As of Wednesday night, I am now back in the city of New York. And it is indeed quite snowy here--lots of dirty mush piled up on the sidewalks and plenty of perfect powder in the less-traversed places. (And I do mean powder. When trekking about Central Park yesterday, it was as if I were actually walking upon confectioner's sugar. It was very nice. Made me want to eat a belgian waffle right there in the snow.) So snowy, in fact, that I do not recommend attempting to take public transportation from the airport back to one's apartment, as I so dumb-ass-edly did Wednesday night. A trip that should've taken me only an hour, at most, took a little over two. And I was so awkward at moments, tripping along with my huge-ass pink suitcase and two horribly overloaded and stupidly heavy carry-ons, that I managed to blush so furiously of crippling embarrassment that I raised my body temperature enough to sweat. In twenty-something degree weather. (A very nice young man just getting off from work at LaGuardia offered to heave my suitcase into the bus's suitcase rack. Naturally, I accepted his offer. He was unpleasantly surprised to find, however, that my suitcase weighed a perfect fifty pounds. His involuntary exclamation of effort, surprise, and distaste upon lifting the suitcase managed to balance out my extreme embarrassment.)
So, yes. I have returned. All four of us living in the apartment have been absent for quite some time now--a week, pretty much--so I was disgusted but not wholly shocked to discover a long-dead cockroach in the front half-bath yesterday morn. Kayla was the only other roommate home, so I asked her to come stand behind me for moral support while I went to great lengths involving take-out fliers to scoop the roach up into the toilet while staying as far away as possible from said insect. Now, Kayla has a great, great aversion to insects. I know this because we once spent three hours (nope, not an exaggeration) disposing of a bug inside her apartment back in high school--she wouldn't even go within ten feet of the insect, and I couldn't bear to kill it, so I wound up placing Kayla's sister's tennis shoe near the bug so that it would crawl on top and I could carry it outside. Unfortunately, I panicked once the bug was on the shoe and the shoe was in my hand, and I ended up flinging the shoe into the toilet. Sorry, Candice. But you see: the two of us don't have a great insect history.)
Kayla initially refused to offer me moral support, blockading herself in the kitchen and whimpering profusely, but I kept yelling at her until she caved. I wasn't asking for that much, really. I just wanted her to stand behind me, catch a glimpse of the roach, fully grasp the sacrifice I was about to make, and forever worship me. She slowly--ever so slowly--shuffled over, still whimpering. Let me make clear at this moment that Kay knew exactly what she was about to see; I had described the roach in full detail: large, fully dead, on its back, in the right corner. She knew what her eyes would alight upon, once she made it over to the bathroom doorway, seventeen years later. And yet. And yet, and yet, and yet. Once she had finally made it, a good THREE FEET from the doorway, FULLY COGNIZANT of what she is about to see--she screamed. Not a baby scream, either. A full-on, blood-curdling, someone-is-murdering-me scream. Sustained, too. "AAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGHHHHH!"
Ridiculous.
Also, I almost died yesterday. But I would have croaked in a completely happy state, I tell you. Totes blissed out. And this is because I was sledding at the time of my near-death.
I am the proud owner of an Uncle Bob's Yeti Wedge Snowtube, a delightful appartus that is triangular in shape and requires many, many deep breaths to be inflated. But fifteen minutes and a good dose of lightheadedness after its inflation, it does not disappoint. I somehow convinced Andrea, the roommate of my good friend, Vals, to climb aboard this inflatable sled with me and take the steep route down Cedar Hill in Central Park yesterday. Having sledded last year in the same spot, I knew that our combined adult weight would guarantee both speed and an inability to safely come to a stop, but I desired all of this. Some thoughtful Central Park groundsman or woman has placed bales of hay along the bottom of the hill, for safe crashing, as well as a two-foot wire fence behind said bales in case of misdirection or extreme speed. Andrea and I fully surpassed the hay bales--probably because we were inadvertently hurdling down the hill backwards--and slammed into the wire fence. Now, last year, I slammed into this fence several times and was none the worse for it. In fact, I was more the grateful for it, since behind the fence are many potentially painful trees and bushes. This year, however, was a bit different.
As we screamed our fool heads off on the way down, craning our necks over our shoulders to observe our impending death, we flew past the hay and headed straight for the fence. I braced myself, ready to bounce off of it and no doubt scream at some small, nearby child to get out of the way before he or she dies. We did indeed hit the fence, but our velocity and mass somehow managed to allow Andrea and myself to fly through the air and land on the other side of the fence. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. We were AIRBORNE! Though briefly so. The sled quietly remained on the other side of the fence. I heard a young kid loudly exclaim, "HOLY SHIITAKE MUSHROOMS!" (Which almost eclipsed my joy at still being alive.) Andrea and I stayed frozen in our landing positions--that is, fully on our sides, but still in a sitting position--laughing hysterically and full of I'm-still-alive endorphins. Valerie, who had watched from atop the hill, told us later that our crash-landing had captured the attention of everyone on the hill; apparently, there were audible gasps, followed by stunned silence. (Broken, of course, by shiitake mushroom child.)
