Just don't take Teddy's sock.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Spinster Wisdom for the Holidays
I can't claim these words of wisdom as my own, but I felt the need to share them regardless. The radio DJ just described Christmas as four weeks of shopping hell that culminates with you and your family sitting around a dead tree eating candy out of a sock. In some cases, an old sock.
Just don't take Teddy's sock.
Just don't take Teddy's sock.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Spinsters Gone WILD!
OK, so there's nothing really WILD to report these days, but there could be . . .
Anyway,the semester production of The Wacky Crucible (OK, so it was just The Crucible) is over. We have photo call today where we take lots and lots of pictures, eat pizza, and thank our lucky stars we survived.
This semester has been a difficult one, and I can't say the whole production process was something I enjoyed. Why do I do this again? Oh yea, I supposedly like this kind of abuse. You know, the late nights, the frustration, the rampant stupidity, the working blind, the justifying every tiny thing I do to the Muggles . . .
Actually, I finally saw the show last night, and more or less enjoyed it. I'm so happy with the set design that it almost makes up for the costume design. Our student lighting designer did a rockin' job, and the sound as always is amazing. What was even more shocking about last night's performance was the presence of some Very Important Muggles in the audience. Very intereseting . . .
And for those of you who missed The Wacky Crucible, let me give you a quick synopsis in ten quotes off the top of my Crucible-soaked brain:
"There's a prodigious fear in the country"
"Salem witches?"
"There's a party and a faction."
"Adultery, John."
"What signifies a poppet?"
"It were pretense."
"I'm not Satan and there's no Devil here."
"Hang them high over the town."
"More weight."
"God in Heaven, what is John Proctor? What is John Proctor?"
Gee, that's just like being there!
As for life outside of work . . . are those crickets chirping? Life outside of work? Is there such a thing? Well, there will be more of one now, since I can't live like this anymore without running a high risk of going postal. I got up the nerve to rejoin Curves last weekend, and I went for my first workout today. I actually had fun. The local Curves is run by this pudgy, middle-aged redhead who shares in my aversion to Nazi Barbies and dieting. And what's really cool is this Saturday, she's celebrating her first year anniversary being the place's owner, and so she's having belly dancers come between 10 and 12noon! Evidently they're a local group, and one of the members works out at Curves. So, guess where I'll be Saturday? It won't be at work.
Anyway,the semester production of The Wacky Crucible (OK, so it was just The Crucible) is over. We have photo call today where we take lots and lots of pictures, eat pizza, and thank our lucky stars we survived.
This semester has been a difficult one, and I can't say the whole production process was something I enjoyed. Why do I do this again? Oh yea, I supposedly like this kind of abuse. You know, the late nights, the frustration, the rampant stupidity, the working blind, the justifying every tiny thing I do to the Muggles . . .
Actually, I finally saw the show last night, and more or less enjoyed it. I'm so happy with the set design that it almost makes up for the costume design. Our student lighting designer did a rockin' job, and the sound as always is amazing. What was even more shocking about last night's performance was the presence of some Very Important Muggles in the audience. Very intereseting . . .
And for those of you who missed The Wacky Crucible, let me give you a quick synopsis in ten quotes off the top of my Crucible-soaked brain:
"There's a prodigious fear in the country"
"Salem witches?"
"There's a party and a faction."
"Adultery, John."
"What signifies a poppet?"
"It were pretense."
"I'm not Satan and there's no Devil here."
"Hang them high over the town."
"More weight."
"God in Heaven, what is John Proctor? What is John Proctor?"
Gee, that's just like being there!
As for life outside of work . . . are those crickets chirping? Life outside of work? Is there such a thing? Well, there will be more of one now, since I can't live like this anymore without running a high risk of going postal. I got up the nerve to rejoin Curves last weekend, and I went for my first workout today. I actually had fun. The local Curves is run by this pudgy, middle-aged redhead who shares in my aversion to Nazi Barbies and dieting. And what's really cool is this Saturday, she's celebrating her first year anniversary being the place's owner, and so she's having belly dancers come between 10 and 12noon! Evidently they're a local group, and one of the members works out at Curves. So, guess where I'll be Saturday? It won't be at work.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Spinstering with Wicker
OK, so I know it's been ages since we've last had a spinstering update. Truth be told, I haven't got too much to report in terms of spinstering adventures of late.
