
good."
"He's so ignorant. It's a mix of church
and state. He's stupid to sign it."
"I'm pro-life, but I'm pro-choice." [Huh?--Ed.]
"I'm telling you, with this and the war, he's
never gonna get re-elected. Nobody's gonna like him after
this."
"I mean, I did the March for Life and all
that, but . . . ."
"There are some people who just wouldn't be
able to take holding the baby in their arms and giving it up. I
mean, I'd talk 'em out of [having an abortion] if I could, but some
people just wouldn't be able to handle it." Here, she was
referring to aobrtion as a preferable alternative to carrying the baby
to term and then giving it up for adoption. My aunt and uncle
have adopted two little boys, and from what they've told me, her above
statement is pure, 100% horsehockey. I felt like screaming at her
and telling her just what an idiot she was, blathering on about things
she obviously knew nothing about. At one point I got so
frustrated that I leaned over and said "You know, most of the country
supports the ban." She looked at me and said in an
I'm-trying-to-be-polite-but-obviously-you're-not-cooperating voice,
"I'm in a conversation with my mom." Never mind that her
conversation (if you could call it that) was so loud, I had to plug in
my headphones and turn up my music to unhealthy levels just to drown
her out (this happens when she watches tv, too). I've already
lost an estimated ten percent of my hearing due to ear infections; I
don't need this on top of it. Add this to her phone call earlier
in the week, which started at around 11:00 and went on past midnight
and contained such little gems as "I believe you shouldn't ever regret
anything you've done, only what you haven't done" (this was delivered
in a voice that said "I don't really believe what I'm saying, because I
regret a lot of things I've done, but I'm not about to admit it because
I'm mature and adult, and you're not"), and let's just say that if the
weekend were delayed for some reason, I doubt that any jury would hold
me responsible for my actions. The weekend is my solace, my quiet
time. From Friday afternoon to Sunday evening, she is not
here. She is somewhere else; where, I don't know. Frankly,
I could care less where she goes--she could visit Mars, and I would say
"Great, have fun, here's your hat, what's your hurry?" The phone
call Monday night, the one that started at eleven, went on past
midnight. Now, I was raised with the thought that it's very rude
to call someone later than nine o'clock, and especially rude to do so
on a weekday. Much-Afraid stayed on the line after I went to bed,
after I turned out the lights (ALL the lights except her little desk
lamp) and asked her twice to hang up or take it out in the hall.
I think she has some sort of hang-up (no pun intended) about leaving
the room with her personal calls. See, in my dorm, the accepted
practice is that if you have a phone call of a personal nature, one
that might be painful or embarrssing for your roommate to have to hear,
you go out in the hall, sit on the floor, and have your phone call
there. People walking by won't be able to hear you unless you're
shouting, and chances are they'll just walk by and pretend that you're
not there. I don't think Much-Afraid quite understands this
concept, or the idea that the phone is portable and my bed is
not. I think that from this point on, I'm going to make her take
her private conversations out in the hall if she refuses to lower her
voice to a respecatble level, or to hang up and be quiet when I need to
go to sleep. If she doesn't like that, tough beans. I'm
used to people not liking me for stupid, disfunctional reasons (I never
claimed to be a diplomat), and if I end up getting the silent treatment
for the rest of the year, oh freakin' well. I'm at the end of my
rope here, people, and I can't hold on much longer.
[comment]
11:05 p.m.
I have recieved more comments, mostly in response to my 'sweater
puppy gallery' idea of the 31st. Scott Slezak seems to like my
work, and my idea:
"I was pointed to your blog by Kim Du Toit.
If you are looking for feedback - I like your blog. Interesting, good
writing, and your roommate tales are
priceless. I gotta have something to do at work, you
know. And with Kim, Rachel, etc severely cutting back
on posting, I'm looking for something new to read.
Go with the sweater puppies idea. That is great!
Scott"
Homebru takes a different view:
"I like puppies.
Soft, cuddly, and playful; unfortunately they so often come with
whining little voices expecting to be fed and requiring close personal
attention afterwards. I know that many people enjoy their puppies
and
lavish hours on their care and appearance.
I don't understand why some folks insist on dressing them up in
sweaters and expecting others to enjoy looking at the constrained
result. But if you feel that your readership will be improved by
serving up pictures of puppies in sweaters eating cheesecake (or
wearing cheesecake while chewing on sweaters), by all means, go for it.