Ah, but it was so worth it. My entire sternum feels as if it's been pummelled, but it was worth it. Ah, glorious snow. And sledding. Thank you, Uncle Bob.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Christmas Time. Is Here.
I am in Florida. For Christmas. And it is lovely and warm. Unfortunately, I fly back to New York tomorrow, where I will be met with fifteen inches of snow. If my flight doesn't get cancelled, that is. And it will be so very, very cold. And speaking of. A few days before I left to come to my parents' house, Allie and I were walking home from the train, entering the apartment complex. It was way too cold for people and animals without blubber or extra fur, and it was suuuper windy. Naturally, Allie and I were walking as quickly as our legs would allow us. Just as we turned into the complex, Allie mentioned that she'd probably start wearing her scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face, as Audrey had sometimes taken to doing.
"But I'll never wear one of those ski mask things," she vowed.
I nodded vehemently. "I know what you're talking about. Those things that only let your eyes show? Yeah. Makes you look like you're about to mug someone."
(We're now passing the complex's courtyard, which is guarded by a security guard.)
"Yes!" Allie agreed. "Those things should just be called 'robber masks.' I mean, that's what they look like. They're for robbers!"
(We are now within two feet of the security guard, as that last bit there is being spoken. We begin to veer left, as we simultaneously turn our faces to the security guard to bid him a goodnight.)
(We notice that he is, in fact, wearing a ski mask. There is a palpable moment of acknowledgment on both sides. He knows what we've just said; we know that he knows what we just said; and he knows we know that he knows. Though this moment lasts maybe a fourth of a second in real time, it seems to stretch out for far, far longer in our minds.)
"Goodnight," the security guard intones.
Cue horrible embarrassment and uncontrollable laughter, respectively. Tactful we, apparently, are not.
But things are nice here. Nice and warm. And lots o' good Christmas loot.
Including a Glee karaoke game for the Wii that Lauren and her husband, Matthew, gave Kristen and me. Which we, of course, opened immediately following church and proceeded to experiment with. (Maybe now would be a good moment for me to say that I am not a good singer. I am not even a middling singer. In fact, it would perhaps be most accurate for me to say that I am a bad singer. Terrible. Awful. I know what tune is supposed to come out of my mouth, but I have no control over making it come out anywhere close to that. And yet, I feel that Broadway is calling my name. Screaming it, if you will. Lauren told me once that Charlotte Church went to bed one day and woke up with a miraculous voice the following morning, and I have always hoped that the same will one day happen to me. I try not to wonder if that story is actually founded in fact or just something Lauren told me in a moment of great pity. Anyway.) So when Kristen sang the karaoke songs on the program, words would pop up on the television screen at the end of every phrase, often with exclamation points behind them: "WOW," "GREAT," "GOOD!" If she sang a section of the song particularly well, you'd even hear the harmony of glee kid voices singing "Glee!" in an exclamatory burst of emotion. Naturally, I thought I might be able to garner some of the same admiration, considering I first chose a song I was well-acquainted with: "And I Am Telling You," from the musical Dreamgirls.
Instead, I was greeted by a sound and the animation of breaking glass. Every time I finished a phrase. To add insult to injury, the glee cast members also...booed me. Repeatedly. Therefore, I shall never play this silly game again.
"But I'll never wear one of those ski mask things," she vowed.
I nodded vehemently. "I know what you're talking about. Those things that only let your eyes show? Yeah. Makes you look like you're about to mug someone."
(We're now passing the complex's courtyard, which is guarded by a security guard.)
"Yes!" Allie agreed. "Those things should just be called 'robber masks.' I mean, that's what they look like. They're for robbers!"
(We are now within two feet of the security guard, as that last bit there is being spoken. We begin to veer left, as we simultaneously turn our faces to the security guard to bid him a goodnight.)
(We notice that he is, in fact, wearing a ski mask. There is a palpable moment of acknowledgment on both sides. He knows what we've just said; we know that he knows what we just said; and he knows we know that he knows. Though this moment lasts maybe a fourth of a second in real time, it seems to stretch out for far, far longer in our minds.)
"Goodnight," the security guard intones.
Cue horrible embarrassment and uncontrollable laughter, respectively. Tactful we, apparently, are not.
But things are nice here. Nice and warm. And lots o' good Christmas loot.
