It’s been quite an exhausting weekend. I’m flying back on Tuesday and I can’t wait to get home. I’m hoping I can recap the major events without being too boring and going on for too many pages. (I’m writing this in a Word document instead of writing my three-to-five-page (double-spaced) short story which is due on Wednesday.)
I know it’s kind of a stupid thing to say, but the major thing I’ve realized this weekend was that my childhood is officially over. I know I’m almost twenty-three and this is obvious, but I guess I fully accepted it. My grandmother’s house was packed: it was the first time in probably at least three years that all five of the grandchildren were together. It was really the first time in a decade that we all hung around my grandparents’ house, since my mom took over the entertaining duties for Thanksgiving and Christmas a long time ago. Even though I lived at home for a couple of years during college and always visited my grandparents at least once a week during that time, it was really the first time that I really noticed everything in the house since I was a kid. Suddenly I started to notice again the figurines in the curio cabinet in the kitchen, or how there was still a Matchbox Rolls Royce in the china cabinet because I thought it was worth too much to play with like the rest of my Hot Wheels.
The whole process – both the funeral home visitation on Friday night and the funeral service on Saturday – was a town event. I saw so many people I hadn’t seen in years, including my old best friend Mitchell’s parents (his mother said to me, “You’re so grown-up and good looking. I wish my son was as mature as you”), my third-grade guidance counselor (who also taught my father Chemistry three years in a row). There were also countless people from town who came by, including our delegate to the Virginia Assembly (he lives a mile down the road), who talked to everyone, including me, as if we were just his constituents (sorry, I didn’t vote for you) and not the people he’d lived in close proximity to for almost fifty years. I remember noticing that he had very well-groomed politician hair. Then at the church on Sunday I saw my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Walker, who told me that she still thinks about me because I was always her favorite. (LIES.) There was also Miss Harvey, the middle-school gym teacher who still has hair down to her butt, and her mother who used to play the organ for us at Sunday school. And since the obituary mentioned that I was “from Chicago,” I had to answer the same question about EIGHT THOUSAND TIMES:
“Do you really like Chicago?”
One woman, who lived down the street from my grandmother and had daughters who were close in age to me came up and said that she was impressed that I moved so far away. She and her husband built a house down next door to her in-laws’ house. She said to me, “I didn’t think anyone made it out of Westmoreland County. James [her husband] tried so hard and he didn’t even make it off of Wakefield Street.”
Even the rich bitch who lives in the huge house down the street, who I think only acknowledges that the rest of us on the street exist when someone dies, told me that she and her husband went to Chicago a few times. “You should really go see the Pheasant Run resort in Geneva. We’ve gone to some decoy auctions out there and it’s just beautiful.” Thanks. I’ll be sure to check that out, Middy.
Anyway. Long story short: everything is weird. It’s feeling more and more that I’m losing a place here in this town. There’s nothing for me, and no matter how many people tell me that I’ll be back to settle, I know I’m not going to be living here ever again. It’s kind of sad that the place where all my roots are buried is dying, too. Well, there is a new coffee shop that opened up in the old Exxon building. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe Montross is on the make, but I doubt it.
I think I’ll just end this here, since I’m trying to not be sad and I really don’t want to grieve all publicly and shit. I will admit that it’s been a much harder weekend than I expected, and no matter how hard I tried to keep my composure, I felt that I just couldn’t and I hated myself for it. When I think of my grandmother, I think that maybe she would have wanted me to not be sad and to look at the bright side of things and all that jazz, but I think she would have also appreciated a few emotional collapses.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
If I don't write about the Long Grove Strawberry Festival, the terrorists have won.
I've officially had the worst morning ever. My mom called at seven to tell me my grandmother died overnight. I'm okay, I'm keeping it together at work right now. (Future employers / Communist governments: I am the best worker ever. My first reaction was, "I have to go to work because we're so short-staffed right now and I feel too guilty!") I'll probably fly home tomorrow or Friday morning and be back next week sometime. Since, I was planning to not stay all day at work, I decided I'd try to get here early so I can at least get most of my hours in. And of course it started pouring and hailing as soon as I walked out the door, and not even the Evita soundtrack (well, not the soundtrack; the original concept album) could keep me from hating everything. For a split second I considered standing in an ATM vestibule until it cleared up. When it started to slow down, I decided that I'd be okay, even if my ankles were soaking from flooded sidewalks. And then I was a little too ambitious when trying to jump over a three-foot puddle and ended up landing in the puddle and now I'm sitting in my cubicle with bare feet and my socks sitting on the computer tower (which is on the floor, thankfully). Also, I decided to buy cigarettes because it was just one of those mornings where I was not going to feel guilty about smoking OR spending eight dollars on them. And then the cover of the Red Eye had a picture of a smoker with the headline, "Public Enemy Number One". Personally, I think "newspapers" geared toward people who only read bullshit news stories on public transportation might be slightly more dangerous, but I'm not the goddamn Surgeon General. Oh well.
