Ventilation

soooo

2009-09-23T22:21:00.000-07:00

So, being the fickle natured person that I am, I'm starting a new blog. It's theunemployedcollegegrad.blogspot.com (or you can just go to my profile and it's listed there). I'm trying to post daily, and I want reader feedback, so if y'all switch over, I'd appreciate it:)

Interaction!

2009-08-14T10:35:00.000-07:00

That's right...my blog is now interactive. This is our latest music video. Basically Hannah happened to know the lyrics to a (fairly) obscure Nsync song and I decided to exploit her talent.

We shot it in the yard and on the roof of our house in Egypt on my little Canon digital camera.

la famille

2009-08-07T09:39:00.000-07:00

Topics my family argued about on our road trip:

-music (specifically a lyric debate between "olympus" and "a lepress")
-politics
-religion
-arguing about politics and religion (apparently we aren't allowed to outside the car)
-food
-baggage positioning

Actually, pretty much any topic that came up had its share of dissenters. Nobody felt the need to restrain their opinions, because, let's face it, we're family. We would occasionally go through forced bouts of sedation when father blasted talk radio. I'm not sure how endearing Rush is on TV, but he starts to grate on the radio. Undeniably entertaining though.

The car broke down a few miles outside of Texarkana yesterday, and we were stuck in Texas August sun for about an hour. I have a charming sunburn to prove it. When the tow truck and "taxi" (another truck) came, we went to the garage for a bit and played charades.

Everyone except father then got driven to a nearby Chicken Express and KMart where we amused ourselves for several hours. (It's harder than it sounds). We met a lovely old couple who reminded me of the couples on "When Harry Met Sally"--they'd been married 57 years and fondly bickered over memories.

Our road trips are never of the romanticized writer's paradise type. They are crowded and long and entirely devoid of gunshots and hitchhikers and crazy motels.

vampires, plane crashes, and a touch of lost

2009-07-17T09:02:00.000-07:00

I'm back in Connecticut, traipsing about the woods and getting attacked by insects. Seriously though, they really like gnawing on me. Two days ago I went on a hike with my dad and I was wearing--I kid you not--a hat, full length jeans, long socks and shoes, and one of his massive dress shirts, complete with cuff links. I was also covered in bug spray.

These precautions were my mother's doing; she is a worrier, and wasn't terribly excited about another possible tick bite. (I got lyme disease last year and she was the one doing the hospital drive.) Despite my charms and shields,I, of course,returned home with two ticks on me (only one was on my skin). My father had none.

So Stephanie Meyer was definitely onto something with her whole thing about Bella's blood being particularly fragrant. She probably grew up in Connecticut. Because that's what my blood is; fragrant. And I'm just happy there aren't actually vampires about or I'd be a goner.

____________________________

Far worse than ticks was the flight of doom I took this summer. We were on an AirItalia flight and I couldn't help but think of all the things that could go wrong (thanks to my recent plane crash readings)...Everything was peachy until we were about 20 minutes away. We hit a storm and the plane started shuddering. (Okay, I know this is called 'turbulence' but that's just a fancy word for 'the entire plane is shaking'). And then, as I nervously looked out the window, I see a flash and hear a BOOM. I honestly thought an engine had exploded and was waiting for the plane to lose control. The overhead was silent for a few minutes and then the captain said something in Italian (probably a hail mary). A flight attendant came out of the back and nervously stared out the window.

It was incredibly surreal and I kept thinking that we were probably going to die. Will, two seats down from me, kept looking out the window over my shoulder.

"We're not getting any lower." It was true. It really didn't look like we were. I started to wonder if they had enough parachutes for all of us.

Anyways we eventually landed safely and it turned out we had been hit by lightening. Yes. I have officially been hit by lightening.

_____________________

Lost is back. We're glued to season 4. we're like the masses, content when amused. no uprising here

fourth on the first

2009-07-02T01:50:00.000-07:00

Last night was the Embassy's annual July 4 celebration, giving Egyptians a little taste of America through a night of hot dogs, beer and excerpts from "Grease".

There were actually performances of songs from "West Side Story" as well as "Grease," but the latter struck me as more iconic. (and ironic). The performers were Egyptians trained by an American Broadway choreographer flown in by the Embassy.

As the lyrics of Sandra Dee burst through the speakers, I wondered if anyone else thought it was unsettling to hear an Egyptian woman sing lyrics like "As for you Troy Donahue, I know what you want to do."

Later, a corpulent, serious fellow belted out a pleasant rendition of "Maria," in a heavy Egyptian accent. He had a lovely voice.

The hot dogs and hamburgers were also demonstrative of an American-Egyptian culture merge. These quintessentially American foods were prepared in a very Egyptian manner; thin dogs on toasted bakery type buns, and tiny fat hamburgers reminiscent of kofta.

I was a VIP meeter and greeter, which meant that I was to meet (and greet) various dignitaries and take them to a VIP escort, who would take them to the front of the ambassador's greeting line. VIPs don't like to wait.

Do to the frenetic overplanning of HR, there were plenty of meeter and greeters. I ended up being the Ted Bundy of the party, lurking and smiling near the red carpet as VIPs came through with various escorts.

Another intern and I got hit on by a 40-something man who'd had a bit too much to drink. Affable and enthusiastic, he insisted on bringing us glasses of wine--it's easy to be generous with free alcohol.

Oh, and I met Michael Slackman! My dad introduced us and he havered on about how I should "keep at it" (journalism) and told me his big break came from writing an article about fat police officers.

All in all, not a bad evening.

______________________________________

I wonder if the Iranians actually cared about their retracted invite

free time and airplanes

2009-06-30T08:14:00.001-07:00

So much for being all technological in my last post--I didn't even get the video to show up. Another time, another time. Check out this discovery instead:

New Mexico, 1973 "Out of boredom, the captain and flight engineer decided to experiment and see what would happen to the autothrottle system if the circuit breakers which supplied power to the instruments which measured the rotational speed of each engine's low pressure compressor were tripped. This led to engine overspeeding and destruction of the engine. Pieces struck the fuselage, breaking a window, causing rapid explosive decompression and a passenger was sucked out of the plane. The plane landed safely."

Out of boredom? Seriously? Okay, that's the same feeling that initiated my morbid readings of plane crashes--but I'm not putting anyone's lives in jeopardy. And maybe this sounds really sexist, but it seems like such a male thing to do. I just can't imagine a couple of girl pilots fooling around like that..."Hey Shirley, nothing much going on the radar. Let's see what happens if we press this button."

Okay, I take that back. I've done stupid things like that. Still--I'd bet that putting 100 men and 100 women in the same circumstances, there would be more men liable to screw things up.

Reading this summary was kind of like reading a farside joke. Like the one where the pilot announces upcoming turbulence on the pa and then turns to the copilot, "1..2..3" and they both veer the plane from side to side like a rollercoaster. (this was really very funny in comic form)

...

Am I a bad person if I think the idea of someone getting sucked out of a window is really funny? I mean, it's been 36 years, it's not like I'm making fun of Heath or Michael (like some people I know).

a la mode

2009-06-26T01:25:00.000-07:00

At work I spend quite a bit of time reading entertaining blogs. This started as a work project (sweet, right?), where I was analyzing Egyptian blogger reaction to Obama's Cairo visit. When the project ended, I found myself hooked on blogs/news/wikipedia again. Call it inquisitive, call it nosy--whatever it is, I have it.

All that to say, I (re)discovered the interactive potential of blogs, and have decided to modernize. I'm starting with a Monty Python video clip (really, what else could I start with?), but will hopefully get into some more current/entertaining stuff.

incoherencies

2009-06-25T02:20:00.000-07:00

There's a lady in my office called Margo who is frequently shouted for by the secretary, Salwa, who sits just outside of my office. Every time Salwa shouts "Margo," I have an irrepressible urge to shout "Polo." So much for being an adult.

We rarely drive in Egypt -- my dad altogether refuses, and my brother and mom (the other licensed family members) avoid it in favor of dirt cheap taxis, 20 cent metro rides and personal drivers. When my mother does drive, however, she drives like an Egyptian--like a madman. Which, shockingly, has never translated too well in the States.

soc

2009-06-12T02:03:00.000-07:00

beauty to the point of distraction.
imagine getting distracted by everything that is beautiful.
it would consume your day
but would it waste it?

there are places
parks, sights, sites,
that people travel thousands of miles to see
simply because of their beauty

and i've sat and i've stared
just stared and stared and stared
at the grand canyon
at the pyramids
at mountains and waterfalls and flowers and green
it's weird when all you can do is look
you try to "drink" with your eyes because seeing isn't enough

maybe write a song, paint a picture
but you know that people seeing this picture,
hearing this song, reading this poem
won't truly understand.

and it's good in a way
because technology is such
that soon we'll be able to sit in our houses all day
and have these experiences simulated for us--every detail
but it won't be the same. which gives value in living. walking. breathing.

listening to music in the dark

Anticipation emancipation

2009-06-10T10:24:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about anticipation recently. I'm at a job that I really like (mostly), do things I'm good at and learning quite a bit. Perfect, right? Well, yes. But I still mentally count down the hours until 4:30--shuttle time. Sometimes I get caught up in a project or meeting and time flies, but most of the time, when it's just me in the office, I can't help but be aware that my time at work is transitional. My "real" life is at home where I actually accomplish a lot less (probably because I've been drained recently).