Including a Glee karaoke game for the Wii that Lauren and her husband, Matthew, gave Kristen and me. Which we, of course, opened immediately following church and proceeded to experiment with. (Maybe now would be a good moment for me to say that I am not a good singer. I am not even a middling singer. In fact, it would perhaps be most accurate for me to say that I am a bad singer. Terrible. Awful. I know what tune is supposed to come out of my mouth, but I have no control over making it come out anywhere close to that. And yet, I feel that Broadway is calling my name. Screaming it, if you will. Lauren told me once that Charlotte Church went to bed one day and woke up with a miraculous voice the following morning, and I have always hoped that the same will one day happen to me. I try not to wonder if that story is actually founded in fact or just something Lauren told me in a moment of great pity. Anyway.) So when Kristen sang the karaoke songs on the program, words would pop up on the television screen at the end of every phrase, often with exclamation points behind them: "WOW," "GREAT," "GOOD!" If she sang a section of the song particularly well, you'd even hear the harmony of glee kid voices singing "Glee!" in an exclamatory burst of emotion. Naturally, I thought I might be able to garner some of the same admiration, considering I first chose a song I was well-acquainted with: "And I Am Telling You," from the musical Dreamgirls.
Instead, I was greeted by a sound and the animation of breaking glass. Every time I finished a phrase. To add insult to injury, the glee cast members also...booed me. Repeatedly. Therefore, I shall never play this silly game again.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
If You Are Walking Along The Street On A Cold, Windy Day, And You Happen To Accidentally Get A Grocery Bag Hooked Around Your Ankle, Do Not Kick Your Leg Around Wildly. This Will Only Cause The Grocery Bag To Climb Your Leg More Easily. And Stay There. Like A Garter. If You Will.
Amidst all of our Christmas happenings at the apartment, there has been, of course, a flurry of secretive gift-purchasing and clandestine gift-wrapping in respective bedrooms. (Kayla, who adopted my bedroom as Gift Wrapping Central after buying Allie's gift, left my door temporarily open as she cut and taped and tied, confident that Allie wouldn't budge from her comfortable couch position in the living room. When Allie innocently inquired what we were up to in my room, Kayla--without saying a single word--swiftly slammed my bedroom door shut with an enviably effective sweeping motion. I laughed at this transpiration of events. As did Allie, once she figured out why Kay was slamming the door in her direction.)
Audrey and I recently made a journey to the Target of East Harlem (yes, Mary Schindler, they DO have Targets in New York...Manhattan is still part of Planet Earth, it would appear) for some last-minute Christmas gifts and goodies. Target is easily accessible by bus--it's only one stop, and then we just have to walk a couple of avenues east--but waiting for the bus is often torture, particularly in this cold, hellishly windy weather.
Once we were properly laden with bags, then, for our return trip, walking the extra avenue west to catch the bus seemed horribly tiresome. Audge had my Christmas gift in tow (she'd sent me elsewhere in the store while she went off to pick it out and purchase it), so she was trying to keep that particular bag as far away from me as possible. I, meanwhile, had of course purchased a variety of oddly-shaped things, including two rolls of Christmas wrapping paper. One of these rolls was a respectable three-foot size, but the other was easily four-and-a-half feet tall. And while the salesgirl used the largest shopping bag possible to house these rolls of wrapping paper, I kept inadvertently stabbing Audrey in either the leg or side (or sometimes both at once! Little victories, my friends.) as we trekked back to the bus stop. I also had a gallon of skim milk and several other bags of heavy groceries that were hurting my arms. I should not be blamed, then, for suggesting that we just hop onto the bus still heading down First Avenue, rather than walking up the extra avenue and catching the same bus line heading down Second. I theorized that since it was the same bus line, whose final stop on First was 125th Street, it would just make a left at 125th and then head back down Second. Really, we'd probably save time. 125th was the very next stop, and then we'd only have to ride the bus back down two stops to 101st and 2nd, which is where we'd get off. We'd have the warmth of the bus for a comfortably nice length of time. And we wouldn't have to walk any further with our ridiculous and potentially injury-causing shopping bags.
Perhaps I should mention at this point that this is certainly not the first time Audrey has been involved in helping me carry an awkwardly-shaped package for a somewhat daunting distance. Very shortly after Audge moved into the apartment with Allie and me, I forced her to journey to the Bronx UPS pickup station with me so that I could employ her to help me carry piano legs for my keyboard that my parents had sent me. (This is, in itself, quite a story. Suffice it to say that my little sister forgot to include the LEGS OF THE PIANO when she delivered said keyboard to Audrey for her cross-country-journey to the Land of New York with the moving truck. I am still unsure as to how one forgets to include the very apparatus that holds the keyboard up when making such a delivery, but when I asked dearest Kristen why she hadn't included them, her response was only: "You didn't ask for them specifically." Oh, Little Kristen.) Anyway. The package containing the keyboard legs was approximately five feet long and somewhat heavy. It required both of us, each holding an end of the package, to walk in a carefully-timed pattern, in order to avoid jostling one another with the edges. 'Twas a long walk to and fro the subway, too. On top of all of this, I INSISTED that we see a movie at the theatre sixteen blocks from our apartment that was being shown in the early afternoon. By the time we got to the UPS station and had actually procured the package (the UPS man literally defined the phrase "taking his own sweet time" for us, kindly enough), we had only an hour to journey back to the apartment, drop off the keyboard legs, and run to the theatre.
