I have been going to my writer's group on Saturday mornings for about a month now. I look froward to it every week. When a few of the group members flake, it disappoints me because I take this seriously. I'm a hobbyist when it comes to writing. I have no published works. What gives me the right of honoring myself with the title of writer? What have I done to deserve it? Going to group makes me feel like I'm working towards being a writer-- a serious writer, with goals and ambition, who wants to hone the craft and not just slap words down on paper and proclaim it's a novel.
In my opinion, I consider my book a Science Fiction book, because I try and bring elements of actual science into it. People aren't immortal because of magic or supernatural reasons. There are no undead, no curses, no people who morph into animals. I try to explain immortality through a scientific means, with present day scientific theories. Things I have read about and learned from documentaries on aging and longevity for humans. But, because it has to do with immortality, it's going to be lumped into the dreaded genre of "Supernatural", and eventually, be lumped with every other bandwagon jumping teen novel.
Today, one of the members, who I respect the opinions of because they work as a professor of this craft, was critiquing my exercise for this week. I knew it was going to be severe. He does this as a career-- it's his job to dissect a piece of writing down to the bones and scatter the entrails across the paper for inspection. He pointed out all the mechanical failings, but nothing really about the imagery, or characters, or a lot of the literary elements that make a story compelling. I guess that is what I am looking for from the group. Mechanics can always be tweaked-- otherwise, Editors would be unemployed. I want to know whether I can write something worth reading? Does it capture humanities best and worst qualities? Is it allegorical? Does it have literary themes like redemption, perseverance in the face of great adversity, finding a family to call your own, revenge, or a journey of discovery and mystery? Will it make you question things like morality, or what is truly right and truly wrong, or what vindicates blurring those lines?
To me, without those things, the best mechanical writer in the world would write a shitty story. Sure, they may have great language and grammar, but is that story worth reading? I want my story to be about consequences. About how we as humans treat each other. About the lines that divide us. But, it seems like all people see when they read it is word choice and contraction usage, or [insert any mechanical problem here].
Anyway, after it was thoroughly murdered with read lines and notes, I defended what I could. He was right. I will give him that. He's a COM teacher, and I'm not saying I can't improve mechanics... but that is not what really upset me. I asked him later about going to the Thursday night Writer's Workshop at the Pharmacy. I told him I was hesitant because of my genre. I don't want people to think it is some supernatural, flash in the pan novel...
His response, "Well, that's kind of what it is."
Ouch. Excuse me a second while I pull your fiery, literary sword from my heart, professor. Really? Is that all people are going to see? Why can't anyone read between the lines anymore?
On Wednesday I watched a documentary called Trek Nation about Eugene Roddenberry, Jr., and his quest to understand the life and work of his father. In the show, there was this quote:
"Science fiction, today, is one of the last places a philosopher can operate." -Gene Roddenberry
I really put a lot of thought into this universe. The entire reason I even began writing this story was to take and idea I had living in my brain for years, and prove that Stephanie Meyer was a fucking hack. And, now, because of her, I'm typecast and stereotyped. Like Randall Graves, I'm taking this genre back. My story isn't supposed to be something everybody wants to read, but I aim to make it something everybody should read. It isn't just a bunch of shallow, white, privileged teenagers running around dealing with like, this totally hard life stuff ,plus superpowers. My characters are all adults. Hell, half of them have been adults for around a century. There is one teenage kid in the whole damn story, and she is there solely as a person for Max to mentor. A way of showing that she has grown as a character, and has life lessons to offer now that she has finally gotten over herself. In fact, Dare, my teenage character is based on some of the students I have met at observation. She's supposed to represent a lost generation underprivileged kids people overlook and dismiss based solely from first impression. She's struggling to overcome the limitations life is trying to set for her. Drew, on top of dealing with family betrayal, is gay. While not the main issue his character is dealing with, he has to deal with the prejudices that come along with being an outed man. Violetta is my Lizzie Bennett archetype- the educated woman when woman should not be clever, they should be pretty and quiet. She's my feminist who questions society and her place as a woman. Max's dad, Gabe, was imprisoned on a deserted island for almost twenty years, and must deal with merging into a digital, fast paced, unfamiliar world. The entire group lives off the grid to avoid detection-- a lifestyle that makes you question our dependence on convenience shopping, electronics, and a myriad of other things that we take for granted as comforts we have come to expect. Not to mention all the atheist propaganda I not so subtly throw in there. And questions that arise from the motivations of the characters. Are their horrible acts justified when you understand their true motivation? The entire idea that death is a limitation that can be overcome with enough money puts the whole idea of Capitalism into perspective.
It's dark, and scary, and meant to put our world in perspective. It's not written for teenage girls to read, and make T-Shirt marked "Team Finn" or "Team Ridley". It's for adults, or in rare cases, though few and far between despite the fact I know these kids exist, teenagers mature enough to get it. It is supposed to make you feel a little unnerved. Make you rethink the way you look at things. These characters are extremely flawed. Nothing happens to them because they are popular, or pretty, or smart. They're fates are the result of a genetic lottery. You're either normal and you die, born without a soul which will allow you to live forever, or born with a soul and, Surprise!, a super power and immortality thanks to a genetic mutation. But, superpowers and immortality aren't all great. Being an empath turns Max into a selfish, alcoholic. Having the power to remove a person's soul turns Finn into a smug assassin who doesn't question the ability to choose who lives forever and who dies. Being immortal turns Dethridge into a psychopath with delusions of grandeur, stemming from his desire to make his human wife wife immortal. Which brings me to the greatest question of all-- if you don't die, does that even make you a human being anymore, or something greater, more evolved? Is a life that never ends worth living?
Granted, I am making a big fucking deal over one guy who read one excerpt of my story. Who knows how he would feel about the big picture? I can't say. But after some bitching to Craig, who I thank for letting me vent, I realized that I'm losing my own perspective. Who am I writing this for, really? Is this my manifesto of sorts? Is writing a novel my own way of combining three of my loves-- science fiction, history, and social commentary? Is it a window into the world I grew up, and the world I live in now? Or is it about pleasing people? I will never write a novel every person in the world loves. I have no illusions about that. But, if I ever get published and walk into Barnes and Nobles, and see my book sitting the recently created "Teen Paranormal" shelf, I may swallow a bottle of pills.
I'm not claiming to be some undiscovered, unappreciated Mark Twain or anything. It just pisses me off how quickly people are prepared to put everything in neat, labeled boxes. Sure, my story is about people who are immortal and have super powers. But, Star Trek was about a group of space travelers. Did that make it any less noteworthy? The network cancelled it. They didn't want a show that made you think, they wanted a show with explosions, creatures of the week, and fist fights. It was referred to as a western in space. But, the fans got the message. They read between the lines. They related to characters, some even found reasons to live in this silly little science fiction show. And, now Gene Roddenberry is a science fiction titan. He used that genre to open people's eyes to the world around them-- expose prejudice, injustice, and ignorance. That is all I want to do. Leave some impression on this planet that proved I existed, that I had a mind and a voice, and a story I thought was worth telling. Maybe it was about silly things like super powers and love and revenge, but fuck, can't it be more than that? Can't that just be the vehicle I use to paint a bigger picture?
People are going to hate this story. Others are going to love it. The majority of people aren't going to bother to even read it. Most people won't even get it. To them, it's going to be face value for them. But, somewhere, someone on the planet may pick it up, and appreciate the effort I put into it. And, it may change their mind about something hey thought they were sure about. If a story I write can do that, it is all worth it. Of course, that is all if I can even get someone to publish the damn thing.
In the end, I have to remember, I am the one devoting my life and time and money and energy into this endeavor. I am the only person that needs to matter. Everyone else can join me, or they can go to hell.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
The Accidental Threesome
Last night, a cursory search of the new additions to NetFlix revealed that they had finally placed How I Met Your Mother on Watch Instantly. So, I added it to the Instant Queue, and waited for Wyatt to get home from Jam Night at Kyle's so we could watch a few episodes of the last season, which we have yet to see. A few episodes turned into ten or more, and we didn't end up going to bed until after four in the morning. Nothing really for Wyatt, working third shift, but I had woken up early that day and was approaching twenty-four hours of straight awakeness. I was beginning to get a headache when we laid done. I did not take anything for it though because I figured it was just my body trying to tell me, "Hey Lady! This sharp pulsing pain in the middle of your brain is a warning alarm. Your brain will shut down in approximately ten minutes if you don't go to fucking bed." That being said, I was approaching a point we will call... cranky... yeah, that's the word we'll go with.
While lying in bed, I made the mistake of asking Wyatt a question. It was a mistake for two reasons. Reason 1-- I already knew the answer. Reason 2-- I knew the answer annoys Wyatt, but he refuses to do anything about it, because Wyatt is the guy that just sits back and lets shit roll. Shit that should not roll. Shit that should be addressed by adults, because we are mature-- well, that is a malleable term in my case, but I digress-- and sometimes you have to say things to people that they need to hear. Things that they don't want to hear, and sometimes, that you don't even want to say. But that is part of what being an adult is-- doing stuff you don't like or are uncomfortable with. It builds character and makes you stronger, even if you whinge about it a lot.
Well, I tried to make this point, and Wyatt took the route of just picking on me as a response. For some unknown to me reason, he thinks this is cute. He thinks this is flirting. This is not flirting. Trying to annoy someone to the point they fight with you is not flirting. Flirting requires wit.
My response to his taunting, "If you're going to pick on me, can't you at least try to be flirty about it? Why can't you be clever with your brain?"
Yes. There is no need to point out the irony in that sentence, because as previously stated, I had been up for almost twenty-four hours. Did I mentioned we had done a little drinking? No, I forgot that. We had been drinking. My brain was flushed with two drinks and deprived of sleep. No one was expecting me to be clever with my brain. I wasn't the one on trial here-- Wyatt was.
I don't want to be picked on like some third grade girl. Wyatt seems to have digressed from when we were first dating in his affection and flirting ability. He used to do amazingly romantic things, like the time he drove all the way from Bloomington-- sixty miles-- in a fucking blizzard to follow me home from school and make sure I was safe. Um. Sploosh. Flash forward seven years later, and Wyatt thinks flirting and romance is pissing me off to the point I want to punch him, because to him it is fun. I think we are both past the "I pick on you because I like you stage". If we are going to pick on each other, can't we at least be sexy about it? Can't we banter? I don't want Calvin hitting Susie with a water balloon type of flirting. I want the Doctor and River kind of flirting. Back and forth, tit for tat, clever with your brain kind of stuff. Sure, that might annoy me a little, but it also hot.
Doctor: River you have that face on again.
River: What face is that Doctor?
Doctor: The he's hot when he's clever face.
River: This is my normal face, Doctor.
Doctor: Precisely. (Sexy smirk)
SPLOOOSH! Hot. Take some notes.
But, because he is Wyatt, his response to Why can't you be clever with your brain? was to, without a word, simple roll over on top of me to squish me until I could not breathe.
For the rest of my life, I will always be Susie I guess. So, as I laid there, under hundred of pounds of my husband, oxygen squeezing slowly from my flattened lungs, using up whatever excess I had to kind of struggle, blinded by the sleep mask I could not remove because my arms are pinned under his weight, I hear:
"Are you licking my shoulder!?"
WTF? "No. My mouth is close to your shoulder, but I am definitely not licking it!"
Still blinded, I hear, "Damn it, Moe!"
A that point Wyatt lifts up, and says "Look."
Finally able to move, and breathe, I removed my mask to see that Moe had silently hopped into Wyatt's spot on the bed that he had vacated to squish me. While Wyatt laid on top of me, Moe was licking him shoulders from behind.
Last night I discovered my dog is better at flirting that my husband.
While lying in bed, I made the mistake of asking Wyatt a question. It was a mistake for two reasons. Reason 1-- I already knew the answer. Reason 2-- I knew the answer annoys Wyatt, but he refuses to do anything about it, because Wyatt is the guy that just sits back and lets shit roll. Shit that should not roll. Shit that should be addressed by adults, because we are mature-- well, that is a malleable term in my case, but I digress-- and sometimes you have to say things to people that they need to hear. Things that they don't want to hear, and sometimes, that you don't even want to say. But that is part of what being an adult is-- doing stuff you don't like or are uncomfortable with. It builds character and makes you stronger, even if you whinge about it a lot.
Well, I tried to make this point, and Wyatt took the route of just picking on me as a response. For some unknown to me reason, he thinks this is cute. He thinks this is flirting. This is not flirting. Trying to annoy someone to the point they fight with you is not flirting. Flirting requires wit.