But thinking about it, there's always a sense of anticipation in our daily routines, even if we aren't at work or school. I used to ask my mother what was for dinner, immediately after finishing lunch (yes, alternate universe Siobhan is a blimp). Our days are governed by meals and bedtimes and events. I know this isn't terribly profound, but it's kind of weird.

It seems as though the best times in life are when you truly get lost in the moment and forget about time. I wonder if that's what meant when we're told heaven is timeless. If time is irrelevant, it doesn't exist. I know perception doesn't cause reality, but if it's the perception of an intangible idea does that change things?

Conversations seem to be the best way to lose yourself in the moment. And reading.

________________________________________________

Definitely listening to my mother tell my younger sister that none of us (girls) should ever wear orange. and it's true. haha

Obamarama

2009-06-05T13:47:00.000-07:00

I was almost giddy with anticipation in the days leading up to Obama’s visit to Egypt. I had never met a current president before, and — agree or disagree with his politics — Obama is a rockstar.

All Embassy employees (and most of their families) were invited to an Obama “meet and greet” at an undisclosed location. Egypt is the home of America’s 2nd largest Embassy (the first being Iraq), and the turnout of the questionably named “meet and greet” was around 1000 people. Not an ideal number for meeting and greeting, but still better than the several thousand going to his official speech and the millions who went to his inauguration.

The undisclosed location turned out to be the pyramids, which were shut down for almost the whole day. Several groups met at different locations to be bussed over, and I felt like a VIP when I saw groups of policemen stopping traffic for us. (Okay so we were stuffed into busses, so I guess VIP was a stretch. More like a washed up celebrity who gets invited with other washed up celebrities to fundraisers when they’re past their prime because their names still have a remnant of meaning to the older generation.)

On the bus ride over, I sat next to an 8-year-old Arab American named Laura, who waved a tiny American flag and softly chanted “Obama. Obama. Obama” with a couple of children in the seats behind us.

“I’m excited, because he’s the first president I’ve even seen,” she said seriously.

We left our house at noon, arrived at the pyramids at two, and waited until five to see Obama. It was almost unbearably hot — 97 degrees beating down on respectfully covered bodies; ironic that modest Islam prevails in the hottest countries in the world.

The embassy had taken over a concession stand with free water and sunscreen, and people grouped under several shady awnings.

He was thirty minutes late, but nobody begrudged him — the crowd cheered and two thousand arms stretched up and forward, clutching cameras and phones, and waving madly.

I was struck by how young he was. I knew he looked good on T.V., but everybody looks good on T.V., and it was somehow different in real life. He was casual and confident and smiling and endearing. He had a perfect smile — it said “I know you, I understand you,” and his Santa Clause effect worked on this crowd of expats as well as it worked at home.

But he wasn’t Santa, he was real, and his reality was easier to believe when he was tangibly standing right in front of you, perspiring, grinning, and thanking Embassy employees for their work overseas.

Anyways...those are some thoughts. I'll add photos.

Jumper

2009-06-02T14:54:00.000-07:00

Today I almost got kicked out of a country.

It started innocently enough: I was well pleased with my father for finally arranging a flight that didn’t require a jarring four a.m. alarm. He has always a tendency to arrange my departures at absurdly indecent hours — Auntie B. claims it’s his revenge for years of making his travels stressful, and I rather agree.

I woke up expecting a relatively leisurely send-off, only to receive a text message from Cairo 10 minutes before leaving for the airport.

“Siobhan, please tell me what kind of visa you have in your passport,” read the businesslike text.

You know the ‘little alarm bells’ referenced so frequently in stories? The ones that are supposed to forebodingly ring in your head? Apparently I don’t have those. When I received this text, I already knew what kind of visa was in my passport: no kind. But this didn't bother me at all. In fact, I had been admiring a friend’s Egyptian visa the day before, and wishing that Diplomat residents also need them--they're really pretty.

Yeah, well they do now. January, 2009 to be precise.

So I told my father I had only had entry and exit stamps and he informed me of the new requirements and told me what to say in Utah (yes, I flew to Utah first) and Paris when they questioned me — they had checked and questioned my parents a few days before.
Turns out I’m a lot cuter than my parents, because nobody bothered me in Utah or Paris. Waved me right on through.

*caveat: I got settled into my airplane seat in Paris when the girl next to me informed me that a passenger Air France flight had just disappeared over the ocean. This was unnerving to hear, sitting in an AirFrance plane…

I finally touched down in Egypt, stepped out of the plane into the 95 degree weather (7 p.m.), and rode the bus to the airport where I was greeted by the expeditor, holding a sign with my name (spelled right, for the first time in Egypt). Mohammed. What a lovely man. Oh yes, he was here to make life good again. He left me in line with a form he had filled out for me and whisked away my passport to the customs area, to fill out more paperwork and get me straight through.

I went through the line and let them take a picture of me with a camera that can identify a feverish person -- which is honestly really awesome. Anyways, Mohammed comes up to me and informs me that I don't have a visa (recognize a motif here?) and I give him the spiel my dad had told me about technically being a resident and not needing one.

To make a long story short, Mohammed made some calls, told me everything was fine, brought in another fellow (Ahmed?), made some more calls, told me they usually would send me back but that it would be alright. A flustered man with a broken arm came over and asked me who I was, who my father was, and also informed me everything would be fine. Though these reassurances were nice, I wasn't worried. Wasta in the Middle East is different than at home.

So yeah, I made it. It's 2 a.m. here and 4 p.m. according to my body.

________________________________

"Jumper" is a Third Eye Blind song that Jim Carrey played in "Yes Man," a movie that wasn't worth watching twice in a week.

First flight: 9 hours, no personal T.V.s. I know it sounds stuck up and unimaginative, but I'm so used to having a personal T.V. when flying...it gets hard to read, my ipod was dead, I couldn't sleep. So yeah, I watched "Hotel for Dogs" and "Yes Man". And wondered why the French people stared at me before realizing my hair has purple/pink streaks in it.

S to the wine fluuu

2009-06-02T08:14:00.001-07:00

Arrived at the Egyptian airport and through the crowds saw two men with hygiene masks on their faces. Pretty comical in Egypt -- really it should be regulation to wear them with or without the virus.

Definitely came in the same day as a girl with swine flu. Egypt's first case.

More about the trip in a bit.

Biola Lessons

2009-05-17T00:36:00.000-07:00

This list is pretty much never-ending, so I'll probably just keep adding to it on and off.

1) People won't understand if you don't like cheesecake. They just won't. To them, cheesecake consumption is this inexplicably divine experience. They won't understand your aversion, but they will accept your uneaten piece as a bridge to repairing this chasm between cheesecake eater and non cheesecake eater.

2) Getting a taste of something incredible makes it hard to be content with mediocrity. So be careful if you're promised a glimpse of something great--it might not be worth coming down from that high. Case in point, using my dinky Canon point-and-shoot after using the ER's SLRs this semester.

3) There are people who are willing to go out of their way to help you. Sure, there are also lots of self-centered people, but somehow the balance only requires a couple of good-hearted people to outweigh them. The other day, a couple of guys stopped what they were doing and lifted massive yearbook boxes for half an hour after discovering myself and another girl struggling with them.

4) Norms

5) During finals, 21 units is never a good idea.

6) Watching "Peter Pan" as a 21-year-old college grad is one of the most depressing things I've ever done. Another moment: watching college baseball and realizing that I'm older than all of them.

for the memories. and for my sister, my fellow graduate

2009-05-15T11:09:00.000-07:00

“And so we talked all night about the rest of our lives, where we’re gonna be when we turn 25…”

Muscat, Oman, 2003. I was an 10th grader singing these lyrics at the senior graduation. I remember wondering what we would be like at 25. It seemed so far away to my 15-year-old self.

“I keep thinking times will never change. Keep on thinking things will always be the same.” The lyrics seemed so profound to me, and I anticipated the transition to adulthood with an almost giddy excitement — the unknown has always intrigued me.

25 is just around the corner now.

##

“I will remember you. Will you remember me?”

Muscat, Oman, 2004. Singing in choir again, before playing the graduation march with the band. The class graduating was young — only a year older than myself, and at a school of 500 (k-12), I knew many of them personally.

This song seemed cheesy, but it didn’t seem to bother anyone. If you remove all the cheesy parts of life, you strip it of its meaning.
I remember watching teachers give speeches to the seniors at one of the final assemblies before graduation. Mr. Foster sang a song to his art students and several of them started to cry. I was almost surprised at the emotion in the room.