I say "run" because that's actually what we did. We ran. Or, we jogged. First we jogged with the piano-leg package. (Which got both whistles and chuckles from onlookers, depending on what section of the city we were in.) I had our walking plan mapped out and timed down to the minute, and we were heavily out of breath by the time we arrived at the apartment and quite literally threw the package into the living room before running back out. We then did legit speedwalks from the apartment to the theatre: Audrey had not yet become fully acquainted with the New York speedwalk, wholly useful in times of especial tardiness or aggravation, but this experience was certainly a learning one. I had a good speedwalk already mastered, with resulted in my walking a full block ahead of Audge for the majority of the trip, on the opposite side of the street. I took to looking behind me every half-block or so, just to make sure Audrey hadn't given up on me completely. (This also occurred in September. In the boiling, boiling heat.) By the time we got to the theatre and were safely seated (we only missed one preview!), I was so incredibly sweaty that I had to lift my shirt up over my shoulders. (I chose this day to wear a woolen shirt. Sometimes...it be like damn.) So. Disgustingly. Sweaty. Took me most of the movie to return to a normal body temperature and pulse.
But. But, but, but. I digress. (Duh.) We're back to the Christmas Target Trip. I have just had us catch the bus heading in the opposite direction of the way we're actually trying to go, in the hope that it will immediately turn itself around.
Naturally, this did not happen. The bus did hang a left at 125th Street, but it then parked and all passengers were ordered off. This was where the bus driver took his break. So Audrey and I had to hoist all of our packages off the bus, wait in the freezing cold for an absurdly long time, awkwardly make small talk with the MTA bus drivers standing next to us, purchase new bus tickets, and then climb back aboard the bus to now, finally, head back downtown.
The moral of this story is that I should always listen to my instincts regarding public transportation and then do exactly the opposite of what my instincts are telling me to do.
Audrey and I recently made a journey to the Target of East Harlem (yes, Mary Schindler, they DO have Targets in New York...Manhattan is still part of Planet Earth, it would appear) for some last-minute Christmas gifts and goodies. Target is easily accessible by bus--it's only one stop, and then we just have to walk a couple of avenues east--but waiting for the bus is often torture, particularly in this cold, hellishly windy weather.
Once we were properly laden with bags, then, for our return trip, walking the extra avenue west to catch the bus seemed horribly tiresome. Audge had my Christmas gift in tow (she'd sent me elsewhere in the store while she went off to pick it out and purchase it), so she was trying to keep that particular bag as far away from me as possible. I, meanwhile, had of course purchased a variety of oddly-shaped things, including two rolls of Christmas wrapping paper. One of these rolls was a respectable three-foot size, but the other was easily four-and-a-half feet tall. And while the salesgirl used the largest shopping bag possible to house these rolls of wrapping paper, I kept inadvertently stabbing Audrey in either the leg or side (or sometimes both at once! Little victories, my friends.) as we trekked back to the bus stop. I also had a gallon of skim milk and several other bags of heavy groceries that were hurting my arms. I should not be blamed, then, for suggesting that we just hop onto the bus still heading down First Avenue, rather than walking up the extra avenue and catching the same bus line heading down Second. I theorized that since it was the same bus line, whose final stop on First was 125th Street, it would just make a left at 125th and then head back down Second. Really, we'd probably save time. 125th was the very next stop, and then we'd only have to ride the bus back down two stops to 101st and 2nd, which is where we'd get off. We'd have the warmth of the bus for a comfortably nice length of time. And we wouldn't have to walk any further with our ridiculous and potentially injury-causing shopping bags.
Perhaps I should mention at this point that this is certainly not the first time Audrey has been involved in helping me carry an awkwardly-shaped package for a somewhat daunting distance. Very shortly after Audge moved into the apartment with Allie and me, I forced her to journey to the Bronx UPS pickup station with me so that I could employ her to help me carry piano legs for my keyboard that my parents had sent me. (This is, in itself, quite a story. Suffice it to say that my little sister forgot to include the LEGS OF THE PIANO when she delivered said keyboard to Audrey for her cross-country-journey to the Land of New York with the moving truck. I am still unsure as to how one forgets to include the very apparatus that holds the keyboard up when making such a delivery, but when I asked dearest Kristen why she hadn't included them, her response was only: "You didn't ask for them specifically." Oh, Little Kristen.) Anyway. The package containing the keyboard legs was approximately five feet long and somewhat heavy. It required both of us, each holding an end of the package, to walk in a carefully-timed pattern, in order to avoid jostling one another with the edges. 'Twas a long walk to and fro the subway, too. On top of all of this, I INSISTED that we see a movie at the theatre sixteen blocks from our apartment that was being shown in the early afternoon. By the time we got to the UPS station and had actually procured the package (the UPS man literally defined the phrase "taking his own sweet time" for us, kindly enough), we had only an hour to journey back to the apartment, drop off the keyboard legs, and run to the theatre.