And since I don't feel like writing anymore about that, I figured I would talk about the Strawberry Festival we went to on Saturday. And hopefully I can make it through this entry without screwing up my homonyms (even though I'll admit that when writing this post's title, I at first typed "the terrorists have one").
So.
OH MY GOD, Y'ALL. I saw the fattest people on Saturday. Seriously. FAT MIDWESTERNERS. I think it is ironic that I did not see a single actual strawberry (there were some pies, and some rhubarb, and the occasional milk shake), but I did see deep-fried Twinkies and Oreos. Now, if you're like me and from a normal part of the country (i.e. The South), upon hearing the phrase "deep-fried Twinkies and Oreos", you would think, "What the fuck." Well, for you, I'll explain the concept. You take your Oreos and Twinkies, dip them in pancake mix (I guess - I just know they were also making funnel cakes and I think those are made from the same dough), throw them in a vat of grease, let them sit for a few minutes, then cover them with chocolate syrup and powdered sugar. And there you have your new treat / case of angina. (Am I the only one who, at almost twenty-three, giggles when he uses the word "angina"?)
So yeah, I saw a lot of grease. And morbidly obese men. And a lot of women with exposed caesarian scars. I felt like I was in a John Cougar Mellencamp song.
So there you go: life in the Chicago suburbs. And I apologize for it taking so long to get to that, and for it being pretty half-assed, but, you know. I'll probably take a break from this for a few days, unless something absolutely hysterical happens. And that would be a good thing, because, like Truvy Jones, "laughter through tears is my favorite emotion."
And since I don't feel like writing anymore about that, I figured I would talk about the Strawberry Festival we went to on Saturday. And hopefully I can make it through this entry without screwing up my homonyms (even though I'll admit that when writing this post's title, I at first typed "the terrorists have one").
So.
OH MY GOD, Y'ALL. I saw the fattest people on Saturday. Seriously. FAT MIDWESTERNERS. I think it is ironic that I did not see a single actual strawberry (there were some pies, and some rhubarb, and the occasional milk shake), but I did see deep-fried Twinkies and Oreos. Now, if you're like me and from a normal part of the country (i.e. The South), upon hearing the phrase "deep-fried Twinkies and Oreos", you would think, "What the fuck." Well, for you, I'll explain the concept. You take your Oreos and Twinkies, dip them in pancake mix (I guess - I just know they were also making funnel cakes and I think those are made from the same dough), throw them in a vat of grease, let them sit for a few minutes, then cover them with chocolate syrup and powdered sugar. And there you have your new treat / case of angina. (Am I the only one who, at almost twenty-three, giggles when he uses the word "angina"?)
So yeah, I saw a lot of grease. And morbidly obese men. And a lot of women with exposed caesarian scars. I felt like I was in a John Cougar Mellencamp song.
So there you go: life in the Chicago suburbs. And I apologize for it taking so long to get to that, and for it being pretty half-assed, but, you know. I'll probably take a break from this for a few days, unless something absolutely hysterical happens. And that would be a good thing, because, like Truvy Jones, "laughter through tears is my favorite emotion."
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Platonic infatuation.
So here's what happened:
I was at the Fiery Furnaces show on Saturday night. I'd had three beers at this point and was working on my fourth. After the first band played (they were called Office and great; I bought their CD but later lost it because I got drunk and I'm MR), I walked up to the stage because the crowd was still pretty empty.
To my right there was this short, petite, pretty cute girl who I assumed was only about twenty-one (since she had a wristband on; she looked younger). She was also standing alone. So we stood there together, standing alone. And I was like, "She's cute. Talk to her." And then I was like, "Don't talk to her, you stupid jackass." So I didn't talk to her.
Then this guy walked up, carrying two mixed drinks, and gave one to her, and so I was like, "See? She has a boyfriend anyway so it's a good thing you didn't talk to her." But then, as I kind of watched them out of the corner of my eye, I got the impression that they were not dating. She wasn't really facing them as they talked, and I could just tell that there wasn't anything between them. So, yeah.