My response to his taunting, "If you're going to pick on me, can't you at least try to be flirty about it? Why can't you be clever with your brain?"
Yes. There is no need to point out the irony in that sentence, because as previously stated, I had been up for almost twenty-four hours. Did I mentioned we had done a little drinking? No, I forgot that. We had been drinking. My brain was flushed with two drinks and deprived of sleep. No one was expecting me to be clever with my brain. I wasn't the one on trial here-- Wyatt was.
I don't want to be picked on like some third grade girl. Wyatt seems to have digressed from when we were first dating in his affection and flirting ability. He used to do amazingly romantic things, like the time he drove all the way from Bloomington-- sixty miles-- in a fucking blizzard to follow me home from school and make sure I was safe. Um. Sploosh. Flash forward seven years later, and Wyatt thinks flirting and romance is pissing me off to the point I want to punch him, because to him it is fun. I think we are both past the "I pick on you because I like you stage". If we are going to pick on each other, can't we at least be sexy about it? Can't we banter? I don't want Calvin hitting Susie with a water balloon type of flirting. I want the Doctor and River kind of flirting. Back and forth, tit for tat, clever with your brain kind of stuff. Sure, that might annoy me a little, but it also hot.
Doctor: River you have that face on again.
River: What face is that Doctor?
Doctor: The he's hot when he's clever face.
River: This is my normal face, Doctor.
Doctor: Precisely. (Sexy smirk)
SPLOOOSH! Hot. Take some notes.
But, because he is Wyatt, his response to Why can't you be clever with your brain? was to, without a word, simple roll over on top of me to squish me until I could not breathe.
For the rest of my life, I will always be Susie I guess. So, as I laid there, under hundred of pounds of my husband, oxygen squeezing slowly from my flattened lungs, using up whatever excess I had to kind of struggle, blinded by the sleep mask I could not remove because my arms are pinned under his weight, I hear:
"Are you licking my shoulder!?"
WTF? "No. My mouth is close to your shoulder, but I am definitely not licking it!"
Still blinded, I hear, "Damn it, Moe!"
A that point Wyatt lifts up, and says "Look."
Finally able to move, and breathe, I removed my mask to see that Moe had silently hopped into Wyatt's spot on the bed that he had vacated to squish me. While Wyatt laid on top of me, Moe was licking him shoulders from behind.
Last night I discovered my dog is better at flirting that my husband.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
In which I'm pretty much over it.
Simultaneously, I love and hate this time of year, or rather, since I am stuck in a perpetual carousel of never ending classes, this time of the semester. This is the transition period that moves me from the over-zealous optimistic student who was ready and willing to finish assignments and readings early, to this dark, cynical, pessimistic student who is ready to start committing to the minimum.
And, this semester, I really feel like a bitch about it, because I actually really like both of my teachers this fall. Both my social studies methods and quantitative reasoning teachers are awesome. They are both a credit to their profession, and I enjoy going to class. Both are very dedicated to our classes, and find lots of interesting and fun things for us to do. I'm not really bored with either of the subjects, it's just that this is what happens in the last stretch, when I start counting down the days until Thanksgiving Break and calculating how long I can effectively put something off before it's procrastinating.
The worst part about this problem is that for some unknown reason, that should really have no bearing on this but remains oddly attached, whenever I slink into this pit of educational loathing I seem to find my creative zenith. I can't seem to force myself to sit down and knock out a writing assignment, but I can spend nearly whole day plot lining and drafting rough scenes. This makes absolutely no sense. But, the fact remains that this week I have been more inspired and flirting with the muse than I have been in a long time-- which if I could measure would probably come out to about this time last semester...
So, as in usual procrastinator's fashion, I spent the majority of my day validating that if I was going to put off my homework, I didn't have to feel bad about it if I did two things:
1) If I did PART of my homework (a.k.a. the reading necessary for making my online post), it wasn't really procrastination, it was moderation.
And, as the wise Aristotle once said, "Seek moderation in all things." In this line of thinking, after reading my chapter and taking note as a preliminary outline, taking the next step to actually type it up and post it was just overkill.
2)As long as I was doing SOMETHING productive, I didn't have to feel bad about not doing something else.
Now, this reasoning comes from the fact that the last couple of days I have made major movement along the plot line of my novel. After yet another inevitable creative dry spell following a sudden inspirational assault on my imagination, I hadn't managed to make a lot of linear progress. After three years, I've discovered my process best works by taking advantage of these massive blocks of inspiration to work on Singularity, what I deem as "Part I" and which I have been writing as linear as possible. It never lasts long though. Inevitably, I find myself at a point where I feel like I barely have enough talent and momentum to write a complete sentence. In these periods where I need to write something, anything, I find myself free writing scenes about later parts of the story-- ones that might come in the later books ( Infinity and Relativity), about characters that I haven't introduced in the linear story yet or incidents that have not occurred, but have been set in motion, or scenes that explain the causes of the events that have been addressed.
It's mid-semester now though, so I'm not trying to squeeze my imagination like a dried out sponge in the meager hope of a little idea I can spin into something substantial. I'm so fucking full of ideas I can't leave the house without taking a notebook or go to bed without one on my nightstand. All I want to do is read, read, read, and I'm searching for new books like a dehydrated man in the desert looking for water. But, I can barely make it through a chapter of my methods book or find a valid reason to work on my math homework, after all, the test isn't for another week.
Which is why my storyboard went from this--
-- to this --
Hey, it doesn't look like much, but I added five new scenes. And, even more exciting is that as a result of this recent surge I have drafted seven written scenes from ideas previously posted on the board to be written. Considering I've just completed forty hours of observation which I put a lot of energy into, and outputting a medium level concerted effort towards my classes, not to mention combating executive level incompetence on the part of my University in trying to complete my application for student teaching... I'm pretty damn proud of this level of progress.
The only problem now is that I don't have the energy to type up the stack of drafts I have completed-- ten all together since I had three previously in the cooker, waiting in a binder marked "draft notes" where all my hand-written notes go until I can use them.
Here they are-- ten stacks of paper, just waiting to be typed up... as well as my Moe-dog, who sits suspiciously eying them, sniffing them until they reveal their secrets. Inside my brain is that little voice encouraging me, saying "Just get them typed up and add them to "Part I", and then do a happy little dance when you see the total number of words and pages that will result. Hell, it might even push you well over 50,000 words!". But, then I say, "What they hell Little Voice? Why can't you ever get that excited when I have a writing assignment?" And, at that point all hope of getting anything done gets thrown out because that little voice goes to the room inside my brain where she lives, to pout.
And, this semester, I really feel like a bitch about it, because I actually really like both of my teachers this fall. Both my social studies methods and quantitative reasoning teachers are awesome. They are both a credit to their profession, and I enjoy going to class. Both are very dedicated to our classes, and find lots of interesting and fun things for us to do. I'm not really bored with either of the subjects, it's just that this is what happens in the last stretch, when I start counting down the days until Thanksgiving Break and calculating how long I can effectively put something off before it's procrastinating.
The worst part about this problem is that for some unknown reason, that should really have no bearing on this but remains oddly attached, whenever I slink into this pit of educational loathing I seem to find my creative zenith. I can't seem to force myself to sit down and knock out a writing assignment, but I can spend nearly whole day plot lining and drafting rough scenes. This makes absolutely no sense. But, the fact remains that this week I have been more inspired and flirting with the muse than I have been in a long time-- which if I could measure would probably come out to about this time last semester...
So, as in usual procrastinator's fashion, I spent the majority of my day validating that if I was going to put off my homework, I didn't have to feel bad about it if I did two things:
1) If I did PART of my homework (a.k.a. the reading necessary for making my online post), it wasn't really procrastination, it was moderation.
And, as the wise Aristotle once said, "Seek moderation in all things." In this line of thinking, after reading my chapter and taking note as a preliminary outline, taking the next step to actually type it up and post it was just overkill.
2)As long as I was doing SOMETHING productive, I didn't have to feel bad about not doing something else.
Now, this reasoning comes from the fact that the last couple of days I have made major movement along the plot line of my novel. After yet another inevitable creative dry spell following a sudden inspirational assault on my imagination, I hadn't managed to make a lot of linear progress. After three years, I've discovered my process best works by taking advantage of these massive blocks of inspiration to work on Singularity, what I deem as "Part I" and which I have been writing as linear as possible. It never lasts long though. Inevitably, I find myself at a point where I feel like I barely have enough talent and momentum to write a complete sentence. In these periods where I need to write something, anything, I find myself free writing scenes about later parts of the story-- ones that might come in the later books ( Infinity and Relativity), about characters that I haven't introduced in the linear story yet or incidents that have not occurred, but have been set in motion, or scenes that explain the causes of the events that have been addressed.
It's mid-semester now though, so I'm not trying to squeeze my imagination like a dried out sponge in the meager hope of a little idea I can spin into something substantial. I'm so fucking full of ideas I can't leave the house without taking a notebook or go to bed without one on my nightstand. All I want to do is read, read, read, and I'm searching for new books like a dehydrated man in the desert looking for water. But, I can barely make it through a chapter of my methods book or find a valid reason to work on my math homework, after all, the test isn't for another week.
Which is why my storyboard went from this--
-- to this --
Hey, it doesn't look like much, but I added five new scenes. And, even more exciting is that as a result of this recent surge I have drafted seven written scenes from ideas previously posted on the board to be written. Considering I've just completed forty hours of observation which I put a lot of energy into, and outputting a medium level concerted effort towards my classes, not to mention combating executive level incompetence on the part of my University in trying to complete my application for student teaching... I'm pretty damn proud of this level of progress.
The only problem now is that I don't have the energy to type up the stack of drafts I have completed-- ten all together since I had three previously in the cooker, waiting in a binder marked "draft notes" where all my hand-written notes go until I can use them.
Here they are-- ten stacks of paper, just waiting to be typed up... as well as my Moe-dog, who sits suspiciously eying them, sniffing them until they reveal their secrets. Inside my brain is that little voice encouraging me, saying "Just get them typed up and add them to "Part I", and then do a happy little dance when you see the total number of words and pages that will result. Hell, it might even push you well over 50,000 words!". But, then I say, "What they hell Little Voice? Why can't you ever get that excited when I have a writing assignment?" And, at that point all hope of getting anything done gets thrown out because that little voice goes to the room inside my brain where she lives, to pout.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
All I want for Xmas is my GOD DAMN SECOND BATHROOM FINISHED!
Dear Wyatt,
You know I love you very much, right? And, I know that you are beyond annoyed by my "nagging about the bathroom", which is why I am blogging about it-- mostly because I know you aren't interested enough to actually read anything I put on here, and you don't even really understand the point of a blog... but I need to bitch about this to someone... again.
For our anniversary, I asked that the only present I wanted, for our FIRST wedding anniversary, was that you finish the half finished bathroom. In February of 2009, just a mere five months after we moved into our first home, you decided to spend the majority of the $7500 refund we received for our house purchase on gutting and remodeling the bathroom. Now, despite the fact that one of the major things I was most excited about when we bought this house was the fact that my entire life I lived in a house with one bathroom, I allowed this. I grew up in a world where it had become acceptable for the other females in my family to walk into the bathroom while I was showering, and sit down to take a crap. Actually, my mother liked to use this time for bonding-- taking the time to talk to me about my day and any of the problems I might have been having. This is the world I grew up in. This was an everyday occurrence in my most formative years. Knowing this, how can there be any mystery why I am absolutely fucked up.
With this in mind, the idea of the luxury of a second bathroom seemed like a glorious move up the social ladder for me. Sadly, I only was able to enjoy this luxury for a few priceless months before Wyatt destroyed all functionality of my second bathroom, and left it a naked husk; a shell of what was once a bathroom. We spent the majority of that refund money on that bathroom-- three different kinds of tile, new fixtures, a new sink and toilet, exposed aggregate concrete counter top, shower shelf, and shower bench that look like beautiful replicas of the remains from Pompeii that my father in law made himself...
But, alas, my beautiful bathroom sits half finished because someone whose idea it was to start this fucking project got pissed halfway through because laying tile "is frustrating" and, now has lost all the will and motivation to finish it... for almost three years.