I say "run" because that's actually what we did. We ran. Or, we jogged. First we jogged with the piano-leg package. (Which got both whistles and chuckles from onlookers, depending on what section of the city we were in.) I had our walking plan mapped out and timed down to the minute, and we were heavily out of breath by the time we arrived at the apartment and quite literally threw the package into the living room before running back out. We then did legit speedwalks from the apartment to the theatre: Audrey had not yet become fully acquainted with the New York speedwalk, wholly useful in times of especial tardiness or aggravation, but this experience was certainly a learning one. I had a good speedwalk already mastered, with resulted in my walking a full block ahead of Audge for the majority of the trip, on the opposite side of the street. I took to looking behind me every half-block or so, just to make sure Audrey hadn't given up on me completely. (This also occurred in September. In the boiling, boiling heat.) By the time we got to the theatre and were safely seated (we only missed one preview!), I was so incredibly sweaty that I had to lift my shirt up over my shoulders. (I chose this day to wear a woolen shirt. Sometimes...it be like damn.) So. Disgustingly. Sweaty. Took me most of the movie to return to a normal body temperature and pulse.
But. But, but, but. I digress. (Duh.) We're back to the Christmas Target Trip. I have just had us catch the bus heading in the opposite direction of the way we're actually trying to go, in the hope that it will immediately turn itself around.
Naturally, this did not happen. The bus did hang a left at 125th Street, but it then parked and all passengers were ordered off. This was where the bus driver took his break. So Audrey and I had to hoist all of our packages off the bus, wait in the freezing cold for an absurdly long time, awkwardly make small talk with the MTA bus drivers standing next to us, purchase new bus tickets, and then climb back aboard the bus to now, finally, head back downtown.
The moral of this story is that I should always listen to my instincts regarding public transportation and then do exactly the opposite of what my instincts are telling me to do.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Ramblings.
Audrey stuffed each of our stockings with a few small treats, including individual Christmas chapsticks. Each chapstick was a character from the claymation version of Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer. She gave me The Abominable Snowman chapstick. He is a disturbing shade between gray and purple, and he is hairy. I hate him. And Audrey.
Which is why I sneaked into Audge's room last night as soon as I heard her step out of the shower. I crammed my entire body into her laundry bucket, balancing in a forced arch on both my toes, in a rather uncomfortable squat. My heart was racing, my cheeks were flaming, and my chest felt like it was encased by rubberbands. Unfortunately, Audrey peeked into my room on her way back from the bathroom and became suspicious when she didn't see me inside. So she walked rather casually into her own room, calling out that she knew I was hiding in it. Blast. I gave myself a near-panic-attack for naught. (By the way. My mother is fully aware of Audrey's mischieveous doings, but she APPROVES of them. Because she thinks that they will condition my body to act appropriately when something actually scary happens to me. This logic...baffles me.)
Before all of this laundry-basket-hiding occurred, however, Audrey, Allie, and I were watching the San Franciso Ballet Company's version of The Nutcracker on television last night. (I should mention at this point that all three of us are dancers.) It occurred to me today that we probably sounded as if we were watching a highly-anticipated sporting event. There were screams, clapping, cheering, moans, and sighs of contentment. Audrey, at one point, announced that a particularly good musical cue had made her actually salivate. There was also a lot of voiced hatred toward the very talented male danseurs, especially when one of them would execute something like a quintuple pirouette and then saut de chat into the rafters. And there was a highly realistic circus bear that emerged from Mother Ginger's skirt. He was so realistic-looking that he deserves being mentioned. (And now I have done so.) I also remembered during the viewing that I could perform a one-handed cartwheel, so this required an immediate performance. Except Audrey hid her face behind the couch pillow because she was pretty sure that I was going to kick the floor lamp over. (I didn't.) (But I may have injured a hamstring slightly.)
Also. If I ever get my own dog, I shall name him Quat. Because then I can say, "Come, Quat." And it will sound like the word kumquat.
Which is why I sneaked into Audge's room last night as soon as I heard her step out of the shower. I crammed my entire body into her laundry bucket, balancing in a forced arch on both my toes, in a rather uncomfortable squat. My heart was racing, my cheeks were flaming, and my chest felt like it was encased by rubberbands. Unfortunately, Audrey peeked into my room on her way back from the bathroom and became suspicious when she didn't see me inside. So she walked rather casually into her own room, calling out that she knew I was hiding in it. Blast. I gave myself a near-panic-attack for naught. (By the way. My mother is fully aware of Audrey's mischieveous doings, but she APPROVES of them. Because she thinks that they will condition my body to act appropriately when something actually scary happens to me. This logic...baffles me.)