But are pictures really necessary? Blogs (usually) exist as
written
expressions of the human condition. True, you occasionally can
find a
Gratuitous Gun Picture or a "boy, this is a fat cat", but, for the most
part, the attraction to a particular blog will be what is written
there. With arriving readers expecting either to nod head in
agreement
or to smite the keyboard while cursing "How dare s/he say that" or to
smile at a fresh discovery of age-old wisdom.
If the blog is a form of broadcasting, it resembles radio more than
television. Not only are words more economical of bandwidth than
pictures, when properly crafted, they are much more efficient in
communicating their message. Cheers versus Seinfeld. Did
you need
pictures or did your mind bring up images of Ted and Shelley, of Jerry
and Julia?
There is a goodness plenty of pictures on the web now. What is
missing
is your words telling your stories.
Please, Miss, may I have some more?"
First of all, har har har about the
puppies. Second, yes, you may have some more, and plenty of
it. I intend to keep blogging as long as I possibly can, even if
it seems like a chore sometimes--it's a good way to practice writing
and polish my style, and it might someday be a way to publicize my
novels (once I finish them), or to let my readers act as a focus
group.
Scott does me great honor by mentioning me in
the same paragraph as blogging greats Kim du Toit and Rachel Lucas. I hope to
reach their lofty heights someday; in the meantime, I'm content with
using this space to vent my frustrations and crow over my
victories.
[comment]
Blogging Blitzkreig! Three
posts in under ten minutes.
10:58 p.m.
Kim du Toit has an
essay on the degradation and feminization of men in America:
The [W]ussification of the Western Male.* Kim makes many
excellent points about the way our society regards men and their
relationships with women, and he inspired me to write my own essay on
the subject. Topics will include the role of fathers in our
society, what it means to me to have grown up with a Real Man for a
father, girls who believe boys have to be 'whipped' (and the boys who
follow them around), and the way a person's relationship with his
father affects his relationship with God. I have a Philosophy
test Friday morning and need to study, so the essay probably won't
actually be finished until next Monday when I hope to post it (which
kinda bums me out, since my mom wanted to read it tonight--Hi
Mom!). In any case, it's a work in progress that I hope to finish
this weekend.
*The title was edited for content. Readers should
be warned: Kim is not one to shy away from strong language.
[comment]
10:56 p.m.
Evan Coyne Maloney has
a new video up at Brain Terminal:
My
Favorite Protestor. Hoo-whee, what a ride this woman takes us
on. Seriously, I saw better orating in my senior speech
class.
[comment]
10:53 p.m.
Two good things happened to me today. One was that my
eight o'clock class was canceled; the other was that I had a (I felt)
highly successful job interview. I'll know by the end of the day
tomorrow whether or not I got the job, but I'm hoping and praying that
I get it. I think the woman who did the interview liked me, and
my mad typing skillz should count for something, even if nothing else
does.
[comment]
Monday, Novermber 3rd, 2003
9:01 p.m.
Well, I figured out what's been causing my insomnia this
semester: my roommate. It's a fact; I simply don't sleep as well
when she's here as I do when she's not. I'm still not sure
exactly why this is so. It may be that her extreme negative
attitude and tendency to stay up late on nights when I need to turn in
early (I'm going to speak to her soon about this one) are affecting my
sleep patterns, it may be that I'm just a little
more ansty when she's around. Whatever the reason may be, I can
see only one solution. I'll build a rocket ship in my closet
while she's at class, and then lure her into it, point it at the moon,
and BLAST OFF! Bye-bye roomie! Mwahahahaha!
Or I could just put up with her and pray that
she moves out at the semester break. Last year's roommate did
that, and for four glorious months, I had my own room. The last
time I had my own room before that time, I was in middle school.
Come to think of it, I've only had my own room for about eight years,
total. Of course, even with all my sharing experience, I'm still
not the easiest person to live with simply because of my, shall we say,
"strong personality" so it's probably a good thing for all parties
involved that I shared as long as I did. It'll probably make
married life easier.
I've been nibbling on Cheetos for the past
hour, and I'm already feeling it. I don't know why I even bought
them; I've had a lack-of-water headache all day, and my corn allergy
manifests itself as a big throbbing behind-the-eyes sinus
headache. Plus this is the first official day of my diet, so I'm
officially being naughty by eating the little orange sticks. I've
been downing salads since the middle of last week, but today is the
first day of real, serious, lifestyle-change dieting. I'm letting
myself go on weekends, though--I just can't go too long without
chocolate or pizza.
I've only got three weeks and one day until Thanksgiving
vacation. That blessed day cannot come fast enough. Five
whole days away from Much-Afraid and her dysfunctional soap opera of a
life. Aaaaah.
[comment]