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.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
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.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Spinstering With The Grandma III
Sweet Jeebus, she's driving me crazy. How is it possible for a sweet, little old lady to be so . . . so . . . aaaaaargh!
Today, she needs to go to the post office.
Fine.
She needs to get dog food.
Fine.
And it HAS to be from PetCo (which happens to be at the center of a small nexus of evil along State Street in a crowded strip mall).
Fine.
Oh, and she needs bird seed too. (This involves wandering aimlessly around the giant PetCo while she mutters about not remembering what kind of birdseed it is she usually gets to feed the eight million obivously starving little birds outside--do you think they all sit outside her bedroom window at night sending her telepathic messages: Feed us, or we'll kill the little brown dog?)
Fine. We'll go to PetCo; we'll go to the post office.
In the meantime, she's asks me what do I want for breakfast/lunch (I slept late--which she has pointed out to me, as if I've somehow disrupted her plans for the day; but it's not like she couldn't have gotten me up earlier).
Hmmmmm. I look inside the fridge.
Turkey leftovers.
Hmmmm, I've been eating those at least twice a day for two days now. And let's face it, I'm not crazy about turkey. It's really the crap you get along with the turkey that I get excited about: the stuffing, the mashed potatoes and gravy, the sweet potatoes--all the stuff that you slather the turkey in to give it taste. But those things are long gone. Besides, it's all the stuff you can make with the turkey later, like turkey tetrazzini, turkey chili, turkey enchiladas that I like about turkey leftovers. Notice how none of these things involve slathering two slices of dry bread with mayonaise, throwing a chunk of cold turkey on it, and then for some reason calling it a sandwich.
And, as full as the fridge appears, we really only have a strange assortment of cheese products (not like real cheese, but Kraft cheese in various sizes, shapes, and colors), precooked microwaveable bacon, two cartons of eggs, some rotting vegetables, some stale restaurant leftovers from some time last week, and some low carb bread in there. Out of sheer self-preservation, I scrambled two eggs for lunch.
And now, I'm sure she's wondering why I'm sitting typing at the computer and not toting her off to the post office--mind you she'll wait in the car at the post office (so why is she coming along at all?).
I love her. I do. She just drives me bonkers.
And she's just brought me a Russian teacake cookie. Sure, it's been in a tin in the garage for a month, but she found them at last. And she made them especially for me. A month ago.
You want another sordid truth . . .? I like the Russian teacake cookies, but they're not my favorite. I really, really like the little pudding cookies she makes for Erik. But if I eat them, she scolds me and tells me those are Erik's cookies.
Yes, of course they are. That's why I wait for her to retire to her room for the night and then I raid the forbidden cookies. Don't worry, Erik, I'll save some for you! But only if you get back here soon and keep me from throttling a cute little old grandma.
Today, she needs to go to the post office.
Fine.
She needs to get dog food.
Fine.
And it HAS to be from PetCo (which happens to be at the center of a small nexus of evil along State Street in a crowded strip mall).
Fine.
Oh, and she needs bird seed too. (This involves wandering aimlessly around the giant PetCo while she mutters about not remembering what kind of birdseed it is she usually gets to feed the eight million obivously starving little birds outside--do you think they all sit outside her bedroom window at night sending her telepathic messages: Feed us, or we'll kill the little brown dog?)
Fine. We'll go to PetCo; we'll go to the post office.
In the meantime, she's asks me what do I want for breakfast/lunch (I slept late--which she has pointed out to me, as if I've somehow disrupted her plans for the day; but it's not like she couldn't have gotten me up earlier).
Hmmmmm. I look inside the fridge.
Turkey leftovers.
Hmmmm, I've been eating those at least twice a day for two days now. And let's face it, I'm not crazy about turkey. It's really the crap you get along with the turkey that I get excited about: the stuffing, the mashed potatoes and gravy, the sweet potatoes--all the stuff that you slather the turkey in to give it taste. But those things are long gone. Besides, it's all the stuff you can make with the turkey later, like turkey tetrazzini, turkey chili, turkey enchiladas that I like about turkey leftovers. Notice how none of these things involve slathering two slices of dry bread with mayonaise, throwing a chunk of cold turkey on it, and then for some reason calling it a sandwich.
And, as full as the fridge appears, we really only have a strange assortment of cheese products (not like real cheese, but Kraft cheese in various sizes, shapes, and colors), precooked microwaveable bacon, two cartons of eggs, some rotting vegetables, some stale restaurant leftovers from some time last week, and some low carb bread in there. Out of sheer self-preservation, I scrambled two eggs for lunch.
And now, I'm sure she's wondering why I'm sitting typing at the computer and not toting her off to the post office--mind you she'll wait in the car at the post office (so why is she coming along at all?).
I love her. I do. She just drives me bonkers.
And she's just brought me a Russian teacake cookie. Sure, it's been in a tin in the garage for a month, but she found them at last. And she made them especially for me. A month ago.
You want another sordid truth . . .? I like the Russian teacake cookies, but they're not my favorite. I really, really like the little pudding cookies she makes for Erik. But if I eat them, she scolds me and tells me those are Erik's cookies.
Yes, of course they are. That's why I wait for her to retire to her room for the night and then I raid the forbidden cookies. Don't worry, Erik, I'll save some for you! But only if you get back here soon and keep me from throttling a cute little old grandma.
Friday, December 23, 2005
Spinstering With The Grandma II
OK, so I know I said there would be more on my adventures with The Grandma in the wilds of New England over Turkey Day, but this entry isn't one of them. This entry's sole purpose is to ponder the motivations of The Grandma at Christmas time.
Every year The Grandma gets some weird notion in her head that she must get the three grandchildren (and now this includes the fabulous fiance as well)some sort of themed gift. One year it was harmonicas. For several years in a row she got us all flashlights. This year, I'm not sure if there is one single themed gift she is bestowing on the grandchildren. Truth is, she hasn't had much of an opportunity to shop. My mother has been insanely busy popping out babies left and right. She saw 31 patients the other day while her co-worker, the other midwife in the practice, delivered THREE babies. (Question to the people of Rockford, have you ever heard of birth control, or maybe reading a book?)
Anyway, this has left me as the official driver, errand-runner, and Toter of The Grandma To All Various and Sundry Places All Over the City Regardless of How Insane the Traffic Is. I don't mind. Mostly. It seems this year, however, she has gotten it into her head that she MUST find and purchase a wall clock for a certain couple's new(ish) apartment. Oh, Sweet Jeebus help me. We looked at Target. We looked at Gordmans. I questioned the sanity of this expedition. And then, we looked at Kohl's. They had all of six wall clocks to choose from, but The Grandma was insistent on selecting one. For a moment, she had her eye on a wooden one with a brassy metal pendulum. It'd be perfect . . . for The Grandma's bathroom. And then, she had her eye on a simple silver one that reminded me of a hubcap with a clock face in it. It'd be perfect . . . for Monster Garage.
In the meantime, I'm making noncommittal noises as she asks me "What about this one?" Hmmm . . . yeah, that's a nice clock. And, I'm entertaining myself looking at the kitchen clocks all shaped like kitchen appliances and gadgets--a coffee pot, for example. I picked up the one that looks like a toaster with a little piece of toast popping out the top and laugh.
"You like that one?"
Oh great, now I've made it look like I think this is the clock to buy. Hmmmmmm . . . yeah, that's a nice clock.
"You think they'll like that one?"
Hmmmm . . . . I think it's cute and kinda funny. And a tiny bit tacky. And kitsch. I shrug and don't make eye contact. Not that tacky kitsch isn't OK, but I'm not sure it's at all what the couple would want. Besides, I don't think they have any wall space in their tiny one-booty kitchen.
Oh, well.
Twenty minutes later (because it took that long to make our way to the registers and check out), we're picking our way out of the parking lot, the new toaster-themed clock in the back of my car. Great, and on Christmas morning, I get to say I helped pick it out. Joy. The news will be made that much more teeth grindingly fun when they all realize I got to pick out my own present from The Grandma, since I took her shopping. I wrapped it myself and put it under the tree. I got to wrap the clock too. Wrapping is part of the Driving Miss Grandma job.
Never fear. The Grandma's kept all her receipts. Now if she can only find them. She's put them in a "safe" place.
Every year The Grandma gets some weird notion in her head that she must get the three grandchildren (and now this includes the fabulous fiance as well)some sort of themed gift. One year it was harmonicas. For several years in a row she got us all flashlights. This year, I'm not sure if there is one single themed gift she is bestowing on the grandchildren. Truth is, she hasn't had much of an opportunity to shop. My mother has been insanely busy popping out babies left and right. She saw 31 patients the other day while her co-worker, the other midwife in the practice, delivered THREE babies. (Question to the people of Rockford, have you ever heard of birth control, or maybe reading a book?)
Anyway, this has left me as the official driver, errand-runner, and Toter of The Grandma To All Various and Sundry Places All Over the City Regardless of How Insane the Traffic Is. I don't mind. Mostly. It seems this year, however, she has gotten it into her head that she MUST find and purchase a wall clock for a certain couple's new(ish) apartment. Oh, Sweet Jeebus help me. We looked at Target. We looked at Gordmans. I questioned the sanity of this expedition. And then, we looked at Kohl's. They had all of six wall clocks to choose from, but The Grandma was insistent on selecting one. For a moment, she had her eye on a wooden one with a brassy metal pendulum. It'd be perfect . . . for The Grandma's bathroom. And then, she had her eye on a simple silver one that reminded me of a hubcap with a clock face in it. It'd be perfect . . . for Monster Garage.
In the meantime, I'm making noncommittal noises as she asks me "What about this one?" Hmmm . . . yeah, that's a nice clock. And, I'm entertaining myself looking at the kitchen clocks all shaped like kitchen appliances and gadgets--a coffee pot, for example. I picked up the one that looks like a toaster with a little piece of toast popping out the top and laugh.
"You like that one?"
Oh great, now I've made it look like I think this is the clock to buy. Hmmmmmm . . . yeah, that's a nice clock.
"You think they'll like that one?"
Hmmmm . . . . I think it's cute and kinda funny. And a tiny bit tacky. And kitsch. I shrug and don't make eye contact. Not that tacky kitsch isn't OK, but I'm not sure it's at all what the couple would want. Besides, I don't think they have any wall space in their tiny one-booty kitchen.
Oh, well.
Twenty minutes later (because it took that long to make our way to the registers and check out), we're picking our way out of the parking lot, the new toaster-themed clock in the back of my car. Great, and on Christmas morning, I get to say I helped pick it out. Joy. The news will be made that much more teeth grindingly fun when they all realize I got to pick out my own present from The Grandma, since I took her shopping. I wrapped it myself and put it under the tree. I got to wrap the clock too. Wrapping is part of the Driving Miss Grandma job.
Never fear. The Grandma's kept all her receipts. Now if she can only find them. She's put them in a "safe" place.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
A Spinster Winter's Tale
My apartment complex is comprised of several odd little buildings on a plot of land half surrounded by a wooded "mountain" (hence the clever name, Tekoa Mountain Apartments). There are about 27 units in this complex, mine being in the back of the property, hedged in by several other units, all with their own, private outdoor entrances and backdoors leading out onto a green expanse of lawn, and of course, Tekoa "mountain" (I say "mountain" because it's more like an over-glorified hillside with lots and lots of trees). The wooded "mountainside" is home to all sorts of little and not-so-little woodland creatures. Some, I've seen with my own eyes--a fisher cat, for example, which is evidently some strange creature from the weasel family that likes to eat squirrels, and not an animal I'd like to have any sort of personal encounter with. There have been bear sightings in the woods out back. And, of course, there is an abundance of fuzzy little woodland creatures like raccoons, bunnies, chipmunks, squirrels.
Now, here in the frigid northeast, it gets dark by 4:30. The Ted, however, doesn't really care and still insists that I walk him after dark. No problem. I walk him in the lighted areas in front of my apartment and around the small property (and I use "lighted" in the loosest sense of the word--there are lights, and they emit a sort of luminescent glow, but it's more decorative than functional, but it's better than nothing which is what is out back).
So, I'm out walking the Ted--he has a routine when we walk, a list of specific points where he feels the need to leave his liquid calling card, places where he needs to snort around to see what's up with the other dogs in the apartment complex. So, we sort of follow a route around the property. And, on this particular occassion, the Ted has decided to poop in one of his usual spots. It's dark. It's about 7:30 at night. I've had a long, long, long day at work, involving adventures with irate strange students and endless department meetings. And, to top it off, I had no heat or hot water the day/evening before, nor that morning. So, I've been heating the apartment with my oven, and I havnen't been able to shower in over 24 hours. I'm tired. I smell. I haven't eaten since that morning. I'm standing, in the cold, in the dark, waiting for the Ted to finish his business, fumbling with the little baggy dispenser on his leash so I can clean up after he's finished with his business, and I suddenly hear this old, cranky, disembodied voice.