This was also the year that my older, homeschooled, brother graduated and went to the University of Arizona. The school was huge, the campus sprawling, in a state where we had no relatives. He seemed more than ready to go.

My family talked about him, prayed for him, laughed about his quirks, almost every day after he left. A picture of him at orientation (one of 40,000 undergrads?) made it to his campus newspaper, and our conversations revolved around this occurrence. On our first phone conversation, he had simple words for me:
“You…you would be so lost.” It’s true.

##

June, 2005. “I’ll spread my wings and I’ll learn how to fly.” This time I wasn’t singing or butchering the clarinet. I was walking.

I was walking with 40 other students. Students I had laughed with, worked with, chilled with, experienced Bennet, Hirschcorn, Smith, Watson, Lee, Gaudet, Fozzie, Casey with. Some of these students I had had meaningful, “real” conversations with. Others I knew on a shallower level — but it’s surprising how much you can appreciate someone simply because they’re entertaining in class, or talented on a sports team.

There were probably over 20 nationalities represented among us; I think I was one of three Americans. We were talented, bright (thank you IB) and pretty spoiled for the most part — many had cooks, maids, gardeners; all of us had instant access to beautiful beaches, mountains, wadis, sanddunes. Oman was struggling with maintaining its culture while meeting the 21st century. It was relatively undiscovered by tourists (unlike Dubai, its insane neighbor), but it still had all the modern amenities.

I remember hearing the pep-talk speech Nashman-Smith gave at graduation. I remember believing her when she told us we were special, we were the future, we were going to change the world — we could do whatever we want. It was like she’d been knocked on the head with a giant Disney movie collection.

I no longer blindly believe that I can do anything I set my mind to — (it’s like my writing teacher complaining that movies tell kids to follow their dreams, when in reality, if you’re 6’6 and dreaming of being a jockey, it’s not going to happen) — but I accept the idea of my limitations in a way I wouldn’t have been able to as a 17-year-old. On the other hand, I still believe in our generation, that we can make a lasting difference, and I believe that teachers still need to make those cornball Wilsonesque addresses that are perhaps a little unrealistic, but that maintain the faith.

##

I chose Lubbock Christian University after googling Christian schools in Texas and thinking the name “Lubbock” was funny.

We did crazy, stupid freshmen stuff — stayed out all night at Walmart and a duck pond, did the school plays, talked for hours on that bench swing, broke into an abandoned insane asylum hoping to find records of the crazies.

I went there with the intent of leaving at the end of the year — it was a decision I had made sensibly, logically. I had no idea how hard it would be to leave my new “adult” friends. I love Texas and Texans.

##

I arrived at Biola, missing my old friends, excited to make new ones, and trying to arrive at some profound insights on my identity.

I made friends, good friends, who were different than the Texans, and different than my high school bunch. I chose a major my junior year after a conversation with a Journalism professor who told me that journalists are interested in everything. That was me. I dabble.

##

I was going to make up crap about how I’m chronologically too close to the Biola experience to discuss it objectively.

The fact is, I could say plenty. But this spiel is already too long and I’m not good at conclusions. Suffice it to say, I have learned and relearned life lessons that I thought I understood as a teenager reading great literature and discussing it as though I really "got" it. And I did, on a hypothetical, esoteric level — but not on a personal one.

May 23, 2009. That’s me in a week. There won’t be a small group of high schoolers singing about the future, wondering when it will be theirs. It will be God watching me, my fellow graduates, and our families. And that will be enough.

pet peeves

2009-05-13T18:44:00.000-07:00

1. Getting called out after telling someone something is a "long story." When they ask me to tell it anyway, I feel silly when it's three sentences long.

2. That light, tingly sensation you get in certain breezes or grass that makes it seem like there are bugs on you.

3. Realizing that there actually are bugs on you after ignoring that sensation for several minutes.

4. Pet peeve lists. Shouldn't I be dwelling on happier stuff:)

of books and lists

2009-05-13T01:33:00.000-07:00

I sometimes feel an overwhelming sense of urgency to read certain classic literary works. I have an unfinished list in my head of them, mostly comprised of ungainly Russian novels and big name authors.

This pervasive feeling of incompletion plagues me and I imagine that upon finishing these novels, my thoughts will be that much more complete, my conversations that much more significant. It almost appalls me to think that I've never read "Lord of the Rings" or "War and Peace" or "The Count of Monte Cristo"... (not starting this here).

The immediate solution of simply reading them hasn't worked this semester. There are the obvious excuses of time shortage/prioritizing, but if this need was as strong as I've described, these shouldn't be hindrances. It's like a guy who says he's interested in a girl but refuses to commit because of reason 1, 2, 3. If he was head over heels for her, none of these reasons would matter. So perhaps my desire to read these books isn't emotionally charged enough. Actually, I'm in the middle of several of the "list in my head" books, so maybe I'm a fickle player. (Okay, so that might have been a stupid analogy).

_____________________________________

I treat lists in odd ways.

1) I write them out, but often never return to them. A few months down the line, I'll find an old list (I horde things) with items I still haven't completed and vaguely wonder why I made it in the first place (or revow to actually do the items on the list).

2) I'll write out a list with everyday/obvious items just so I can feel a sense of accomplishment after inevitably doing them. Examples of items on these lists include "take shower" or "sleep at good hour." It's that feeling you get when you make a checkmark on the little box. Good feeling.

3) I just don't make them. Majority of time this is the case. Except on here, apparently.

jesse, your girlfriend's dead

2009-05-07T11:39:00.000-07:00

Ever wake up, wander over to the mirror and realize that you look pretty decent? Maybe your future spouse won't be in for a shock after all. And then you realize it's the lighting (and possibly a magical mirror) and when you hit sunlight you will actually be quite the hideous little gorgon.

So you sigh and wish that lighting would automatically adjust itself to flatter you everywhere you go. Or, if that's possible, scrap the lighting and just get better features and skin tone. Suddenly you're that kid --you know, the one in the book that's meant to help children deal with difficult issues--who loses their best friend and dwells on "what if's"--what if she had gone on that school trip and not attempted to cross the rapids on the rope?

Well unfortunate lighting isn't as bad as death, and your mind life is a little screwy.

aujourd'hui

2009-05-02T19:41:00.000-07:00

Today I:

--decided it would be a good idea to mix soccer with softball and stuck my shin out to stop a ball coming at me in the outfield. Literally my thought process was: "I bet if I stick my leg out, it'll stop it better than my glove." I have never seen a bruise develop so quickly--it was like a digital camera after being used to years of film.

--bought men's soap. You wouldn't think this would be such a gaffe...but it is – it has a distinct man smell.

I also discovered a scrap of paper in my closet that attempted to document my family's road trip this summer. I remember feeling competitive toward Will because he was also going to write up the trip. Should have known that neither of us would follow through. Ah, well, here's what I found:

Day 1

(much Irish adlibbing of the singing sort)

18 minutes behind schedule. Will we hit traffic? Will we?

Will: My stomach. I'm about to give birth to another Texan.

Mom: I feel happy because I have toast and tea and William's driving.

Dad: we're all in a good mood because we're at the beginning of the trip. I sweat more than any person I know. Does that mean I'm diabetic?

Chris (about Alex): I've seen her have toast and sprinkles on it.

Llama: I feel really nice now because I just relieved myself. I'm also really really cold and my morning breath is bad because I didn't brush my teeth.

Emma: I don't know.

Alex: (her dreams for the trip) That we get there.

Chris: If we get killed I'm gonna be so bitter.

______________________

So there you have it. Don't quite know what I was going for, but at least it's published now.

wall-e

2009-05-02T03:33:00.000-07:00

At Trop, I'm back in walls. In the Middle East that's how it's done--you wall the rabble out. Thinking about it, I realize how imperialistic it sounds, but I was on the right side of the chain on that one.

As a three-year-old, my little sister climbed into a box on top of a wall in Yemen and toppled off the wall, still in the box, bashing her head.

Church in Oman had walls (or, perhaps, especially the church). My brother had a friend who climbed them and paced along them in a black jedi cloak that he wore to church every week.

_____________________________________

What's more important, being content or being loved?

______________________________________

I used the phrase "it was bomb" today, and kind of hated myself for it.

cleaving

2009-04-26T14:38:00.000-07:00

A friend used the word "cleave" in a conversation today and I decided that it should be a bit more integrated into my life.

I'm in a creative writing class which is awesome because I can spend time writing stories and call it homework. But that goes both ways, and I often leave the story writing until Thursday at 2:00 a.m. Let's just say the stories from those nights are special.

One of my biggest problems is originality which isn't a problem I ever thought I'd have. And to a certain extent, it still isn't--I come up with weird scenarios, bizarre characters and interesting plots, no problem. But it's never my best. Or even very good. I'm much better--more detailed, clearer, funnier--when I write about places I've been, things that have happened to me, people I've known. Problem is, it stops becoming fiction. It's a sort of pseudo-fiction where I take real stuff and doctor it up a bit to morph it into a better story.