So what happens? I have to wait when Wyatt is in the bathroom, whether I need to shower or dry my hair or even just brush my teeth, for up to a half an hour some times. When we are getting ready, and a sudden "urge" hits, I am forced to blow dry my hair in the hallway with the dryer cord pinned in the door frame or put my make up on in the bedroom or brush my teeth in the kitchen sink... of course, that's if I am lucky to catch him before and am able to retrieve the things I need before he goes to do the deed. SO, when I don't catch him in time, and I have to wait to use the bathroom, I get yelled at for "always taking to long". Well, you know what? Maybe if I didn't have to wait for the half life of that radioactive waste you just dumped in the bathroom for it to be safe to enter, then maybe, just maybe, we could leave the fucking house on time.
It's always my fault. I'm the bad guy. I annoy him and nag too much. I need to drop it. I'm getting on his nerves.
All I ask for as a my FIRST wedding anniversary present was a finished bathroom-- a gift that would have been completely free being as everything for the fucking project has been bought and paid for, and sitting in my damn dining room for three years... or at least until I made him move it into the unused space of the bathroom so I didn't have two totally useless rooms in my house. But, I guess that being "frustrated" by tile is just too much of a hassle to please your beloved wife on the anniversary of the day she chose to spend of the rest of her life with you, and only you until death. Poor Wyatt. I am such a horrible bitch, aren't I? I am amazed he hasn't left me yet for being so demanding and unreasonable...
Now, both Xmas and my 25th birthday are coming up in December, and you know what? I'd even let him off the hook for presents for each holiday-- because, yes, my birthday is a holiday-- if he would just get over himself and finish that god damn bathroom. I am begging at this point. If he thinks he is tired of hearing me bitch, then he obviously has to idea how tired I am of bitching about it. Just make it happen, and wouldn't you know it? I would shut the hell up! Please? PLEASE!? Do this for me and the sake of the stability of our marriage. I've even offered to do it myself if he would just help me, as I have never tiled before. God forbid I fuck it up and hear about it forever.
What more do I have to do? How much longer can I stand this? How much longer can he honestly keep putting it off? Really?
If you want everyone to stop giving you shit, me to stop bringing it up, and if you want to have a happy wife... Please... FINISH THE FUCKING BATHROOM BEFORE I FINALLY SNAP AND TAKE YOU OUT WITH THE TOILET LID.
Love,
Bekki
You know I love you very much, right? And, I know that you are beyond annoyed by my "nagging about the bathroom", which is why I am blogging about it-- mostly because I know you aren't interested enough to actually read anything I put on here, and you don't even really understand the point of a blog... but I need to bitch about this to someone... again.
For our anniversary, I asked that the only present I wanted, for our FIRST wedding anniversary, was that you finish the half finished bathroom. In February of 2009, just a mere five months after we moved into our first home, you decided to spend the majority of the $7500 refund we received for our house purchase on gutting and remodeling the bathroom. Now, despite the fact that one of the major things I was most excited about when we bought this house was the fact that my entire life I lived in a house with one bathroom, I allowed this. I grew up in a world where it had become acceptable for the other females in my family to walk into the bathroom while I was showering, and sit down to take a crap. Actually, my mother liked to use this time for bonding-- taking the time to talk to me about my day and any of the problems I might have been having. This is the world I grew up in. This was an everyday occurrence in my most formative years. Knowing this, how can there be any mystery why I am absolutely fucked up.
With this in mind, the idea of the luxury of a second bathroom seemed like a glorious move up the social ladder for me. Sadly, I only was able to enjoy this luxury for a few priceless months before Wyatt destroyed all functionality of my second bathroom, and left it a naked husk; a shell of what was once a bathroom. We spent the majority of that refund money on that bathroom-- three different kinds of tile, new fixtures, a new sink and toilet, exposed aggregate concrete counter top, shower shelf, and shower bench that look like beautiful replicas of the remains from Pompeii that my father in law made himself...
But, alas, my beautiful bathroom sits half finished because someone whose idea it was to start this fucking project got pissed halfway through because laying tile "is frustrating" and, now has lost all the will and motivation to finish it... for almost three years.
So what happens? I have to wait when Wyatt is in the bathroom, whether I need to shower or dry my hair or even just brush my teeth, for up to a half an hour some times. When we are getting ready, and a sudden "urge" hits, I am forced to blow dry my hair in the hallway with the dryer cord pinned in the door frame or put my make up on in the bedroom or brush my teeth in the kitchen sink... of course, that's if I am lucky to catch him before and am able to retrieve the things I need before he goes to do the deed. SO, when I don't catch him in time, and I have to wait to use the bathroom, I get yelled at for "always taking to long". Well, you know what? Maybe if I didn't have to wait for the half life of that radioactive waste you just dumped in the bathroom for it to be safe to enter, then maybe, just maybe, we could leave the fucking house on time.
It's always my fault. I'm the bad guy. I annoy him and nag too much. I need to drop it. I'm getting on his nerves.
All I ask for as a my FIRST wedding anniversary present was a finished bathroom-- a gift that would have been completely free being as everything for the fucking project has been bought and paid for, and sitting in my damn dining room for three years... or at least until I made him move it into the unused space of the bathroom so I didn't have two totally useless rooms in my house. But, I guess that being "frustrated" by tile is just too much of a hassle to please your beloved wife on the anniversary of the day she chose to spend of the rest of her life with you, and only you until death. Poor Wyatt. I am such a horrible bitch, aren't I? I am amazed he hasn't left me yet for being so demanding and unreasonable...
Now, both Xmas and my 25th birthday are coming up in December, and you know what? I'd even let him off the hook for presents for each holiday-- because, yes, my birthday is a holiday-- if he would just get over himself and finish that god damn bathroom. I am begging at this point. If he thinks he is tired of hearing me bitch, then he obviously has to idea how tired I am of bitching about it. Just make it happen, and wouldn't you know it? I would shut the hell up! Please? PLEASE!? Do this for me and the sake of the stability of our marriage. I've even offered to do it myself if he would just help me, as I have never tiled before. God forbid I fuck it up and hear about it forever.
What more do I have to do? How much longer can I stand this? How much longer can he honestly keep putting it off? Really?
If you want everyone to stop giving you shit, me to stop bringing it up, and if you want to have a happy wife... Please... FINISH THE FUCKING BATHROOM BEFORE I FINALLY SNAP AND TAKE YOU OUT WITH THE TOILET LID.
Love,
Bekki
Sunday, October 2, 2011
River Song must be a Capricorn.
Today, we were finishing up some projects we had been delaying around the house. Darryl came over to help, and afterwards while I worked on homework, he wandered into the office-- mostly to play with Rigby I think, who happened to be in there as well-- and noticed one of the books I had on my shelf.
"Sextrology?" He asked, and I assume raised an eyebrow-- I'm not sure if he can even raise an eyebrow (I know I can't), because honestly I wasn't looking when he said it. But, in my mind, he did because it adds a descriptive flair to visualize the scene. I'm a writer... I take these kinds of liberties.
"It's not really so much about sex. I mean, that stuff's in there, but it's more about the genders." I said grabbing the book off the shelf. "Here, take a look. It's weird how accurate it really is."
As Darryl read his chapter on Virgos, he decided he didn't like the book because, as I had said, it was too eerily accurate. Then he found the section on zodiac specific turn ons. Wyatt and Darryl laughed over their supposed Virgo turn ons. Now, I bought this book when I was really into Astrology in high school, and to be honest I really haven't read it since. But, it's a neat book, so I held on to it.
"Read the Capricorn ones. I haven't read this in forever, and I can't remember them."
The following is a few of the listed Capricorn turn ons:
dark, wavy hair
lanky physiques
collegiates, intellectuals
tweed, flannel suits
strangers or travelers
big noses, chins
stoicsim
...Remind you of anyone?
Oh, this explains so very, very much.
"Sextrology?" He asked, and I assume raised an eyebrow-- I'm not sure if he can even raise an eyebrow (I know I can't), because honestly I wasn't looking when he said it. But, in my mind, he did because it adds a descriptive flair to visualize the scene. I'm a writer... I take these kinds of liberties.
"It's not really so much about sex. I mean, that stuff's in there, but it's more about the genders." I said grabbing the book off the shelf. "Here, take a look. It's weird how accurate it really is."
As Darryl read his chapter on Virgos, he decided he didn't like the book because, as I had said, it was too eerily accurate. Then he found the section on zodiac specific turn ons. Wyatt and Darryl laughed over their supposed Virgo turn ons. Now, I bought this book when I was really into Astrology in high school, and to be honest I really haven't read it since. But, it's a neat book, so I held on to it.
"Read the Capricorn ones. I haven't read this in forever, and I can't remember them."
The following is a few of the listed Capricorn turn ons:
dark, wavy hair
lanky physiques
collegiates, intellectuals
tweed, flannel suits
strangers or travelers
big noses, chins
stoicsim
...Remind you of anyone?
Oh, this explains so very, very much.
Ill-annoying.
Not too long ago, I was watching "How the State Got their Shapes", and they had a whole segment of the show about people from Nevada bitching about people mispronouncing their state's name. Apparently, it's Ne-vad-a, not Ne-vaw-da. Oh, boo hoo. Get over it. Tell me this mister Nevadian- How do you pronounce Illinois? Because, I'd bet twenty dollars you pronounce the fucking "s".
Alright, I never took french, but I know that the "s" in Illinois is silent. Yet, no-one save the residents of the state itself, can figure this out. It's quickly becoming one of my biggest pet peeves.
Then, yesterday during observation, one of the girls was doing a report and when she said Illinois, she pronounce the "s". Is this ignorance spreading? How can it be infecting our own residents? Granted, she is twelve and I can forgive her, but if she said it, it means she's heard it from an adult in her life. Ugh! How can we be letting this happen?
I can even understand there might by a bit of confusion because there are states that end in "s" that pronounce them. Texas. Kansas. Okay. But, do you hear anyone pronouncing Arkansas, Ar-Kan-Sass? No. And, it even has the word Kansas in it-- a take that pronounces the "s".
My plea to America-- please stop pronouncing it "Illinoise".
Alright, I never took french, but I know that the "s" in Illinois is silent. Yet, no-one save the residents of the state itself, can figure this out. It's quickly becoming one of my biggest pet peeves.
Then, yesterday during observation, one of the girls was doing a report and when she said Illinois, she pronounce the "s". Is this ignorance spreading? How can it be infecting our own residents? Granted, she is twelve and I can forgive her, but if she said it, it means she's heard it from an adult in her life. Ugh! How can we be letting this happen?
I can even understand there might by a bit of confusion because there are states that end in "s" that pronounce them. Texas. Kansas. Okay. But, do you hear anyone pronouncing Arkansas, Ar-Kan-Sass? No. And, it even has the word Kansas in it-- a take that pronounces the "s".
My plea to America-- please stop pronouncing it "Illinoise".
A message to the black guys who shouted at me on 15th street.
For any of you who live in the area, you know that 15th street here in Springfield isn't the classiest of places. It is what one would consider the ghetto. There are boarded up houses and couches on front porches. There are always people outside hanging out on the street in big groups like they are waiting for a bus. Now, I know that insulting this neighborhood is racist-- the people here did not have the advantages I have had, and that does not make me better than them. But, that also does not give them the right to assume that I am a uptight white girl.
I have been doing my observation for a week at the Capital College Preparatory Academy that shares the building with Feitshans Elementary. Thus far in the five minutes, twice a day it takes to walk from my car to the building and back again from the building to my car, I have already been catcalled and had a big black car with giant chrome rims slow down as I crossed at a crosswalk to watch my ass, during which the driver shouted. "Wooooo. Hey girl."
I am not the kind of girl used to having to deal with this kind of disrespect because I don't hang out where this kind of stuff happens. Sure, have I been out at a bar, and had to deliver the bad news to some drunk douchebaggy tool that his mechanics of flirting need a tune up and that his "charms" are not working on me? Yes. Which is why I don't usually go out to bars. I don't like being in situations where guys try to pick me up, especially since I have been in a relationship for seven years and have been married one. The guys that always hit on me in bars work there angle so strong I feel like I'm in a high-pressure sales pitch for a crappy used car or a money-pit time share. Dude, get the picture, if I was single, I'm not the type of girl who would pick up a guy at a bar, let a lone date or be looking for a relationship with. IF I had to be single now, I would probably shoot myself just to save me the trouble of dating.