I've moved. THANK YOU JEEBUS. Enough said on that issue.
Classes have started. CURSES. Enough said on that issue.
I have turned in all my reappointment materials, and I am almost done with all my classroom observations. THANK YOU JEEBUS and CURSES!
And, according to one of my colleague's Intro students people who practice the pagan religion Wicker like to use weegie boards.
THANK YOU WICKER JEEBUS riding on the WEEGIE BOARD!
Enough said.
I've moved. THANK YOU JEEBUS. Enough said on that issue.
Classes have started. CURSES. Enough said on that issue.
I have turned in all my reappointment materials, and I am almost done with all my classroom observations. THANK YOU JEEBUS and CURSES!
And, according to one of my colleague's Intro students people who practice the pagan religion Wicker like to use weegie boards.
THANK YOU WICKER JEEBUS riding on the WEEGIE BOARD!
Enough said.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Spinstering Across State Lines
In the past two months, I have either driven through and/or spent time in the following states (sometimes twice): Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Jersey, New York, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Missouri, Wisconsin, and Kansas. I'm sure I'm forgetting some place, but does it really matter?
My summer travels now ended, I've landed safely back in Massachusetts, and I've finally left the level in Hell known as Tekoa Mt Apartments. I've had my new apartment for almost three weeks now, and everyday I wake up with a sense of disbelief that I live in such a nice place. It's clean. It's safe. I haven't been accosted by deranged old people. I have nice neighbors. The laundry room is in my building. It's clean. There's an on-site office that's actually staffed by competent people six days a week. They even answer the phone. The property is actually maintained and cared for. It's clean. My place is air-conditioned. There hasn't been any middle-of-the-night drug busts on the property. Did I mention it's clean? And there are lots of places to walk the little brat with pointy feet and happy tail disease.
Anyway, I'm currently procrastinating working on my lesson plan for tomorrow evening's Intro to Theatre class. I'm enjoying teaching the summer course, but at the same time I have a strong desire to stay in my new apartment, unpack, sleep, snuggle with the brat, and decorate, maybe make curtains. Alas . . .
My other vice these past couple of weeks has been a series of books by Elizabeth Peters. NOT trashy romance novels this time, though there is a bit of romance in these books. Instead, I've found myself engrossed in a mystery series set in the 1880s (and actually going up through the early 1900s as the series progresses). The books are about this woman, my new hero, named Amelia Peabody. She's a budding archeologist with an interest in Egypt, she wears pants, she has a sturdy parasol, and she knows how to use it. In the first book, Crocodile on the Sandbank, she meets her soon-to-be husband, Radcliffe Emerson. As a point of contention and insult toward one another, they call each other by their surnames (Emerson and Peabody--and, for Amelia, this is an amusing insult: by calling her Peabody, Emerson is addressing her like he'd address one of his *male* colleagues, and in essence is mocking her interest in archeology while also saying she is no lady). Of course, they argue and sling insults at each other for the entire book. Of course they end up happily married. Of course, they solve a mystery involving the sudden appearance of a centuries old mummy coming back to life while excavating at the ruins of Amarna, capitol city of the heretic pharaoh, Ahnkenaten. It doesn't get better than this for a geek like me who's rabid over Egyptian art history, turn-of-the-century historical fiction, and self-sufficient women who know how to bash an attacker over the head.
I think I'd like to be Amelia Peabody when I grow up: parasol-wielding, crime-solving adventuress! But first, to my Intro lesson plan . . .
This week we are covering Henrik Ibsen's A Doll's House. For those of you not up on the Father of Realism (and with a moniker like that, who would want to be up on the man's work, really?), this particular play (written around the turn-of-the-century) is about a woman who leaves her husband and children by the end of the play (unheard of and absolutely scandalous at this point in history). She discovers that she's been basically living with a stranger--her husband--and "playing house" for the past eight years. She has no identity outside of her husband (and before that outside of her father), and so she decides she has to leave to find herself. One of the more interesting side notes on this play is that feminists over the past century have latched onto it with a fervor Ibsen could never quite grasp. It's not a feminist play. It's, in his opinion, a realistic look at the society that produces a marriage like that of Nora's, as well as a woman like Nora, and a husband like Torvald. Indeed, Ibsen is very careful not to judge Nora or Torvald, but to simply present us with the facts. In my opinion, I can never quite decide if Nora is a feminist hero or a simpering heroine. I don't think I'll be coming to a decision before my class tomorrow night. Oh well.