"Why are you letting your dog poop in my yard?"
I'm tired, and my brain's cogs are cranking at an unusally slow pace. My first reaction is, where is that voice coming from? I look around to see a floating head backlit in a small window of the nearest apartment. It's the kind of window they stick in a bathroom, it's small, and relatively useless--kind of like the outdoor lighting. And then, my next reaction is, YOUR YARD?? Where in your lease does it say this patch of grass belongs to you? I, of course, have yet to respond to Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants' floating head, so it speaks again.
"What do you let your dog poop in my yard for?"
By now, my brain has defrosted a bit, The Ted is finished with his business, and I'm scooping it up in a baggy. I respond, trying not to be rude, "Don't worry, I'm cleaning it up."
Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants doesn't hear me, or he doesn't care--I don't know, he's busy doing something in his bathroom while screaming at me. "Why don't you walk your dog out in your own backyard? You've got all that space back there."
Hmmmm, you mean the pitch black field adjacent to the wooded "mountain", Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants? Where there have been bear sightings? "There's no light back there. The areas out front here are lighted at night." And I'm a total clutz and have a strange need to see where I'm going without getting mauled by happy little woodland creatures or falling flat on my face because the ground is uneven.
Again, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants doesn't seem to understand my crazy moon language. "How would you like it if I walked my dog in front of your apartment, and just let me him poop wherever?"
I'm tying closed the baggy I've scooped Teddy's poop up with--and let it be known, I'm one of the only tenants that cleans up after their pet, and Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants is NOT one of those chosen few who follow my example. I stared back at the floating head of Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants and replied as sweetly as possible, "I don't care where you walk your dog, as long as you clean up after it." And, at that I left Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants to grumble incoherently as I walked over to the dumster and chucked in my little blue plastic baggy of Teddy poo.
What makes this even crazier is that I've had polite conversation with Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants, on multiple occassions, one just recently. So where is this sudden animosity coming from? And where does it say on his lease that this corner of grass belongs to him? Bite me, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. He, I'm sure, HAD heat and hot water for the last 24 hours. He's probably had a hot shower today. He's probably eaten dinner by now. I didn't see him at my interminable meeting. And whatever he's doing in his bathroom, screaming out the window at me, I don't know. But he and his poopy little dog can take long, midnight strolls in the field out back of my apartment any night they want. And get mauled by a bear. Or fall in a dark sink hole where no one will find them until morning because there's absolutely NO LIGHT back there.
What's that I hear--it's that fabulous Christmas tune: "It's the most wonderful time of the year . . ." Hmmm, yes. The Holiday season where everyone's full of happy holiday cheer. Happy Holidays, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. Teddy has a present for you. I wrapped it myself in this cheerful little blue plastic bag. Enjoy.
Now, here in the frigid northeast, it gets dark by 4:30. The Ted, however, doesn't really care and still insists that I walk him after dark. No problem. I walk him in the lighted areas in front of my apartment and around the small property (and I use "lighted" in the loosest sense of the word--there are lights, and they emit a sort of luminescent glow, but it's more decorative than functional, but it's better than nothing which is what is out back).
So, I'm out walking the Ted--he has a routine when we walk, a list of specific points where he feels the need to leave his liquid calling card, places where he needs to snort around to see what's up with the other dogs in the apartment complex. So, we sort of follow a route around the property. And, on this particular occassion, the Ted has decided to poop in one of his usual spots. It's dark. It's about 7:30 at night. I've had a long, long, long day at work, involving adventures with irate strange students and endless department meetings. And, to top it off, I had no heat or hot water the day/evening before, nor that morning. So, I've been heating the apartment with my oven, and I havnen't been able to shower in over 24 hours. I'm tired. I smell. I haven't eaten since that morning. I'm standing, in the cold, in the dark, waiting for the Ted to finish his business, fumbling with the little baggy dispenser on his leash so I can clean up after he's finished with his business, and I suddenly hear this old, cranky, disembodied voice.
"Why are you letting your dog poop in my yard?"
I'm tired, and my brain's cogs are cranking at an unusally slow pace. My first reaction is, where is that voice coming from? I look around to see a floating head backlit in a small window of the nearest apartment. It's the kind of window they stick in a bathroom, it's small, and relatively useless--kind of like the outdoor lighting. And then, my next reaction is, YOUR YARD?? Where in your lease does it say this patch of grass belongs to you? I, of course, have yet to respond to Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants' floating head, so it speaks again.
"What do you let your dog poop in my yard for?"
By now, my brain has defrosted a bit, The Ted is finished with his business, and I'm scooping it up in a baggy. I respond, trying not to be rude, "Don't worry, I'm cleaning it up."
Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants doesn't hear me, or he doesn't care--I don't know, he's busy doing something in his bathroom while screaming at me. "Why don't you walk your dog out in your own backyard? You've got all that space back there."
Hmmmm, you mean the pitch black field adjacent to the wooded "mountain", Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants? Where there have been bear sightings? "There's no light back there. The areas out front here are lighted at night." And I'm a total clutz and have a strange need to see where I'm going without getting mauled by happy little woodland creatures or falling flat on my face because the ground is uneven.
Again, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants doesn't seem to understand my crazy moon language. "How would you like it if I walked my dog in front of your apartment, and just let me him poop wherever?"
I'm tying closed the baggy I've scooped Teddy's poop up with--and let it be known, I'm one of the only tenants that cleans up after their pet, and Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants is NOT one of those chosen few who follow my example. I stared back at the floating head of Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants and replied as sweetly as possible, "I don't care where you walk your dog, as long as you clean up after it." And, at that I left Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants to grumble incoherently as I walked over to the dumster and chucked in my little blue plastic baggy of Teddy poo.
What makes this even crazier is that I've had polite conversation with Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants, on multiple occassions, one just recently. So where is this sudden animosity coming from? And where does it say on his lease that this corner of grass belongs to him? Bite me, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. He, I'm sure, HAD heat and hot water for the last 24 hours. He's probably had a hot shower today. He's probably eaten dinner by now. I didn't see him at my interminable meeting. And whatever he's doing in his bathroom, screaming out the window at me, I don't know. But he and his poopy little dog can take long, midnight strolls in the field out back of my apartment any night they want. And get mauled by a bear. Or fall in a dark sink hole where no one will find them until morning because there's absolutely NO LIGHT back there.
What's that I hear--it's that fabulous Christmas tune: "It's the most wonderful time of the year . . ." Hmmm, yes. The Holiday season where everyone's full of happy holiday cheer. Happy Holidays, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. Teddy has a present for you. I wrapped it myself in this cheerful little blue plastic bag. Enjoy.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Spinstering With The Grandma
So, you all wonder, what's happened to the Spinster2000? Has she finally been arrested for all her crazy spinstering ways? Has she at last reformed her degenerate, spinster lifestyle? Or, was she merely too caught up in her wild, spinstering activities to report any of her adventures? Well . . .
OK, so my life in the past four weeks has been jam-packed, but mostly with work. Exciting? Well, I did make a 6'-2" male student into a woman with a larger rack than my own (oh my costuming powers are awesome . . . you may all cower in fear at my abilities . . . muahahahahahaaa!). I ordered a number of Edwardian corsets from a website called www.LoveFifi.com, using the college's money. I hunted down a pair of black, heeled dress shoes in a size 14. And, I got the sweetest pair of argyle knee socks from another website called www.GolfKnickers.com (oh yes, GolfKnickers.com . . . . they have 60 color combinations of golf knickers and argyle knee socks FOR MEN who wish to wear traditional golfing apparel . . . though why any man would choose to wear knickers and argyle knee socks . . . would the DOH want a set for the holidays??).
Needless to say, I've been working 16 hour days, kicking some serious booty when it comes to costumes and sets for the English Department's production of THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST. I will be posting some choice pictures in the near future for everyone to marvel at (muahahahahahahaaa!).
The Grandma arrived on OPENING NIGHT, heaven help me. I had to teach classes and work on last minute stuff for the show, so I had to send students to go and get her from the airport. I was in the middle of my Scenic Design class, and my students are all presenting their midterm projects when I get a panicked phone call from one of the students sent to fetch The Grandma . . . "Any clues on what she looks like? We can't find her." Oh, sweet Jeebus. Uhh, she looks like a grandma: older, white and grey/black hair, SHORT, plump--you know, like a grandma is supposed to look.
In the meantime, I return to my class and attempt to give my full attention to my scenic design students, all the while wondering what my mother will say when I tell her that The Grandma disappeared somewhere at the Hartford airport, probably abducted by hungry ninjas wanting her to bake an apple pie. Then, finally, about ten or fifteen minutes later I get a follow-up phone call: "We've found her and we're in the car." I can hear the Grandma saying something in the background (probably something like "Was that a yellow light you just sped through? Slow down, we're going over 30 miles per hour." And the response being something like "But we're on the interstate . . .").
OK, so I didn't get any reports from The Grandma that the kids were driving too fast. I think one of the students even provided Sinatra music to listen to on the ride back, but I'm not sure. I was expecting to hear about all the embarrassing stories (you know, the typical Grandma fare, like "I'm so proud of my Ellie, blah blah blah," since that's usually the first thing out of The Grandma's mouth when she's talking to strangers about me.) But I've been told that nothing of the sort was discussed on the ride back from the airport. Or, at least, it hasn't appeared on the student's Green Room blog, or in the student newspaper yet.
The show went off without a hitch, and everyone's been saying good things about it. I know I enjoyed watching it again last Friday night. And, now, thankfully, it is over. That is the glorious thing about theatre--it's ephemeral, transient, TEMPORARY INSANITY with a deadline that comes and goes and leaves utter exhaustion in its wake. The important thing is that it comes and goes and then it's FINISHED. On this show in particular THAT aspect was a very good thing. Left to my own devices, I'd probably still be stitching more trim onto the costumes, and painting more details onto the set.
Well, I'll share more about the adventures of Spinster2000 and The Grandma soon. For now, just remember that "In matters of import, style not sincerity is the vital thing."
OK, so my life in the past four weeks has been jam-packed, but mostly with work. Exciting? Well, I did make a 6'-2" male student into a woman with a larger rack than my own (oh my costuming powers are awesome . . . you may all cower in fear at my abilities . . . muahahahahahaaa!). I ordered a number of Edwardian corsets from a website called www.LoveFifi.com, using the college's money. I hunted down a pair of black, heeled dress shoes in a size 14. And, I got the sweetest pair of argyle knee socks from another website called www.GolfKnickers.com (oh yes, GolfKnickers.com . . . . they have 60 color combinations of golf knickers and argyle knee socks FOR MEN who wish to wear traditional golfing apparel . . . though why any man would choose to wear knickers and argyle knee socks . . . would the DOH want a set for the holidays??).
Needless to say, I've been working 16 hour days, kicking some serious booty when it comes to costumes and sets for the English Department's production of THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST. I will be posting some choice pictures in the near future for everyone to marvel at (muahahahahahahaaa!).
The Grandma arrived on OPENING NIGHT, heaven help me. I had to teach classes and work on last minute stuff for the show, so I had to send students to go and get her from the airport. I was in the middle of my Scenic Design class, and my students are all presenting their midterm projects when I get a panicked phone call from one of the students sent to fetch The Grandma . . . "Any clues on what she looks like? We can't find her." Oh, sweet Jeebus. Uhh, she looks like a grandma: older, white and grey/black hair, SHORT, plump--you know, like a grandma is supposed to look.
In the meantime, I return to my class and attempt to give my full attention to my scenic design students, all the while wondering what my mother will say when I tell her that The Grandma disappeared somewhere at the Hartford airport, probably abducted by hungry ninjas wanting her to bake an apple pie. Then, finally, about ten or fifteen minutes later I get a follow-up phone call: "We've found her and we're in the car." I can hear the Grandma saying something in the background (probably something like "Was that a yellow light you just sped through? Slow down, we're going over 30 miles per hour." And the response being something like "But we're on the interstate . . .").
OK, so I didn't get any reports from The Grandma that the kids were driving too fast. I think one of the students even provided Sinatra music to listen to on the ride back, but I'm not sure. I was expecting to hear about all the embarrassing stories (you know, the typical Grandma fare, like "I'm so proud of my Ellie, blah blah blah," since that's usually the first thing out of The Grandma's mouth when she's talking to strangers about me.) But I've been told that nothing of the sort was discussed on the ride back from the airport. Or, at least, it hasn't appeared on the student's Green Room blog, or in the student newspaper yet.