Then the second band started playing. They weren't that great. I was kinda dancing in place anyway because I'd had a few beers and, you know, I just couldn't keep my sexy rhythm all bottled up. You know how it is. My dancing, however, was definitely overshadowed by the dancing of the man in front of me and Cute Girl. He was dancing like he was at Bonnaroo: breaking it down, Woodstock '69 style. To a mediocre indie-rock band. Cute Girl and I kept making eye contact and laughing. Score!
After the second band I was sort of looking around the hall. I thought I spotted the Fiery Furnaces' grandmother up in the VIP wing, so I turned to CG and was like, "I think that's their grandmother!" It turned out to not be their grandmother, but that was my line and I was totally in. We talked a little bit about the band, the new album, and how "Waiting To Know You" was a great song. When the Fiery Furnaces came on stage (after blowing smoke from a fog machine in our faces), she turned to me and told me her name and then introduced her friend.
The band was great. They turned all of their weird-ass songs into short little rock songs, as if they were doing covers of their own stuff. I was right below Eleanor, who sounded just as great live as she does on the albums. Hippie guy kept jammin' out, and even his friend looked embarrassed as CG and I giggled. I was dancing, too, and at one point sort of did an impression of the Hippie guy. CG jumped up and yelled into my ear, but all I made out was, "___ _ hell __ a lot cuter ____ you do it!" I kind of smiled and nodded since I didn't really understand what she said at first, then immediately realized she was saying my dancing was a hell of a lot cuter then Hippie Guy's. I started thinking, "WHAT IS GOING ON?! THIS NEVER HAPPENS TO ME!"
The last song that the band played was "Waiting to Know You", and I turned and smiled and continued to dance. We were close at this point and I kept hitting her hand when I was tapping my leg.
It was still loud when the show ended and disorienting. I followed CG and friend out and, confused about what I should do, just kinda pulled out my phone (Janna had called and left a message). They kept walking to the right of the club, so I just stood in front and started listening to my voicemail. She turned around and waved goodbye and I waved back, thinking, "Ohmygod this is totally a missed connection."
I was supposed to meet up with a friend from work at SmartBar after the show but she hadn't called yet, so I was just sort of hanging there for a minute before I decided to just go home and come back later when my friend called since I only live three blocks away. Just as I started to walk back to Southport, CG walked back up to me.
"Hey! My friend and I were going to get some drinks and we thought we'd invite you!" Yessss.
So we walk to the Gingerman and started talking. She asked me if I lived in Chicago and I tell her I live just a few blocks from the Metro. Then I asked here where she lived.
"Oh, near Muncie, Indiana."
Shit. But whatever!
So we go to the Gingerman next door and drink beer and talk. I tell her I had a roommate from Indiana and that I was from Virginia and she told me that she had an online friend in Farmville. It also turned out that she was twenty-four and her friend was twenty-seven, but I sure don't look almost twenty-three, so whatever. While we're talking about our home-states, Fiery Furnaces, and the crazy Hippie dancing, I ask CG what she does.
She replied, "I'm a parent."
Now, my immediate internal response was, "WHAT?" But, you know, I got over it quickly. I mean, at this point she was already from Indiana, so it's not like something was going to happen. And being twenty-four and having a two-year-old is not that big of a deal; it was just surprising. So we just talked about her daughter. And then we talked about her friend's job, and my job, and just went on. It was really cool.
Later, Janna came, and then my friend, and we continued drinking. When they decided to leave (since they were going back to Indiana on Sunday), we went over to SmartBar to dance. I gave her my email address because she wanted to send me some songs by a band that she liked. She did end up emailing me some songs, which I haven't gotten a chance to listen to yet. She also said that it was "an absolute delight" meeting me. She also wrote, "Semi-embarrassing admission: I had to really restrain myself from grabbing your hand during 'Waiting to Know You'. Fun times, fun times. Isn't it just wonderful to get excited over a complete stranger?" She elaborated, saying that she didn't want to come across as hitting on me, just that anonymous infatuation was a terrific thing. I understand exactly what she meant. It's great to be able to go to a show and see an attractive stranger or two and, instead of imagining being friends with them, actually have an exciting, albeit brief, connection with them.
I was at the Fiery Furnaces show on Saturday night. I'd had three beers at this point and was working on my fourth. After the first band played (they were called Office and great; I bought their CD but later lost it because I got drunk and I'm MR), I walked up to the stage because the crowd was still pretty empty.