My summer travels now ended, I've landed safely back in Massachusetts, and I've finally left the level in Hell known as Tekoa Mt Apartments. I've had my new apartment for almost three weeks now, and everyday I wake up with a sense of disbelief that I live in such a nice place. It's clean. It's safe. I haven't been accosted by deranged old people. I have nice neighbors. The laundry room is in my building. It's clean. There's an on-site office that's actually staffed by competent people six days a week. They even answer the phone. The property is actually maintained and cared for. It's clean. My place is air-conditioned. There hasn't been any middle-of-the-night drug busts on the property. Did I mention it's clean? And there are lots of places to walk the little brat with pointy feet and happy tail disease.
Anyway, I'm currently procrastinating working on my lesson plan for tomorrow evening's Intro to Theatre class. I'm enjoying teaching the summer course, but at the same time I have a strong desire to stay in my new apartment, unpack, sleep, snuggle with the brat, and decorate, maybe make curtains. Alas . . .
My other vice these past couple of weeks has been a series of books by Elizabeth Peters. NOT trashy romance novels this time, though there is a bit of romance in these books. Instead, I've found myself engrossed in a mystery series set in the 1880s (and actually going up through the early 1900s as the series progresses). The books are about this woman, my new hero, named Amelia Peabody. She's a budding archeologist with an interest in Egypt, she wears pants, she has a sturdy parasol, and she knows how to use it. In the first book, Crocodile on the Sandbank, she meets her soon-to-be husband, Radcliffe Emerson. As a point of contention and insult toward one another, they call each other by their surnames (Emerson and Peabody--and, for Amelia, this is an amusing insult: by calling her Peabody, Emerson is addressing her like he'd address one of his *male* colleagues, and in essence is mocking her interest in archeology while also saying she is no lady). Of course, they argue and sling insults at each other for the entire book. Of course they end up happily married. Of course, they solve a mystery involving the sudden appearance of a centuries old mummy coming back to life while excavating at the ruins of Amarna, capitol city of the heretic pharaoh, Ahnkenaten. It doesn't get better than this for a geek like me who's rabid over Egyptian art history, turn-of-the-century historical fiction, and self-sufficient women who know how to bash an attacker over the head.
I think I'd like to be Amelia Peabody when I grow up: parasol-wielding, crime-solving adventuress! But first, to my Intro lesson plan . . .
This week we are covering Henrik Ibsen's A Doll's House. For those of you not up on the Father of Realism (and with a moniker like that, who would want to be up on the man's work, really?), this particular play (written around the turn-of-the-century) is about a woman who leaves her husband and children by the end of the play (unheard of and absolutely scandalous at this point in history). She discovers that she's been basically living with a stranger--her husband--and "playing house" for the past eight years. She has no identity outside of her husband (and before that outside of her father), and so she decides she has to leave to find herself. One of the more interesting side notes on this play is that feminists over the past century have latched onto it with a fervor Ibsen could never quite grasp. It's not a feminist play. It's, in his opinion, a realistic look at the society that produces a marriage like that of Nora's, as well as a woman like Nora, and a husband like Torvald. Indeed, Ibsen is very careful not to judge Nora or Torvald, but to simply present us with the facts. In my opinion, I can never quite decide if Nora is a feminist hero or a simpering heroine. I don't think I'll be coming to a decision before my class tomorrow night. Oh well.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Spinstering in Hell
I live in hell.
Sure, they’ve finally moved the dumpster onto pavement. And, for some reason, they’ve posted this sign saying that the dumpster is for tenant use only—since there seems to be an abnormally high amount of garbage in the dumpster every week (perhaps because one dumpster isn’t enough for twenty-seven apartments . . . hmmmm).
And, they’ve instated this Gestapo rule about fining people $100 if they don’t clean up after their pets (though, how they’re going to enforce that one is beyond me—they’re either going to have to have security policing the grounds 24 hours a day, or they’re going to have to DNA test the dog poop).
But let’s face it. Tekoa Mt. Apartments is still a level in hell. You can polish a turd all you want. It’s still a turd.