The show went off without a hitch, and everyone's been saying good things about it. I know I enjoyed watching it again last Friday night. And, now, thankfully, it is over. That is the glorious thing about theatre--it's ephemeral, transient, TEMPORARY INSANITY with a deadline that comes and goes and leaves utter exhaustion in its wake. The important thing is that it comes and goes and then it's FINISHED. On this show in particular THAT aspect was a very good thing. Left to my own devices, I'd probably still be stitching more trim onto the costumes, and painting more details onto the set.
Well, I'll share more about the adventures of Spinster2000 and The Grandma soon. For now, just remember that "In matters of import, style not sincerity is the vital thing."
Friday, October 21, 2005
Spinstering With A Pond of the Gods
Did you know that Oedipus was a pond of the gods? One of my Intro to Theatre students just cleared that question up for me. Now that I know, that particular Greek tragedy makes so much more sense . . .
Things are in full swing at the good ol' WSC. I just watched a run through of the Fall show, THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST. For being nearly four weeks out from opening night, they're looking amazing.
Sweet Jeebus, we're only four weeks away from opening night. Where did the semester go? Maybe it drowned in that pesky pond of the gods . . .
Anyway, spinstering adventures have been at a minimum, since I've been spending most of my time either working or sleeping--mostly working. I've got myself a hired gun for the costume shop, a woman who works in the bookstore downstairs and has done costuming before. I'm pleased as punch, or so the Brits would say, at having her help. Don't get me wrong, I love my little studentkas, but they work about four times slower than I do, and there comes a point in the semester where things have to get done, or we'll have naked people on stage. Hmmmm, naked people on stage . . . it would sell more tickets . . . perhaps I should consult the pond . . .
Things are in full swing at the good ol' WSC. I just watched a run through of the Fall show, THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST. For being nearly four weeks out from opening night, they're looking amazing.
Sweet Jeebus, we're only four weeks away from opening night. Where did the semester go? Maybe it drowned in that pesky pond of the gods . . .
Anyway, spinstering adventures have been at a minimum, since I've been spending most of my time either working or sleeping--mostly working. I've got myself a hired gun for the costume shop, a woman who works in the bookstore downstairs and has done costuming before. I'm pleased as punch, or so the Brits would say, at having her help. Don't get me wrong, I love my little studentkas, but they work about four times slower than I do, and there comes a point in the semester where things have to get done, or we'll have naked people on stage. Hmmmm, naked people on stage . . . it would sell more tickets . . . perhaps I should consult the pond . . .
Monday, September 19, 2005
Spinster Security
Remember all the things I was promised would happen in my apartment before I moved in? The list involved things like replacing the blinds in the front room, replacing the lights in the bathroom, cleaning the stove, and replacing the burner cover thingys, and cleaning the carpets (again). Well, if you don't remember, the only task off this list that was accomplished prior to my move-in date was the matter of the carpets. They were sure clean. Otherwise, I was on my own. Somebody left a package of blinds, but other than that, I had to go out into the world myself and find all replacement materials--lights, burner cover thingys. I wasn't surprised, really. And, it's not like I can't put up blinds or fix the lights in the bathroom.
Well, this past week, amidst the craziness of the early semester mayhem, the maintenence man who lives on-site knocked on my door. His name is Bob. He is paid to work part time on the property, handling maintenece for over thirty apartments, as well as the grounds. So, I have a good amount of sympathy for Bob, and not a whole lot of sympathy for the management company that seems to think having a part time maintenence guy is sufficent for my apartment complex. Anyway, Bob knocked on my door, asking about the laundry list of things that were supposed to be done in the apartment before I moved in.
I moved in four weeks ago. And, though I understand the wheels of beaurocracy move slowly, am I really expected to wait four weeks to fix the lights in my bathroom, to replace the burner cover thingys on my stove, and to put up new blinds. I told Bob that I had indeed taken care of all of these things. He gave me this once-over, a surprised look on his face, and I had to bite back a remark (you know, something to the effect of, "Just because you keep your brains inbetween your legs, and since I don't have that oh-so-handy storage unit for my brains, does not mean I don't have brains. Moron." No, I was polite. I figured I could shock him by telling him things like how I can use a circular saw, a drill, and I even know how to arc weld. But I didn't want Bob feeling any more inferior than he already did.
Then Bob informed me that they're replacing all the locks on all the front doors in the apartment complex. So, we set up a time for him to come by and replace the deadbolt on my front door. Now, keep in mind, my apartment has a back door as well. Are we replacing that deadbolt? Oh, no. Why ever would that make any sense. Again, I'm being good and keeping my mouth shut. So, Bob was supposed to come by on Friday morning. He showed up Sunday afternoon.
All the time he's installing this new deadbolt--and there was a considerable amount of time put into installing this fancy new deadbolt--he's telling me about how great this new deadbolt is, how expensive it is, how you can't get the keys duplicated, and how NOBODY's coming through my front door once this thing is installed. Hmmmm. No, why would anybody try breaking in through my front door? They can use the back door that doesn't have this fancy new deadbolt. Or, better yet, they can climb in through the crappy windows that are only about 2 1/2 feet off the ground. Yes, I feel so much safer knowing my front door has this fancy new deadbolt that has a key that can't be duplicated so when I lose it I'll forever have to enter and exit my apartment through the backdoor (or the aforementioned windows). Yes, this is such a great idea.
Well, Bob leaves, having completed his task, and the first thing I do is to check that the deadbolt indeed works. It doesn't. It seems my key has to be in the lock for the deadbolt to turn. However, the deadbolt doesn't remain locked (in other words, I can't pull out the key once I've locked the door). Hmmm. This seems to defeat the purpose, no? So now I have a new deadbolt that doesn't work as opposed to the old one that did.
Anyway, I chased down Bob. Convinced him that, though I'm a woman missing the proper equipment that regularly stores your brains, the new lock was not working properly. I dragged him back to the apartment, and I had to physically show him that the deadbolt was indeed not working. He left to consult the almighty directions included with the new deadbolt (which he had not looked at before, heaven fobid!). Needless to say, I finally have a deadbolt that works. It only took several days, and three visits from Bob.
Well, this past week, amidst the craziness of the early semester mayhem, the maintenence man who lives on-site knocked on my door. His name is Bob. He is paid to work part time on the property, handling maintenece for over thirty apartments, as well as the grounds. So, I have a good amount of sympathy for Bob, and not a whole lot of sympathy for the management company that seems to think having a part time maintenence guy is sufficent for my apartment complex. Anyway, Bob knocked on my door, asking about the laundry list of things that were supposed to be done in the apartment before I moved in.
I moved in four weeks ago. And, though I understand the wheels of beaurocracy move slowly, am I really expected to wait four weeks to fix the lights in my bathroom, to replace the burner cover thingys on my stove, and to put up new blinds. I told Bob that I had indeed taken care of all of these things. He gave me this once-over, a surprised look on his face, and I had to bite back a remark (you know, something to the effect of, "Just because you keep your brains inbetween your legs, and since I don't have that oh-so-handy storage unit for my brains, does not mean I don't have brains. Moron." No, I was polite. I figured I could shock him by telling him things like how I can use a circular saw, a drill, and I even know how to arc weld. But I didn't want Bob feeling any more inferior than he already did.
Then Bob informed me that they're replacing all the locks on all the front doors in the apartment complex. So, we set up a time for him to come by and replace the deadbolt on my front door. Now, keep in mind, my apartment has a back door as well. Are we replacing that deadbolt? Oh, no. Why ever would that make any sense. Again, I'm being good and keeping my mouth shut. So, Bob was supposed to come by on Friday morning. He showed up Sunday afternoon.
All the time he's installing this new deadbolt--and there was a considerable amount of time put into installing this fancy new deadbolt--he's telling me about how great this new deadbolt is, how expensive it is, how you can't get the keys duplicated, and how NOBODY's coming through my front door once this thing is installed. Hmmmm. No, why would anybody try breaking in through my front door? They can use the back door that doesn't have this fancy new deadbolt. Or, better yet, they can climb in through the crappy windows that are only about 2 1/2 feet off the ground. Yes, I feel so much safer knowing my front door has this fancy new deadbolt that has a key that can't be duplicated so when I lose it I'll forever have to enter and exit my apartment through the backdoor (or the aforementioned windows). Yes, this is such a great idea.
Well, Bob leaves, having completed his task, and the first thing I do is to check that the deadbolt indeed works. It doesn't. It seems my key has to be in the lock for the deadbolt to turn. However, the deadbolt doesn't remain locked (in other words, I can't pull out the key once I've locked the door). Hmmm. This seems to defeat the purpose, no? So now I have a new deadbolt that doesn't work as opposed to the old one that did.
Anyway, I chased down Bob. Convinced him that, though I'm a woman missing the proper equipment that regularly stores your brains, the new lock was not working properly. I dragged him back to the apartment, and I had to physically show him that the deadbolt was indeed not working. He left to consult the almighty directions included with the new deadbolt (which he had not looked at before, heaven fobid!). Needless to say, I finally have a deadbolt that works. It only took several days, and three visits from Bob.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Spinster School Teacher Strikes Again
Well, yesterday was the first day of classes. Will I have munchkins or muggles? Only time will tell. The day went pretty smoothly, considering last year at this time I was freaked completely out of my head and so nervous I was probably visibly shaking. One thing did surprise me yesterday, however. I had several students, all of whom I worked with last year throughout both productions in the theatre department, come by to say hi, to chat, and to even exchange hugs. It was really nice to feel so welcomed back. I'm not sure I've ever worked in a place where I've felt so welcome.
Anyway, lots of things are happening. We're implementing big changes in the department's production schedule and structure. Jack, who usually directs the shows here, is on sabbatical (does that mean he's at home, or off somewhere exotic? . . . No, he's actually here, and I bet he'll be here almost everyday, even though he's not teaching any classes. Well, let's face it, the department wouldn't run nearly as smoothly without him), so, since Jack isn't teaching, Sabine is directing (the other new professor from last year). This is exciting. And the big thing right now is that we're having mega auditions for the show (we're doing The Importance of Being Earnest). In the meantime, the fledgling Student Theatre Association, the new student organized and run theatre club, is also having auditions for their first ever production. This is also very exciting, since I think it's great that these kids can have the chance to organize their own performances. I even suggested that they think about running Monologue nights or Improv nights. Sigh. I'm getting all nostalgic over the Cooper Dramatic Society.
Anyway, we're having a big theatre meeting with all the majors and minors, and anybody else we can rope into coming, on Monday, where we'll be announcing our big changes. It's going to be interesting to say the least. I hope the kids are going to be as excited as the professors. Only time will tell.
Anyway, lots of things are happening. We're implementing big changes in the department's production schedule and structure. Jack, who usually directs the shows here, is on sabbatical (does that mean he's at home, or off somewhere exotic? . . . No, he's actually here, and I bet he'll be here almost everyday, even though he's not teaching any classes. Well, let's face it, the department wouldn't run nearly as smoothly without him), so, since Jack isn't teaching, Sabine is directing (the other new professor from last year). This is exciting. And the big thing right now is that we're having mega auditions for the show (we're doing The Importance of Being Earnest). In the meantime, the fledgling Student Theatre Association, the new student organized and run theatre club, is also having auditions for their first ever production. This is also very exciting, since I think it's great that these kids can have the chance to organize their own performances. I even suggested that they think about running Monologue nights or Improv nights. Sigh. I'm getting all nostalgic over the Cooper Dramatic Society.
Anyway, we're having a big theatre meeting with all the majors and minors, and anybody else we can rope into coming, on Monday, where we'll be announcing our big changes. It's going to be interesting to say the least. I hope the kids are going to be as excited as the professors. Only time will tell.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Spinster Meltdown
I didn't know I lived in the tropics. Where are the cabana boys bearing fruity drinks with tiny umbrellas?
Oh, wait--I'm just delirious from all the heat and humidity. Everything in my apartment is covered with a thin sheen of moisture. All my clothes and bedding feel damp. And, one of my refridgerator magnets--it's about the size of a business card and I got it from the vet--is actually curling up at the edges.
Despite this, I have managed to make curtains, unpack most of my boxes, and hang pictures. Life is good. It's hot, but it's good.
I went to see The Brothers Grimm last week. I found out it was directed by Terry Gilliam, and I felt a need to see it. Besides, the movie theater is air conditioned. Though not quite as bizarre as Time Bandits or Baron Munchausen, Grimm certainly had its moments, like moving trees that eat people, and a grandmother toad that gets it on with Matt Damon (errr, sort of). The movie offers a little over two hours worth of entertainment, and I didn't once look at my watch. So, overall, I'd give it a thumbs up, but I'd say it's only worth the price of a matinee.