Before all of this laundry-basket-hiding occurred, however, Audrey, Allie, and I were watching the San Franciso Ballet Company's version of The Nutcracker on television last night. (I should mention at this point that all three of us are dancers.) It occurred to me today that we probably sounded as if we were watching a highly-anticipated sporting event. There were screams, clapping, cheering, moans, and sighs of contentment. Audrey, at one point, announced that a particularly good musical cue had made her actually salivate. There was also a lot of voiced hatred toward the very talented male danseurs, especially when one of them would execute something like a quintuple pirouette and then saut de chat into the rafters. And there was a highly realistic circus bear that emerged from Mother Ginger's skirt. He was so realistic-looking that he deserves being mentioned. (And now I have done so.) I also remembered during the viewing that I could perform a one-handed cartwheel, so this required an immediate performance. Except Audrey hid her face behind the couch pillow because she was pretty sure that I was going to kick the floor lamp over. (I didn't.) (But I may have injured a hamstring slightly.)
Also. If I ever get my own dog, I shall name him Quat. Because then I can say, "Come, Quat." And it will sound like the word kumquat.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Tidbits.
This is an actual transcript of a conversation that occurred between two of my roommates, Audrey and Allie, three days ago:
Audrey: "So, Rachel. Why don't you tell Allie what you were doing this morning with that saucer full of milk?"
Allie (cheerily and indulgently, without waiting for an answer): "Trying to lap it up like a cat?"
Rachel: (Silence. A sheepish grin.)
I don't know whether I should be pleased that Allie knows me well enough to make that guess correctly on the first try or offended that she automatically assumes the weirdest about me. (And is, therefore, correct.) In my defense, though: have you ever seen a cat lap up a saucer full of milk? It's only, like, the coolest thing ever. Their tongues are like itty-bitty hummingbird wings, and suddenly--BOOM! The milk's gone. I figured it was worth a try, seeing if I could emulate their semi-prehensile tongue special effects. Alas, I was unable to. I picked out the smallest bowl we had in the apartment, filled it with milk, and then assiduously set about trying to drink it with only my tongue.
This resulted mostly in my snorting milk up my nose and accidentally dunking my chin in a cool milk bath. It also resulted in a lot of Audrey making fun of me. For being dumb, a weirdo, crazy, messy--the usual litany of complaints. Kayla was slightly more accepting. And for this reason her Christmas present will be slightly better. (Take that, Audrina!)
Audrey: "So, Rachel. Why don't you tell Allie what you were doing this morning with that saucer full of milk?"
Allie (cheerily and indulgently, without waiting for an answer): "Trying to lap it up like a cat?"
Rachel: (Silence. A sheepish grin.)
I don't know whether I should be pleased that Allie knows me well enough to make that guess correctly on the first try or offended that she automatically assumes the weirdest about me. (And is, therefore, correct.) In my defense, though: have you ever seen a cat lap up a saucer full of milk? It's only, like, the coolest thing ever. Their tongues are like itty-bitty hummingbird wings, and suddenly--BOOM! The milk's gone. I figured it was worth a try, seeing if I could emulate their semi-prehensile tongue special effects. Alas, I was unable to. I picked out the smallest bowl we had in the apartment, filled it with milk, and then assiduously set about trying to drink it with only my tongue.
This resulted mostly in my snorting milk up my nose and accidentally dunking my chin in a cool milk bath. It also resulted in a lot of Audrey making fun of me. For being dumb, a weirdo, crazy, messy--the usual litany of complaints. Kayla was slightly more accepting. And for this reason her Christmas present will be slightly better. (Take that, Audrina!)
Saturday, December 4, 2010
SSWW.
I'm really good at keeping secrets. I grew up with an older sister who had a very difficult time keeping any present she bought for me a surprise, despite how much I'd beg her not to tell me. (At our grammar school, an entirely overpriced establishment known as "Santa's Secret Shop"--referred to by our father, the Pun-Maker of America, as "Santa's Secret Swindle"--would be set up before Christmastime for a couple of weeks. Each student would be sent to school with petty cash to purchase ridiculously tacky Christmas gifts for each member of his or her family. Lauren could never resist calling me over to her side of the bed and fishing out my Christmas gift well before present-opening time. I soon grew wise to her ways, but she'd stop at nothing: she once waved me over, exclaiming that she wanted to show me what she'd gotten Daddy that year. I crept over and knelt beside her, only to see her swiftly whip out a serving platter that had a pastoral scene with impressionist sheep upon it. "LOOK WHAT I GOT YOU!" she screeched. Tricky, she was. Also, her gift ideas as a child were questionable, at best. I mean, a sheep platter? Why would I even need a platter, let alone one with sheep on it? I'm still baffled by this, to this day.)