The virulent mold on my bathroom ceiling continues to thrive. And, though I haven’t caught any more tiny livestock, Teddy continues to sniff around the spare room as if hunting something. Occasionally, I catch him barking at the corner. Usually, I just keep the door closed and ignore that there’s another room in my apartment.
Friday, I awoke bright and early. I got my car inspected and my oil changed. I went to the library and picked up some trashy books to read. I ran by the college to play mother hen and cluck about for a bit, happy to find that in the midst of a run, they DON’T need me. Which is as it should be. Then, I went to the grocery store, something I haven’t done in over two weeks. I gleefully restocked my kitchen. I walked the brat. And then I decided to do some laundry.
The laundry room here at the glorious Tekoa Mt. Apartments is in the basement of the main building, in what used to be a dirt cellar. To get to the laundry room, you have to first maneuver your way through a tightly sprung wooden door that opens immediately onto three very steep, very uneven steps. There is no landing at the top of these steps. Nor is there a landing at the bottom. Instead, there is another door, equally as tightly sprung. It is a hollow, metal door that you have to turn the doorknob and then shove open with your shoulder—all while balancing a basket of laundry, money for the machines, and a large bottle of detergent. Extra fun. Once inside, you have to turn on the lights. I usually brace myself in case there’s a serial killer waiting for me, since it’s a dark cellar with absolutely no security. I have yet to be raped and murdered, so I consider myself lucky so far. The light isn’t a conventional switch. That would be too easy to manipulate with your hands full as you deal with the door. Instead, it is a dial, and the light is set on a timer (probably because too many disgruntled tenants left the light on all the time out of spite for the management company).
Anyway, I get my laundry started, and I start to head back to my apartment, and guess who’s outside today, enjoying the weather? Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. He’s bought a motorcycle. And he calls out to me, “You’re not doing anything—come help me with this thing.” I see in his hands, he’s got this fancy new motorcycle cover. Now, why, you ask, would I help Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants with his new motorcycle cover? Well, the little old man with the pot belly looked rather pathetic standing in the parking lot battling it out with this silver vinyl cover three times his size. And I’m a glutton for punishment. And, I’m too polite to tell him to shove off. So, I set down my stuff and proceed to “help” him. Really, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants just wants to show off his motorcycle—which I have yet to see him ride, much less start up. It’s been sitting in the parking lot for three weeks. I’m sure when that glorious time comes for him to ride off into the sunset, it will consist of blog worthy hilarity. I can just imagine this leather skinned old man, who smells like a pukish mixture of stale beer and an ash tray, astride this motorcycle, squinting into the sun, his potbelly hanging over his belt, his straggly and greasy grey hair sticking out from underneath a beat up helmet, his yappy little dog precariously strapped to the back of the bike. Oh yea, it’ll be rockin’ for sure.
Anyway, I stood watching him preen over his motorcycle, and helped him get the cover into place. I even politely listened to how he got such a great deal on the cover, and how he’s going to save all this money on gas with the bike. Uh huh. He rambled incoherently about getting everything he needed to change the oil on the motorcycle, and how he had to drive down to Hartford, and then up to Lenox (which is north and west of Westfield). Uh huh. He evidently forgot to buy a fuel filter along his many travels today. However, he did remember to stop in Russell at the Russell Inn for a couple of beers. This perhaps helps to explain the smell.
Uh huh.
I smile and nod, and then tell him I’ve got to go. Now, one would think that I’ve fulfilled my quota of being nice to a crazy old people Friday. However, fate it seems had different ideas.
There’s this crazy woman who lives across the street. She’s got the skin and voice of a veteran smoker, thin bleached blonde hair styled in a shapeless cut and pinned back with bobby pins (though why, I can’t fathom). She’s always wearing baggy sweatshirts that sort of give her the shape of a beach ball. She likes to walk through the Tekoa Mt. Apartments parking lot at night. Rain, wind, sleet, snow—it doesn’t matter. She trots back and forth in our horse shoe shaped parking lot, night after night. Indeed, I usually do my best to avoid her. She likes to talk, and talk, and talk, and talk—usually about how rude people are and how I’m the only person who’s nice to her (probably because I’m too polite to tell her to shove off). And she likes to talk about how she hates her apartment. So, we’ve commiserated on our similar plights at various times when I’ve been unfortunate enough to be out walking the brat at the same time.