Last night was a bit of an adventure as well. I went to hang out with Adriel and her two girlfriends, all people I met at Chris' surprise birthday party. Why? you ask. Well, what else am I going to do? And, besides, though I'm not sure I have much in common with them, they're nice. And sometimes, it's good to have an evening with a bunch of girls to commiserate over the state of the world, shopping, and certain aspects of our respective families, all while eating good food and watching sappy movies.
I had a good time, though I'm still not sure what my place is in this group, if I even really have a place in this group of women. Which is not to say that Adriel hasn't made me feel amazingly welcome, or that her two friends haven't been very sweet. It' s just that they spent a large part of the evening planning on how to conceal their alcohol when they went to the Blandford Fair this weekend. Or, how they don't like getting high before driving home because they're terrified a cop will pull them over. Or, how intimidating Home Depot is when you're high. Ummmm . . . . yeah. Since I've never been to the Blandford Fair, I don't know if one needs to be smashed in order to enjoy it, so I really can't say whether this is a good plan or not. And, since driving while under the influence of anything aside from caffeine is a bad idea, I guess I can't fault the logical fear of being pulled over while high or intoxicated. As for going to Home Depot, high or not, that place can be overwhelming, especially when busy.
So, where does that leave me in the grand scheme of things? I suppose I get to fill the role of crime fighting vixen masquerading as sober, detached, spinster English professor. I'm good at playing that role. In the meantime, I'll care for a certain pointy-footed little black dog who likes to bark at my neighbors: roommates Mitsy and Ditzy to my right, and pot-smoking Mr. Weed to my left.
Good dog.
Oh, wait--I'm just delirious from all the heat and humidity. Everything in my apartment is covered with a thin sheen of moisture. All my clothes and bedding feel damp. And, one of my refridgerator magnets--it's about the size of a business card and I got it from the vet--is actually curling up at the edges.
Despite this, I have managed to make curtains, unpack most of my boxes, and hang pictures. Life is good. It's hot, but it's good.
I went to see The Brothers Grimm last week. I found out it was directed by Terry Gilliam, and I felt a need to see it. Besides, the movie theater is air conditioned. Though not quite as bizarre as Time Bandits or Baron Munchausen, Grimm certainly had its moments, like moving trees that eat people, and a grandmother toad that gets it on with Matt Damon (errr, sort of). The movie offers a little over two hours worth of entertainment, and I didn't once look at my watch. So, overall, I'd give it a thumbs up, but I'd say it's only worth the price of a matinee.
Last night was a bit of an adventure as well. I went to hang out with Adriel and her two girlfriends, all people I met at Chris' surprise birthday party. Why? you ask. Well, what else am I going to do? And, besides, though I'm not sure I have much in common with them, they're nice. And sometimes, it's good to have an evening with a bunch of girls to commiserate over the state of the world, shopping, and certain aspects of our respective families, all while eating good food and watching sappy movies.
I had a good time, though I'm still not sure what my place is in this group, if I even really have a place in this group of women. Which is not to say that Adriel hasn't made me feel amazingly welcome, or that her two friends haven't been very sweet. It' s just that they spent a large part of the evening planning on how to conceal their alcohol when they went to the Blandford Fair this weekend. Or, how they don't like getting high before driving home because they're terrified a cop will pull them over. Or, how intimidating Home Depot is when you're high. Ummmm . . . . yeah. Since I've never been to the Blandford Fair, I don't know if one needs to be smashed in order to enjoy it, so I really can't say whether this is a good plan or not. And, since driving while under the influence of anything aside from caffeine is a bad idea, I guess I can't fault the logical fear of being pulled over while high or intoxicated. As for going to Home Depot, high or not, that place can be overwhelming, especially when busy.
So, where does that leave me in the grand scheme of things? I suppose I get to fill the role of crime fighting vixen masquerading as sober, detached, spinster English professor. I'm good at playing that role. In the meantime, I'll care for a certain pointy-footed little black dog who likes to bark at my neighbors: roommates Mitsy and Ditzy to my right, and pot-smoking Mr. Weed to my left.
Good dog.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Spinster Landing
Well, I have somehow survived the trauma of moving. For those of you not on the immediate call list, I will quickly regale you of the events revolving the great exodus from the Avocado House in Mugwump.
I woke up bright and early that morning: 6am. No, I was not planning on getting up at oh-dark-early, but my brain had other plans for me. So, I was bolt upright, wide-awake at 6am, listening to the thunderstorm roaring overhead, thinking the weather would surely do this uncharacteristic torrential downpour ALL DAY. The rain only lasted an hour, but the humidity lasted far longer.
So, after taking a shower, packing up the rest of my bathroom stuff, loading up my pregnant roller skate car, I made a quick trip to Dunkin Donuts for food to bribe my co-workers with when they came to help schlepp stuff to my new place. I then headed from Mugwump into Westfield, about a fifteen mile drive, to the U-Haul rental place. I parked my pregnant roller skate car at a nearby closed chiropractor clinic, and waited for U-Haul Boy to open up the doors. Their parking lot had several trucks of varying sizes. I had reserved a ten foot "mini mover," since trucks frighten me, and I really don't own that much stuff. Earlier in the week, I had confirmed my reservation over the phone with U-Haul Boy. So, I hoped everything would be in order. I had been psyching myself up to drive the 10-foot mini-mover for nearly five days. I can handle ten feet of truck. That's not that big. I'll be fine. Ten feet. That's all. Yep, totally psyched up to drive the ten foot mini-mover.
Then, U-Haul Boy behind the counter asked me if I'd reserved the 17-foot truck. I guessed that nothing was in order. Lovely. I told U-Haul boy with the acne and greasy hair that NO, I did NOT reserve a 17-foot truck. Do the words OH HELL NO mean anything to you. I'm pretty sure I turned several shades whiter and grimaced. I showed him my computer printout detailing my reservation of a "mini-mover," and he gave it a cursory glance, typing something in his computer (probably an insulting notation about how stupid he thought I was). And then, U-Haul Boy gave me this line of BS about how they don't rent 10-foot trucks. I gave him this incredulous look, thinking if you don't rent 10-foot trucks, why are there three of them in your parking lot right now? And, if you don't rent 10-foot trucks, why was I able to reserve one on-line and then confirm that reservation over the phone? I didn't ask either of these questions. Why should I? Clearly I was thinking much too rationally about how to interact within the boundaries of Planet U-Haul, a place where they can lure you with 10-foot trucks and then foist 17-foot monstrosities upon you instead.
So, after listening to his excuse about only renting 10-foot trucks for one-way moves--like that makes any sense at all--I was awarded keys to my own diesel guzzling, 17-foot leviathan. With about as much grace as beached whale, I hoisted myself into the driver's seat and cranked the ignition. The truck literally belched into action, roaring like a 747. Terrified, I eased the truck out of the parking lot, managed to make a left turn without taking out any pedestrians, and started my way back to Mugwump. Sweet Jeebus. I was really glad to pull into the driveway of the Avocado House, let me tell you. But the thought of backing the 17-foot leviathan out of the driveway made me want to puke.
Fortunately, Chris and Adriel showed up soon after. We chatted for a bit, and then Jack arrived. I gave them the grand tour of the Avocado House. Chris loved it. I think it may be his dream home. Of course, we are talking about a man who has not one but at least two velvet paintings with tigers on them. Anyway, they took one look at the pile of my stuff in the garage and asked if that was it. Yep. We loaded up the truck. Took a donut break. Finished loading the truck. And then, I made Chris back the truck out of the driveway.
Just before leaving, Sabine arrived with her little four-year-old daughter, Marlena. I gave Marlena the special task of watching a teddy bear I built at the Teddy Bear Workshop. She was very good at this job, insisting that the bear should ride in the extra car seat in her mom's car.
So, after Chris backed out the truck and pointed it in the right direction, I took the wheel and led a caravan back into Westfield. There I was, sitting atop this monstrosity, the diesel engine roaring and rumbling beneath me, my teeth clenched so hard I was getting a headache, and my shoulders so tense they were up by my ears. By the time I reached my new place half an hour later (I couldn't bring myself to go over 40mph in the 17-foot leviathan), I was feeling lightheaded and dizzy. Whether that was from the diesel fumes or from stress I'm not sure. All I know is that it took every last shred of will power not to fling myself out of the truck and onto the ground and scream LAND!
We had the truck unloaded in about an hour. Like I said, I don't own that much stuff (and really, the truck was only about a 1/3 of the way filled once everything was loaded up). Then, everyone stood around chatting for the next twenty minutes. I stood around sweating, smiling, and nodding, hoping people would get the clue that I had other things to do that afternoon beside weave in and out of boxes and furniture making small talk. I had a 17-foot leviathan to feed and return to its idiot handlers, and a little pointy footed dog back in Avocado land to rescue, not to mention a former landlord to see about a shower curtain.
When, at last, everyone left, I hauled myself back up into the driver's seat of the 17-foot leviathan and went barreling down highway 20 to the nearest gas station to fill up the tank. $30 later (and that wasn't even a full tank, that was just getting the fuel gauge back up to where it was when I'd picked up the 17-foot leviathan), I went barreling back down highway 20, through the center of Westfield, hoping I could make it the last mile or so without killing anyone, namely myself. With a big grin, I handed the keys back to U-Haul boy, who promptly asked me if the truck handled all right. It had, and he seemed surprised if not disapointed by my answer. Sorry, no carnage, no bodies left in the path of the 17-foot leviathan of DEATH today. Maybe tomorrow.
So, I forked over an obscene amount of money, trudged back to my pregnant roller skate car, and went to forage for lunch and rescue my little black dog from a 1970s prison of shag carpeting and avocado appliances. Boy was Teddy glad to see me. I took him for a quick walk, loaded up the rest of my stuff, and headed off for Southwick to talk to a man about a shower curtain, and really to pick up the odds and ends that I had left at my old place.
Ryan (Wayne's son) was visiting with his little dog, Rudy, so Teddy got to play in the backyard while Michael showed me around. They've got my old bedroom all decked out for Ryan. And the builders have put in a door at the top of the stairs. This is where my shower curtain met its tragic end. Evidently, because of how the heat works in the apartment, the builders had to leave an opening in the side of the wall next to the new door. To keep his mother, Terry, from trying anything (like going downstairs, falling downstairs, thinking about downstairs), Michael cut up my shower curtain and duct taped over the opening. Why this couldn't have involved an old bedsheet, or perhaps his own shower curtain, I don't know. He held up a rather large, leftover chunk, a misshapen piece with jagged edges, and asked me if I wanted to take a piece of it back with me. Ummm, no. That's all right. I can mourn the loss of my shower curtain without taking one of it's disembodied limbs with me.
Anyway, I picked up my other bits and pieces, said hi to Terry (who does not look like she's doing so well), and took a look at the big hole that's been dug and the foundation that's been laid for the new addition to the house. I gathered up the little dog (my little dog, Ryan can keep his miniature poodlely ball of fluff), and I bid them all farewell. Finally, I have landed at an apartment of my very own, a cracker box with three rooms, four windows, three very small closets, a bathroom with absolutely no storage, and a kitchen with a filthy stove and no burner cover thingys. Home sweet home.
By the by, I received a fabulous shower curtain in the mail from my brother's fabulous fiance (I'm figure Eunice picked it out, since it doesn't seem to be something Erik would find and select on his own, but perhaps I'm wrong). It has pink flamingos on it, and it now adorns my bathroom instead of the brightly colored cartoon dogs and cats. Actually, the new shower curtain goes with the towels and bathmat I just bought as well as my old towels. I've also bought several over-the-door organizers (and sanded down the tops of the doors with my trusty dremel rotary tool so they would close with the over-the-door organizers--I figure that can be my revenge for leaving me with a filthy stove . . . take THAT Management Man . . . besides, it's not like I'll ever see my deposit again anyway).
And now I'm working on unpacking, getting things set up, and getting ready for the new school year. Yikes! I've got a lot of work to do in the next ten days. And, it's Taste of Westfield this weekend--remember, the outing Chris and Adriel went on last year with a cheap bottle of vodka and several friends . . . let's hope I can escape such a fate, but we'll have to wait and see.
I woke up bright and early that morning: 6am. No, I was not planning on getting up at oh-dark-early, but my brain had other plans for me. So, I was bolt upright, wide-awake at 6am, listening to the thunderstorm roaring overhead, thinking the weather would surely do this uncharacteristic torrential downpour ALL DAY. The rain only lasted an hour, but the humidity lasted far longer.