To my right there was this short, petite, pretty cute girl who I assumed was only about twenty-one (since she had a wristband on; she looked younger). She was also standing alone. So we stood there together, standing alone. And I was like, "She's cute. Talk to her." And then I was like, "Don't talk to her, you stupid jackass." So I didn't talk to her.
Then this guy walked up, carrying two mixed drinks, and gave one to her, and so I was like, "See? She has a boyfriend anyway so it's a good thing you didn't talk to her." But then, as I kind of watched them out of the corner of my eye, I got the impression that they were not dating. She wasn't really facing them as they talked, and I could just tell that there wasn't anything between them. So, yeah.
Then the second band started playing. They weren't that great. I was kinda dancing in place anyway because I'd had a few beers and, you know, I just couldn't keep my sexy rhythm all bottled up. You know how it is. My dancing, however, was definitely overshadowed by the dancing of the man in front of me and Cute Girl. He was dancing like he was at Bonnaroo: breaking it down, Woodstock '69 style. To a mediocre indie-rock band. Cute Girl and I kept making eye contact and laughing. Score!
After the second band I was sort of looking around the hall. I thought I spotted the Fiery Furnaces' grandmother up in the VIP wing, so I turned to CG and was like, "I think that's their grandmother!" It turned out to not be their grandmother, but that was my line and I was totally in. We talked a little bit about the band, the new album, and how "Waiting To Know You" was a great song. When the Fiery Furnaces came on stage (after blowing smoke from a fog machine in our faces), she turned to me and told me her name and then introduced her friend.
The band was great. They turned all of their weird-ass songs into short little rock songs, as if they were doing covers of their own stuff. I was right below Eleanor, who sounded just as great live as she does on the albums. Hippie guy kept jammin' out, and even his friend looked embarrassed as CG and I giggled. I was dancing, too, and at one point sort of did an impression of the Hippie guy. CG jumped up and yelled into my ear, but all I made out was, "___ _ hell __ a lot cuter ____ you do it!" I kind of smiled and nodded since I didn't really understand what she said at first, then immediately realized she was saying my dancing was a hell of a lot cuter then Hippie Guy's. I started thinking, "WHAT IS GOING ON?! THIS NEVER HAPPENS TO ME!"
The last song that the band played was "Waiting to Know You", and I turned and smiled and continued to dance. We were close at this point and I kept hitting her hand when I was tapping my leg.
It was still loud when the show ended and disorienting. I followed CG and friend out and, confused about what I should do, just kinda pulled out my phone (Janna had called and left a message). They kept walking to the right of the club, so I just stood in front and started listening to my voicemail. She turned around and waved goodbye and I waved back, thinking, "Ohmygod this is totally a missed connection."
I was supposed to meet up with a friend from work at SmartBar after the show but she hadn't called yet, so I was just sort of hanging there for a minute before I decided to just go home and come back later when my friend called since I only live three blocks away. Just as I started to walk back to Southport, CG walked back up to me.
"Hey! My friend and I were going to get some drinks and we thought we'd invite you!" Yessss.
So we walk to the Gingerman and started talking. She asked me if I lived in Chicago and I tell her I live just a few blocks from the Metro. Then I asked here where she lived.
"Oh, near Muncie, Indiana."
Shit. But whatever!
So we go to the Gingerman next door and drink beer and talk. I tell her I had a roommate from Indiana and that I was from Virginia and she told me that she had an online friend in Farmville. It also turned out that she was twenty-four and her friend was twenty-seven, but I sure don't look almost twenty-three, so whatever. While we're talking about our home-states, Fiery Furnaces, and the crazy Hippie dancing, I ask CG what she does.
She replied, "I'm a parent."
Now, my immediate internal response was, "WHAT?" But, you know, I got over it quickly. I mean, at this point she was already from Indiana, so it's not like something was going to happen. And being twenty-four and having a two-year-old is not that big of a deal; it was just surprising. So we just talked about her daughter. And then we talked about her friend's job, and my job, and just went on. It was really cool.
Later, Janna came, and then my friend, and we continued drinking. When they decided to leave (since they were going back to Indiana on Sunday), we went over to SmartBar to dance. I gave her my email address because she wanted to send me some songs by a band that she liked. She did end up emailing me some songs, which I haven't gotten a chance to listen to yet. She also said that it was "an absolute delight" meeting me. She also wrote, "Semi-embarrassing admission: I had to really restrain myself from grabbing your hand during 'Waiting to Know You'. Fun times, fun times. Isn't it just wonderful to get excited over a complete stranger?" She elaborated, saying that she didn't want to come across as hitting on me, just that anonymous infatuation was a terrific thing. I understand exactly what she meant. It's great to be able to go to a show and see an attractive stranger or two and, instead of imagining being friends with them, actually have an exciting, albeit brief, connection with them.