And sometimes it's hindering. My professor talked about not using people you know in fiction (especially not by name) because then you'll have a writing block where you can't get your character to do something that the real life person would balk at. On the other hand, I hope to get beyond that because my life is filled with colorful people and it would be a shame if they didn't pop up in my literary attempts.

blood driveeee

2009-03-28T23:08:00.000-07:00

My blood is tainted. No, I'm not making some obscure Twilight reference – my blood has literally been deemed to be in an almost permanent state of unacceptability. By who? By the blood people. Anyone who has been overseas in the last year cannot give blood, which means I can't give and I doubt I'll be able to give any time in the near future.

And I'm okay with that. That's a lie – I'm actually really pleased because I'm terrified of needles, but I also feel like I should be helping others as much as possible (and this was free and convenient). So the rule saved me from any inner struggles, and either saved me from fainting, or saved me from people judging me. Unless they read this blog, but by then there would be no escape.

_________________________________

Shawna and I were shopping at Stater's tonight and this worker guy asked if we were Biola students. We said we were and he asked if we had Bible or Scripture wars. We denied this, but as we walked away, we had the following loud conversation:
me: Shawna, John 7:14!
Shawna: Matthew 10:3!
me: Hezzlebakiah 15:9!

...yeah.

Maybe I should have been a pscyh major...

2009-03-20T13:01:00.000-07:00

Because sometimes I view people and their actions as a giant psychological experiment. Other times I'll do something or say something that is "so utterly human." And usually I don't like that feeling – I want to be above imperfect, sinful, quasi-retarded humanity. But this thought in itself (being "above" human) is also very human in its self-aware pride, and I don't doubt that millions of other people feel the same way when they do something "typical" – get stuck on a bad habit, or betray insecurities when they talk.

Movietalk calls our lives, hopes, dreams and confusions "the human condition," and a humanist film review considers whether the film has shed any light on the human quandary of existence. I find indie, day-to-day movies fascinating (when done well). I often have conversations that would fit perfectly in one of those realtime cafe indies where awkward girl stumbles through her words. Maybe I should have been a film major?

Speaking of majors, it's funny that my good Biola friends are all in majors I have been in or could see myself in. Intercultural Studies – almost a shoe in for TCKs. Elementary Ed – I'm definitely going to do some English teaching overseas (and I love kids). English – the ghost major that has always hovered. Poli-Sci – a perfect precursor to a possible FS career.

On the other hand, it's not that odd that they're in majors I could see myself in, because I can see myself in almost any major. I suppose that's how I ended up journalism. When I was vacillating, I talked to a journalism prof. who told me that the sign of a journalist was an interest in everything. I wonder if I had bumped into a humanities type professor I would have a completely different major right now.

__________________________________________________________

It sometimes blows my mind that (almost) everything is in perfect focus all the time. I mean, it's really convenient that things beyond a foot of our faces aren't blurred. It would be weird to have to mentally focus our eyes like cameras. Maybe I should have been a photography major.

Duckies

2009-02-25T00:29:00.000-08:00

This one's for Nat.

(not that it has anything to do with her, I just appreciate her inquiry into my stagnant blog.)

There were ducks in our pool this morning. Two of them, one with black and green bits and one that was mostly dark. I saw them as I walked out at 10:20, running late for my 10:30 class. And then I saw them again as I walked out at 10:25, really running late for my 10:30 class. (I average two trips back before I fully get out. Which, if you remember, is actually an improvement from the old habit of three trips back. Maybe I should pretend like that was one of my resolutions...)

Anyways, I only really noticed them the second time round, I was a bit more awake at this point and therefore able to realize that the sight was a little odd. They were sitting there, happy as can be, splashing around, and, for all intents and purposes, behaving as though they were in a pond. It was kind of like they were duck actors rehearsing a part in our pool in preparation for actually performing in a pond/lake later.

I feel kind of bad for them now. I hope they get they didn't get too caught up in their revelries and suck up some chlorinated water.

new years resolutions

2009-01-21T09:44:00.000-08:00

i am actually planning on doing them this year. hopefully before the end of the month (because, really, that's just pathetic. and probably doesn't even count--anyone know the parameters?)

i suppose it's rather ironic that i chose this, of all years, to do them, after watching all three of my sisters create ones and fail them in rapid succession. not that i'm complaining--they all vowed to go off sweets, which meant that the cookie baker, the snack maker, and the aspiring cook were no longer happily creating yummy goodness for me. too tempting or something. but really if they can't handle temptation (and they couldn't), what's the point of the resolution? you don't need to resolve to do something that isn't difficult. why waste the paper? just do it.

anyways, alex was my favorite. she took the anti-sweet thing a step farther and declared herself off of sweets, meat, and something strange like fatty acids or iron. kind of like a super-vegetarian. she lasted until that evening, when she broke her vegetarianism on a chicken shwarma. it was all downhill from there.

i haven't been doing resolutions (or have been doing them halfhearted/ambiguously) over the past few years. i'm under no delusions as to my faults (well that's not entirely true...), but i just never decided to make a resolution to fix them. i suppose that automatically adds apathy and laziness to my faults...maybe even a lack of a desire to self-improve.

so this year, my resolution so far is to actually make resolutions. i'm nervous about where this might take me. if i follow through, i'm sure it won't be a cake walk. and if i don't follow through it will be worse. because i hate talking about things without taking action. but i think a fear of hope is a much bigger problem.

no, i won't be posting them on here.

actually i'm hoping to do a little egypt va-ca recap. maybe even a whirlwind guide to doing egypt cheaply. (it's very easy and a lot of tips aren't on the internet).

________________________________

right now i'm having a belated white christmas. or white winter, i suppose. untouched snow on the lawn and on top of trees in early dawn light is one of the most beautiful sights i have ever seen.

it's strange to think that it is warm in La Mirada and Egypt right now. almost like different dimensions existing alongside this one.

seems to be right here

2008-12-18T15:40:00.000-08:00

It's noisy, it's crowded, it's polluted - breathing the air here is like smoking a pack of cigarettes a day - but it's worth it.

Egypt is different than California because:
-- The roofless building structures scattered about. (No roof, no housing tax)
--Policemen with AK 47's on every corner.
--Half of the cars turn their headlights off at night to save batteries. (hmmm)

Last year my family took a domestic flight from Cairo to Aswan. Apparently they aren't too concerned with names on tickets matching names on passports. My father laughed as he handed each of us a ticket that had the closest resemblance to our name on it. Emma was "Mr. Enea," Hannah (an Arabic name) was "Mr. Hana" and I, of course, was "Mr. Soffin." To me, "Mr. Soffin" recalls a rotund, middle-aged, short banker with a receding hairline and a bushy mustache. To EgyptAir, it is the perfect interpretation of a conversation between my mother and the ticket booker. (Suspiciously, my mother's name was the only one unmarred by the name exchange.)

Mr. Soffin put me in a difficult position as the butt of several jokes -- my comebacks easily deferred with a "whatever, Mr. Soffin." However, I've had worse nicknames, most of them ephemeral, whimsical and not terribly original, and I knew I simply had to wait this one out.

After passing through marvelously unobtrusive security, we headed onto the tiny plane. Throughout the flight, the lights flickered capriciously--sometimes during turbulence, sometimes for fun. I was shocked to see a 4x2 centimeter HOLE in my window (there are two glass panels, but it was still bothersome), which I appropriately responded to by taking several photos.

On the plus side, it was about an hour flight at three in the morning, but they provided a full food service.

yemen, guns and psychobabble

2008-12-14T11:13:00.000-08:00

As a child I had a violence problem. That sounds really hardcore, but it's not – basically whenever I got into arguments with my brothers I would often hit and kick instead of trying to diplomatically reconcile the situation. I know it sounds like I was a little boy – but I took a distinctly girlish manipulative pleasure in watching my brothers mentally struggle with not hitting back because I was a girl. (They usually did anyways.)

The thing is, I've finally pinpointed a childhood "shaping point" for which I can blame these violent tendencies. Actually it might be more accurate to say I've pinpointed my childhood as the reason for these tendencies. I was reading my brother's blog about how nostalgic the sound of AK 47's is for him because we lived a couple of years in Yemen where an AK 47 is about as common as a pair of Levi's in America. Oh, and the men all tote massive curved knives called jambias (which were a popular tourist item for expats).

He posted a picture of himself, age nine, clutching two AK 47's with a belt of bullets over his shoulder. He is surrounded by a group of equally armed Yemeni men, and he has a huge grin on his face.

This reminded me of another picture – one of myself hanging off of a massive old tank in – yes – Yemen. I remember wandering around with my dad and collecting bullet shells from their last war, while admiring the scattered artillery bits and worn out tanks. My dad would pretend to be interested in the historical and cultural aspects of the war, but really he was just a big version of my brother--a little boy excited about guns.

Proof? When the Yemeni civil war started, my mother, siblings and I were all huddled in the basement. My father was on the roof with a video camera filming the explosive laden planes flying overhead.