So, after taking a shower, packing up the rest of my bathroom stuff, loading up my pregnant roller skate car, I made a quick trip to Dunkin Donuts for food to bribe my co-workers with when they came to help schlepp stuff to my new place. I then headed from Mugwump into Westfield, about a fifteen mile drive, to the U-Haul rental place. I parked my pregnant roller skate car at a nearby closed chiropractor clinic, and waited for U-Haul Boy to open up the doors. Their parking lot had several trucks of varying sizes. I had reserved a ten foot "mini mover," since trucks frighten me, and I really don't own that much stuff. Earlier in the week, I had confirmed my reservation over the phone with U-Haul Boy. So, I hoped everything would be in order. I had been psyching myself up to drive the 10-foot mini-mover for nearly five days. I can handle ten feet of truck. That's not that big. I'll be fine. Ten feet. That's all. Yep, totally psyched up to drive the ten foot mini-mover.
Then, U-Haul Boy behind the counter asked me if I'd reserved the 17-foot truck. I guessed that nothing was in order. Lovely. I told U-Haul boy with the acne and greasy hair that NO, I did NOT reserve a 17-foot truck. Do the words OH HELL NO mean anything to you. I'm pretty sure I turned several shades whiter and grimaced. I showed him my computer printout detailing my reservation of a "mini-mover," and he gave it a cursory glance, typing something in his computer (probably an insulting notation about how stupid he thought I was). And then, U-Haul Boy gave me this line of BS about how they don't rent 10-foot trucks. I gave him this incredulous look, thinking if you don't rent 10-foot trucks, why are there three of them in your parking lot right now? And, if you don't rent 10-foot trucks, why was I able to reserve one on-line and then confirm that reservation over the phone? I didn't ask either of these questions. Why should I? Clearly I was thinking much too rationally about how to interact within the boundaries of Planet U-Haul, a place where they can lure you with 10-foot trucks and then foist 17-foot monstrosities upon you instead.
So, after listening to his excuse about only renting 10-foot trucks for one-way moves--like that makes any sense at all--I was awarded keys to my own diesel guzzling, 17-foot leviathan. With about as much grace as beached whale, I hoisted myself into the driver's seat and cranked the ignition. The truck literally belched into action, roaring like a 747. Terrified, I eased the truck out of the parking lot, managed to make a left turn without taking out any pedestrians, and started my way back to Mugwump. Sweet Jeebus. I was really glad to pull into the driveway of the Avocado House, let me tell you. But the thought of backing the 17-foot leviathan out of the driveway made me want to puke.
Fortunately, Chris and Adriel showed up soon after. We chatted for a bit, and then Jack arrived. I gave them the grand tour of the Avocado House. Chris loved it. I think it may be his dream home. Of course, we are talking about a man who has not one but at least two velvet paintings with tigers on them. Anyway, they took one look at the pile of my stuff in the garage and asked if that was it. Yep. We loaded up the truck. Took a donut break. Finished loading the truck. And then, I made Chris back the truck out of the driveway.
Just before leaving, Sabine arrived with her little four-year-old daughter, Marlena. I gave Marlena the special task of watching a teddy bear I built at the Teddy Bear Workshop. She was very good at this job, insisting that the bear should ride in the extra car seat in her mom's car.
So, after Chris backed out the truck and pointed it in the right direction, I took the wheel and led a caravan back into Westfield. There I was, sitting atop this monstrosity, the diesel engine roaring and rumbling beneath me, my teeth clenched so hard I was getting a headache, and my shoulders so tense they were up by my ears. By the time I reached my new place half an hour later (I couldn't bring myself to go over 40mph in the 17-foot leviathan), I was feeling lightheaded and dizzy. Whether that was from the diesel fumes or from stress I'm not sure. All I know is that it took every last shred of will power not to fling myself out of the truck and onto the ground and scream LAND!
We had the truck unloaded in about an hour. Like I said, I don't own that much stuff (and really, the truck was only about a 1/3 of the way filled once everything was loaded up). Then, everyone stood around chatting for the next twenty minutes. I stood around sweating, smiling, and nodding, hoping people would get the clue that I had other things to do that afternoon beside weave in and out of boxes and furniture making small talk. I had a 17-foot leviathan to feed and return to its idiot handlers, and a little pointy footed dog back in Avocado land to rescue, not to mention a former landlord to see about a shower curtain.
When, at last, everyone left, I hauled myself back up into the driver's seat of the 17-foot leviathan and went barreling down highway 20 to the nearest gas station to fill up the tank. $30 later (and that wasn't even a full tank, that was just getting the fuel gauge back up to where it was when I'd picked up the 17-foot leviathan), I went barreling back down highway 20, through the center of Westfield, hoping I could make it the last mile or so without killing anyone, namely myself. With a big grin, I handed the keys back to U-Haul boy, who promptly asked me if the truck handled all right. It had, and he seemed surprised if not disapointed by my answer. Sorry, no carnage, no bodies left in the path of the 17-foot leviathan of DEATH today. Maybe tomorrow.
So, I forked over an obscene amount of money, trudged back to my pregnant roller skate car, and went to forage for lunch and rescue my little black dog from a 1970s prison of shag carpeting and avocado appliances. Boy was Teddy glad to see me. I took him for a quick walk, loaded up the rest of my stuff, and headed off for Southwick to talk to a man about a shower curtain, and really to pick up the odds and ends that I had left at my old place.
Ryan (Wayne's son) was visiting with his little dog, Rudy, so Teddy got to play in the backyard while Michael showed me around. They've got my old bedroom all decked out for Ryan. And the builders have put in a door at the top of the stairs. This is where my shower curtain met its tragic end. Evidently, because of how the heat works in the apartment, the builders had to leave an opening in the side of the wall next to the new door. To keep his mother, Terry, from trying anything (like going downstairs, falling downstairs, thinking about downstairs), Michael cut up my shower curtain and duct taped over the opening. Why this couldn't have involved an old bedsheet, or perhaps his own shower curtain, I don't know. He held up a rather large, leftover chunk, a misshapen piece with jagged edges, and asked me if I wanted to take a piece of it back with me. Ummm, no. That's all right. I can mourn the loss of my shower curtain without taking one of it's disembodied limbs with me.
Anyway, I picked up my other bits and pieces, said hi to Terry (who does not look like she's doing so well), and took a look at the big hole that's been dug and the foundation that's been laid for the new addition to the house. I gathered up the little dog (my little dog, Ryan can keep his miniature poodlely ball of fluff), and I bid them all farewell. Finally, I have landed at an apartment of my very own, a cracker box with three rooms, four windows, three very small closets, a bathroom with absolutely no storage, and a kitchen with a filthy stove and no burner cover thingys. Home sweet home.
By the by, I received a fabulous shower curtain in the mail from my brother's fabulous fiance (I'm figure Eunice picked it out, since it doesn't seem to be something Erik would find and select on his own, but perhaps I'm wrong). It has pink flamingos on it, and it now adorns my bathroom instead of the brightly colored cartoon dogs and cats. Actually, the new shower curtain goes with the towels and bathmat I just bought as well as my old towels. I've also bought several over-the-door organizers (and sanded down the tops of the doors with my trusty dremel rotary tool so they would close with the over-the-door organizers--I figure that can be my revenge for leaving me with a filthy stove . . . take THAT Management Man . . . besides, it's not like I'll ever see my deposit again anyway).
And now I'm working on unpacking, getting things set up, and getting ready for the new school year. Yikes! I've got a lot of work to do in the next ten days. And, it's Taste of Westfield this weekend--remember, the outing Chris and Adriel went on last year with a cheap bottle of vodka and several friends . . . let's hope I can escape such a fate, but we'll have to wait and see.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Spinster Showers
So, I have about a million errands to run this week in preparation for the exodus from the Avocado House in Mugwump.
First on the list: Call former landlord about moving date. I did. His friend, Wayne, was at home. So, I told Wayne about the move on Sunday and asked if I could come over sometime this week to pick up the odds and ends left at my old apartment. I'd left my shower curtain, among other things, and I wanted it back. The shower curtain was a birthday present from my roommate and comrade-in-arms at Surflight Theatre last summer, Liz. It's pink, black, and white, with my favorite phrase all over it: It's all about me. Not you. Me. I am fond of this shower curtain. I have matching towels and a coordinating bath mat that goes with this shower curtain. Shower curtains are not cheap (at least the good ones are not cheap). I wanted my shower curtain back. Wayne said no problem. He'd box up the stuff I'd left and bring it over this weekend. I told him that wasn't necessary. I could come and get them. But he insisted.
Well, not even five minutes later, I get a phone call from Michael himself. He's calling me from work. He's never called me from his job, not in the entire time I rented from him. Hmmmm. He asks if I'm moving Sunday (which, obviously, he already knows the answer to). I tell him yes, it was easier to get a truck on Sunday, and that I've got a couple friends from work coming to help me schlepp stuff to Westfield. And then, he asks if I want to pick up the rest of the things that I left at the apartment (again, DUH! Yes, like you didn't just get off the phone with Wayne). And then, he asks about my shower curtain. And I say, what about my shower curtain? Now, as he's explaining the sordid tale of my shower curtain--you know, the one that I'm terribly fond of--my tiny and shocked brain seems to only absorb one thing: my shower curtain is no more. For some reason--a reason that is beyond all explanation, having something to do with his mother and not being able to get into the shed in the back yard--the shower curtain has been cut into pieces and then duct taped together. He suggested some pink duct tape might make it look as good as new. At this point, I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that my shower curtain has been cut into pieces. Why has my shower curtain been cute into pieces? I'm fond of that shower curtain. I have towels that match it. What the hell? Don't ask me what happened to the shower curtain. I don't know. I do know, however, that I'm driving into Southwick to pick up the rest of my bits and pieces, or at least, what's left of them, this weekend.
I hung up with Michael and added "shower curtain" to the list that's already longer than my arm, slowly realizing that if I did not find a shower curtain to go with my towels and bath mat, I would have to find new towels and a new bath mat. Let's face it, I want a nice looking bathroom. I'm not a college student anymore, and just because I have borrowed 75% of my furniture from the theatre's prop shop, doesn't mean I have to have a shoddy looking bathroom. Dammit!
Errrrr, anyway, I left the Avocado House grinding my teeth. The day had started out beautifully. (In case you can't tell, this is called sarcasm.) I loaded up some odds and ends into the back of my pregant roller skate of a car to take to the new apartment, and then I hit the road. First, I went to the post office, sending my friend Chrystal a huge box of trashy romance novels I've burned through in the last few weeks. I'm not moving those stupid things to my new place. It's not like I'm going to read them again. And then, I wound my way into Westfield to hit our dinky WalMart. It was about noon, and I had hopes that they wouldn't be too busy.
Well, the WalMart wasn't too busy, but the parking lot had this huge truck taking up an entire row of parking spaces, right next to the door, so that left me parking a million miles away. I trudged to the door, I plopped my purse into a cart, and I pulled out my list. They had most everything. Except a shower curtain. Can I just say that Westfield's WalMart sucks. They had shower curtains all right. Ugly ones. Ones that old biddies who are blind and have no taste would buy. Ones with hideous floral motifs, bland stripes, country checks, or an assortment of foul. Ooooooh. Just what I want to wake up to every morning. I abandoned the search for a new shower curtain and decided I would go to Bed Bath and Beyond in West Springfield. They HAD to have something better than this.
Anyway, I was ready to check out of this dump and I headed to the front of the store, my cart loaded with packages of toilet paper and paper towels and various other things. I reached the check-out area to find three, count them--THREE--lanes open. Each lane had about a half dozen people in line. Oh, joy. I got into the last line nearest the door. It seemed the shortest. Not too much later, this couple gets in line behind me.
This is the couple from hell. Everyone's white trash nightmare in the flesh. There's this balding, greasy man with a beer gut and dirty shirt accompanied by this fork-tongued harpy on crutches with long straggly brown hair, pasty skin, and a voice like sandpaper. They had a little boy, about 8 or 9, in tow.
I had already unconsciously moved as far forward as possible upon their approach, my white trash-radar alarm alerting me to step away, and avoid all eye contact. The last thing I want to do is have a conversation with this happy little family, or come away with fleas or any other creepy crawly thing they might be carrying.