Monday, June 26, 2006
I've got tickets to Mature Town but I keep missing the damn train.
The highlight from Friday night:
During a rousing game of Scattegories at Guthrie's, Kristin and I got into a fight over the Gibb brothers and I totally won. Sure, I had to call my father for backup, but I was still right. And yes, that does mean that I drunk-dialed my father to ask him a question about Andy Gibb, but that's only because the damn Australians who were sitting at the table behind us were NO HELP. And I know they heard us arguing because I made a point to yell, "ANDY GIBB WAS NOT A BEE GEE," so that one of them would turn around and say, "You're so right, mate. I know this because I'm Australian and Barry Gibb is our poet laureate."
I'd write more but I'm pretty busy today at work. Plus I still have a poem to write for tonight and I should really use my blogging time for that instead of writing more about getting drunk. I promise I'll write more later, because there was just too much weekend and I'm kind of amazed I made it out alive.
(And, in case you were wondering, the Bee Gees were Barry, Robin, and Maurice! Maurice Gibb! He's the dead one, Kristin!)
During a rousing game of Scattegories at Guthrie's, Kristin and I got into a fight over the Gibb brothers and I totally won. Sure, I had to call my father for backup, but I was still right. And yes, that does mean that I drunk-dialed my father to ask him a question about Andy Gibb, but that's only because the damn Australians who were sitting at the table behind us were NO HELP. And I know they heard us arguing because I made a point to yell, "ANDY GIBB WAS NOT A BEE GEE," so that one of them would turn around and say, "You're so right, mate. I know this because I'm Australian and Barry Gibb is our poet laureate."
I'd write more but I'm pretty busy today at work. Plus I still have a poem to write for tonight and I should really use my blogging time for that instead of writing more about getting drunk. I promise I'll write more later, because there was just too much weekend and I'm kind of amazed I made it out alive.
(And, in case you were wondering, the Bee Gees were Barry, Robin, and Maurice! Maurice Gibb! He's the dead one, Kristin!)
Friday, June 23, 2006
Just call me Schneider, 'cause I'm taking it one day at a time.
Thank God for Cute Overload. It really gets me through the day.I've been in a pretty top-notch mood since Wednesday night when I read my second poem for class. I had decided the night before that I hated class and really wasn't looking forward to going anymore. Then my professor liked my poem much better than the first I turned in, so I was pretty pleased (with myself). That's really all that needs to happen for me to be in a good mood. Stroke my ego. I'll stop complaining in a second.
My newly discovered poetry skillz and the easing tension over the new apartment (which I hope hope hope is almost within my grasp) have made the last two days a little bit easier on me. And the weekend is promising, since I'm going to the Long Grove Strawberry Festival with friends and then Fiery Furnaces (which I'm nervous about because I'm going alone). I'm happy that things in the very immediate future have "fun" written all over them.
I talked to my mom this morning to check in with the homefront. My grandmother is going into hospice care at the hospital since things aren't getting any better. My parents have decided to postpone the Chicago trip, which I really am disappointed about, but I also understand that it's just too crazy for them to come at the end of the month. My mother was disappointed that she isn't going to see the Coach House, but I told her that she was luck-y because the place is gross and I'm one-hundred-percent over it. Between the stove, which is perpetually dirty (please remember that I only
At this point, I've got a few small things that are still keeping my spirits higher than normal. Stuff like this (and this! Thanks, Marjilla!). It makes me happy when people I don't like (it's his voice! he sounds like he has a constant case of dry-mouth!) look that effed up.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
I was in the mood for another all-time-low, anyway.
I made my friend Kristel three mix-CDs at the beginning of the month and I just got around to mailing them on Tuesday night. I really don't have a good excuse, so I'll admit my bad excuses:
1. I didn't have stamps.
2. I didn't have an envelope that would fit three CDs.
3. The post office is two blocks north of my house. Since I only ever go south to take the train downtown, the two block walk north feels like an eternity. I know this is yet another example of my irrational thinking process, since the train station is three blocks south.