So really I'm not half as screwed up as I should be.

expressions of individuality

2008-12-05T17:10:00.000-08:00

My high school had a "dress code"–which in reality was a uniform of a white collared shirt (no skin) and navy blue trousers (not too tight) or skirts (not too short) that we were allowed to assemble from any store, giving ourselves a false sense of freedom.

This aspect of high school life has supplied me with many fond memories:

–feeling like a rebel when I wore black trousers, dark jeans, colorful undershirts, or collarless shirts.

–feeling foolish when teachers called me out on these violations and sent me home to change. (instead I would grab a–usually oversized–replacement from the lost and found bin in the nurse's office)

– being informed by Mr. Salt that I was wearing "bum hugging trousers"

–the exhilaration of "mufti," the one day a month when, for 200 baiza (50 cents) we were allowed to wear our own clothing. there is no reason anyone should ever get so excited about wearing jeans and t-shirts.

–one of our student council(or Fiona)'s many battles with the admin: the fight for the right to wear black trousers/skirts. It was a long, arduous struggle but we won.

restless leg syndrome

2008-12-05T00:17:00.000-08:00

I had to keep a short daily journal for one of my jrn classes last semester. This entry cracks me up because it was such a typical late night scene for us. (and it's definitely appropriate for this time in the semester).

Spring has arrived and the trees outside of my apartment window are gloriously attired in white blossoms. My roommates and I are wandering around in a daze—today is the last day of school before Spring Break, and I can’t imagine a trio of people more ready for the holiday.

Last night was certainly an interesting affair; one of my roommates and myself were up writing papers until early morning. We were both exhausted by ten p.m. from a stressful week, and we had barely started our work for the next morning.

I find that lack of sleep usually produces one of two things; either an intense hyperactivity propelled on from an increasingly delusional state of mind, or an onset of lethargic drudergy. Usually these phases switch off throughout the night as your body tries to sort out exactly what you want.

When lack of sleep is combined with copious amounts of homework, the result is usually the second of these options. Last night was a drudge night—we plodded through our work together and were glad of eachother’s presence (misery loves company), even as we felt a sort of impending doom with every second that passed. At one point, my roommate couldn’t take it anymore, and, declaring that she had restless leg syndrome went out for a jog.

In my fog of drudge, I responded to this with a half hearted argument against her idea—she probably didn’t have restless leg syndrome, and furthermore, it probably wasn’t a good idea to go for a run at two in the morning. She ignored this advice, addled as she was by sleep deprivation.

lone pine

2008-11-29T22:29:00.000-08:00

"Ready or not, here I come"

-Wildfire

The above was posted on a huge billboard by the side of the road. I found it amusing and a little bothersome (odd to personify fire...). Why do billboard makers and movie directors (John Polson) insist on twisting the childhood classic game "hide and seek" into something at once trite and morbid?

Central/Northern California (by spelling that out I've labelled myself as non-native, but "NorCal"--really?) is everything anyone could want in a place. Ocean, desert and mountains collaborate in a remarkably expansive display of beauty which draws undeniable parallels to the blurry nostalgic mess of a memory that is my high school home.

_________________________________________

Steinbeck travelled across the country to reconnect himself with America, and he delighted in chronicling his meetings with "ordinary" people. This trip was immediately attractive to me, until I realized that it bordered on condescending...while he liked rubbing shoulders with these quirky, average folk, he would never have been content to be one of them. Did he have this notion of himself as the intriguing worldly traveller who was (on a subconscious level) better than anyone who stayed in one place?

Actually Steinbeck did live among them for large chunks of his life. Moot

c'est la vie

2008-11-26T13:41:00.000-08:00

A series of unfortunate happenstances:

-my attraction to cary grant, jimmy stewart, warren beatty and greg house

-the exclusive seasonality of eggnog

-only being allowed 3 nails in our walls (won't housing be pleasantly surprised at the end of this year...)

-the title of this list

___________________________________________________

I wish that I could magically learn guitar without having to practice. I'm sure that there is plenty to learn through dedication, hard work and repetition, but I'd like to skip those lessons for now.

While the rarity of excellent guitar players makes us commoners appreciate them more, it doesn't have any effect on the intrinsic value of great music – if everyone and her dog could play guitar like Peter Green, I would still be content to sit and listen for hours.

And I'm not asking for excessive mad talent; I'd be happy with the ability to play bar chords (and maybe a sense of rhythm thrown in). Is that so much to ask?

LA part II

2008-11-21T10:42:00.001-08:00

I'm supposed to read a play, memorize a monologue (angry cheated-on wife), write a play review, and do a week-late news article by 1:30. So I'm on here.

The rest of my notes:

met and talked to a homeless guy for a bit. tried to give him money but most of it was foreign (I need to empty out my purse) which led us to conversing about my childhood.

Tried to catch 7:02 and 7:30 bus. ended up chasing after both (and almost running in front of full on traffic) because i didn't see where it had stopped. I now know (and it's forever ingrained in my head). talked to a guy about where the bus stop was, he pulled out his blackberry and started to research when the bus came barrelling down the street. i told him it was mine and he ran across a lane of traffic to get into the bus's lane, waving his arms madly. he then ran back to the sidewalk when the driver didn't stop. i felt touched by this rash act of a stranger on my behalf. no car ride would have offered me that.

walked over the highway to another bus station in an unlit, dodgy area that was listed on one of kyle's maps as "LAST RESORT". Bus pulls up and lights turn off. I walk up, the driver opens the doors and informs me he's on break. Oh, and bus 50 has stopped for the night so I might want to try bus 40 and then transfer.

which is how I ended up getting five one dollar coins as change from the metro machine.

metro back:

-secretive guy tries to underhandedly sell me CK perfume. (Oh and that was funny, he was definitely acting like it was an undercover arms deal)
-homeless(?) guy gets on with bulgingly massive bags of bottles he's collected
-one guy stares at me even when I look at him...just...stares.

got to fullerton bus station (which no longer seems questionable to me at night) and got picked up. in a car. yes I cheated. but really

got back to biola around 10:30 (left at 2:30)

___________________________________

conversation between my 11 and 9 year old cousins and myself:
(they have been discussing their crushes in the Twilight series)
me: "Oh I'm in Twilight!"
katie: "Oh yeah. In the book you're fat!"
caleb: "But not in real life."
katie: "Yeah, not in real life!"

I was touched

the chimes, raw meat, and the LA public library

2008-11-17T17:13:00.000-08:00

Today I was used by The Chimes as part of a transportation experiment. I suppose I should blame Kyle, the Features editor and not The Chimes as a whole, but nobody shot his idea down during our 8:30 am story meeting, so I blame them all.

Basically we're doing a car issue which we decided should include alternatives to cars; bike, metro, and bus. I got the bus. ( and no, not "Party bus whoo"...more like "random people shoved together for a few hours bus whoo").

After discussing whether I was up to the task of doing it alone we decided that

a) I am a girl, but my skilled RADS knowledge compensates for this

b) Though slightly retarded gerbils have a better sense of direction than I do (thanks dad), I should still be able navigate two buses. (to ensure this, Kyle printed three pages of maps and directions for me, with the most important parts circled and underlined, arrows of the bus route, and little dotted lines of where I would walk to the library.)

The beginning was unnerving. Kyle walked me to the bus stop across the street (I really have a bad sense of direction), and we witnessed a three way accident where one car got lifted up by the other two.

This turned out to my advantage (everyone was fine btw) because it served me well as conversation fodder when I told the bus driver (who pulled up 20 seconds later) that I had witnessed it. The passengers quizzed me and I suavely answered their questions.

After that the ride wasn't terribly eventful. Some of my notes:

3:04 tons of high schoolers get on. 15 (?) year old sits next to me.

3:06 tons of middle schoolers get on.

3:08 more kids. 10 people standing (in aisle)

3:19 old white guy who smells like alcohol sits next to me. (I spent a while trying to figure out what type of alcohol it was--figured I didn't want to find out if he was a friendly drunk by asking--closest I could tell was some sort of cheap vodka.)

3:20? man I thought seemed creepy helps carry baby carriage for father of two

4:00 two teen guys start shoving eachother. driver yells at them to cut it out. (this had something to do with an ipod)

4:00 lady brings on giant slab of raw meat which I can smell

4:05 loud black guy in military hat gets on. talks to me about my celtic shirt (not sure what he said). friendly. mental?

4:18 getting cold.

4:30 get off at grand (the street with the library).

I wandered over to the library without the help of the little dotted lines on the map. (Turns out it was right across from the bus stop). I circled it for a while trying to find an entrance. When I got in, I fell in love and signed up for a library card. Turns out I needed a proof of address so I have a temporary one. But the library (LA public library) is grand and beautiful and has an intriguing mix of academics, nerds, and homeless people, and I know I would be happy for hours wandering and reading.