But anyway. The point of the previous story is that I, however, can keep a secret quite well. Someone had to in our household. So when I got the idea to create a secret society and then induct some of my closest and unsuspecting friends into it, I kept my mouth shut about the almost unbelievable things that happened when said induction occurred. I found out months later that, despite having sworn to keep everything they'd seen amongst those involved only, everyone else in the secret society had blabbed about the induction, save for Allie. I was mentioning this to my friend Wesley a couple of days ago, and he immediately responded that I will make a fantastic grandparent. This is the loveliest compliment I have gotten in quite some time. And it also helped me realize that it'd make a good blog post, now that the cat's been out of the bag for a good while.
Myself, with my friends Sarah and Toni, decided to create a secret club called SSWW (Sui Generis Sneakers of the Written Word), the purpose of which still remains unclear, to this day. I know it had something to do with a book exchange, but I can't really remember what our other motivations were. Regardless, we didn't put the thing into action until my senior year of college, the spring of my graduation. Sarah, Toni, and I selected three worthy individuals--Sam, Allie (one of my current, long-suffering roommates, yes), and Cheryl--and then set about making plans. I wrote a nice, long pledge that the new members would be required to repeat, burned a soundtrack for the mysterious car ride, rounded up some costumes, and worded an appropriately cryptic text message to serve as the inductees' invitation. Toni, Sarah, and I each selected a favorite book of ours to give to another member of SSWW--a secret-society-warming-gift, if you will.
The proceedings began at midnight. The three of us piled into my Honda and drove to each inductee's dorm, at which point either Sarah or Toni would step out of the car and blindfold each girl before shoving her into the backseat. I should probably mention at this point that the music I'd selected for our car ride was Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor. And I was blaring it awfully loudly. (Maybe your reading of this blog entry would be improved if you youtubed this fine piece of music at this point and continued to listen to it as you read the remainder. It will give you an approximate feel of how the night progressed.)
No one spoke during the car ride, naturally. After we'd gathered all three girls, we drove to Pride Field, a big, open field in front of our university's gym that served as the marching band's practice ground. (We had originally wanted a more secretive venue, but sacrifices had to be made, seeing as it was the middle of the night.) As soon as the girls piled out of the car, they were forced to don bridesmaid dresses that I had been keeping in my dress-up trunk in my room. Toni, Sarah, and I were, of course, already wearing our dresses. These dresses were, I should mention, from the local thrift store. They appeared to be from the late seventies or early eighties.
We then lit and passed out candles for each person to hold, and I began reciting the speech I'd prepared. There was a bit of giggling, but things were going smoothly for the most part--the whole thing felt vaguely illegal and mysterious. Which was desirable. I had just gotten to the pledge that was to be recited when we noticed a police car circling the gym's parking lot. I pressed on, inwardly reassuring myself that it was just the police car assigned to campus, making its rounds. We wouldn't be bothered--we weren't doing anything actually illegal. Or were we? When the police car stopped, parked, and an officer emerged, heading straight for our circle, panic immediately ensued.
"Blow out the candles!" Toni commanded. We complied, unsure of what to do next. The officer was getting closer.
"What do we do?" I whimpered fearfully. I'd gone from fearless leader to jail-fearing 'fraidy-cat in a matter of seconds.
"Run," Sam stage-whispered. (She never took this thing seriously enough.)
At this point, the officer was upon us. I bravely picked up where I'd left off in the pledge, muttering something about promoting literacy to the masses, as the police officer quietly joined our circle and appraised the situation. After we'd finished reciting and repeating, he made a motion to speak.
"Just, uh...what's going on here, ladies?" he inquired.
I could feel five heads swivel toward me. Apparently I'd been elected spokesperson. Lovely.
"This is a secret society," I timidly began, fully cognizant of how ridiculous I sounded. "And this...is an induction ceremony."
The police officer nodded thoughtfully, and then took something out of his back pocket to hand to me: his card. His name was Officer Knight.
"Well, then. I do believe I've just been inducted into a secret society," he said, with the beginnings of a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. "You girls can just let me know the next time you have a meeting, and I'll make sure nobody gives you any trouble." With that, he left the field, climbed back into his car, and drove off. We were left standing in our circle, dumbfounded.
The rest of the night was rather uneventful, comparatively. We exchanged books (Cheryl was unable to get past the fact that this was the climax of the night. "Do you mean to tell me that this--this midnight meeting, with cops and blindfolds and scary music--is nothing more than a glorified book club?" she seethed), and then we drove the girls home. 'Twas one of the best nights of my life, I tell you. An unusual conglomeration of events, to say the least.
And I THOUGHT we were all sworn to secrecy. But the other girls confessed later on that the story had been far too good to keep to themselves, so they ended up sharing it with siblings and significant others. Humph. See if I induct them into my next secret society.