Anyway, on Monday night I received a package from Kristel. Yes! She sent me a CD! Yes! I have an envelope now! So I take put her CDs in to the same large, manila envelope (clever!), fold it back over, cross out her writing, turn it over, and address the other side. I knew it looked pathetic, but as long as I'm not only eating ramen noodles every night, I figure I can get away with some collegiate frugality every now and then. Plus, I wrote "Always recycle" on the envelope with the little circle of arrows around it. Ha! I'm so cute!
So on Tuesday I ended up going straight from work to Kristin's house. I was carrying the package for Kristel in my bag and I wanted to mail it since I promised her these CDs about two weeks ago, so I stepped into the UPS store near the Armitage / Halsted intersection.
I'd never been in a UPS store before. I still don't understand why they exist, because they're basically post offices except the people who work there don't have to pass a civil service exam. I guess the women who live nearby don't really want to carry their Betsy Johnson purchases to the real post office, and that long wait just kills their Aldo'd feet. Besides, they've got to meet their GFs at the vegan raw bar for brunch in fifteen minutes and they DO NOT have the time to fill out those Priority Mail slips.
So I went in the UPS store and I gave the dude (he was SUCH a dude) my package. He flipped it over twice; I guess the writing on both sides (and the post-marked stamps on Kristel's side - alright, I'll give him a break here) were just too much for him. When he figured it out, he weighed it and came back to me and said, "Okay, it's one dollar and seventy five cents." I pulled out my credit card and handed it to him, and then he made a face as if I had just shot his dog.
"Ohhh," he said. "We can't take that. There's a two-dollar minimum."
So there I was in the Lincoln Park UPS Store. I already looked like an ass because I'm re-using a manila envelope. I couldn't pay for postage because I didn't have cash. I also had a pimple above my lip that made me look like I had a bad case of the Herp, so I'm sure they thought I was a young man of ill repute. And THEN I had to stand there for about five seconds without a clue about what to do and wishing I had just walked the two blocks to the post office because those sassy women hate everyone, not just the ones who are obviously in the wrong neighborhood.
Luckily, a woman who was shipping a digital camera at the other register said, "I've got two dollars!" and paid for my postage. I thanked her a few hundred times and got the hell out of there, but not before UPS Dude told me he "would find something to cover up this other side of the envelope". Thanks.
1. I didn't have stamps.
2. I didn't have an envelope that would fit three CDs.
3. The post office is two blocks north of my house. Since I only ever go south to take the train downtown, the two block walk north feels like an eternity. I know this is yet another example of my irrational thinking process, since the train station is three blocks south.
Anyway, on Monday night I received a package from Kristel. Yes! She sent me a CD! Yes! I have an envelope now! So I take put her CDs in to the same large, manila envelope (clever!), fold it back over, cross out her writing, turn it over, and address the other side. I knew it looked pathetic, but as long as I'm not only eating ramen noodles every night, I figure I can get away with some collegiate frugality every now and then. Plus, I wrote "Always recycle" on the envelope with the little circle of arrows around it. Ha! I'm so cute!
So on Tuesday I ended up going straight from work to Kristin's house. I was carrying the package for Kristel in my bag and I wanted to mail it since I promised her these CDs about two weeks ago, so I stepped into the UPS store near the Armitage / Halsted intersection.
I'd never been in a UPS store before. I still don't understand why they exist, because they're basically post offices except the people who work there don't have to pass a civil service exam. I guess the women who live nearby don't really want to carry their Betsy Johnson purchases to the real post office, and that long wait just kills their Aldo'd feet. Besides, they've got to meet their GFs at the vegan raw bar for brunch in fifteen minutes and they DO NOT have the time to fill out those Priority Mail slips.
So I went in the UPS store and I gave the dude (he was SUCH a dude) my package. He flipped it over twice; I guess the writing on both sides (and the post-marked stamps on Kristel's side - alright, I'll give him a break here) were just too much for him. When he figured it out, he weighed it and came back to me and said, "Okay, it's one dollar and seventy five cents." I pulled out my credit card and handed it to him, and then he made a face as if I had just shot his dog.
"Ohhh," he said. "We can't take that. There's a two-dollar minimum."
So there I was in the Lincoln Park UPS Store. I already looked like an ass because I'm re-using a manila envelope. I couldn't pay for postage because I didn't have cash. I also had a pimple above my lip that made me look like I had a bad case of the Herp, so I'm sure they thought I was a young man of ill repute. And THEN I had to stand there for about five seconds without a clue about what to do and wishing I had just walked the two blocks to the post office because those sassy women hate everyone, not just the ones who are obviously in the wrong neighborhood.