So that's what's happened so far. I'm writing this in the library, about to explore it some more and then bus home. In all likelihood I'll meet some debonaire young gentleman who is reading Wilde or Tolstoy and we'll strike up a literary conversation and exchange numbers. I will lose his number in a gust of wind, he'll lose mine in a freak accident and we'll spend our lives wondering.

singing in the cesspool

2008-11-07T12:09:00.000-08:00

People-watching can be a let down. A woman's head with unnervingly blond hair styled like a 90's 11-year-old boy (think Mccully Culkin) talks to someone I can't see. There is no mad gesticulating, no expression of wild happiness, just...talking.

It probably doesn't help that I am watching from my tiny bathroom window (hence seeing only the head of the woman) and my view is incredibly limited. But still, my samples of human life should do their best to be a little more entertaining. Yesterday I watched someone carry groceries to their room. Hardly enthralling.

I suppose I shouldn't expect so much from the apartment complex next door, but it's my most accessible pool of humanity. It's also disconcerting to do it from a bathroom window. I know I wouldn't want them to be able to see into my bathroom – but they can't complain about being watched. It hasn't been banned yet, though I suppose eventually Big Brother will have cameras everywhere making sure nobody is people-watching.

_____________________________________________

I think there should be a word for "easily distracted." Sticking an ADD label on everyone with a propensity towards distraction (see, that's why we need a word) isn't cutting it for me. I'm thinking something like "ringy".

Ringy people can be annoying to focused people.

Keeping low standards

2008-11-06T04:03:00.001-08:00

Yes, it's true. I've made the age-old discovery that the lower the standards, the less people will expect.

Things I get congratulated on that nobody should ever be congratulated on:

-matching clothing

-washing my hair

-painting my nails one color

-not making socially inappropriate comments

-wearing two earrings

-matching socks

-finishing my plate of food

-not harassing attractive waiters

I'm not talking once in a while – 85% of the time I do any of these items, I get congratulated/affirmed by more than one person. And if I combine any of them – people have a field day. It comes down to my friends. I have friends who care: about me, and about the way they look walking around with me.

snapshot

2008-10-28T15:47:00.000-07:00

The three older ones discover a fun game--tying a chosen "convict" to a chair with a jump rope. The convict must then try to get out of the knots, a fairly easy feat considering the age and capability of each knotter.

The oldest, a boy with sandy blond hair, mischievous blue eyes and a propensity for chaos, fruitlessly ties his small siblings up and watches them laugh as they untangle the knots and slip out.

Finally he succeeds--the jump rope is knotted securely around his little

blond brother, who vainly wriggles and finally squeals to be let out.

Convinced his knots are finally secure, he does what can only be expected of a nine-year-old boy who has triumphed over his brother. He runs to the kitchen, grabs a banana, unpeals it and smooshes into his victim's face, rubbing thoroughly.

deceptive cosmetics

2008-10-20T22:54:00.000-07:00

I recently switched conditioner brands to a new and appealing creamy white coconut Suave conditioner. I soon discovered I hated this conditioner. Hated, hated, hated. And my roommates probably aren't fond of it--the knottier my hair is, the more comes out when I comb it, and my hair has a tendency to migrate and settle, migrate and settle.

In the interest of saving the environment (and pure laziness) I decided to stick it out until the bottle was finished, despite the nasty knotty tangled mess of hair I was left with each morning. Well, every other morning (I'm working on it).

Today I smoothed the conditioner onto my hair and saw suds streaming down. This seemed odd for a conditioner, so I grabbed the bottle and discovered that it wasn't conditioner. It was shampoo.

I had been complaining about the stuff for three weeks unaware that I was forcing it to do a job it wasn't designed for. I'm not going to make some deep analogy here, so feel free to use my story as a witty anecdote--"I always hated that my boyfriend couldn't cook until I realized he's a guy, and not supposed to." Except don't use that one because it's misogynistic and sexist and I fully believe it is in their job description.

Fooling ourselves

2008-10-19T17:05:00.000-07:00

"You're fooling yourself. We're living in a dictatorship. A self-perpetuating autocracy in which the working class is..."

That didn't have much to do with what I'm wanting to write, but I figure a little Monty Python integration into everyday speech/thoughts couldn't do me any harm.

I've been thinking about the importance of hope and how easy it is to give up on inspiring ideas through self-defeation. Which is not a word. Or phrase.

My Money Sex and Power professor perpetually harps on this point as if he knows I have a blog in dire need of opinions beyond my own. Of course, I've now adopted his take on the subject, so this will another of my ramblings. But it has an inspired source.

In class, he discussed our responsibility to help the poor. He said he made it his policy several years ago to give to everyone who asked him. Any bum who hits him up will receive whatever change he has on him at that moment.

Convicted middle-class students defensively asked him about the possible conclusion of this policy; what if–heaven forbid – he ended up giving all of his money away. Surely that wasn't a beneficial outcome?

To this he responded that he wasn't even close to having that problem, and he has actually been surprised at how rarely he is asked for money. Furthermore, he added, Why should people be so scared of giving all their money away? Or donating their clothes until they're naked? Or loving too many people that you're spread thin? Or going to the extreme of anything "good"?

The fact is, none of us are even close to hitting these extremes, and letting the fear of 'giving too much money away' stop us from any form of generosity is absurd when we realize how far away we are from these possibilities.

He told us that he doubted it would hurt us to just start down that path and see where it takes us.

I'm getting quite adept at not following through my thoughts on here.

________________________________

I want to buy a globe. My hope is to one day be open enough to close my eyes, spin the globe, and go to exactly where my finger lands.

I'm actually pretty close to doing that already...

faux pas

2008-10-05T21:42:00.000-07:00

I was standing talking with a group of people at a barbeque tonight when I decided to share something I thought was funny. I grabbed their attention with an enthused "You want to hear a funny phrase?!"

They all focused their attention on me--yes, they did want to hear it. So I announced: "Hey girl, shush those lips. Do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips." I was meant with shocked/offended stares and silence. The look you give someone when you're offended at what they said but can't say anything because it's impolite.

I didn't even get a fake laugh.

I am the last person in the world to make inappropriate jokes. I take PC to a prudish level, especially among strangers. I had seen this phrase and took it to mean something like "shut up and dance," in a clever way.

Please know that I've always thought Helen Keller was an amazing person. But I liked the idea of being grateful for what you have, and using your hips expressively--it's an Arab culture thing, I didn't grow up here. (Yes, I pulled that card).

Anyways it turns out that the phrase is from some retarded song, and I misquoted it. Oh, and people find it offensive. I've added it to my 'do not bring up in small talk at parties' list, but I'm thinking that maybe I should stop trying to start conversations.

__________________________

I also spent ten minutes arguing with a guy about whether or not I was in his media ethics class; he said yes, I said no. I was so convinced that he finally asked if I had a twin. (Which I almost got him to believe--only I had initially denied it). Anyways, it turns out I am in that class, so he won.

Go figure.

Things my friends like

2008-10-02T02:07:00.000-07:00

Christine likes winning Risk games.

Emma likes bananas and clean bathrooms.

Natalie likes working air conditioners and Asian men.

Becky likes getting dirty making pottery.

Shawna likes pineapple juice.

I would trust Becky to operate heavy machinery.
I would have Natalie bargain for me.
I would ask Emma for ideas if I was bored.
I would call Shawna at midnight if I wanted to drive somewhere random.
I would use Christine as entertainment at a party if things got slow.

It's funny to look at the quirks of the people in your life. If nothing else, it's useful character fodder for writing. People have so much depth to them--Michelle told us her brother has been in a relationship for seven years and everyone in the office initially declared that this was too long. But they started dating as freshmen, and are now in their early 20's. In my life, that span has seen so many changes that I find it completely understandable that they might not know eachother perfectly, even after seven years.

I loved Anna Karenina because Tolstoy really understands human character; people getting bored of one another, people changing their convictions, people having ungenerous thoughts towards people they love, people with little self-knowledge, people with too much self-knowledge. The list goes on.

Hobbit Happiness and Wonder Bread

2008-09-30T20:14:00.001-07:00

Sitting on the couch tonight eating Mac N Cheese with tuna fish and listening to the LOTR track titled "Hobbit Happy Song," I was struck with a feeling of contentment. I very much wish that it was solely because of my circumstances and that I could find contentment anytime I were to cook up some Mac N Cheese, grab some tuna and turn on Hobbit Happy Song in the future.

I doubt it.

_________________

The Wonder Bread story:

I played with the Whites this weekend. That's what it felt like--lounging, hiking, eating, and trampoline jumping as we reminisced over family memories. There was a Romanian bloke who Elijah had brought from a Theological Institute in Austria (as you do). He spoke fairly good English, but had a few issues and asked Arielle what Wonder Bread was, telling her this story:

Apparently he had been walking in a dodgy gang-type neighborhood when a group of thugs started shouting at him.

"Hey Wonder Bread, you got any pot?"

He shouted back, "No, I do not have any pots or any bread!"

They didn't take this too well and started following him menacingly. He got away, but was bothered enough to inquire about this term.