Anyway, tonight, there’s a knock on my door at about 9:30pm. Now, I’m not a social butterfly. I don’t have scads of suitors lining up at my door. Indeed, I was pretty embarrassed to have family staying in this disgusting pit of despair this past March—so why would I invite anyone else here? Obviously, I'm not expecting anyone. I open my door, fully expecting it to be the police coming to cart off Mr. Weed next door, or a drunk Mitsy and Ditsy here to celebrate the coming of the weekend. But no, it’s the Crazy Lady.
Teddy’s barking his head off, so I step out onto the porch and let him out to sniff around. He circles the Crazy Lady a few times and decides she’s not a real threat and goes back in. Meanwhile, she starts chatting about how she’s been looking for an apartment, and how she found this ad for a house in Southwick where some woman is looking for a roommate. Uh huh. She hands me the paper, and I politely thank her. I also tell her in no uncertain terms that it will be a cold day in hell when I get a roommate. I have a roommate—he’s got pointy feet and happy tail disease, and together we don’t play well with others. So, no roommate. Anyway, that’s the gist of our conversation, but I swear I stood out on my porch for twenty minutes before I could get rid of this woman. Evidently she’s looking for a place down in Florida. She hates how damp it is in New England. All I can do is smile and quietly think about how much less damp it will be living in a swamp down south. Uh huh. And then, as I’m holding onto the newspaper she’s given me, we finally start to exchange goodbyes, and she informs me that she’s sorry the newspaper is a little messed up. I look at it and shrug. It is a little funky, like it’s been shoved back together in the wrong order, and it’s crumpled. Then, she says, “Yea, I wasn’t thinking about it, and I threw it away. And then I thought maybe you’d be interested in that place in Southwick, so I fished it out of the trash for you.” Uh huh. THANKS. Good bye Crazy Lady. Have you met Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants? You two would be perfect for each other. Maybe you could get a matching motorcycle, and the two of you could ride off into the sunset together, fishing greasy newspapers out of the trash and foisting them on unsuspecting young spinsters who are too polite to tell you both to shove off.
Yes. Tekoa Mt. Apartments is definitely a level in hell.
Sure, they’ve finally moved the dumpster onto pavement. And, for some reason, they’ve posted this sign saying that the dumpster is for tenant use only—since there seems to be an abnormally high amount of garbage in the dumpster every week (perhaps because one dumpster isn’t enough for twenty-seven apartments . . . hmmmm).
And, they’ve instated this Gestapo rule about fining people $100 if they don’t clean up after their pets (though, how they’re going to enforce that one is beyond me—they’re either going to have to have security policing the grounds 24 hours a day, or they’re going to have to DNA test the dog poop).
But let’s face it. Tekoa Mt. Apartments is still a level in hell. You can polish a turd all you want. It’s still a turd.
The virulent mold on my bathroom ceiling continues to thrive. And, though I haven’t caught any more tiny livestock, Teddy continues to sniff around the spare room as if hunting something. Occasionally, I catch him barking at the corner. Usually, I just keep the door closed and ignore that there’s another room in my apartment.
Friday, I awoke bright and early. I got my car inspected and my oil changed. I went to the library and picked up some trashy books to read. I ran by the college to play mother hen and cluck about for a bit, happy to find that in the midst of a run, they DON’T need me. Which is as it should be. Then, I went to the grocery store, something I haven’t done in over two weeks. I gleefully restocked my kitchen. I walked the brat. And then I decided to do some laundry.
The laundry room here at the glorious Tekoa Mt. Apartments is in the basement of the main building, in what used to be a dirt cellar. To get to the laundry room, you have to first maneuver your way through a tightly sprung wooden door that opens immediately onto three very steep, very uneven steps. There is no landing at the top of these steps. Nor is there a landing at the bottom. Instead, there is another door, equally as tightly sprung. It is a hollow, metal door that you have to turn the doorknob and then shove open with your shoulder—all while balancing a basket of laundry, money for the machines, and a large bottle of detergent. Extra fun. Once inside, you have to turn on the lights. I usually brace myself in case there’s a serial killer waiting for me, since it’s a dark cellar with absolutely no security. I have yet to be raped and murdered, so I consider myself lucky so far. The light isn’t a conventional switch. That would be too easy to manipulate with your hands full as you deal with the door. Instead, it is a dial, and the light is set on a timer (probably because too many disgruntled tenants left the light on all the time out of spite for the management company).
