Recently, I made the twenty five minute trek home to Dawson to spend time with my family in what has now apparently become the only way we can socialize-- drinking at one of the many taverns in the tri-village area. Every time I do this I ask my self how I once again ended up in this situation... and yet, I return time and time again for the sake of the happiness of my clinically depressed grandmother who I love more than life itself, and cannot bare to disappoint.
I digress...
In no particular order--
Sign #1-- Suddenly without realizing it happened, it's like a high school reunion where the only people invited are of all the kids that you avoided in high school.
There are two types of people who go to the small town bar:
1) People who for the grace of some benevolent force in the universe escaped, and have returned merely for the entertainment.
2) The entertainment, or better known as "the regulars"
I went to college for many reasons. One reason was so I did not have to live in Dawson. So, when I return home, and we go out, and suddenly I am inundated by a flood of rejects who during my high school experience were drug dealers, homophobes, rednecks, illiterates, alcoholics, baby-daddies, baby-mommas, drop outs, criminals, and/or any combination there of or unmentioned, I am astonished that these people attempt to converse with me. Once I show up, in comes the parade of derelict people whose lives suck so much that the ONLY thing they have to look forward too is getting shitfaced on Bud Light bucket specials or Crown and Cokes.
AND THEY INSIST ON TALKING TO ME!
I have a college education. You have a certification in cosmetology from CACC.
I am married and have a job. You have a baby daddy and a drug addiction.
I went to Europe to witness the ruins of the ancients, and it changed my life. You went to the river bottoms to get drunk on a raft for your bachelorette party.
WHAT THE FUCK DO WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT!? We didn't talk in high school when I was ignorant and uneducated about the world. What makes you think we could possible have a conversation now?
Now, I'm not insinuating I am better than these people....
I am flat out telling you incontestable facts that prove I am better than these people.
Sign #2-- Any of the following dress code violations:
A memorial T-shirt that reads "Loved but not forgotten", with the picture of the deceased loved one holding any type of dead animal, that has been haphazardly sheared of its sleeves with a pocket knife. Because this is how uncle J.R. wanted to be immortalized by his remaining family...
A forty year old woman wearing a Harley-Davidson shirt that is at least one size too small, worn so tightly it gives her a muffin top over the low-rider, bedazzled jeans she wears to look like a teenager, AND to complete the look, is tucked in to further emphasize the beer gut she is trying to grow to hide her c-section scar under the flap.
A camouflage hat with a fake fishing hook on the brim... because when I think fashion icons to be emulated, I think Larry the Cable Guy.
A white kid wearing a flat billed hat, sagging jeans, pristine white tennis shoes, and a wife beater accompanying his underage girlfriend, who's is herself wearing a dress that would make a hooker exclaim "Damn girl!", with a pair of cowboy boots to "dress it down", or perhaps even to "class it up" in their fucked up world view.
Any man wearing over-alls.
Sign #3-- A single toilet bathroom with a broken lock.
Who decides to build a bar with single toilet bathrooms? I do not enjoy playing the game where I have to attempt to twist the handle ever so gently as not to actually open the door, because the music is so fucking loud you couldn't possibly hear a knock from inside. Either one of two things will happen: there is no one inside and you'll stand outside like a damn idiot waiting because you could not get the handle to turn, and assume it must be locked, or you'll barge in on the bitchiest woman in the bar.
Last but not least...
Sign #4-- A karaoke night that some white trash girl thinks is the birth of her country music career.
Have I been known to drunkenly sing country music on karaoke night in Dawson... unforunately, yes.
Have I ever advertised this event as the fucking social event of the season this side of Uncle J.R.'s memorial poker run? Fuck no.
And, furthermore, as a moment of side-bitching, why is it that every girl who sings country songs during karaoke suddenly develops a Tennessee accent? Look chick, I know that Dawson and the surrounding area has a certain level of redneck drawl, but unless you make moonshine in the hills because the black lung took yo' daddy, you should not sound like a Appalachian.
Then again, I'm not sure which is more tragic-- the barely drinking age legal bimbo, or the twice divorced if at all married mother of three who may or may not still have a drug habit who uses karaoke to fill the void in her life that was created as a result of a landslide of bad decisions. While it may not be possible to answer this question of who is more tragic, I know one thing about each of these women-- they both think they are the next Carrie Underwood.
Friday, September 21, 2012
One million other things I could be doing...
...But fuck it-- I'm going to blog. I'm not going to prep. I am not going to grade anymore papers. I am just going to do a personal, completely necessary thing right now... write, be sarcastic, blog.
I need to do this. I have to find some semblance of creative normalcy. Here I am, fully jobbed and living my teaching dream. Which, any of you who have known me for longer than a minute know this was incredible, nearly impossible achievement. But, all I can focus on is the fact that this job is eating my life because stupid ass me wants to do it right, and it may be all for nothing if my job gets cut... which is pretty likely since America experiencing a high speed come apart, the likes of which have not seen since my wedding when it rained on my outdoor reception.
For months I have been observing things and thinking in my head, "This would make a great entry". But then I get home and think I have to put other things first. Well, my break is coming up and I don't care how much I have to do right now. I'm never going to get it done if I don't take a rest and refocus, because my brain will protest in some melodramatic... way like a aneurism or a seizure or randomly forgetting how to speak English or an inability visually process color.
So, this is me, entering randomn wisdom in my irrational and absolutely peculiar observational way.
Read, and enjoy while it lasts.
I need to do this. I have to find some semblance of creative normalcy. Here I am, fully jobbed and living my teaching dream. Which, any of you who have known me for longer than a minute know this was incredible, nearly impossible achievement. But, all I can focus on is the fact that this job is eating my life because stupid ass me wants to do it right, and it may be all for nothing if my job gets cut... which is pretty likely since America experiencing a high speed come apart, the likes of which have not seen since my wedding when it rained on my outdoor reception.
For months I have been observing things and thinking in my head, "This would make a great entry". But then I get home and think I have to put other things first. Well, my break is coming up and I don't care how much I have to do right now. I'm never going to get it done if I don't take a rest and refocus, because my brain will protest in some melodramatic... way like a aneurism or a seizure or randomly forgetting how to speak English or an inability visually process color.
So, this is me, entering randomn wisdom in my irrational and absolutely peculiar observational way.
Read, and enjoy while it lasts.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Fuck you, Stephanie Meyer. This is all your fault.
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)