The man, let's call him Grease, held a gallon bucket of paint in one hand. The woman, let's call her Harpy, had a bunch of dark blue folders clutched in her talons as she leaned heavily on the crutches. The little boy, let's call him Pity, immediately went to the candy display to my right. Harpy was gritching to Grease about how he should put that paint bucket down on the floor. It's bad for his wrist to be carrying around something so heavy. And Grease was arguing back that how the frick (substitute another f-word) he was supposed to get the paint to the check out if he put it on the fricking floor. Harpy railed on this issue for a bit longer, insisting she could slide it along with her fricking crutches, you stupid frick.
Meanwhile, Pity was playing with some cheap plastic toy he found on the candy display. His behavior, obviously one that exhibited natural happiness and contentment, caught Harpy's attention. Pity can't be having fun. Not in the check out lane at WalMart. That would never do. So, she started in on him. Put that fricking toy down. I got you one just like that and you never play with it at home. Harpy continues along this line as Pity puts the toy down and manages to slip away. Harpy realizes her prey has eluded her, and she asks where the frick did Pity go. Grease says he's probably over in the next aisle playing with the same toy. So, Harpy hobbles on her crutches to the next check-out lane (which is closed and has no one there) to find that, indeed, Pity has thwarted her once again, found another one of these little plastic toys, and had started entertaining himself with it. Get the frick back here. She yells at him for another few beats. Pity returns to the aisle, but wanders to the end of the check out lane, just beyond the register. Harpy screeches after him. Where the frick do you think you're going? Who the hell do you think you fricking are? Pity makes some excuse about just wanting to wait up front there. And, as he slowly makes his way back toward Harpy and Grease, Harpy starts up again. She complains, loudly, how she wishes Pity's mother would take him more often. Why does she always have to dump him on my fricking doorstep?
Throughout this scene, I am intent on studying the candy display as if it's the most interesting thing I've ever seen, so engrossing that I can't seem to notice anything else around me. I wish. At the same time, I'm biting my tongue from saying something like, "Yes, what kind of mother would leave her son with YOU." The complaining, the screeching, the yelling, the colorful expletives--it did not stop. I entertained the idea of stabbing myself in the eye with the nearest candybar, or some other blunt object within reach. I quickly decided it would be much more entertaining to stab Harpy in the eye with something blunt, knock her down, and then beat her with her own crutches.
At last I came up to the register, unloaded my cart and paid for my stuff. As I finished putting my bags back into my cart, I could hear Harpy tearing into the girl at the check out about how they need to have more lanes open. Check Out Girl starts ringing up their dark blue folders. And, as I'm at last heading for the door--to sweet freedom, thank God--I hear Harpy say she thought those folders were seven cents, not ten. Oh, sweet Jeebus. At that point, I was sorely tempted to turn around and offer to pay her to shut up until I left the building, but the door was closer than the check out lane.
The parking lot was busy, because that truck that had sucked up an entire row of spaces, was trying to move out and blocking traffic in its wake. I thought, if only all the fricking stupid people would just get out of my way, I wouldn't have to stab anyone in the eye.
I escaped the WalMart parking lot without stabbing anyone, vowing never to return, not unless I was desperate. I dropped off things at my new apartment--which, by the way, they re-cleaned the carpets (thank you), and I met a maintenance man in the parking lot who said he would take care of cleaning the stove (that has yet to get done, but I'm still optimistic). So, at least that's something.
After stopping at my new apartment, I headed into West Springfield and the Bed Bath and Beyond with the hopes of finding a shower curtain. In fact, I hoped I would find my old shower curtain (since I know that's where my friend Liz bought it last year).
Alas, no. Bed Bath and Beyond does not have my shower curtain any more. Their selection of shower curtains is extensive, however--and EXPENSIVE. They had one shower curtain, very cool, had old theatre posters all over it. $90. When hell freezes over and Hugh Jackman professes his undying love for me, maybe I'll consider spending $90 on a shower curtain (or I'll make Hugh buy it for me). I ended up getting a $15 plastic shower curtain with brightly colored, cartoon dogs and cats on it. I like the colors. It's bright and cheerful, and not too stupid or old biddy looking. I got two matching teal towels (on sale for $5 each) and a new matching bath mat (also on sale). It's the start of a new era for my bathroom accoutrement.
And with that, I called it a day, pointed my pregnant roller skate of a car south, and returned to the Avocado House.
First on the list: Call former landlord about moving date. I did. His friend, Wayne, was at home. So, I told Wayne about the move on Sunday and asked if I could come over sometime this week to pick up the odds and ends left at my old apartment. I'd left my shower curtain, among other things, and I wanted it back. The shower curtain was a birthday present from my roommate and comrade-in-arms at Surflight Theatre last summer, Liz. It's pink, black, and white, with my favorite phrase all over it: It's all about me. Not you. Me. I am fond of this shower curtain. I have matching towels and a coordinating bath mat that goes with this shower curtain. Shower curtains are not cheap (at least the good ones are not cheap). I wanted my shower curtain back. Wayne said no problem. He'd box up the stuff I'd left and bring it over this weekend. I told him that wasn't necessary. I could come and get them. But he insisted.
Well, not even five minutes later, I get a phone call from Michael himself. He's calling me from work. He's never called me from his job, not in the entire time I rented from him. Hmmmm. He asks if I'm moving Sunday (which, obviously, he already knows the answer to). I tell him yes, it was easier to get a truck on Sunday, and that I've got a couple friends from work coming to help me schlepp stuff to Westfield. And then, he asks if I want to pick up the rest of the things that I left at the apartment (again, DUH! Yes, like you didn't just get off the phone with Wayne). And then, he asks about my shower curtain. And I say, what about my shower curtain? Now, as he's explaining the sordid tale of my shower curtain--you know, the one that I'm terribly fond of--my tiny and shocked brain seems to only absorb one thing: my shower curtain is no more. For some reason--a reason that is beyond all explanation, having something to do with his mother and not being able to get into the shed in the back yard--the shower curtain has been cut into pieces and then duct taped together. He suggested some pink duct tape might make it look as good as new. At this point, I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that my shower curtain has been cut into pieces. Why has my shower curtain been cute into pieces? I'm fond of that shower curtain. I have towels that match it. What the hell? Don't ask me what happened to the shower curtain. I don't know. I do know, however, that I'm driving into Southwick to pick up the rest of my bits and pieces, or at least, what's left of them, this weekend.
I hung up with Michael and added "shower curtain" to the list that's already longer than my arm, slowly realizing that if I did not find a shower curtain to go with my towels and bath mat, I would have to find new towels and a new bath mat. Let's face it, I want a nice looking bathroom. I'm not a college student anymore, and just because I have borrowed 75% of my furniture from the theatre's prop shop, doesn't mean I have to have a shoddy looking bathroom. Dammit!
Errrrr, anyway, I left the Avocado House grinding my teeth. The day had started out beautifully. (In case you can't tell, this is called sarcasm.) I loaded up some odds and ends into the back of my pregant roller skate of a car to take to the new apartment, and then I hit the road. First, I went to the post office, sending my friend Chrystal a huge box of trashy romance novels I've burned through in the last few weeks. I'm not moving those stupid things to my new place. It's not like I'm going to read them again. And then, I wound my way into Westfield to hit our dinky WalMart. It was about noon, and I had hopes that they wouldn't be too busy.
Well, the WalMart wasn't too busy, but the parking lot had this huge truck taking up an entire row of parking spaces, right next to the door, so that left me parking a million miles away. I trudged to the door, I plopped my purse into a cart, and I pulled out my list. They had most everything. Except a shower curtain. Can I just say that Westfield's WalMart sucks. They had shower curtains all right. Ugly ones. Ones that old biddies who are blind and have no taste would buy. Ones with hideous floral motifs, bland stripes, country checks, or an assortment of foul. Ooooooh. Just what I want to wake up to every morning. I abandoned the search for a new shower curtain and decided I would go to Bed Bath and Beyond in West Springfield. They HAD to have something better than this.
Anyway, I was ready to check out of this dump and I headed to the front of the store, my cart loaded with packages of toilet paper and paper towels and various other things. I reached the check-out area to find three, count them--THREE--lanes open. Each lane had about a half dozen people in line. Oh, joy. I got into the last line nearest the door. It seemed the shortest. Not too much later, this couple gets in line behind me.
This is the couple from hell. Everyone's white trash nightmare in the flesh. There's this balding, greasy man with a beer gut and dirty shirt accompanied by this fork-tongued harpy on crutches with long straggly brown hair, pasty skin, and a voice like sandpaper. They had a little boy, about 8 or 9, in tow.
I had already unconsciously moved as far forward as possible upon their approach, my white trash-radar alarm alerting me to step away, and avoid all eye contact. The last thing I want to do is have a conversation with this happy little family, or come away with fleas or any other creepy crawly thing they might be carrying.
The man, let's call him Grease, held a gallon bucket of paint in one hand. The woman, let's call her Harpy, had a bunch of dark blue folders clutched in her talons as she leaned heavily on the crutches. The little boy, let's call him Pity, immediately went to the candy display to my right. Harpy was gritching to Grease about how he should put that paint bucket down on the floor. It's bad for his wrist to be carrying around something so heavy. And Grease was arguing back that how the frick (substitute another f-word) he was supposed to get the paint to the check out if he put it on the fricking floor. Harpy railed on this issue for a bit longer, insisting she could slide it along with her fricking crutches, you stupid frick.
Meanwhile, Pity was playing with some cheap plastic toy he found on the candy display. His behavior, obviously one that exhibited natural happiness and contentment, caught Harpy's attention. Pity can't be having fun. Not in the check out lane at WalMart. That would never do. So, she started in on him. Put that fricking toy down. I got you one just like that and you never play with it at home. Harpy continues along this line as Pity puts the toy down and manages to slip away. Harpy realizes her prey has eluded her, and she asks where the frick did Pity go. Grease says he's probably over in the next aisle playing with the same toy. So, Harpy hobbles on her crutches to the next check-out lane (which is closed and has no one there) to find that, indeed, Pity has thwarted her once again, found another one of these little plastic toys, and had started entertaining himself with it. Get the frick back here. She yells at him for another few beats. Pity returns to the aisle, but wanders to the end of the check out lane, just beyond the register. Harpy screeches after him. Where the frick do you think you're going? Who the hell do you think you fricking are? Pity makes some excuse about just wanting to wait up front there. And, as he slowly makes his way back toward Harpy and Grease, Harpy starts up again. She complains, loudly, how she wishes Pity's mother would take him more often. Why does she always have to dump him on my fricking doorstep?
Throughout this scene, I am intent on studying the candy display as if it's the most interesting thing I've ever seen, so engrossing that I can't seem to notice anything else around me. I wish. At the same time, I'm biting my tongue from saying something like, "Yes, what kind of mother would leave her son with YOU." The complaining, the screeching, the yelling, the colorful expletives--it did not stop. I entertained the idea of stabbing myself in the eye with the nearest candybar, or some other blunt object within reach. I quickly decided it would be much more entertaining to stab Harpy in the eye with something blunt, knock her down, and then beat her with her own crutches.
At last I came up to the register, unloaded my cart and paid for my stuff. As I finished putting my bags back into my cart, I could hear Harpy tearing into the girl at the check out about how they need to have more lanes open. Check Out Girl starts ringing up their dark blue folders. And, as I'm at last heading for the door--to sweet freedom, thank God--I hear Harpy say she thought those folders were seven cents, not ten. Oh, sweet Jeebus. At that point, I was sorely tempted to turn around and offer to pay her to shut up until I left the building, but the door was closer than the check out lane.
The parking lot was busy, because that truck that had sucked up an entire row of spaces, was trying to move out and blocking traffic in its wake. I thought, if only all the fricking stupid people would just get out of my way, I wouldn't have to stab anyone in the eye.
I escaped the WalMart parking lot without stabbing anyone, vowing never to return, not unless I was desperate. I dropped off things at my new apartment--which, by the way, they re-cleaned the carpets (thank you), and I met a maintenance man in the parking lot who said he would take care of cleaning the stove (that has yet to get done, but I'm still optimistic). So, at least that's something.
After stopping at my new apartment, I headed into West Springfield and the Bed Bath and Beyond with the hopes of finding a shower curtain. In fact, I hoped I would find my old shower curtain (since I know that's where my friend Liz bought it last year).
Alas, no. Bed Bath and Beyond does not have my shower curtain any more. Their selection of shower curtains is extensive, however--and EXPENSIVE. They had one shower curtain, very cool, had old theatre posters all over it. $90. When hell freezes over and Hugh Jackman professes his undying love for me, maybe I'll consider spending $90 on a shower curtain (or I'll make Hugh buy it for me). I ended up getting a $15 plastic shower curtain with brightly colored, cartoon dogs and cats on it. I like the colors. It's bright and cheerful, and not too stupid or old biddy looking. I got two matching teal towels (on sale for $5 each) and a new matching bath mat (also on sale). It's the start of a new era for my bathroom accoutrement.