I digress-- so, after having to deal with being treated like a walking vagina for the last week, I'm getting a little gun-shy about interacting with the guys from the neighborhood. Which is why when I came out of the door, and saw a group of three guys walking down the sidewalk the direction I was headed, I hesitated at on the steps. I wasn't being racist- I swear. It was not because they were black. I am on their fucking side. I want to give them the benefit of the doubt. I want to teach at a school with diversity so I can reach out to minority kids and encourage those who don't have the opportunities every child should! But, the community track record with me had not been positive. I had a bag full of heavy books that was kind of awkward to lug around and I had just gotten a text message as I came out the door. The last thing I wanted to do attempt to be sarcastic and clever to outsmart them as they tried to hit on me as I tried to balance a tote bag full of textbooks and text. So, I put my bag down and answered the text message as I waited for them to pass. That is when I heard...
"Hey-ay!"
I didn't even look up, hoping to give them the impression I was not interested, and replied "Hello." It was the polite thing to do.
Then, I heard, a little bitterly...
"You were going to walk this way until you saw us coming."
Fuck me. What was I supposed to say now. Yes?
"I'm just trying to answer a text message." replied, trying my best to seem like a nice person who was in no way a racist, "I'm just not very good at texting and walking."
And, then I realized something. Why was I pandering to them? Why was I trying to seem like I was not embarrassed by what they said.
Let us examine the situation:
I am a five foot tall, 130 lb, white girl who, in my opinion, was looking pretty damn good that day. Down the street came a trio of baggy pants, long T, sideways flat billed hat wearing, deviant looking, obviously unemployed or else they wouldn't have been walking the streets at 2:00 PM in the afternoon, wannabe thugs. Oh, did I mention the part where they were rapping to themselves as they walked down the street? Sorry, they were doing that. One small girl against three guys, what was I supposed to do?
You are a living stereotype. And, I have been dealing with disrespectful assholes like you all god damn week. Let us examine why a girl like me might be hesitant to walk down the street with a group of people like you. Perhaps if you didn't look like the personification of a walking, talking gangbang, I might have been more apt to interact with you. I certainly would not have hesitated if a group of clean cut, normally dressed black guys came strolling down the sidewalk. On the opposite side of that, if a bunch of punk trashy looking white guys came down the street I would have also wanted to hesitate.
For the record, it wasn't the color of your skin you ignorant jerk, it was the fact that you dress like a fucking delinquent. It was the fact that your entire neighborhood treats women like streetwalkers, who you seem to think that just by walking down the street are out advertising that we are just waiting for you to roll up in your pimped out Buick and pick us up.
Fuck you guys. If you don't want people to assume the worst about you-- if you don't want people to judge you, don't look like a punk thug.
I have been doing my observation for a week at the Capital College Preparatory Academy that shares the building with Feitshans Elementary. Thus far in the five minutes, twice a day it takes to walk from my car to the building and back again from the building to my car, I have already been catcalled and had a big black car with giant chrome rims slow down as I crossed at a crosswalk to watch my ass, during which the driver shouted. "Wooooo. Hey girl."
I am not the kind of girl used to having to deal with this kind of disrespect because I don't hang out where this kind of stuff happens. Sure, have I been out at a bar, and had to deliver the bad news to some drunk douchebaggy tool that his mechanics of flirting need a tune up and that his "charms" are not working on me? Yes. Which is why I don't usually go out to bars. I don't like being in situations where guys try to pick me up, especially since I have been in a relationship for seven years and have been married one. The guys that always hit on me in bars work there angle so strong I feel like I'm in a high-pressure sales pitch for a crappy used car or a money-pit time share. Dude, get the picture, if I was single, I'm not the type of girl who would pick up a guy at a bar, let a lone date or be looking for a relationship with. IF I had to be single now, I would probably shoot myself just to save me the trouble of dating.
I digress-- so, after having to deal with being treated like a walking vagina for the last week, I'm getting a little gun-shy about interacting with the guys from the neighborhood. Which is why when I came out of the door, and saw a group of three guys walking down the sidewalk the direction I was headed, I hesitated at on the steps. I wasn't being racist- I swear. It was not because they were black. I am on their fucking side. I want to give them the benefit of the doubt. I want to teach at a school with diversity so I can reach out to minority kids and encourage those who don't have the opportunities every child should! But, the community track record with me had not been positive. I had a bag full of heavy books that was kind of awkward to lug around and I had just gotten a text message as I came out the door. The last thing I wanted to do attempt to be sarcastic and clever to outsmart them as they tried to hit on me as I tried to balance a tote bag full of textbooks and text. So, I put my bag down and answered the text message as I waited for them to pass. That is when I heard...
"Hey-ay!"
I didn't even look up, hoping to give them the impression I was not interested, and replied "Hello." It was the polite thing to do.
Then, I heard, a little bitterly...
"You were going to walk this way until you saw us coming."
Fuck me. What was I supposed to say now. Yes?
"I'm just trying to answer a text message." replied, trying my best to seem like a nice person who was in no way a racist, "I'm just not very good at texting and walking."
And, then I realized something. Why was I pandering to them? Why was I trying to seem like I was not embarrassed by what they said.
Let us examine the situation:
I am a five foot tall, 130 lb, white girl who, in my opinion, was looking pretty damn good that day. Down the street came a trio of baggy pants, long T, sideways flat billed hat wearing, deviant looking, obviously unemployed or else they wouldn't have been walking the streets at 2:00 PM in the afternoon, wannabe thugs. Oh, did I mention the part where they were rapping to themselves as they walked down the street? Sorry, they were doing that. One small girl against three guys, what was I supposed to do?
You are a living stereotype. And, I have been dealing with disrespectful assholes like you all god damn week. Let us examine why a girl like me might be hesitant to walk down the street with a group of people like you. Perhaps if you didn't look like the personification of a walking, talking gangbang, I might have been more apt to interact with you. I certainly would not have hesitated if a group of clean cut, normally dressed black guys came strolling down the sidewalk. On the opposite side of that, if a bunch of punk trashy looking white guys came down the street I would have also wanted to hesitate.
For the record, it wasn't the color of your skin you ignorant jerk, it was the fact that you dress like a fucking delinquent. It was the fact that your entire neighborhood treats women like streetwalkers, who you seem to think that just by walking down the street are out advertising that we are just waiting for you to roll up in your pimped out Buick and pick us up.
Fuck you guys. If you don't want people to assume the worst about you-- if you don't want people to judge you, don't look like a punk thug.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
"Green is my favorite color every rainbow."
This quote is perhaps the most brilliant and hilarious thing I have ever said.
Let me supply some context...
Exactly, what my sister posted as her status:
"It feels amazing outside. I love fall,hoodys and bonfires. Cuddling and hayrack rides. the smell of burning leaves and all pretty colors. this is definately my favorite season every year, so thankful its here."
How I responded:
Post one:
"Because I have too-- a) hoodies**. If you don't believe me, google it. =) b) Something about "my favorite season every year" just sounds strange, as if despite the fact it is clearly contains all the factors that you deem to be the best and use to dictate your favorite, the statement implies that perhaps you are always surprised that it is your favorite. Or, that an unknown instigating factor may perhaps sway your favoritism one year. It's kind of like saying, "Green is my favorite color every rainbow." See, something just sounds odd about it. lol. But, yeah, I am also happy Autumn is finally here.
Post two:
"Also, because I missed it the first time, c) definitely**"
Post three:
"And, neglect the extraneous "is" before "clearly". I was typing faster than my brain."
I am not sure why her post bugged me the way it did. Perhaps it is because I just finished what could possibly be the most cleverly and masterfully constructed argument to a question ever posed to me (by my online social studies methods teacher). Perhaps it is because of the aforementioned statement that I am to conclude I am at my most brilliant after the Witching hour and before sunrise. So, fresh off the high of my own brilliance, I stumbled upon her post while glancing at Facebook, and had to respond.
Now, I cannot stop fucking laughing at "Green is my favorite color every rainbow".
Let me supply some context...
Exactly, what my sister posted as her status:
"It feels amazing outside. I love fall,hoodys and bonfires. Cuddling and hayrack rides. the smell of burning leaves and all pretty colors. this is definately my favorite season every year, so thankful its here."
How I responded:
Post one:
"Because I have too-- a) hoodies**. If you don't believe me, google it. =) b) Something about "my favorite season every year" just sounds strange, as if despite the fact it is clearly contains all the factors that you deem to be the best and use to dictate your favorite, the statement implies that perhaps you are always surprised that it is your favorite. Or, that an unknown instigating factor may perhaps sway your favoritism one year. It's kind of like saying, "Green is my favorite color every rainbow." See, something just sounds odd about it. lol. But, yeah, I am also happy Autumn is finally here.
Post two:
"Also, because I missed it the first time, c) definitely**"
Post three:
"And, neglect the extraneous "is" before "clearly". I was typing faster than my brain."
I am not sure why her post bugged me the way it did. Perhaps it is because I just finished what could possibly be the most cleverly and masterfully constructed argument to a question ever posed to me (by my online social studies methods teacher). Perhaps it is because of the aforementioned statement that I am to conclude I am at my most brilliant after the Witching hour and before sunrise. So, fresh off the high of my own brilliance, I stumbled upon her post while glancing at Facebook, and had to respond.
Now, I cannot stop fucking laughing at "Green is my favorite color every rainbow".
Monday, September 5, 2011
Reasons I could potentially be an awful teacher...
I go on a lot about teaching. Lately it has been more present in conversations because I am fast approaching the end of my prison sentence known as college. I'm taking content exams and going into classrooms. Shit is getting real now. I'm going to be student teaching next spring-- provided that tomorrow when I turn in my unbelievably ridiculous application for student teaching, everything doesn't go Titanic on me, which is something totally possibly through the incompetency of the TEP department... And, yes, you didn't read that wrong, I just I used the word "Titanic" as a euphemism for a disaster. Really, you could use any disaster...
Man-made-
"How was your date with Jessica last night?"
"Oh my god, it went totally Hindenburg after the second course."
Economic-
"How was Thanksgiving at your parents?"
"It turned Black Tuesday after mom opened the wine."
Natural-
"How did your speech go?"
"It was an epic Katrina."
Terrorism-
"How was that new Twilight saga movie?"
"It was like watching September 11th all over again."
Ssssss.... too soon? I guess ten years isn't enough.
I digress, as I so often have too, next semester, in less than six months, I'm going to be standing in front of high school students as a beacon of knowledge. The ones that aren't sleeping or playing on cell phones are going to be looking at me as a source of knowledge, and potentially forming opinions on my lessons that they hold for the rest of their lives. That's fucking intimidating. Especially when I think of situations I have been in during history classes where I have made a statement, and the other person on the end of the conversation says, "Where did you hear that?", and I respond, "I learned that in my high school American History class", and they just laugh. I don't won't the be the idiot teacher who got it wrong, and gets laughed at by some stupid history major. But, at least I can take some comfort in the fact that most of those kids who argued my opinions also failed multiple times to pass the content exam, where I didn't. That's the problem with going into history because you like bombs and WWII-- you tend to not go out of your way to learn much else, and end up being one of those terrible history teachers. The cycle continues...
But, what if I end up being one of those terrible teachers? Or worse, what if I end up being John Keating? (For those of you who just lost me, that's Robin Williams character from Dead Poet's Society)? What if I am a great fucking teacher, but I am too radical, and the administration and parents come after me like ravenous wolves? That's also intimidating. Would I diminish my passion just to keep my job? That's a sobering thought. But, it get's me thinking about other things.
Reasons I could potentially be a horrible teacher--
1. I say fuck a lot.
It's really not a secret about just how dirty of a mouth I have. I like to think I am an eloquent curser, but most of polite society would use the argument that a truly educated person does not have to resort to cursing to get their point across. To which, I politely respond, fuck off, you pretentious dick. Classy? Not exactly. But, what's the point in being classy when you are trying to insult someone? Anyway, once I was old enough to realize I could get away with it, I got pretty used to cursing, and now I find myself in situations where "fucks" can just slip out of my mouth without my permission. Like for instance, the time I was talking to one of my softball team mom's and I had to cleverly backtrack, and pretend I simply mispronounced a word. I'm too the point where I wonder how many words just slip out without my knowledge? That's a scary thought, isn't it?
"Alright class, today we're going to talk about a bad ass mother fucker named Winston Churchill. He served as the fucking Prime Minister of Great Britain during World War fucking II and helped lead to an allied victory, but perhaps he is best known for his reply to some bitch who insulted him for his drinking problem, "Madam, I may be drunk, but in the morning I shall be sober, but you will still be ugly." Fuck yeah.
Ironically, using this kind of language to teach about Winston Churchill doesn't seem like such an inappropriate example.
2. From the perspective of a teacher, by the unfortunate and terrible standards to which I am held as a history teacher, I am kind of a shitty history teacher.