Luckily, a woman who was shipping a digital camera at the other register said, "I've got two dollars!" and paid for my postage. I thanked her a few hundred times and got the hell out of there, but not before UPS Dude told me he "would find something to cover up this other side of the envelope". Thanks.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Look on up at the bottom.
I deleted my last post because I realize that I probably shouldn't make fun of someone on my blog when it is very easy to find my site by Googling the phrase on my shirt. I realized that I was again a jerky jerk and that I'd feel bad if someone had written mean things about me in their blog.
Lately I've been all up and down. I've been trying to in vain to keep calm about everything that's going on, ranging from the stuff at home to the new apartment to my class. I've been like this emotional freight train that's about to jump its tracks. And not in the cute, Kasey Chambers kind of way (if you haven't heard "Freight Train" by Kasey Chambers, you must, because it'll blow you away and it's one of my favorite songs ever so I can vouch for it). No, more like freight train of evil. I've yelled at friends about Angelina Jolie and ignored phone calls from college friends who were visiting Chicago, which really exceeds the levels of normal assholery that I'm used to. I'm trying to make an effort to not be a jerk, but I feel like I'm failing.
I'm leaving work early this afternoon to go talk to my professor because I'm concerned about this class. It's really too big for a creative writing course (there are about twenty people), so we don't even get to everyone's poems. This sucks because if I don't get feedback on my poem, I don't know what I can do to avoid the mistakes that I know I'm making. I was really frustrated about this last night because I had a very vague assignment for my poem that's due tonight. The professor is one of those guys who "rarely gives As", as if doing so somehow cheapens the grade and he feels that only two or three in the class could possibly deserve one. I don't know if he thinks that by telling us that we'll suddenly become super motivated to succeed. That doesn't work with me. It just makes me not care.
I'm not at JMU anymore, though, and there's absolutely no reason I can't get an A in a 200-level general creative writing course that I'm taking for fun. So I'm going to ask him tonight what I can do to get my A. Because I'm going to get one. I'm not going to send a transcript to grad schools and have them see that I got a B in a summer creative writing course. They're not going to say, "Well, maybe the professor was one of those professors," because they're not going to care. They're going to see the B and think that I'm too lazy to work for an A. And I'm not. Not anymore.
I'm going to try to focus on the positive for the rest of the week. I think obtaining the soundtrack to Beyond the Valley of the Dolls will help me do that. Seriously. It's my happening and it freaks me out.
Lately I've been all up and down. I've been trying to in vain to keep calm about everything that's going on, ranging from the stuff at home to the new apartment to my class. I've been like this emotional freight train that's about to jump its tracks. And not in the cute, Kasey Chambers kind of way (if you haven't heard "Freight Train" by Kasey Chambers, you must, because it'll blow you away and it's one of my favorite songs ever so I can vouch for it). No, more like freight train of evil. I've yelled at friends about Angelina Jolie and ignored phone calls from college friends who were visiting Chicago, which really exceeds the levels of normal assholery that I'm used to. I'm trying to make an effort to not be a jerk, but I feel like I'm failing.
I'm leaving work early this afternoon to go talk to my professor because I'm concerned about this class. It's really too big for a creative writing course (there are about twenty people), so we don't even get to everyone's poems. This sucks because if I don't get feedback on my poem, I don't know what I can do to avoid the mistakes that I know I'm making. I was really frustrated about this last night because I had a very vague assignment for my poem that's due tonight. The professor is one of those guys who "rarely gives As", as if doing so somehow cheapens the grade and he feels that only two or three in the class could possibly deserve one. I don't know if he thinks that by telling us that we'll suddenly become super motivated to succeed. That doesn't work with me. It just makes me not care.
I'm not at JMU anymore, though, and there's absolutely no reason I can't get an A in a 200-level general creative writing course that I'm taking for fun. So I'm going to ask him tonight what I can do to get my A. Because I'm going to get one. I'm not going to send a transcript to grad schools and have them see that I got a B in a summer creative writing course. They're not going to say, "Well, maybe the professor was one of those professors," because they're not going to care. They're going to see the B and think that I'm too lazy to work for an A. And I'm not. Not anymore.
I'm going to try to focus on the positive for the rest of the week. I think obtaining the soundtrack to Beyond the Valley of the Dolls will help me do that. Seriously. It's my happening and it freaks me out.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Everything's back to normal!