And with that, I called it a day, pointed my pregnant roller skate of a car south, and returned to the Avocado House.
Monday, August 15, 2005
The Keys to Spinstering
So, I just got the key to my new apartment. I should be excited, right? Truth be told, I'm feeling a bit bummed out at the moment. I did a quick walk through with some guy from the management company. I've decided to call him Management Man. I got to point out how the oven was filthy and the burner thingys were crusted over and disgusting. Then, I opened the oven and grimaced at Management Man. Ewww. Why is it people think if they paint the walls and shampoo the carpet, then the apartment is ready for someone to move in? At least the fridge wasn't gross. The cupboards, however, will all need to be scrubbed down before I put in shelf paper. They're sticky, inside and out. Again, ewwww. And then, there were interesting spots all over the living room carpet. Management Man was not pleased. I just don't want to get blamed for it when I move out. The front bedroom is getting new blinds, which means one less thing for me to clean. The bathtub needs some serious attention, but at least the water is running and all the faucets work.
So, after signing my soul away (AGAIN) to Management Man, I was awarded my very own key to the kingdom. I'm glad I decided not to move in until this weekend. In the near future, I foresee at least one afternoon of inhaling pungent cleaning fumes while scouring the place. I took measurements of all the rooms and windows. I thought maybe shopping for curtains might cheer me up a bit. I just might have to go to that fabric store where everything's $1.99 a yard. Oh darn, that would be a shame, a hardship. But I'll muddle through. Somehow.
So, after signing my soul away (AGAIN) to Management Man, I was awarded my very own key to the kingdom. I'm glad I decided not to move in until this weekend. In the near future, I foresee at least one afternoon of inhaling pungent cleaning fumes while scouring the place. I took measurements of all the rooms and windows. I thought maybe shopping for curtains might cheer me up a bit. I just might have to go to that fabric store where everything's $1.99 a yard. Oh darn, that would be a shame, a hardship. But I'll muddle through. Somehow.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Adventures in spinster
All right. I've been rather lax in reporting my recent spinster adventures. The latest news is that I have indeed sold my soul and signed a year-long lease for a new apartment. The exodus from the avocado house will take place on Sunday, August 21st. However, I will have the keys to the new place on Monday, the 15th. So, I plan to take a few loads over myself throughout the week. That will surely freak out my poor dog. Oh well, he's easily freaked.
Anyway, I had an interesting adventure last night. Chris is the other designer in the Theatre side of the English Department. His birthday was on the 10th. Chris looks like he's 35, and often acts like he's still in undergrad. He's 42. His wife, Adriel, is not much older than I am, though I'm sure she's not yet 30. She also can sometimes act like she's still in undergrad. They're perfect for each other. I like them both very much. Adriel, decided to surprise Chris with a birthday party on Friday. I was invited. I thought, why not? Because I'm a sucker, or a good person, I offered to help by picking up a cake (like hell was I going to cook anything--sorry, but the avocado oven sort of frightens me . . . well, that and the smoke alarm at the avocado house is somehow directly connected to the police and fire departments, so if it went off I'd have angry firemen banging down my door, and, as entertaining as that might be . . . . . )
Chris and Adriel just bought a house in Holyoke, which is not far from again. But, of course I get lost going there. Streets in MA are notorious for NOT being marked with anything like, oh . . . Say a blasted STREET SIGN. No, that would be too simple for us mere mortals. And, of course, the directions I got off of mapquest are useless, because there are no street signs. A twenty minute drive ended up taking nearly an hour. Finally, I ended up pulling a u-turn at the dead end of this steep, dark hill. It was the second time I'd made it up this hill. So, I figured I was probably close to my destination. I eased back down the street, squinting into the dark, looking for a house with a bunch of cars--since none of the houses had numbers (of course not, that would be too easy for us mere mortals). I found one, and in the front of the drive, buried behind a number of vehicles, was what I hoped to be Chris' PT Cruiser. I figured I'd just knock on the door. If it was the home of some complete stranger, they obviously had company, and I had a very yummy looking chocolate torte (it was cheaper than the cake). Who wouldn't let me in, right??
It ends up I had, by some miracle, actually found Chris' new house. Everyone was already there, drinking. Fabulous. I'm at a party where I know NO ONE, and they're already well on their way to getting smashed. Excellent. My mind quickly flickered to my Grandma's pleas not to end up in a drunken stupor on the floor of the avocado house. But I figured, since I wasn't at the avocado house, a glass of white wine wouldn't hurt. What the Grandma doesn't know won't hurt me, right?
So, after giving Chris a hug, handing over the chocolate torte, I accepted a glass of white wine from his wife, Adriel. I was introduced to their friends, two couples who couldn't be much older than me. I'm still not sure whether they are Chris' friends or Adriel's, or if they are mutual friends. It doesn't matter. Michael Filas, another professor from the English department had come too. Chris had the stereo blasting 80s hair band music. We were all standing around in their breakfast room, imbibing and making insipid conversation. I found myself wondering what had possessed me to come as they all regaled me of their joint adventures at The Taste of Westfield last August. The Taste of Westfield is this weekend event where the local restaurants (oh, about all two of them, I guess) set up booths in downtown Westfield. There's live music, and of course, lots of booze and lots of food.
Before going, evidently, one of their group had spent all of $15 on a GALLON of vodka, which the six of them split amongst themselves and carried around downtown Westfield in large styrofoam cups with lids and straws (so as to look like they're not drinking . . . right). Needless to say, they all got completely smashed. That, evidently was the point of the evening. I was told several times that throughout the night, at least one of their party had gone missing, and what was really funny was the band playing that night was called The Missing. Yes, very funny. Even funnier, one of the guys wandered off and got left behind, and called his girlfriend at 3am to come and get him. Yes, I have so much in common with these people. I'm invited to go with them this year. Joy.
I suppose it's good for me to get out and socialize. It reminds me of why I enjoy being alone. They weren't all that bad, of course. And I didn't have a bad evening. It's just that experiences like this seem to only drive home the fact that I'm too old to hang out with people my own age, and too young to hang out with people who are older. So where does that leave me? At home with a good book and a brownie sundae, I guess.
I did have a short, but interesting conversation with Michael Filas, however. He was at the Theatre Committee Meeting last Spring when I brought up the issue of that semester's show, Frankenstein, and what had transpired over the course of the semester. He told me he thought I'd handled the situation very well, which made me feel really good. And, he said he was really glad that I had brought it up and had asked to address the problems that had arisen throughout the production. This also made me feel really good. And, he's stopped calling me Elizabeth (which is what he's been calling me the last several times I've seen him in passing). So, I suppose that is also really good.
All in all, it was an interesting evening. I left just after 11pm. It's nice to have a dog at home as an excuse. Teddy sleeps whether I'm there or not. I don't really need to go walk him, but let's face it--it sounds so much nicer to tell someone I need to be getting home to take care of my dog, rather than saying, well, I've had enough of this lovely togetherness with you people who are all totally cocked, and I'm going home.
Well, that's it for latest adventures in spinstering. Tune in next week for another titillating episode in spinstering (and maybe they're be another new post, but I'm not making any promises).
Anyway, I had an interesting adventure last night. Chris is the other designer in the Theatre side of the English Department. His birthday was on the 10th. Chris looks like he's 35, and often acts like he's still in undergrad. He's 42. His wife, Adriel, is not much older than I am, though I'm sure she's not yet 30. She also can sometimes act like she's still in undergrad. They're perfect for each other. I like them both very much. Adriel, decided to surprise Chris with a birthday party on Friday. I was invited. I thought, why not? Because I'm a sucker, or a good person, I offered to help by picking up a cake (like hell was I going to cook anything--sorry, but the avocado oven sort of frightens me . . . well, that and the smoke alarm at the avocado house is somehow directly connected to the police and fire departments, so if it went off I'd have angry firemen banging down my door, and, as entertaining as that might be . . . . . )
Chris and Adriel just bought a house in Holyoke, which is not far from again. But, of course I get lost going there. Streets in MA are notorious for NOT being marked with anything like, oh . . . Say a blasted STREET SIGN. No, that would be too simple for us mere mortals. And, of course, the directions I got off of mapquest are useless, because there are no street signs. A twenty minute drive ended up taking nearly an hour. Finally, I ended up pulling a u-turn at the dead end of this steep, dark hill. It was the second time I'd made it up this hill. So, I figured I was probably close to my destination. I eased back down the street, squinting into the dark, looking for a house with a bunch of cars--since none of the houses had numbers (of course not, that would be too easy for us mere mortals). I found one, and in the front of the drive, buried behind a number of vehicles, was what I hoped to be Chris' PT Cruiser. I figured I'd just knock on the door. If it was the home of some complete stranger, they obviously had company, and I had a very yummy looking chocolate torte (it was cheaper than the cake). Who wouldn't let me in, right??
It ends up I had, by some miracle, actually found Chris' new house. Everyone was already there, drinking. Fabulous. I'm at a party where I know NO ONE, and they're already well on their way to getting smashed. Excellent. My mind quickly flickered to my Grandma's pleas not to end up in a drunken stupor on the floor of the avocado house. But I figured, since I wasn't at the avocado house, a glass of white wine wouldn't hurt. What the Grandma doesn't know won't hurt me, right?
So, after giving Chris a hug, handing over the chocolate torte, I accepted a glass of white wine from his wife, Adriel. I was introduced to their friends, two couples who couldn't be much older than me. I'm still not sure whether they are Chris' friends or Adriel's, or if they are mutual friends. It doesn't matter. Michael Filas, another professor from the English department had come too. Chris had the stereo blasting 80s hair band music. We were all standing around in their breakfast room, imbibing and making insipid conversation. I found myself wondering what had possessed me to come as they all regaled me of their joint adventures at The Taste of Westfield last August. The Taste of Westfield is this weekend event where the local restaurants (oh, about all two of them, I guess) set up booths in downtown Westfield. There's live music, and of course, lots of booze and lots of food.
Before going, evidently, one of their group had spent all of $15 on a GALLON of vodka, which the six of them split amongst themselves and carried around downtown Westfield in large styrofoam cups with lids and straws (so as to look like they're not drinking . . . right). Needless to say, they all got completely smashed. That, evidently was the point of the evening. I was told several times that throughout the night, at least one of their party had gone missing, and what was really funny was the band playing that night was called The Missing. Yes, very funny. Even funnier, one of the guys wandered off and got left behind, and called his girlfriend at 3am to come and get him. Yes, I have so much in common with these people. I'm invited to go with them this year. Joy.
I suppose it's good for me to get out and socialize. It reminds me of why I enjoy being alone. They weren't all that bad, of course. And I didn't have a bad evening. It's just that experiences like this seem to only drive home the fact that I'm too old to hang out with people my own age, and too young to hang out with people who are older. So where does that leave me? At home with a good book and a brownie sundae, I guess.
I did have a short, but interesting conversation with Michael Filas, however. He was at the Theatre Committee Meeting last Spring when I brought up the issue of that semester's show, Frankenstein, and what had transpired over the course of the semester. He told me he thought I'd handled the situation very well, which made me feel really good. And, he said he was really glad that I had brought it up and had asked to address the problems that had arisen throughout the production. This also made me feel really good. And, he's stopped calling me Elizabeth (which is what he's been calling me the last several times I've seen him in passing). So, I suppose that is also really good.
All in all, it was an interesting evening. I left just after 11pm. It's nice to have a dog at home as an excuse. Teddy sleeps whether I'm there or not. I don't really need to go walk him, but let's face it--it sounds so much nicer to tell someone I need to be getting home to take care of my dog, rather than saying, well, I've had enough of this lovely togetherness with you people who are all totally cocked, and I'm going home.
Well, that's it for latest adventures in spinstering. Tune in next week for another titillating episode in spinstering (and maybe they're be another new post, but I'm not making any promises).
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Spinster Update
Okay, so it's been forever since I've updated you all on my spinstering adventures. I think last I posted, I let everyone know that I, for at least the time being, am residing in an avacado house in a town called Mugwump (okay, so it's called Agaway, but it sure feels like a Mugwump to me). At least the avacado house has air conditioning.
I've been searching relentlessly for a new apartment, and I may have found something (finally). It's a small two bedroom spitting distance from the college, on a property called Tekoa Mountain Apartments. I looked at them last year and found them seriously icky. However, they've really turned the property around since then. I wouldn't say they're the nicest place around, but the proximity to the college will be nice, since I have to now walk the dog. Alas, the dog and I will be mourning the loss of the fenced in yard for a good long while.