I know the big things. 1776- Dec. of Independence is signed. 1787- Constitution is ratified. 1914- WWI breaks out in Europe, but other than the big stuff-- wars, assassinations, and other disasters (such as the examples I have identified at the beginning of this post), I have not taken the time to learn dates. Sorry about that, I guess I was too busy actually learning about the importance of the events rather than when they happened. That's why I have the textbook, right? I won't use it other than to make sure I'm not wrong... Napoleon lost at Waterloo in 1815, alright, good to know, but as for the rest of your dry prose, lack of useful or interesting information, and crappy propaganda, I reject your available information textbook. That's all a text book is good for anyway-- what, when, where, and who. The why is always thrown out to the wayside. Students don't need to thik about history, they just need to know it! How else could we test them!? Isn't that the only reason students go to school-- to take tests and get god grades? I mean, that's what we do in the real world right?
This leads me to reason 3.
3. I am sarcastic as I am immature. ... so, a lot in both circumstances.
The smart kids will get it. But, for the other 95% of the class, I'm going to lose them. I find things ironic and hilarious that other people, lame people, don't find hilarious, or even remotely interesting. I also lack tact, because when does someone in my position need that? I mean, six days shy of the tenth anniversary of a national tragedy, I have no problem making a joke. Maybe it's one of the unfortunate side effects of being a social studies major in that I have become so accustomed to analyzing every movement the human race makes to remember it was a horribly, unnecessary tragedy where thousands lost their lives. Or, maybe it is because that things like Sept. 11th still happen that I have become detached from a race of beings I am ashamed to be a part of and I'm just speaking through cynicism. The problem is I'm going to have to constantly to aware of the fact that just because I find something amusing, doesn't mean anyone else will. Plus, I have to remember, when student says or does something "inappropriate", it is wrong to laugh my ass off, no matter how fucking funny it is. Gotta be the adult now...
Perhaps, I should rethink this whole teaching thing...
Man-made-
"How was your date with Jessica last night?"
"Oh my god, it went totally Hindenburg after the second course."
Economic-
"How was Thanksgiving at your parents?"
"It turned Black Tuesday after mom opened the wine."
Natural-
"How did your speech go?"
"It was an epic Katrina."
Terrorism-
"How was that new Twilight saga movie?"
"It was like watching September 11th all over again."
Ssssss.... too soon? I guess ten years isn't enough.
I digress, as I so often have too, next semester, in less than six months, I'm going to be standing in front of high school students as a beacon of knowledge. The ones that aren't sleeping or playing on cell phones are going to be looking at me as a source of knowledge, and potentially forming opinions on my lessons that they hold for the rest of their lives. That's fucking intimidating. Especially when I think of situations I have been in during history classes where I have made a statement, and the other person on the end of the conversation says, "Where did you hear that?", and I respond, "I learned that in my high school American History class", and they just laugh. I don't won't the be the idiot teacher who got it wrong, and gets laughed at by some stupid history major. But, at least I can take some comfort in the fact that most of those kids who argued my opinions also failed multiple times to pass the content exam, where I didn't. That's the problem with going into history because you like bombs and WWII-- you tend to not go out of your way to learn much else, and end up being one of those terrible history teachers. The cycle continues...
But, what if I end up being one of those terrible teachers? Or worse, what if I end up being John Keating? (For those of you who just lost me, that's Robin Williams character from Dead Poet's Society)? What if I am a great fucking teacher, but I am too radical, and the administration and parents come after me like ravenous wolves? That's also intimidating. Would I diminish my passion just to keep my job? That's a sobering thought. But, it get's me thinking about other things.
Reasons I could potentially be a horrible teacher--
1. I say fuck a lot.
It's really not a secret about just how dirty of a mouth I have. I like to think I am an eloquent curser, but most of polite society would use the argument that a truly educated person does not have to resort to cursing to get their point across. To which, I politely respond, fuck off, you pretentious dick. Classy? Not exactly. But, what's the point in being classy when you are trying to insult someone? Anyway, once I was old enough to realize I could get away with it, I got pretty used to cursing, and now I find myself in situations where "fucks" can just slip out of my mouth without my permission. Like for instance, the time I was talking to one of my softball team mom's and I had to cleverly backtrack, and pretend I simply mispronounced a word. I'm too the point where I wonder how many words just slip out without my knowledge? That's a scary thought, isn't it?
"Alright class, today we're going to talk about a bad ass mother fucker named Winston Churchill. He served as the fucking Prime Minister of Great Britain during World War fucking II and helped lead to an allied victory, but perhaps he is best known for his reply to some bitch who insulted him for his drinking problem, "Madam, I may be drunk, but in the morning I shall be sober, but you will still be ugly." Fuck yeah.
Ironically, using this kind of language to teach about Winston Churchill doesn't seem like such an inappropriate example.
2. From the perspective of a teacher, by the unfortunate and terrible standards to which I am held as a history teacher, I am kind of a shitty history teacher.
I know the big things. 1776- Dec. of Independence is signed. 1787- Constitution is ratified. 1914- WWI breaks out in Europe, but other than the big stuff-- wars, assassinations, and other disasters (such as the examples I have identified at the beginning of this post), I have not taken the time to learn dates. Sorry about that, I guess I was too busy actually learning about the importance of the events rather than when they happened. That's why I have the textbook, right? I won't use it other than to make sure I'm not wrong... Napoleon lost at Waterloo in 1815, alright, good to know, but as for the rest of your dry prose, lack of useful or interesting information, and crappy propaganda, I reject your available information textbook. That's all a text book is good for anyway-- what, when, where, and who. The why is always thrown out to the wayside. Students don't need to thik about history, they just need to know it! How else could we test them!? Isn't that the only reason students go to school-- to take tests and get god grades? I mean, that's what we do in the real world right?
This leads me to reason 3.
3. I am sarcastic as I am immature. ... so, a lot in both circumstances.
The smart kids will get it. But, for the other 95% of the class, I'm going to lose them. I find things ironic and hilarious that other people, lame people, don't find hilarious, or even remotely interesting. I also lack tact, because when does someone in my position need that? I mean, six days shy of the tenth anniversary of a national tragedy, I have no problem making a joke. Maybe it's one of the unfortunate side effects of being a social studies major in that I have become so accustomed to analyzing every movement the human race makes to remember it was a horribly, unnecessary tragedy where thousands lost their lives. Or, maybe it is because that things like Sept. 11th still happen that I have become detached from a race of beings I am ashamed to be a part of and I'm just speaking through cynicism. The problem is I'm going to have to constantly to aware of the fact that just because I find something amusing, doesn't mean anyone else will. Plus, I have to remember, when student says or does something "inappropriate", it is wrong to laugh my ass off, no matter how fucking funny it is. Gotta be the adult now...
Perhaps, I should rethink this whole teaching thing...
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Rolling in dough while Carlin rolls in his grave.
I found this 'Calvin and Hobbes' strip in one of Wyatt's compilation books, and it made me think of this song by Bo Burnham-- who is made completely out of sarcasm and brillance. But, both are pretty spot on. Click here to watch since Blogger's stupid, useless video uploader keeps malfunctioning.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eo9pU1q8sy8
Especially the Calvin strip. I mean, just get on IMDB and check out this article. "Movies you won't even believe are coming out".
http://www.imdb.com/list/vmHqw4Vs-Dc
I mean, seriously? Can we not possibly continue as a species without another Independence Day? Without raping a fine stand alone film for gross movie profits for summer blockbusters? That's how you end up with awful sequels that ruin the original epic movie-- Jurassic Park 4, for instance. Or, without ruining what happiness of my childhood I have left with movies like Indiana Jones 5 or Ghostbusters 3. And it's not just movies. A couple of months ago, I was was looking for news about the new Zelda Wii game that has been delayed like three years, and I found an article complaining about the fact that the video game industry is also out of ideas.
" More Proof the Video Game Industry is Out of Ideas (E3 2010)"
http://www.cracked.com/article_18609_more-proof-video-game-industry-out-ideas-e3-2010.html
And, don't even get me started on the vampire thing that they have thoroughly beaten into the ground, and thankfully, seems to have been staked and dying out for the time being... until the damn two-part finale that was only broken up in the sad attempt to make as much money and the stupid two-part debacle that was Deathly Hallows-- thankfully the second part made up for the failing of the first.
I digress though.
I claim to be an artist. I am a painter. A photographer. A writer. I am creative and whimsical when the muse calls, and sometimes I finish something I am so amazed that I accomplished and proud that I created...
Like Bo said--
"Have you ever been to a birthday party for children,
And one of the children won't stop screaming
'Cause he's just a little attention attractor
When he grows up to be a comic or actor
He'll be rewarded for never maturing
For never understanding or learning
That every day can't be about him
There's other people, you selfish asshole!"
That's me. I make art, and people tell me it's great. I'm that kid screaming for praise and attention. My drug is attention, and yes, I am an addict, but I only wish I got paid to indulge in my habit...
... And then I see art by someone who is a real artist, like my father in law. I feel like my paintings are the kindergarten scribbled, put up on the fridge equivalent of what he does and that makes me feel so insignificant and untalented and undeserving of any attention for my so-called "gifts".
It makes me feel like a poser artist. One of the delusionals who thinks they have speck of talent, but doesn't, but no-one will tell them for fear of hurting ther feelings. I guess I am being too hard on myself-- at least I am not one of those losers who draws manga and anime and posts every single crappy sketch and scrap of aforementioned crap art on their Deviant Art page. 75% of Fan Art these days is one of my favorite characters as a slutty Japanese school girl, or as a big breasted anime bimbo, or for some weird ass reason, and anime style dog. I mean, wtf? I'm not looking for images of bukake splatted female characters from my favorite fandoms. I just wanted a cool background. Those people are fucked up...
But, I endure, hoping that what I lack in writing or painting talent, perhaps I more than make up for in originality and creativeness. If that's the case, at least I am doing better than Hollywood.
An argument only my husband and I could have...
While cleaning the house yesterday in preparation for Darryl's birthday poker game, Wyatt and I were each cleaning while something educational was on television. During one of the commercial breaks a commercial for a travel show I have watched occasionally called Rick Steves' Europe came on. Rick Steves is a famous travel guy who does travels shows in which he travels. Occasionally he writes books about it too. Anyway, Rick was going to Iran in the next episode, and this made me pause because I had to make fun of the fact that Iran is not located Europe. It made me laugh and I commented about it. And, this point is where I made the unfortunate mistake of allowing this comment to lead into the following conversation. (The following is a paraphrased transcript of what I can remember about this unbelievably stupid conversation.)
Bekki- "Well, obviously Rick Steves' doesn't know much about geography, because last time I checked, Iran is in the Middle East, not in Europe."
Wyatt- "Yes it is.
Bekki- "What? No it's not. It's on a completely different continent."
Wyatt-- trying to be condescending, "Bekki, where is the Middle East? What continent is it on?"
Bekki-- "It's in Asia, Wyatt. The show is called Rick Steves' "EUROPE". They are going to another continent that is not Europe.
Wyatt-- A little more condescending sounding, not sure why because his comments are so completely non-sensical, "So, it's not really Middle East then is it?"
Bekki- "Yes it IS! That is the regional term."
Wyatt- "Well it can't be the Middle East if it's in Asia. You're not talking about a regional term, you were talking about a continent."
Bekki, who is utterly lost at this point, near face-palming, "What the fuck are you talking about? Where do we live? We live in the Mid-West, which is on the North American Continent. Just because the region is in North America doesn't mean it's not referred to as the Mid-West. That's the regional term."
Wyatt, still continuing with this ludacris conversation for reasons unknown to intelligent beings, "But you weren't talking about the region, you were talking about the continent."
Bekki- "REGARDLESS OF THE WORDING I USED, THE POINT REMAINS THAT IRAN IS NOT IN FUCKING EUROPE!
Wyatt- "Yeah, but it's close by."
This is the point in the conversation in which I resort to drinking in case this conversation continues.
Bekki- "Well, obviously Rick Steves' doesn't know much about geography, because last time I checked, Iran is in the Middle East, not in Europe."
Wyatt- "Yes it is.
Bekki- "What? No it's not. It's on a completely different continent."
Wyatt-- trying to be condescending, "Bekki, where is the Middle East? What continent is it on?"
Bekki-- "It's in Asia, Wyatt. The show is called Rick Steves' "EUROPE". They are going to another continent that is not Europe.
Wyatt-- A little more condescending sounding, not sure why because his comments are so completely non-sensical, "So, it's not really Middle East then is it?"