Anyway, I get my laundry started, and I start to head back to my apartment, and guess who’s outside today, enjoying the weather? Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. He’s bought a motorcycle. And he calls out to me, “You’re not doing anything—come help me with this thing.” I see in his hands, he’s got this fancy new motorcycle cover. Now, why, you ask, would I help Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants with his new motorcycle cover? Well, the little old man with the pot belly looked rather pathetic standing in the parking lot battling it out with this silver vinyl cover three times his size. And I’m a glutton for punishment. And, I’m too polite to tell him to shove off. So, I set down my stuff and proceed to “help” him. Really, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants just wants to show off his motorcycle—which I have yet to see him ride, much less start up. It’s been sitting in the parking lot for three weeks. I’m sure when that glorious time comes for him to ride off into the sunset, it will consist of blog worthy hilarity. I can just imagine this leather skinned old man, who smells like a pukish mixture of stale beer and an ash tray, astride this motorcycle, squinting into the sun, his potbelly hanging over his belt, his straggly and greasy grey hair sticking out from underneath a beat up helmet, his yappy little dog precariously strapped to the back of the bike. Oh yea, it’ll be rockin’ for sure.
Anyway, I stood watching him preen over his motorcycle, and helped him get the cover into place. I even politely listened to how he got such a great deal on the cover, and how he’s going to save all this money on gas with the bike. Uh huh. He rambled incoherently about getting everything he needed to change the oil on the motorcycle, and how he had to drive down to Hartford, and then up to Lenox (which is north and west of Westfield). Uh huh. He evidently forgot to buy a fuel filter along his many travels today. However, he did remember to stop in Russell at the Russell Inn for a couple of beers. This perhaps helps to explain the smell.
Uh huh.
I smile and nod, and then tell him I’ve got to go. Now, one would think that I’ve fulfilled my quota of being nice to a crazy old people Friday. However, fate it seems had different ideas.
There’s this crazy woman who lives across the street. She’s got the skin and voice of a veteran smoker, thin bleached blonde hair styled in a shapeless cut and pinned back with bobby pins (though why, I can’t fathom). She’s always wearing baggy sweatshirts that sort of give her the shape of a beach ball. She likes to walk through the Tekoa Mt. Apartments parking lot at night. Rain, wind, sleet, snow—it doesn’t matter. She trots back and forth in our horse shoe shaped parking lot, night after night. Indeed, I usually do my best to avoid her. She likes to talk, and talk, and talk, and talk—usually about how rude people are and how I’m the only person who’s nice to her (probably because I’m too polite to tell her to shove off). And she likes to talk about how she hates her apartment. So, we’ve commiserated on our similar plights at various times when I’ve been unfortunate enough to be out walking the brat at the same time.
Anyway, tonight, there’s a knock on my door at about 9:30pm. Now, I’m not a social butterfly. I don’t have scads of suitors lining up at my door. Indeed, I was pretty embarrassed to have family staying in this disgusting pit of despair this past March—so why would I invite anyone else here? Obviously, I'm not expecting anyone. I open my door, fully expecting it to be the police coming to cart off Mr. Weed next door, or a drunk Mitsy and Ditsy here to celebrate the coming of the weekend. But no, it’s the Crazy Lady.
Teddy’s barking his head off, so I step out onto the porch and let him out to sniff around. He circles the Crazy Lady a few times and decides she’s not a real threat and goes back in. Meanwhile, she starts chatting about how she’s been looking for an apartment, and how she found this ad for a house in Southwick where some woman is looking for a roommate. Uh huh. She hands me the paper, and I politely thank her. I also tell her in no uncertain terms that it will be a cold day in hell when I get a roommate. I have a roommate—he’s got pointy feet and happy tail disease, and together we don’t play well with others. So, no roommate. Anyway, that’s the gist of our conversation, but I swear I stood out on my porch for twenty minutes before I could get rid of this woman. Evidently she’s looking for a place down in Florida. She hates how damp it is in New England. All I can do is smile and quietly think about how much less damp it will be living in a swamp down south. Uh huh. And then, as I’m holding onto the newspaper she’s given me, we finally start to exchange goodbyes, and she informs me that she’s sorry the newspaper is a little messed up. I look at it and shrug. It is a little funky, like it’s been shoved back together in the wrong order, and it’s crumpled. Then, she says, “Yea, I wasn’t thinking about it, and I threw it away. And then I thought maybe you’d be interested in that place in Southwick, so I fished it out of the trash for you.” Uh huh. THANKS. Good bye Crazy Lady. Have you met Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants? You two would be perfect for each other. Maybe you could get a matching motorcycle, and the two of you could ride off into the sunset together, fishing greasy newspapers out of the trash and foisting them on unsuspecting young spinsters who are too polite to tell you both to shove off.