I don't know what she told him exactly. Ah America.

piano explanation

2008-09-26T01:25:00.000-07:00

I feel the need to explain my piano comment (go wherever you want with the horse and fields). There is something inherently beautiful in a real (not electric), properly tuned piano. Hearing well-played pieces on the piano always leaves me feeling soothed and awed.

Electric pianos just don't cut it because they lose the richness of sound in their tinny recordings, pathetic often non-existent pedals, and a lack of key pressure (for crescendos). I know there are savvy modern electric pianos that offer a variety of instrumental sounds, as well as key pressure and pedals, but these are really expensive. Furthermore, they still don't sound the same, and they don't have the same presence physically. Why not get the real deal?

So, yeah, I want one back in my life.

money, stuff, happiness?

2008-09-24T19:45:00.000-07:00

I'd like a piano, a horse, and three fields of green.

This would make me happy.

One of my professors was discussing money the other day and said something profound:

"People want meaning, not money. But they pursue money, not meaning."

He constantly overwhelms me in this class by giving words to ideas that I've already intuitively grasped but never realized.

In the same lecture, he said if he was given a million dollars, he would give it back because his personal fiscal policy is to "think about money as little as possible," which means not too much or too little.

I wouldn't give it back.

But I like to think I wouldn't keep it all to myself.

organization, numbers, and early mornings

2008-09-14T01:16:00.001-07:00

I've got a nagging feeling that I have a meeting tomorrow. It's really very possible, if not probable. I suppose this means my "memory planner" system is breaking down and I should invest in an actual planner. Or find one of my old ones.

Here are some numbers in my life:

3--The average amount of times I have to come back inside to grab something I've forgotten after I've left.

1--The amount of Arrested Development shows I watch before I sleep each night.

2--Books I'm halfway through. (The Alchemist and The Hobbit)

46--Writers on my opinions writer list

4:45--The time Emma's house church starts tomorrow

5--The amount of number entries it took me to realize that these aren't that interesting.

I've come to the alarming realization that I'm neither a morning nor a night person. To be fair, I realized this quite a while ago, but everything seems a bit more substantial in writing.

Mornings; well there's no debate. I do the zombie zoning, bedraggled funk thing. I'm incredibly irrational, vaguely unhappy, and suddenly a big picture person: "It doesn't matter if I go to this class. There's always extra credit. And if there's not, in the long run am I going to remember what grade I got in this class? Do grades really matter?"

And then the evenings. I'll fall asleep in a big group of people talking, running, and yelling. Don't even think of starting a movie (I'm trying to escape that reputation).

I don't know. Maybe I should embrace caffeine. Curse this anti-med/drug/behavior affecting attitude I've gotten from my mother.

(I'm excited to be blog buddies Christophe).

memories

2008-08-20T14:05:00.000-07:00

Memory can be a scary thing. If it has such a significant part in defining who we are, shouldn't it worry us when we realize its nebulous nature? Do people really understand how important their pasts are--wouldn't we all keep diaries?

Not to obsess over the past, that's not healthy--but to remember it, to understand it, and allow it to contribute to ourselves; or refuse to let parts of it have any contribution.

My great uncle Jerry was sharing very detailed highschool anecdotes with us yesterday. These stories were amusing, educational, and clearly influential on his life. I thought about my own highschool years and realized that some of my memories were vaguer than his. I've already forgotten names of some of my classmates and teachers, and certainly don't remember most of my day-to-day activities. I graduated three years ago. Pathetic, right?

Memory also scares me because it seems so malleable sometimes. I start to remember things because I've seen them in pictures or heard stories about them--how accurate can that be? Are legends created in less than a generation? The transient nature of memory bothers me occasionally, though I know we couldn't and wouldn't want to remember everything we've ever experienced.

shopping

2008-08-01T13:47:00.000-07:00

We've funneled all of our money into a local Stop 'N Shop this summer, spending outrageous amounts on groceries, toiletries, and the odd magazine. It's quite amusing to see us before our Stop 'N Shop expedentures. My mother will either be bracing herself against the inevitable cash loss, or happily humming in complete denial--or distraction, it's hard to tell. My siblings are generally excited at the prospect of a change in scenery and load into the car.

I, as the sensible one, don an extra-large sweater because of the unearthly temperatures inside of the shop. The grand sweater on top of my summer shorts creates an unbalanced effect, resulting in an appearance akin to the "manly men" in high school who wore man-shorts regardless of weather conditions, piling on sweaters and hats in accordance to wind chill. The cold weather couldn't touch them; they were men after all. My friends used to make fun of the "manly man," but I see no need in adding more than a sweater, as my legs don't get cold.

Entering the store, we are met with a blast of frigid air, and my mother discusses this problem, wondering aloud why they keep it so cold when it's obviously driving customers away. She brings this up every time we shop, but unlike other of her repetitious commentaries, this one is always met with a renewed appreciation by the shivering children. I am not one of the shivering ones. Instead I spend my time arguing with the siblings, who gallingly point out the goose-bumps on my legs. These I deny.

On the way home we discuss the trip.

"I just don't understand why they keep it so cold. They must realize they're losing customers," my mother points out.

"You say that every time, but we still go back. You're disproving your own theory," a small voice pipes.

"Yes, well it's convenient. But we always leave early. Slow down! Put your blinker on. Did you see that car?" she says, and reminds me again of the climbing traffic accident death toll in Wilton.

what my mother tells me

2008-07-16T14:54:00.000-07:00

My vocal abilities have been described in many ways. Mr. Foster, my pseudo Scottish highschool art teacher who called everybody 'flower' called me the foghorn.

My grandmother has declared that I (and several of my siblings) have hog-caller voices. She always shudders--and usually makes an involuntary yelp--when I call my sisters down for dinner.

I prefer my mother's opinion. She says it's a "stage voice", that it proves that I was meant to be on the stage. And really, isn't she the one who knows me the best?

As a sort of side-note to my roadside gym rant, I'd like to add my mother's wisdom. I was talking about the epidemic earlier, and she told me that at our home in Cairo her tea room faces a gym. Every morning she sips her tea, eats a scone, and watches the earlier risers strain themselves.

This odd behavior really doesn't surprise me. My mother loves her tea.

roadside gyms

2008-07-14T11:08:00.000-07:00

I do not, and never have, understood roadside gyms with floor to ground windows facing the road. This sort of full view benefits neither party; the exerciser can hardly be thrilled by watching traffic (as titillating as that can be), and passerby certainly don't want to see the red-faced sweating and panting that goes in on a gym.

Even if it's an attractive, fit, young person, nobody wants to know how they got that way--it's much less mysterious (and it's preferable to think that they were born that way. Less guilt-inducing). And face it, even beautiful people are taken down a notch at the gym; the baggy clothes, the sweat patches, the twitching veins. Not my cup of tea.

I write this in a library that is across the street from one such gym, and earlier I spent a few inexcusable minutes staring at some middle-aged guy sweat it out on a jogging machine. If I were him, I wouldn't want random people watching me fight my body for control.

If they do this setup for improved lighting, the least they could do is stick it at the back of the building, or in a building in a compound, not by a main road. If they do this because they think it's entertaining for the exerciser; spring for some tv's.

originality

2008-07-11T14:20:00.001-07:00

Cliches are almost unavoidable. It's rather depressing. Alright, obviously you can avoid writing a script that ends with the hero and heroine having this conversation:

"A bet, you did it for a bet?!"

"No--I mean yes, and I shouldn't have. But me and you, that was all real."

"How can I believe that? Everything you ever told me was a lie!"

"That kiss in Sparksdale--do you think that was that a lie? That touching and funny dinner table scene with me and my family, that was a lie too, I suppose. Nobody's that good a liar, Meg."

"I...I don't know. I can't be with you right now."

"But I love you. Why would I say that now that the bet's over? What's in it for me? I love you. I didn't mean to...but I do. From the second I realized that you really care about what you do. From the moment we danced at that Italian restaurant and you laughed when I danced into that other couple." She stares at him, tears are forming in her eyes; she wants to believe him.

"Oh Rick, do you mean it?"

"More than anything I've meant in my life. I know that your quirky, slightly less-attractive best friend warned you about me, but that was because of a misunderstanding."

"But I'm not popular. I'm only attractive because of the free makeover the pretty girls gave me when they were secretly making fun of me."

He laughs. "Do you think I care about popularity? I didn't ask to be popular; I'm only well-liked because I'm tall and confident and devastatingly hunkish. You aren't like the girls I'm used to, Meg. You have heart. It's your wonderful heart that I love."

"I suppose..." she looks down.

"Look at me," he lifts her chin up and kisses her. Rain starts falling and they both look up smiling; the drought is over and the farmers' crops will be saved. Like the new growth of shrubbery, so their new love will grow forever and ever.

So...all that's left is being sarcastic in conversation and satirical in prose. But even those have been overdone. And honestly, it's not hard to tear something apart.

Luckily, even though it seems that everything has been written about, every style has been tried, every trick pulled, there is always the opportunity to write about something from a different perspective. Great novels are often variations on similar themes: love, family, faith, redemption, good vs. evil.