Bekki- "Yes it IS! That is the regional term."
Wyatt- "Well it can't be the Middle East if it's in Asia. You're not talking about a regional term, you were talking about a continent."
Bekki, who is utterly lost at this point, near face-palming, "What the fuck are you talking about? Where do we live? We live in the Mid-West, which is on the North American Continent. Just because the region is in North America doesn't mean it's not referred to as the Mid-West. That's the regional term."
Wyatt, still continuing with this ludacris conversation for reasons unknown to intelligent beings, "But you weren't talking about the region, you were talking about the continent."
Bekki- "REGARDLESS OF THE WORDING I USED, THE POINT REMAINS THAT IRAN IS NOT IN FUCKING EUROPE!
Wyatt- "Yeah, but it's close by."
This is the point in the conversation in which I resort to drinking in case this conversation continues.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Shut the fuck up, take my money, and put me in a fucking classroom!
Once again, UIS has found a new way to kill my brain cells with their bureaucratic stupidity. I was informed yesterday that I have two weeks to submit the 50 some odd forms, applications, certificates, and other jazz I need to sign up and qualify for student teaching in the Spring of 2012. Most of these things I could have completed months, even years ago, and yet they withhold this info until two weeks before I have to have it submitted, after which there is absolutely no way they will consider me for teaching in the spring. So, in the next two weeks I have to fill out three applications, without errors of any kind-- can't even cross out or whiteout--, obtain signatures from department chairs and advisers in triplicate graduation application forms, write a new resume and teaching philosophy --has to be new, can't be any of the 1000 I have had make of either in all my education classes-- and print them in quintuple -- yes, that's right, five copies--, take two online courses for mandated reporting and health and safety, and pass tests for both for which I have to submit two forms for each, meet with my TEP advisor twice for more approvals and signatures, and a whole bunch of other forms and documents and bullshit and run around.
To say I am unhappy, angry, annoyed, would be an understatement. I wish I could re-organize this department on an epic level. The complete and utter lack of sensibility or communication skills by this department is staggering. I know I am a good teacher, and all the proof comes from my reviews and evaluations from my students and sponsor teachers. But, this department refuses to equip us with the practical knowledge one will need to become a competent teacher in a real world setting...
NO! Instead, I have been forced to take my umpteenth online class where for my first fucking assignment I must write an autobiographical paper about why I want to be a teacher, my experiences with teaching, and how I think these experiences will make me a better teacher! HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I FUCKING WRITTEN THIS PAPER! Seriously? No... SERIOUSLY!?
[Excuse the brief interruption in your regularly schedule blog post while the writer puts a gun in her mouth.]
This is not going to make me a better teacher. Making me take bullshit online courses where I do not actually get to function in a real classroom setting will not make me a better teacher. Waxing poetic bullshit about how great of a teacher I'll imagine I'll be will not make me a better teacher. Do you know what will make me a better teacher?
PUT ME IN A FUCKING CLASSROOM!
I understand there are methods and lessons I have to learn beforehand, but how will I ever learn to put them into actual practice if all my classes are online and I only get 40 hours of in classroom time with actual living, breathing, spit ball shooting, sarcastic, intelligent, learning disabled, black, white, hispanic, impoverished, wealthy, athletic, awkward, and any other combination of diverse students! This is why the level of education in this country is so unbelievably, terrifyingly dismal. If we can't even properly educate future educators, what hope do the poor students have without qualified, competent teachers, without funding for resources for those teachers, and with NCLB dictating what subjects are important and unimportant based on whether we can standardize a test for it?
I'm terrified to get up in front of a classroom and claim myself to be a teacher. I do not in any way feel prepared for this. I feel cheated. I feel like I got a sub-standard education, and if I don't feel like I'll be ready to teach these students on the level they deserve, how is that fair to them? I love teaching, and I know how to relate to students, how to present material to them, how to make school fun, how to make it come alive, how to interact with them-- when I get up there, I now how to be a good teacher-- but UIS wants me to be a good clinical teacher, all sterilized and generic, all touchy-feely and not gritty and realistically.
Dear mystical and complex universe, please don't let me fall flat on my unprepared face. Please, I have been sacrificing and busting my ass for this moment for six years-- please, please, let me get all my paperwork in on time, and let next semester go as smoothly and brilliantly as possible--
Because if it doesn't... the gun is going back in my mouth.
To say I am unhappy, angry, annoyed, would be an understatement. I wish I could re-organize this department on an epic level. The complete and utter lack of sensibility or communication skills by this department is staggering. I know I am a good teacher, and all the proof comes from my reviews and evaluations from my students and sponsor teachers. But, this department refuses to equip us with the practical knowledge one will need to become a competent teacher in a real world setting...
NO! Instead, I have been forced to take my umpteenth online class where for my first fucking assignment I must write an autobiographical paper about why I want to be a teacher, my experiences with teaching, and how I think these experiences will make me a better teacher! HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I FUCKING WRITTEN THIS PAPER! Seriously? No... SERIOUSLY!?
[Excuse the brief interruption in your regularly schedule blog post while the writer puts a gun in her mouth.]
This is not going to make me a better teacher. Making me take bullshit online courses where I do not actually get to function in a real classroom setting will not make me a better teacher. Waxing poetic bullshit about how great of a teacher I'll imagine I'll be will not make me a better teacher. Do you know what will make me a better teacher?
PUT ME IN A FUCKING CLASSROOM!
I understand there are methods and lessons I have to learn beforehand, but how will I ever learn to put them into actual practice if all my classes are online and I only get 40 hours of in classroom time with actual living, breathing, spit ball shooting, sarcastic, intelligent, learning disabled, black, white, hispanic, impoverished, wealthy, athletic, awkward, and any other combination of diverse students! This is why the level of education in this country is so unbelievably, terrifyingly dismal. If we can't even properly educate future educators, what hope do the poor students have without qualified, competent teachers, without funding for resources for those teachers, and with NCLB dictating what subjects are important and unimportant based on whether we can standardize a test for it?
I'm terrified to get up in front of a classroom and claim myself to be a teacher. I do not in any way feel prepared for this. I feel cheated. I feel like I got a sub-standard education, and if I don't feel like I'll be ready to teach these students on the level they deserve, how is that fair to them? I love teaching, and I know how to relate to students, how to present material to them, how to make school fun, how to make it come alive, how to interact with them-- when I get up there, I now how to be a good teacher-- but UIS wants me to be a good clinical teacher, all sterilized and generic, all touchy-feely and not gritty and realistically.
Dear mystical and complex universe, please don't let me fall flat on my unprepared face. Please, I have been sacrificing and busting my ass for this moment for six years-- please, please, let me get all my paperwork in on time, and let next semester go as smoothly and brilliantly as possible--
Because if it doesn't... the gun is going back in my mouth.
Monday, August 22, 2011
UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE!
So, last week, when we got back from our honeymoon, I had to quickly get online to order my books. I am only taking two classes this semester. This is supposed to be my easy semester-- two classes, no job to balance with homework and on campus meetings. Free time to hang out, to go to events like parties and weddings without having to worry about whether I can get time off or if homework is due. All I have is an online course for my Social Science Methods requirement for secondary education, and math class to fulfill the last two credits I need to finish the teaching program. While the methods book was average in price of what I am used too, the math book was ridiculous, and so I went online to order it. A paperback copy for $60! Awesomely doable! Ordered. Unfortunately a week later, I discovered that I had purchased one of the supplements, and not the text. FUCK! I had less than a week before class started, and I HATE being the kid who has to ask for extra time because the books aren't in yet. In my haste and panic, I ended up having to order the ridiculous book from the bookstore, that at the cheapest cost us $130 just to rent, and thus because of our recent excursion to Wyoming, meant we went negative to pay for my unintended extra expense. I also can't return to supplement book.
On top of this drama,I am not happy, at all, about having to take another math class. Way back at LLCC, in 2006 during my second semester of college I took what I thought would be my last math class. MAT 104- Math for the liberal arts major. Easy, right? One semester and done forever. All I needed for the history program here at UIS was 4 credits. Unfortunately after I finished all of my bachelor credits, and I am just trying to finish up my certification classes, do they inform me that I need 6 credits to the education program. FUCK! Well, I'm over it, and I an begrudgingly taking this class. I get online to register and see MAT 102, College Algebra. It's a freshman class and I am a super senior at UIS, this should be fine for a math illiterate such s myself-- the kind of person who gets so panic attacky when she sees numbers that I freeze up and forget how to count when someone watches me count out change.
Today is the first day of classes, first last day for me, and it's going to be amazing. Everything should be perfect. I get up, shower, apply makeup, and put on my new outfit that I bought, the one that makes me look mature, elegant, sophisticated, and like a teacher candidate-- a hot teacher candidate, mind you. I have no problem finding a parking spot and am the first one in the class room. Yes! First choice in prime seating! I make a few friends as the students pile it. Most of them look like they are barely old enough to be in high school let alone college, and I revel in my maturity and coolness, and adjust my trendy new outfit like I am better than all of these newbians. The teacher seems perfect for me and I relax somewhat that although this class terrifies me, I am sure she is willing to work with me and is committed to making sure we all get this. This might not be absolutely horrible...
Tragedy strikes without warning!
"This is a prepatory class for Calculus for those of you who are majoring in business and computer science, so if you are not required to take calculus after this, you might want to talk to your adviser and see about taking another class."
WHAT!? NO! I am in the wrong class! The very class I lost $60 dollars on ordering the wrong book and went negative to order the right one! YOU HAVE GOT TO BE SHITTING ME! Next thing I know is we're going over notes, and it's like the entire class is a play and I don't know any of the lines. Numbers and variables are flying up on the board and answers are being shouted out. How are they coming to these conclusions!? This is less decipherable than hieroglyphics! I am fucked. Do I even know where the receipt for my book return is? GOD DAMN IT!
I talked to her after class, and we decided that I should go to her Quantitative Reasoning class, which is more of a survey. I mean christ, I just need to dam credits. I gave up being an astronaut for this very reason, and there is no way I can do this math. It's going to be impossible. Plus, I am relieved I won't lose her as my teacher. But first I have to make sure QR isn't too much like my MAT 104 class and will still count. Next thing I know is I am rushing over to talk to the Teacher Education dept to make sure I can take this new class. Luckily, the amazing lady that pretty much runs that dept pulls strings and approves my decision. I run back to my new teacher and tell her all is good in the land of Bekki after all. Crisis averted. She sends me to the dept asst, I get dept approval, and I hustle over to the library to add and drop the classes.
I drive home, knowing I have to be back at 4 for my new math class, hopefully more aligned with the needs of special needs math cases like myself, determined to find my book return receipt. I, Bekki Leber the fucking idiot, tossed it because I always hold on to them and never need to return books. I am always on top of things and I know what classes I need. No. Not this year. Because all the info was conveniently not presented to me, and I was not informed this was a prep track specific class, I am now digging with my bare hands through my trash can-- full of old food, junk mail, coffee grinds, other undesirable oozes and squashed remnants-- is that fucking mold!? I have to wash my hands, excuse me. BLECK! No return slip.
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK...
This is the part where I panic and go wake up Wyatt with only four hours of sleep to break down and cry.
I get back online, buy my new book, and accept that I have just lost a collective near $200 on this class. I order my new book and head back to UIS to pick it up, print off some stuff at the library since my printer is dead and I can't get my new parking pass until I have the form, and be at my new math class at 4 pm.
A small victory! While telling my sob story to the ladies in the bookstore while they pick up my new book, I am informed that I can still return my book up until Friday. I don't need the slip because they can print it since I bought it online! THANK YOU MERCIFUL UNIVERSE! Just one small victory, but it makes a few things right. I still lost $60 bucks on the other book, but I can cope with that, I guess, if I have no other choice. OH, rest assured I will bitch about it, at length, whether you want me to or not. But, on the whole, I am heaving a sigh .
But, if someone asks me how my days is going, would it be too melodramatic to say it's approaching one of my worst ever?
On top of this drama,I am not happy, at all, about having to take another math class. Way back at LLCC, in 2006 during my second semester of college I took what I thought would be my last math class. MAT 104- Math for the liberal arts major. Easy, right? One semester and done forever. All I needed for the history program here at UIS was 4 credits. Unfortunately after I finished all of my bachelor credits, and I am just trying to finish up my certification classes, do they inform me that I need 6 credits to the education program. FUCK! Well, I'm over it, and I an begrudgingly taking this class. I get online to register and see MAT 102, College Algebra. It's a freshman class and I am a super senior at UIS, this should be fine for a math illiterate such s myself-- the kind of person who gets so panic attacky when she sees numbers that I freeze up and forget how to count when someone watches me count out change.