Yes. Tekoa Mt. Apartments is definitely a level in hell.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Spinstering with Bathos
OK, so it's been forever and a day since I've posted yet another spinstering adventure. The truth is, my life has settled down into a monotonous routine these past several weeks, punctuated by events involving one hundred and fifty yards of silk, 2000-seat auditoriums, interminable meetings, and the ever elusive definition of continuing scholarship.
Exciting, huh?
This semester, in my Intro to Theatre class, I showed my students the recent film version of THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO as a good example of modern melodrama. This film makes me laugh every time I see it. Here we have our virtuous protagonist, the young, naive Edmund Dantes, brought down in the prime of his life. The man has everything: he was just made captain of a ship, his sweetheart, the lovely Mercedes, has accepted his marriage proposal, they just got busy with it down on the beach--all is right with the world. And then, Dantes is sent to the prison Chateau D'If, to rot for crimes he didn't commit.
Bummer, dude.
But like in all good melodrama, the virtuous protagonist prevails in the end. In prison, Edmund hooks up with this mentor, Faria, who teaches Edmund to read and write, and also gives him a map to a vast buried treasure. Of course, Edmund escapes the Chateau D'If, finds the treasure, plots his revenge, and then carries out that plot. And, in the big finale, he kills his one-time-best-friend-but-now-arch nemesis Fernand; he reclaims his sweetheart, Mercedes; finds out she only married Fernand because she was preggers (by Edmund, the rascal), and Fernand's son Albert is really his.
Way to go, Edmund.
The end of the movie is my favorite part. The film shows Edmund, Mercedes, their son Albert, and Edmund's wacky pirate sidekick Jacapo on the cliff of the Chateau D'If. Edmund has bought the island prison, thinking he would destroy it. But he has realized, now that he's exacted his revenge and killed Fernand (and gotten away with murder), that he has everything he ever wanted. So, Edmund walks off into the sunset with his happy little family. The final shot of the film is Edmund's prison cell, where over thirteen years of tortured imprisonment, he has carved into the wall (with who knows what implement, but just smile and nod) the phrase: God Will Grant Me Justice.
Hmmm. The moral of the story: Go ahead and take revenge on your enemies, its biblical justice for sure . . . ?
Anyway, I ask my students to write a short, one-page paper on why this film is a good example of melodrama, and I'm glad I did it. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have learned the following (and I'm quoting directly, verbatim):
All these elements make "The Count of Monte Cristo" a story with distinct traits of melodrama. This film is a great example of melodrama because it uses these examples without making the story overdramatic and without creating bathos.
Hmmm.
It's good to know that the movie has distinct traits of melodrama and not any of those lesser, wishy-washy traits.
I'm also glad to know that overdramatic is one word and not two. Imagine my surprise.
It's also good to know that a great example can use examples. Yeah.
But I must say the observation made about bathos is most astute.
Bathos.
Yes, now that someone's mentioned it, I noted the distinct lack of bathos is this movie. Indeed, that is certainly a characteristic missing in most melodrama. Perhaps I should consult the pond of the gods on this matter. Or would that be overdramatic?
Exciting, huh?
This semester, in my Intro to Theatre class, I showed my students the recent film version of THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO as a good example of modern melodrama. This film makes me laugh every time I see it. Here we have our virtuous protagonist, the young, naive Edmund Dantes, brought down in the prime of his life. The man has everything: he was just made captain of a ship, his sweetheart, the lovely Mercedes, has accepted his marriage proposal, they just got busy with it down on the beach--all is right with the world. And then, Dantes is sent to the prison Chateau D'If, to rot for crimes he didn't commit.
Bummer, dude.