But anyway. The point of the previous story is that I, however, can keep a secret quite well. Someone had to in our household. So when I got the idea to create a secret society and then induct some of my closest and unsuspecting friends into it, I kept my mouth shut about the almost unbelievable things that happened when said induction occurred. I found out months later that, despite having sworn to keep everything they'd seen amongst those involved only, everyone else in the secret society had blabbed about the induction, save for Allie. I was mentioning this to my friend Wesley a couple of days ago, and he immediately responded that I will make a fantastic grandparent. This is the loveliest compliment I have gotten in quite some time. And it also helped me realize that it'd make a good blog post, now that the cat's been out of the bag for a good while.
Myself, with my friends Sarah and Toni, decided to create a secret club called SSWW (Sui Generis Sneakers of the Written Word), the purpose of which still remains unclear, to this day. I know it had something to do with a book exchange, but I can't really remember what our other motivations were. Regardless, we didn't put the thing into action until my senior year of college, the spring of my graduation. Sarah, Toni, and I selected three worthy individuals--Sam, Allie (one of my current, long-suffering roommates, yes), and Cheryl--and then set about making plans. I wrote a nice, long pledge that the new members would be required to repeat, burned a soundtrack for the mysterious car ride, rounded up some costumes, and worded an appropriately cryptic text message to serve as the inductees' invitation. Toni, Sarah, and I each selected a favorite book of ours to give to another member of SSWW--a secret-society-warming-gift, if you will.
The proceedings began at midnight. The three of us piled into my Honda and drove to each inductee's dorm, at which point either Sarah or Toni would step out of the car and blindfold each girl before shoving her into the backseat. I should probably mention at this point that the music I'd selected for our car ride was Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor. And I was blaring it awfully loudly. (Maybe your reading of this blog entry would be improved if you youtubed this fine piece of music at this point and continued to listen to it as you read the remainder. It will give you an approximate feel of how the night progressed.)
No one spoke during the car ride, naturally. After we'd gathered all three girls, we drove to Pride Field, a big, open field in front of our university's gym that served as the marching band's practice ground. (We had originally wanted a more secretive venue, but sacrifices had to be made, seeing as it was the middle of the night.) As soon as the girls piled out of the car, they were forced to don bridesmaid dresses that I had been keeping in my dress-up trunk in my room. Toni, Sarah, and I were, of course, already wearing our dresses. These dresses were, I should mention, from the local thrift store. They appeared to be from the late seventies or early eighties.
We then lit and passed out candles for each person to hold, and I began reciting the speech I'd prepared. There was a bit of giggling, but things were going smoothly for the most part--the whole thing felt vaguely illegal and mysterious. Which was desirable. I had just gotten to the pledge that was to be recited when we noticed a police car circling the gym's parking lot. I pressed on, inwardly reassuring myself that it was just the police car assigned to campus, making its rounds. We wouldn't be bothered--we weren't doing anything actually illegal. Or were we? When the police car stopped, parked, and an officer emerged, heading straight for our circle, panic immediately ensued.
"Blow out the candles!" Toni commanded. We complied, unsure of what to do next. The officer was getting closer.
"What do we do?" I whimpered fearfully. I'd gone from fearless leader to jail-fearing 'fraidy-cat in a matter of seconds.
"Run," Sam stage-whispered. (She never took this thing seriously enough.)
At this point, the officer was upon us. I bravely picked up where I'd left off in the pledge, muttering something about promoting literacy to the masses, as the police officer quietly joined our circle and appraised the situation. After we'd finished reciting and repeating, he made a motion to speak.
"Just, uh...what's going on here, ladies?" he inquired.
I could feel five heads swivel toward me. Apparently I'd been elected spokesperson. Lovely.
"This is a secret society," I timidly began, fully cognizant of how ridiculous I sounded. "And this...is an induction ceremony."
The police officer nodded thoughtfully, and then took something out of his back pocket to hand to me: his card. His name was Officer Knight.
"Well, then. I do believe I've just been inducted into a secret society," he said, with the beginnings of a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. "You girls can just let me know the next time you have a meeting, and I'll make sure nobody gives you any trouble." With that, he left the field, climbed back into his car, and drove off. We were left standing in our circle, dumbfounded.
The rest of the night was rather uneventful, comparatively. We exchanged books (Cheryl was unable to get past the fact that this was the climax of the night. "Do you mean to tell me that this--this midnight meeting, with cops and blindfolds and scary music--is nothing more than a glorified book club?" she seethed), and then we drove the girls home. 'Twas one of the best nights of my life, I tell you. An unusual conglomeration of events, to say the least.
And I THOUGHT we were all sworn to secrecy. But the other girls confessed later on that the story had been far too good to keep to themselves, so they ended up sharing it with siblings and significant others. Humph. See if I induct them into my next secret society.
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