Last night was one of the most surreal nights of my life. After listening to a sleazy guy somehow relate the specific names of various potato species, Chaucer, the Parliament of Fowls, and St. Valentine's Day all in unsolicited attempt to make us balk at his Yale education (when really we JMU alumni just wanted to know if Kierkegaard was Swedish "because he has one of the line thingies in the O in his first name"), we left one of the most awkward barbecues ever. I was grateful because I assumed that the weirdness had reached its peak for the night.
Then, while waiting for the train at the Berwyn station, a homeless man felt me up.
Then, while waiting for the train at the Berwyn station, a homeless man felt me up.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Clarifications.
I should probably state, for the record's sake, what's been going on that's been making me upset all week, since I've gotten a few messages from people asking if I'm ok. I guess when you allude to "drunken emotional breakdowns" people think you're actually cray-cray in a Britney Spears kind of way. I'm not, don't worry. Although I am taking a poetry-writing class. Soon I'll just update my blog through verse and you'll just have to guess what's going on.
Anyway, the bad news is that my grandmother's really sick. We're pretty much preparing for the worst, and this is obviously a big deal since I'm six hundred miles away and can't do anything to help. At the same time, I'm glad I'm not there experiencing it because I think I wouldn't be able to keep it together the way I am now. And thinking this also makes me feel like a shit, since I'm even dreading Father's Day because I'm afraid to call and talk to my grandfather. I was really close to my grandmother and it hasn't been easy for me to deal with this. But don't worry; I'm fine and stable, I just happen to get upset after drinking nine drinks on a Thursday night. Hey, at least they were free! Thanks, DePaul!
The somewhat troublesome way I cope with depressing stuff like this is buying shit I don't need. This includes food. Instead of making lunch at home, I've eaten out all week. Today my body was craving really gross food so I got McDonald's for both breakfast AND lunch. I'm so, so satisfied, though, because I love McDonald's. Godddd it is so good. But it's also expensive, especially for my tight budget.
Also, I bought the soundtrack to A Prairie Home Companion, which I DEFINITELY did not need. I never buy CDs and now I feel dumb for paying money for that one. But at the time of purchase, I needed it. I needed some sweet Garrison Keillor jams in my life. Now I realize that I will never listen to it again and seeing Lindsay Lohan's name above Liz Phair's on my iPod makes me want to throw up.
And I'm going to a show tonight, which I'm really happy about even though I could save my twelve dollars and watch the Neil Young movie at home. But I haven't gone to a show for over a month and I need some live music. I'm going to the Metro next week to see Fiery Furnaces, which was expensive but I'm going to write it off as a good decision anyway. Assuming Ticketmaster actually mails me my ticket, since it's still MIA. I didn't pay ten dollars in service charges to not get a service.
Anyway, that's my life this week. Hopefully things will be smooth next week.
Anyway, the bad news is that my grandmother's really sick. We're pretty much preparing for the worst, and this is obviously a big deal since I'm six hundred miles away and can't do anything to help. At the same time, I'm glad I'm not there experiencing it because I think I wouldn't be able to keep it together the way I am now. And thinking this also makes me feel like a shit, since I'm even dreading Father's Day because I'm afraid to call and talk to my grandfather. I was really close to my grandmother and it hasn't been easy for me to deal with this. But don't worry; I'm fine and stable, I just happen to get upset after drinking nine drinks on a Thursday night. Hey, at least they were free! Thanks, DePaul!
The somewhat troublesome way I cope with depressing stuff like this is buying shit I don't need. This includes food. Instead of making lunch at home, I've eaten out all week. Today my body was craving really gross food so I got McDonald's for both breakfast AND lunch. I'm so, so satisfied, though, because I love McDonald's. Godddd it is so good. But it's also expensive, especially for my tight budget.
Also, I bought the soundtrack to A Prairie Home Companion, which I DEFINITELY did not need. I never buy CDs and now I feel dumb for paying money for that one. But at the time of purchase, I needed it. I needed some sweet Garrison Keillor jams in my life. Now I realize that I will never listen to it again and seeing Lindsay Lohan's name above Liz Phair's on my iPod makes me want to throw up.
And I'm going to a show tonight, which I'm really happy about even though I could save my twelve dollars and watch the Neil Young movie at home. But I haven't gone to a show for over a month and I need some live music. I'm going to the Metro next week to see Fiery Furnaces, which was expensive but I'm going to write it off as a good decision anyway. Assuming Ticketmaster actually mails me my ticket, since it's still MIA. I didn't pay ten dollars in service charges to not get a service.
Anyway, that's my life this week. Hopefully things will be smooth next week.
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