But like in all good melodrama, the virtuous protagonist prevails in the end. In prison, Edmund hooks up with this mentor, Faria, who teaches Edmund to read and write, and also gives him a map to a vast buried treasure. Of course, Edmund escapes the Chateau D'If, finds the treasure, plots his revenge, and then carries out that plot. And, in the big finale, he kills his one-time-best-friend-but-now-arch nemesis Fernand; he reclaims his sweetheart, Mercedes; finds out she only married Fernand because she was preggers (by Edmund, the rascal), and Fernand's son Albert is really his.
Way to go, Edmund.
The end of the movie is my favorite part. The film shows Edmund, Mercedes, their son Albert, and Edmund's wacky pirate sidekick Jacapo on the cliff of the Chateau D'If. Edmund has bought the island prison, thinking he would destroy it. But he has realized, now that he's exacted his revenge and killed Fernand (and gotten away with murder), that he has everything he ever wanted. So, Edmund walks off into the sunset with his happy little family. The final shot of the film is Edmund's prison cell, where over thirteen years of tortured imprisonment, he has carved into the wall (with who knows what implement, but just smile and nod) the phrase: God Will Grant Me Justice.
Hmmm. The moral of the story: Go ahead and take revenge on your enemies, its biblical justice for sure . . . ?
Anyway, I ask my students to write a short, one-page paper on why this film is a good example of melodrama, and I'm glad I did it. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have learned the following (and I'm quoting directly, verbatim):
All these elements make "The Count of Monte Cristo" a story with distinct traits of melodrama. This film is a great example of melodrama because it uses these examples without making the story overdramatic and without creating bathos.
Hmmm.
It's good to know that the movie has distinct traits of melodrama and not any of those lesser, wishy-washy traits.
I'm also glad to know that overdramatic is one word and not two. Imagine my surprise.
It's also good to know that a great example can use examples. Yeah.
But I must say the observation made about bathos is most astute.
Bathos.
Yes, now that someone's mentioned it, I noted the distinct lack of bathos is this movie. Indeed, that is certainly a characteristic missing in most melodrama. Perhaps I should consult the pond of the gods on this matter. Or would that be overdramatic?
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Festive Spinstering
So, I'm at the American College Theatre Festival (ACTF) with my colleagues and nearly twenty of our students. Our production of FRANKENSTEIN was selected to compete in the festival. Very cool. We loaded everything in tonight. And, we peform tomorrow afternoon.
It's midnight. I've just got back from loading in costumes, lights, scenery, and sound equipment into the performance space. Now is the time for my minor panic attack.
Actually, things are doing really well. All is calm on the spinster front. We have a lot to do tomorrow, but it will get done and done beautifully. I have absolute faith.
In the meantime, I've been enjoying a few quiet moments here and there, reading Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum books. If you haven't heard of these books, you need to crawl out from under the rock you've been living under and go find a copy. They're hilarious. Stephanie is a bounty hunter. This would be like me becoming a bounty hunter. In the latest book, she starts out by apprehending an FTA (that's fancy bounty hunter talk for someone who's failed to appear in court) named Punky who, completely plastered, has stripped off all of his clothes and has greased himself all over with Vaseline in an attempt to avoid apprehension.
I'm keeping in mind this weekend that things could be worse. I could be wrestling cuffs onto a large, buck nacked, hairy butted man who's snockered and covered in Vaseline. Compared to this, teching FRANKENSTEIN in less than six hours will be a piece of Tastycake.
It's midnight. I've just got back from loading in costumes, lights, scenery, and sound equipment into the performance space. Now is the time for my minor panic attack.
Actually, things are doing really well. All is calm on the spinster front. We have a lot to do tomorrow, but it will get done and done beautifully. I have absolute faith.
In the meantime, I've been enjoying a few quiet moments here and there, reading Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum books. If you haven't heard of these books, you need to crawl out from under the rock you've been living under and go find a copy. They're hilarious. Stephanie is a bounty hunter. This would be like me becoming a bounty hunter. In the latest book, she starts out by apprehending an FTA (that's fancy bounty hunter talk for someone who's failed to appear in court) named Punky who, completely plastered, has stripped off all of his clothes and has greased himself all over with Vaseline in an attempt to avoid apprehension.
I'm keeping in mind this weekend that things could be worse. I could be wrestling cuffs onto a large, buck nacked, hairy butted man who's snockered and covered in Vaseline. Compared to this, teching FRANKENSTEIN in less than six hours will be a piece of Tastycake.