Today is the first day of classes, first last day for me, and it's going to be amazing. Everything should be perfect. I get up, shower, apply makeup, and put on my new outfit that I bought, the one that makes me look mature, elegant, sophisticated, and like a teacher candidate-- a hot teacher candidate, mind you. I have no problem finding a parking spot and am the first one in the class room. Yes! First choice in prime seating! I make a few friends as the students pile it. Most of them look like they are barely old enough to be in high school let alone college, and I revel in my maturity and coolness, and adjust my trendy new outfit like I am better than all of these newbians. The teacher seems perfect for me and I relax somewhat that although this class terrifies me, I am sure she is willing to work with me and is committed to making sure we all get this. This might not be absolutely horrible...
Tragedy strikes without warning!
"This is a prepatory class for Calculus for those of you who are majoring in business and computer science, so if you are not required to take calculus after this, you might want to talk to your adviser and see about taking another class."
WHAT!? NO! I am in the wrong class! The very class I lost $60 dollars on ordering the wrong book and went negative to order the right one! YOU HAVE GOT TO BE SHITTING ME! Next thing I know is we're going over notes, and it's like the entire class is a play and I don't know any of the lines. Numbers and variables are flying up on the board and answers are being shouted out. How are they coming to these conclusions!? This is less decipherable than hieroglyphics! I am fucked. Do I even know where the receipt for my book return is? GOD DAMN IT!
I talked to her after class, and we decided that I should go to her Quantitative Reasoning class, which is more of a survey. I mean christ, I just need to dam credits. I gave up being an astronaut for this very reason, and there is no way I can do this math. It's going to be impossible. Plus, I am relieved I won't lose her as my teacher. But first I have to make sure QR isn't too much like my MAT 104 class and will still count. Next thing I know is I am rushing over to talk to the Teacher Education dept to make sure I can take this new class. Luckily, the amazing lady that pretty much runs that dept pulls strings and approves my decision. I run back to my new teacher and tell her all is good in the land of Bekki after all. Crisis averted. She sends me to the dept asst, I get dept approval, and I hustle over to the library to add and drop the classes.
I drive home, knowing I have to be back at 4 for my new math class, hopefully more aligned with the needs of special needs math cases like myself, determined to find my book return receipt. I, Bekki Leber the fucking idiot, tossed it because I always hold on to them and never need to return books. I am always on top of things and I know what classes I need. No. Not this year. Because all the info was conveniently not presented to me, and I was not informed this was a prep track specific class, I am now digging with my bare hands through my trash can-- full of old food, junk mail, coffee grinds, other undesirable oozes and squashed remnants-- is that fucking mold!? I have to wash my hands, excuse me. BLECK! No return slip.
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK...
This is the part where I panic and go wake up Wyatt with only four hours of sleep to break down and cry.
I get back online, buy my new book, and accept that I have just lost a collective near $200 on this class. I order my new book and head back to UIS to pick it up, print off some stuff at the library since my printer is dead and I can't get my new parking pass until I have the form, and be at my new math class at 4 pm.
A small victory! While telling my sob story to the ladies in the bookstore while they pick up my new book, I am informed that I can still return my book up until Friday. I don't need the slip because they can print it since I bought it online! THANK YOU MERCIFUL UNIVERSE! Just one small victory, but it makes a few things right. I still lost $60 bucks on the other book, but I can cope with that, I guess, if I have no other choice. OH, rest assured I will bitch about it, at length, whether you want me to or not. But, on the whole, I am heaving a sigh .
But, if someone asks me how my days is going, would it be too melodramatic to say it's approaching one of my worst ever?
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
When I grow up, I want to be a writer...
Most of you, who would bother coming here, have heard me at some point make reference to “My Novel”. Be it over Facebook status, a conversation, an arbitrary comment, what have you-- you have probably heard me mention this mystery novel and some of you have even asked, “What’s it about?”.
This is the part where I stare back at you in silence for a moment while my brain tries to compile the enormity of the last three years of world building, character development, plot lining, twist turning, cliff hangers, and all the other things that make these eventual books—Singularity, Infinity, and Relativity—(at least their names for now, although I’ve gotten kind of attached to them, and the physics names are all kind of an underlying science theme I am aiming for….blah, blah, blah) into a cohesive description that you, the lay person with no insight into my vivid, whirlwind imagination, could possibly understand as to what exactly I am trying to create without an in-depth, hour long, confusing and constantly back tracking explanation… which will follow.
I’m not insulting your intelligence in assuming so pompously that you, said lay person devoid of a window into the head of a head case, could not possibly understand what the hell I am talking about. Nor, am I trying to insinuate that I’m writing an intensely deep, complicated novel that will rival the collective works of Austen, Twain, Fitzgerald, Vonnegut, King, Rowling, and Meyer… Hahaha. Okay that last name was hard to type because I was laughing so hard I was snorting. I am definitely not trying to insinuate that my book will rival Stephanie Meyer—because no matter how horrendous of a writer I turn out to be, my novels will exceed, outclass, and make a complete mockery of the series that Meyer and her coven of hormonal tweens—and their pathetic sisters and mothers—consider a literary masterpiece of epic romance. Once again, that last part of the sentence was complicated with the laughing and the snorting.
If I had break it down to its most basic components, I guess I would have to say it is about souls—those who have them and those that do not, and all the scientific reasons why. DISCLOSURE: THIS STORY HAS ABSLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH VAMPIRES OR WEREWOLVES. So, if you don’t tend to stray any further down the literary rabbithole than those two topics, and you know who you are, and I’ve probably criticized you at length, than you’re probably not going to be interested. Sorry. Like, I know it’s totally the popular thing to the right now, and like, every person that thinks they are a writer is totally doing that – but, that’s exactly why I am writing about nothing that has to do with Vampires or Werewolves. Meyer bashing aside, the whole idea boils down to what are souls, really? In my world, they are an electromagnetic based organism, a parasite that feeds off the energy of humans, and this is the reason we die. But, through the wonder of evolution, some humans have adapted to fend off these parasites, and thus they have no soul (Vapids) and because of their sans-soulness, are immortal. Others have adapted to have a symbiotic relationship with souls allowing an increased mental capacity, superpowers in other words (Abstracts), and are also immortal. Now, this immortality has its limits. While they stop aging around the early thirties, being an Abstract or a Vapid doesn’t mean you cannot die. They are still susceptible to disease and trauma, but they will never die because of old age.
That’s pretty bare bones, I know, and even a little bit more farfetched, but if you have ever watched Star Trek, it probably seems a little less hard to wrap your brain bones around.
Okay, so where am I going with all this? Well, if you are actually under the illusion I am going to finish this someday, and think you might ever read this STOP NOW, because in the words of River Song, SPOILERS!:
Here’s the best way to explain the beginning of the plot—
A man named Elias Dethridge—my antagonist… (or is he? Could he possibly also be a protagonist? Who knows? Read the book in a decade when I finally finish it, and find out for yourself.) – This is the part where you roll your eyes at me, stop trying to follow my impossible train of thought and say, “Fuck, she is long winded!”—anyway, Elias Dethridge, antagonist, protagonist, whatever, is a vapid. He falls for a normal human lady, Violetta, who will eventually die, and decides he can’t be with her until he finds a way to make her immortal like him. Flash forward through years of traveling, talking to wise men and shamans and other general conveyers of mysticism, and soul-searching – pun absolutely intended—and he finds a way to make her immortal by removing her soul. Enter Magnus Finnegan, or better known as Finn. He is an abstract, and his power is… you ready for this, electromagnetic manipulation, or in other words, he can extract Violetta’s parasite, a.k.a soul, and make her immortal right? Makes sense. Absolutely logical. Anyone without a soul is immortal.
WRONG!
Taking out the soul of normal human does such irreparable, traumatic damage to their body and psyche, it essentially drives them insane (think Drusilla from Buffy). What is poor Elias to do? Find a way to fix her. Okay, get ready because here comes the rubber science—
A soul implants after birth –haha, fuck you anti-abortionists, not in my book!—and bonds with the body physically. Remove it and it will kill the person, but when they die it just simply moves on to another host. Revive that person and the soul is no longer bonded to the body of that person, and they’ll be immortal. Unfortunately, one unintended side effect is they lack that sanity thing that most people—myself excluded—enjoy and take for granted on a regular basis. The soul becomes such a interconnected part of the body, it’s like the worst form of phantom limb you can experience, thus the crazy. If you can put it back in though, all your problems are solved! The best part? Since the soul has bonded to a new body, it doesn’t recognize the host, but the body recognizes the soul and is relived of all of the stress derived from extraction. It’s like trying to put a round peg in a square hole—it still fits, but not quite. But, hey, sanity restored.
Easy peasy lemon squeezy, right?
WRONG!
Did you not pick up on the part where the soul bonded to another person? That means you have to kill the new host. And, it’s not like there is an Iphone app for finding displaced souls. It can take years for repossessors and seers to find the soul and it’s new host. So, what is Elias Dethridge to do while he tries to restore his wife? While he waits patiently for decades to once again have Violetta back? What else? Build a black market empire on this amazing new power he knows how to wield.
So, Dethridge becomes a rich, entrepreneur of supernatural services, and eventually becomes one of the most powerful men on the planet. Then, suddenly, it happens! They find Violetta’s soul! Finn is sent to recover it—except, aww, isn’t that always the way? Finn completely falls in love with the girl he is suppose to kill and steal the soul from… what is a man totally indebted to another man for a life of wealth, luxury, and power to do in this situation? Easy. Kill someone else, send the fake soul back, and run away with the girl. Duh. Which would have been very romantic and all, except Dethridge isn’t going to let that fly! He has become a vicious, soul stealing, murder through vicarious acts of his repossessors, madman insane with power. He gets another repossessor , they kill the girl and take the soul, nearly killing Finn and leaving him for nearly dead. His true love slain by the hands of the only father figure Finn’s ever known, there is really only one thing to do, isn’t there? Start a fucking revolution to bring down an empire, stop Dethridge’s tyranny, and seek the ultimate form of vengeance—he has to kill Violetta Dethridge. The plot builds, stuff happens, characters get introduced, more stuff happens, and eventually that is exactly what Finn does. He frees the soul of the woman he loved in the hopes that when it comes back-- and here’s hoping it comes back into another woman, because otherwise, that’s awkward—she will learn to love him again. He’ll be around right? He’s immortal. He’ll just wait. How romantic. Everybody swoons and awes, and eventually they live happily ever after, right?
WRONG!
The soul attaches to a girl, luckily for Finn, but in the ironic way that writers work, it attaches to an abstract, a girl with empath abilities. Oh, did I totally forget to mention that DETHRIDGE KILLS ALL EMPATHS BECAUSE THEY ARE A THREAT TO HIM!? Oh, curse you dramatic irony! What is Finn to do? Save her of course. He’ll just keep her hidden, keep a distant eye on her, keep her safe until she grows up and he can explain everything and she’ll fall madly in love with him and they will run off together into the sunset, right?
Do I really need to say it? I mean, you have got to be getting the picture here, picking up on some kind of pattern.
WRONG!
Enter the protagonist (Maybe? Plot thickens…) Max, who is an out of work artist, beaten down by life’s unfair blows, driven to the point of insanity by the voices in her head, and a full-fledged alcoholic.
And, here, despite all that immense and detailed back-story, is where the novel really starts. Max is exposed to Dethridge, he sends a hit out on her, but Finn gets her out, tagged along by her best friend, loyal side kick, and all around ‘Ducky’, Ridley. From here is the adventure I call “Singularity”.
Yeah, now that you read all this, sound pretty awesome, doesn’t it? And now you are all like, “Damn! I spoiled everything.” Rest assured, there are many more twists and surprises to come. I mean, I obviously have to come up with tons more bull shit to put into the other two books…
Now you know. One a scale of 1-10, how fucking confused are you right now? =)
This is the part where I stare back at you in silence for a moment while my brain tries to compile the enormity of the last three years of world building, character development, plot lining, twist turning, cliff hangers, and all the other things that make these eventual books—Singularity, Infinity, and Relativity—(at least their names for now, although I’ve gotten kind of attached to them, and the physics names are all kind of an underlying science theme I am aiming for….blah, blah, blah) into a cohesive description that you, the lay person with no insight into my vivid, whirlwind imagination, could possibly understand as to what exactly I am trying to create without an in-depth, hour long, confusing and constantly back tracking explanation… which will follow.