Ideals

2008-07-02T11:16:00.000-07:00

Is it selling out if I wasn't that passionately against it in the first place?

We all have our ideals--in fact most people have quite the plethora of opinions and ideas about the way things "should be", but the majority of these aren't passions, rather they are vague preferences, leanings, inclinations.

If all of our beliefs are rated on a subjective scale of importance from one to ten, which number is the magical one that we won't offend?

For example: I recently applied to work at Starbucks even though I've blogged about avoiding the Starbucks addiction, and my feelings for the corporation waver between considering it pretentious and invasive to good coffee and good business. I obviously don't feel strongly enough against the corporation to discount it as a job opportunity.

And if, by principle, I refused to work at Starbucks because I discovered a skeleton in the closet that I couldn't ignore--exploitation of farmers for example--then what company could I work for? Certainly not any large corporations--at some level all of them are corrupt. But refusing to involve myself in anything with a hint of scandal might prove ineffective in actually making any difference. Change is more thorough from the inside out.

Time (well?) Spent

2008-06-30T10:34:00.000-07:00

Though I have technically not done anything productive this summer--'technically' meaning that I haven't produced anything that has returned any physical dividends-- I have been keeping myself occupied by more than just television, and I have been learning lessons. A few of the lessons I've learned:

-Suburbans are unwieldy vehicles to learn to drive in. My grandmother calls ours "the truck" and I agree. I think I will blame my inability to parallel park on "the truck". (and possibly my inability to change lanes and stop at red lights).

-The cooking channel on TV is strangely compelling--it traps you like the infomercial channels, but you don't feel pathetic after watching for hours.

-Driving across the States with eight people is always a pretty similar experience. We made a few different stops, got robbed, and developed a hatred for weak hotel coffee and all La Quintas (opposed to just the state of NM like last time). But essentially the trip was a very real deja vue.

-I am a terrible interviewer (interviewee?). I actually already knew this, but I thought I had improved. I was wrong. I have no finesse. When asked about my weaknesses, I don't lament that I am "too caring" or "too into my work" or even "too friendly." No, I quickly describe my disorganization, my messiness, my lack of experience.

-My mother lives in a world of fear. We share a room, and she wakes up at anything, even me playing with my jewelry. She also refuses to let us play in the yard because of possible lyme disease. I won't describe driving in the car with her as a student driver, except that I'm pretty sure that if the right technology could trap and channel her heart rate when she rides with me, there wouldn't be an energy crisis.

-My sense of direction is lacking. My brother puts it this way: "If God is ultimate good, then you are the satan of directions." The sentiment is accurate.

-The English language is amazing. I'm trying to learn some of GRE words-to-know (or however they label it), and I've stumbled across some gems.

-I am an undesirable employee. This is more than my interviewing failings. I haven't even been called into an interview for the majority of jobs I've applied to. I've even been rejected as a volunteer.

-Old people are morbid. Maybe it's just my grandparents reaching Kubler-Ross's acceptance stage, but they talk about their impending doom as though they're discussing an order at Taco Bell.

-All of my family is theatrical. I suppose this shouldn't be a shocker; we certainly have stage voices.

There are more, but I don't want my sagacity to overwhelm you.

Keep your eyes on the road

2008-06-25T13:11:00.000-07:00

The roads in Wilton Connecticut have been compromised this summer as three of my clan (including myself) have decided to take up the art of driving. Not that Connecticut was particularly safe with the more qualified members of my family--I've watched my older brother drive as he fluctuated between mellow lows and bouts of hyperactivity and I've seen my mother deny offers of a replacement as she rapidly hit her face with one hand to keep from falling asleep at the wheel.

My father is probably the most dangerous, but only once an hour when the clock's numbers align (1:11, 2:22, etc) and all six children lunge to make contact with him as he touches the clock with one hand and reaches to grab my stationary mother with the other. She refuses to participate because she thinks it's a dangerous and silly game--of course by abstaining, she exponentially increases the danger by forcing my dad to take his second hand off the wheel to touch her. The key is to physically touch the clock either personally or vicariously through someone else who is touching it, and even though my mother won't play, she is helpless when the clock toucher makes contact with her--she receives it whether she wants to or not.

None of us are exactly sure what "it" is--we usually tell confused friends that "it" is good luck, but none of us really believe in luck. Mostly I figure it's just a healthy way to release some of the OCD tendencies that course through our veins. (Two guesses as to which side of the family those come from).

Not only is this habit physically dangerous in that the driver removes both hands from the wheel (in every circumstance), it is also mentally distracting as it produces a great deal of yelling. Recently, one or two of the siblings have also balked at the game, and they, like my mother, are forced into it against their will by the determined majority. A typical scene goes something like this:

At 1:10 (2:21, 3:32 etc): Three or four children notice that the numbers are approaching and watch the clock silently with wide eyes. Occasionally someone will warn of the impending occurrence, but usually whoever notices its approach is mum because he/she wants to be the first to announce it.

At 1:11 (2:22, 3:33, etc):

Several shrill cries of "Touch the clock!" can be heard as every participant scrambles to grab someone who is touching someone in contact with the the clock.

These cries intermingle with shouts of "Don't touch me! This is stupid! I'm not playing your game! Did you get mom? Bill, watch the road!"

After everyone in the car has been connected to the clock, my dad removes his hand from it, and conversations resume as though nothing has happened. Except mother who is angry that her wishes have been ignored once again and announces that the game is ridiculous and she will take no part in it.

I've digressed.

Lost

2008-06-24T10:20:00.000-07:00

My sisters and I have recently developed an addiction to Lost. This addiction was developed at a disturbingly fast rate, and makes me wonder about human nature; Hannah likes her coffee, Emma is stubborn, and I go through various attachment phases, but I would be reticent to label any of us as unusually obsessive or addictive.

The writers of Lost have tapped into a proven formula for addiction--create a story with sympathetic characters, maintain constant action, and leave the viewer with questions that won't be answered until the next episode. The show, while well shot and well acted, isn't anything spectacularly innovative. The key is the questions--at the end of each episode, something dramatic happens, and the viewer is left with a burning desire to know what happens next, not unlike the Hardy Boys books I devoured as a child.

I find myself watching countless hours of this show (we have it on DvD) every day, even though it is a time waster--drama for drama's sake; I gain no catharsis, no historical facts, and very few laughs. What is it about the show that captures me? Is it a thirst for knowledge, the desire to know what will happen next? Real life constantly spirals out of control; this show is safe, it's not real, it's contained, and while it thrills, it never scares because it can't affect me. Or is Lost simply the first thing that presented itself to me as a possible pattern to fill my days with? Are we all looking for the next addiction?

Can anyone be instantly sucked in? Not to Lost, necessarily, but to any activity that has been designed to appeal to our craving natures. Or does the activity even have to be designed to appeal to certain areas of our brains? Maybe humans can be addicted to anything, and television writers, advertisers, business people are all competing to find the next really big one--the giant generic addiction that will generate the most money until the next one comes out.

Does it all come down to stability? Supposedly no-one likes change, except for certain people who need change, but perpetual change becomes a constant--the net force is still zero.

I'm probably just rambling. Ah well, it's a better use of my time than Lost.

Hammer vs. Nail

2008-06-21T12:11:00.001-07:00

At some point during high school I remember playing a learning game where everybody was asked to split up in accordance with their answer to a specific question. One of the questions was the inevitable leadership one, worded in a way that was probably deemed to be enlightening, but in reality was confusing and unsettling.

"Are you a hammer or a nail?"

I have no problem admitting that I'm not always the one who takes charge of a group, usually because there is someone else who wants to be the leader; determined, stubborn, organized, and smart. Whether a school project or a group of friends, I don't mind letting said leader decide the agenda. My conflict avoidance and people pleasing tendencies happen to be stronger than my leadership aspirations.

Still, simply because I'm not often the leader, doesn't mean that I should be labelled a 'nail.' The term is condescending at best; the image that the comparison conjures up is of a hammer ramming a nail into a wall. The nail appears to be mindless, domineered, and somewhat pathetic.

In reality, not everyone can be a leader all the time, and instead of obsessing over creating 'good' leaders, there should be some focus on developing 'good' followers. Almost everyone will be required to be both a leader and a follower, but the attention nowadays invariably falls on leaders; producing and maintaining them, because they're the ones in the spotlight.

By ignoring the importance of a good follower--a smart, well-informed, supporting figure, we have created a problematic dichotomy; either you are a (grand) leader or a (useless) follower. You are a hammer or a nail.

The effects of this dichotomy are far reaching, after all, our democracy is based on the principle of responsible followers; informed, thinking voters who have a legitimate voice in the affairs of our government. When the job of following is commonly dismissed as something that is as braindead as a nail being hammered, it is not hard to see why many people don't take their civic duties seriously.

I don't remember what I answered during the game, but I bet it was a hammer--I've always fancied myself as a leader, despite much empirical evidence to the contrary.