I’m not insulting your intelligence in assuming so pompously that you, said lay person devoid of a window into the head of a head case, could not possibly understand what the hell I am talking about. Nor, am I trying to insinuate that I’m writing an intensely deep, complicated novel that will rival the collective works of Austen, Twain, Fitzgerald, Vonnegut, King, Rowling, and Meyer… Hahaha. Okay that last name was hard to type because I was laughing so hard I was snorting. I am definitely not trying to insinuate that my book will rival Stephanie Meyer—because no matter how horrendous of a writer I turn out to be, my novels will exceed, outclass, and make a complete mockery of the series that Meyer and her coven of hormonal tweens—and their pathetic sisters and mothers—consider a literary masterpiece of epic romance. Once again, that last part of the sentence was complicated with the laughing and the snorting.
If I had break it down to its most basic components, I guess I would have to say it is about souls—those who have them and those that do not, and all the scientific reasons why. DISCLOSURE: THIS STORY HAS ABSLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH VAMPIRES OR WEREWOLVES. So, if you don’t tend to stray any further down the literary rabbithole than those two topics, and you know who you are, and I’ve probably criticized you at length, than you’re probably not going to be interested. Sorry. Like, I know it’s totally the popular thing to the right now, and like, every person that thinks they are a writer is totally doing that – but, that’s exactly why I am writing about nothing that has to do with Vampires or Werewolves. Meyer bashing aside, the whole idea boils down to what are souls, really? In my world, they are an electromagnetic based organism, a parasite that feeds off the energy of humans, and this is the reason we die. But, through the wonder of evolution, some humans have adapted to fend off these parasites, and thus they have no soul (Vapids) and because of their sans-soulness, are immortal. Others have adapted to have a symbiotic relationship with souls allowing an increased mental capacity, superpowers in other words (Abstracts), and are also immortal. Now, this immortality has its limits. While they stop aging around the early thirties, being an Abstract or a Vapid doesn’t mean you cannot die. They are still susceptible to disease and trauma, but they will never die because of old age.
That’s pretty bare bones, I know, and even a little bit more farfetched, but if you have ever watched Star Trek, it probably seems a little less hard to wrap your brain bones around.
Okay, so where am I going with all this? Well, if you are actually under the illusion I am going to finish this someday, and think you might ever read this STOP NOW, because in the words of River Song, SPOILERS!:
Here’s the best way to explain the beginning of the plot—
A man named Elias Dethridge—my antagonist… (or is he? Could he possibly also be a protagonist? Who knows? Read the book in a decade when I finally finish it, and find out for yourself.) – This is the part where you roll your eyes at me, stop trying to follow my impossible train of thought and say, “Fuck, she is long winded!”—anyway, Elias Dethridge, antagonist, protagonist, whatever, is a vapid. He falls for a normal human lady, Violetta, who will eventually die, and decides he can’t be with her until he finds a way to make her immortal like him. Flash forward through years of traveling, talking to wise men and shamans and other general conveyers of mysticism, and soul-searching – pun absolutely intended—and he finds a way to make her immortal by removing her soul. Enter Magnus Finnegan, or better known as Finn. He is an abstract, and his power is… you ready for this, electromagnetic manipulation, or in other words, he can extract Violetta’s parasite, a.k.a soul, and make her immortal right? Makes sense. Absolutely logical. Anyone without a soul is immortal.
WRONG!
Taking out the soul of normal human does such irreparable, traumatic damage to their body and psyche, it essentially drives them insane (think Drusilla from Buffy). What is poor Elias to do? Find a way to fix her. Okay, get ready because here comes the rubber science—
A soul implants after birth –haha, fuck you anti-abortionists, not in my book!—and bonds with the body physically. Remove it and it will kill the person, but when they die it just simply moves on to another host. Revive that person and the soul is no longer bonded to the body of that person, and they’ll be immortal. Unfortunately, one unintended side effect is they lack that sanity thing that most people—myself excluded—enjoy and take for granted on a regular basis. The soul becomes such a interconnected part of the body, it’s like the worst form of phantom limb you can experience, thus the crazy. If you can put it back in though, all your problems are solved! The best part? Since the soul has bonded to a new body, it doesn’t recognize the host, but the body recognizes the soul and is relived of all of the stress derived from extraction. It’s like trying to put a round peg in a square hole—it still fits, but not quite. But, hey, sanity restored.
Easy peasy lemon squeezy, right?
WRONG!
Did you not pick up on the part where the soul bonded to another person? That means you have to kill the new host. And, it’s not like there is an Iphone app for finding displaced souls. It can take years for repossessors and seers to find the soul and it’s new host. So, what is Elias Dethridge to do while he tries to restore his wife? While he waits patiently for decades to once again have Violetta back? What else? Build a black market empire on this amazing new power he knows how to wield.
So, Dethridge becomes a rich, entrepreneur of supernatural services, and eventually becomes one of the most powerful men on the planet. Then, suddenly, it happens! They find Violetta’s soul! Finn is sent to recover it—except, aww, isn’t that always the way? Finn completely falls in love with the girl he is suppose to kill and steal the soul from… what is a man totally indebted to another man for a life of wealth, luxury, and power to do in this situation? Easy. Kill someone else, send the fake soul back, and run away with the girl. Duh. Which would have been very romantic and all, except Dethridge isn’t going to let that fly! He has become a vicious, soul stealing, murder through vicarious acts of his repossessors, madman insane with power. He gets another repossessor , they kill the girl and take the soul, nearly killing Finn and leaving him for nearly dead. His true love slain by the hands of the only father figure Finn’s ever known, there is really only one thing to do, isn’t there? Start a fucking revolution to bring down an empire, stop Dethridge’s tyranny, and seek the ultimate form of vengeance—he has to kill Violetta Dethridge. The plot builds, stuff happens, characters get introduced, more stuff happens, and eventually that is exactly what Finn does. He frees the soul of the woman he loved in the hopes that when it comes back-- and here’s hoping it comes back into another woman, because otherwise, that’s awkward—she will learn to love him again. He’ll be around right? He’s immortal. He’ll just wait. How romantic. Everybody swoons and awes, and eventually they live happily ever after, right?
WRONG!
The soul attaches to a girl, luckily for Finn, but in the ironic way that writers work, it attaches to an abstract, a girl with empath abilities. Oh, did I totally forget to mention that DETHRIDGE KILLS ALL EMPATHS BECAUSE THEY ARE A THREAT TO HIM!? Oh, curse you dramatic irony! What is Finn to do? Save her of course. He’ll just keep her hidden, keep a distant eye on her, keep her safe until she grows up and he can explain everything and she’ll fall madly in love with him and they will run off together into the sunset, right?
Do I really need to say it? I mean, you have got to be getting the picture here, picking up on some kind of pattern.
WRONG!
Enter the protagonist (Maybe? Plot thickens…) Max, who is an out of work artist, beaten down by life’s unfair blows, driven to the point of insanity by the voices in her head, and a full-fledged alcoholic.
And, here, despite all that immense and detailed back-story, is where the novel really starts. Max is exposed to Dethridge, he sends a hit out on her, but Finn gets her out, tagged along by her best friend, loyal side kick, and all around ‘Ducky’, Ridley. From here is the adventure I call “Singularity”.
Yeah, now that you read all this, sound pretty awesome, doesn’t it? And now you are all like, “Damn! I spoiled everything.” Rest assured, there are many more twists and surprises to come. I mean, I obviously have to come up with tons more bull shit to put into the other two books…
Now you know. One a scale of 1-10, how fucking confused are you right now? =)
In which I vent my frustration about the lame assortment of free blog templates on the web.
I do not want a emo-inspired trendy pattern of nautical stars or bleeding hearts. I do not want something that I can only describe as "vector vomit" invading every square inch of my blog with its random tree silhouettes, sparrows, hot air balloons and creepy shadow couples. I do not want a template with a theme for my blog, because that insinuates that any of this nonsense I write has a logical direction, and that just isn't going to be the case-- any of you who have known me for more than a minute know better than that. I just want something interesting, something clean, something I can edit myself and make personal without having to take a class on html, something that isn't trendy or common or easily confused for a corporate website.
Free templates suck. I thought things might have gotten better since I used to troll the interwebs for free MySpace templates, but alas, I should have known so much better. I finally settled on this for two reasons; 1) It wasn't completely obnoxious, and 2) It matched my Firefox skin.
I remain on the hunt...
Free templates suck. I thought things might have gotten better since I used to troll the interwebs for free MySpace templates, but alas, I should have known so much better. I finally settled on this for two reasons; 1) It wasn't completely obnoxious, and 2) It matched my Firefox skin.
I remain on the hunt...
I have a blog, now what?
Once again, I jump onto the latest trend bandwagon by snagging onto it's bumper as it drives by my house for the third time, full of everyone I know, lost and looking for my house number. I am just not trendy I guess, or not conformist enough, and I never have ever really been a "bandwagon jumper" for lack of a better term. I've always done all the important stuff late-- didn't get my license until after I was 17, didn't start drinking until I was almost old enough to do it legally, still haven't finished college, didn't actually read Harry Potter until 2010 and "claimed" to be a fan by watching the movies-- something I'm not wholly proud of after actually reading the books-- I didn't even start getting interesting until recently when I quit my last job and decided it was high time I got a life... so why should finally getting around to writing a blog be any different?
Although, this really isn't my first attempt at this. I had a website in junior high-- as compelling as the musings of an eccentric seventh grader could have possibly been-- that was mostly visited by my five real friends at the time, and a few years ago I joined a friend's private blog community. But, despite the really interesting people there that actually read my few posts I managed to put up, it required too much commitment, like you know, actually interacting with those said interesting people via the forums and continuously generating updated posts. Plus, it was much more tech savvy than your average, run-of-the-mill blog site and the only thing I could remember about html from web design class was that the symbols "< and />" went at the beginning and end of command words. I could make things bold and italic, but that was pretty much it. Besides, that was my dark summer, and I was far too depressed about my life going nowhere and losing the best job I have yet to have thus far to have anything remarkable, or really, not whiny, to write about.
So, why now? Why now that 1 in 6 people have a blog and there are over 100 million for the internet public to read, am I choosing to put this stuff up here for possibly no-one to read or care about? What could I possibly have to say that will be any more eloquent or inspiring or interesting than any of other 112 million English speaking bloggers? Why not? Seems like the thing to do with all this free time. I'm trying to reconnect with all the the things that used to define me and make me happy-- writing, painting, a unique fashion sense comprised mainly of JC Penney and Goodwill clothes-- all the stuff that made me an artistic, free spirit in high school that was shamefully shoved in the closet when I was told I had to grow up and be an adult now. I want to be the me I really liked circa senior year of high school (2004) through "the apartment years" (2006), and that requires for me to give me opinion loudly and unsolicited to the world, because that's who I am and that's what I do-- get attention.
Although, this really isn't my first attempt at this. I had a website in junior high-- as compelling as the musings of an eccentric seventh grader could have possibly been-- that was mostly visited by my five real friends at the time, and a few years ago I joined a friend's private blog community. But, despite the really interesting people there that actually read my few posts I managed to put up, it required too much commitment, like you know, actually interacting with those said interesting people via the forums and continuously generating updated posts. Plus, it was much more tech savvy than your average, run-of-the-mill blog site and the only thing I could remember about html from web design class was that the symbols "< and />" went at the beginning and end of command words. I could make things bold and italic, but that was pretty much it. Besides, that was my dark summer, and I was far too depressed about my life going nowhere and losing the best job I have yet to have thus far to have anything remarkable, or really, not whiny, to write about.
So, why now? Why now that 1 in 6 people have a blog and there are over 100 million for the internet public to read, am I choosing to put this stuff up here for possibly no-one to read or care about? What could I possibly have to say that will be any more eloquent or inspiring or interesting than any of other 112 million English speaking bloggers? Why not? Seems like the thing to do with all this free time. I'm trying to reconnect with all the the things that used to define me and make me happy-- writing, painting, a unique fashion sense comprised mainly of JC Penney and Goodwill clothes-- all the stuff that made me an artistic, free spirit in high school that was shamefully shoved in the closet when I was told I had to grow up and be an adult now. I want to be the me I really liked circa senior year of high school (2004) through "the apartment years" (2006), and that requires for me to give me opinion loudly and unsolicited to the world, because that's who I am and that's what I do-- get attention.
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