The place is smaller than my last apartment, believe it or not. But, it's on the ground floor, and it's got a lot of nice green space to walk the little brat around. It's on Rte 20, so there's quite a bit of street noise. However, the particular unit I looked at is farther back on the property, so it's not as bad. If I don't sound enamored with the place, it's because I'm not. I've come to the conclusion that I had the perfect apartment before--a one bedroom with a fenced in yard and a landlord who likes my strange little black dog. I will not be finding such a place again, no matter how long I look, or how far afield I go (I've actually been looking at places that would be at least a half-hour commute or more, one way). This place will do. And, worse case scenario, I can look for something better next year if it turns out that I absolutely hate it.
Aside from the apartment hunting, which has been exhausting and depressing, I haven't had much else to do except start to get ready for classes, and read trashy romance novels. I've been burning through books like nobody's business since I have no cable anymore. And, Teddy's getting quite spoiled having me at home so much. Oh well, the poor dog is in for a rude awakening come September.
Well, that's all for now in the wonderful world of spinstering.
I've been searching relentlessly for a new apartment, and I may have found something (finally). It's a small two bedroom spitting distance from the college, on a property called Tekoa Mountain Apartments. I looked at them last year and found them seriously icky. However, they've really turned the property around since then. I wouldn't say they're the nicest place around, but the proximity to the college will be nice, since I have to now walk the dog. Alas, the dog and I will be mourning the loss of the fenced in yard for a good long while.
The place is smaller than my last apartment, believe it or not. But, it's on the ground floor, and it's got a lot of nice green space to walk the little brat around. It's on Rte 20, so there's quite a bit of street noise. However, the particular unit I looked at is farther back on the property, so it's not as bad. If I don't sound enamored with the place, it's because I'm not. I've come to the conclusion that I had the perfect apartment before--a one bedroom with a fenced in yard and a landlord who likes my strange little black dog. I will not be finding such a place again, no matter how long I look, or how far afield I go (I've actually been looking at places that would be at least a half-hour commute or more, one way). This place will do. And, worse case scenario, I can look for something better next year if it turns out that I absolutely hate it.
Aside from the apartment hunting, which has been exhausting and depressing, I haven't had much else to do except start to get ready for classes, and read trashy romance novels. I've been burning through books like nobody's business since I have no cable anymore. And, Teddy's getting quite spoiled having me at home so much. Oh well, the poor dog is in for a rude awakening come September.
Well, that's all for now in the wonderful world of spinstering.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Spinsters on the Move
All right, it's been over a week, but I figured I should update all on the great exodus from my apartment. The move actually went very well, all things considered. The movers showed up, packed everything up on the truck, and schlepped all my stuff over to the house in Agawam.
I've decided to refer to the house as the Avacado House, since it was built and decorated sometime during the mid 1970s, and avacado green was clearly one of Michael's mother's favorite colors. There's avacado shag carpeting throughout most of the house, avacado appliances, an all avacado bathroom upstairs, and even avacado accented wallpaper (well, wallpaper of all atrocious colors and patterns EVERYWHERE). Ahhhh, avacado. I like to eat avacados, but I'm not so sure about living in one. Hmmmmmmmm. . . But, it does have central air, a dish washer, and a washer and dryer. So, I can't really complain, avacado or not.
Currently, I am visiting family in Illinois, so I will begin the search for a new apartment once I return. I'm not looking forward to the experience, since finding my last apartment was so incredibly difficult. I realize that I only had a weekend to look last time, and that I had little knowledge of the area. So, I know that it shouldn't be as awful this time, and I hope that I will find something as nice as my last place. I'm not feeling quite as depressed anymore about the whole situation, though I know I will really miss living in my "old" apartment. I'll miss having Michael for a landlord and a neighbor. But like I said, I hope to find something just as nice, and maybe even in the same area.
I've decided to refer to the house as the Avacado House, since it was built and decorated sometime during the mid 1970s, and avacado green was clearly one of Michael's mother's favorite colors. There's avacado shag carpeting throughout most of the house, avacado appliances, an all avacado bathroom upstairs, and even avacado accented wallpaper (well, wallpaper of all atrocious colors and patterns EVERYWHERE). Ahhhh, avacado. I like to eat avacados, but I'm not so sure about living in one. Hmmmmmmmm. . . But, it does have central air, a dish washer, and a washer and dryer. So, I can't really complain, avacado or not.
Currently, I am visiting family in Illinois, so I will begin the search for a new apartment once I return. I'm not looking forward to the experience, since finding my last apartment was so incredibly difficult. I realize that I only had a weekend to look last time, and that I had little knowledge of the area. So, I know that it shouldn't be as awful this time, and I hope that I will find something as nice as my last place. I'm not feeling quite as depressed anymore about the whole situation, though I know I will really miss living in my "old" apartment. I'll miss having Michael for a landlord and a neighbor. But like I said, I hope to find something just as nice, and maybe even in the same area.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Spinstering in the Home
I'd like to take a moment to consider the word "home." You see, yesterday, I found out that I have to leave my home, the apartment I'm renting, because my landlord desperately needs it for his ailing mother. Now, I can't fault him for that. She's family, and she needs his care. So, I'm not angry at being asked to leave. In fact, Michael (my landlord) has been so generous, he's going to let me stay RENT FREE in his mother's soon to be vacant three-bedroom home not far from where I live now. He's going to let me stay there until September, and he's paying to have my things moved over there. So, things could be worse, much worse. I understand that.
I guess the problem is that I have really come to feel like this apartment is my home. I remember last August, finally arriving there. I'd been on the road FOREVER, driving from Virginia. I'd started the day with a flat tire, which cost A LOT of money to fix. And I'd gotten lost somewhere in the great state of New York. A trip that is supposedly only about 7 hours, took twice that. It was almost 11pm by the time I rolled into my little gravel drive way. I figured my landlord would be asleep, but he had left my key where I could find it. I had no idea if the place would be clean, much less habitable. I get in--all the lights work, there's even toilet paper in the bathroom. I'm just so glad to be there, I can hardly stand it. I start to unload my car, and Michael comes out on his front porch with his parnter, Wayne. We chat for a little bit, and I feel utterly foolish for arrive so amazingly late. Michael asks me if I have bed or anything. He was willing to let me stay in his geust room if I needed to. That's how awesome the man has been, since day one.
But it's been more than just my wonderful landlord that's made that apartment into my home. It was my space, cozy, inviting, and far from perfect--I mean, it's got no air conditioning, no dishwasher, and no washer and dryer. The basement, where the bedroom is, has flooded once, during the winter, and twice now, when the humidity outside has become nigh unbearable, l've awakened to find an interesting sheen of condensation on my linoleum floor. So what is it about this apartment that I have come to love so much that I feel it is my home? What makes this place a home?
I think the answer lies in the fact that I've felt rather "homeless," that is emotionally homeless, for some time now. In fact, I think the last time I felt I had a home was when I was in highschool, almost ten years ago. That's a long time to be homeless. Now, remember, I speaking in emotional sense of having a home. And, I am in no way saying that I haven't felt welcomed in my mother's home, for example. I know, that if I needed to, I could move back to her house in Illinois in a heartbeat and she would welcome me with open arms. But let's face it. Living in my mother's office, no matter how much stuff she takes out of it and moves downstairs, will never make it my home. As much as I hate to say it, I'm a guest there now, not a resident, no matter how long I stay.
Of course, I had an apartment in Lawrence, for nearly two years in fact. But that was never really a home to me. I was working on my graduate degree and I knew staying there was only temporary. Besides, it was a crummy little two bedroom apartment with a nonexistent managment staff. No, it was a place I stayed at, lived in, completed my thesis in--but it was never a home.
I had my own room in my mother's house on College Blvd in Lawrence as well. But even then, I knew that wasn't really my home anymore.
And, there was the apartment in New York--but that certainly was never really a home, a walk-in closet with cable and a bathroom that had no sink, yes; but a home?
No, it's been since highschool; I've been homeless since I left to get my undergraduate degree in 1996. that seems like eons ago, and so much has happened since then.
I geuss I felt like I'd finally landed on solid ground we I got to my little apartment late that night last August. I inflated my air mattress for the first time, plugged in my little 13" TV/VCR, popped in a copy of Errol Flynn's Robin Hood, and I went to sleep, knowing that I'd come home. I had nothing but what I'd packed in my car almost five months before. I was in a new state, about to start a new job. I didn't know a soul, and my dog was still in IL. But that night, I felt like I'd come home.
And now, I have to leave again. It's breaking my heart, to be sure. So, what has made this place so special? I'm not sure I can put it into tangible, quantifiable words. I don't think I can label it exactly. All I know is that I'm losing something. I may find some place even better, it's true. I certainly hope so. But I can't help but feel a tremendous loss at the same time. Is that selfish, petty even? There are so many, much bigger problems in this world. And, I suppose I've spent more than enough time on the pity pot for one day. I just felt the need to send this message out into the void--my statement on what makes a place a home.
For now, I've got to hunt down some boxes (wiley critters, them boxes), and pack like a mad woman. A spinster's job is never done (sigh).
I guess the problem is that I have really come to feel like this apartment is my home. I remember last August, finally arriving there. I'd been on the road FOREVER, driving from Virginia. I'd started the day with a flat tire, which cost A LOT of money to fix. And I'd gotten lost somewhere in the great state of New York. A trip that is supposedly only about 7 hours, took twice that. It was almost 11pm by the time I rolled into my little gravel drive way. I figured my landlord would be asleep, but he had left my key where I could find it. I had no idea if the place would be clean, much less habitable. I get in--all the lights work, there's even toilet paper in the bathroom. I'm just so glad to be there, I can hardly stand it. I start to unload my car, and Michael comes out on his front porch with his parnter, Wayne. We chat for a little bit, and I feel utterly foolish for arrive so amazingly late. Michael asks me if I have bed or anything. He was willing to let me stay in his geust room if I needed to. That's how awesome the man has been, since day one.
But it's been more than just my wonderful landlord that's made that apartment into my home. It was my space, cozy, inviting, and far from perfect--I mean, it's got no air conditioning, no dishwasher, and no washer and dryer. The basement, where the bedroom is, has flooded once, during the winter, and twice now, when the humidity outside has become nigh unbearable, l've awakened to find an interesting sheen of condensation on my linoleum floor. So what is it about this apartment that I have come to love so much that I feel it is my home? What makes this place a home?
I think the answer lies in the fact that I've felt rather "homeless," that is emotionally homeless, for some time now. In fact, I think the last time I felt I had a home was when I was in highschool, almost ten years ago. That's a long time to be homeless. Now, remember, I speaking in emotional sense of having a home. And, I am in no way saying that I haven't felt welcomed in my mother's home, for example. I know, that if I needed to, I could move back to her house in Illinois in a heartbeat and she would welcome me with open arms. But let's face it. Living in my mother's office, no matter how much stuff she takes out of it and moves downstairs, will never make it my home. As much as I hate to say it, I'm a guest there now, not a resident, no matter how long I stay.
Of course, I had an apartment in Lawrence, for nearly two years in fact. But that was never really a home to me. I was working on my graduate degree and I knew staying there was only temporary. Besides, it was a crummy little two bedroom apartment with a nonexistent managment staff. No, it was a place I stayed at, lived in, completed my thesis in--but it was never a home.
I had my own room in my mother's house on College Blvd in Lawrence as well. But even then, I knew that wasn't really my home anymore.
And, there was the apartment in New York--but that certainly was never really a home, a walk-in closet with cable and a bathroom that had no sink, yes; but a home?
No, it's been since highschool; I've been homeless since I left to get my undergraduate degree in 1996. that seems like eons ago, and so much has happened since then.
I geuss I felt like I'd finally landed on solid ground we I got to my little apartment late that night last August. I inflated my air mattress for the first time, plugged in my little 13" TV/VCR, popped in a copy of Errol Flynn's Robin Hood, and I went to sleep, knowing that I'd come home. I had nothing but what I'd packed in my car almost five months before. I was in a new state, about to start a new job. I didn't know a soul, and my dog was still in IL. But that night, I felt like I'd come home.
And now, I have to leave again. It's breaking my heart, to be sure. So, what has made this place so special? I'm not sure I can put it into tangible, quantifiable words. I don't think I can label it exactly. All I know is that I'm losing something. I may find some place even better, it's true. I certainly hope so. But I can't help but feel a tremendous loss at the same time. Is that selfish, petty even? There are so many, much bigger problems in this world. And, I suppose I've spent more than enough time on the pity pot for one day. I just felt the need to send this message out into the void--my statement on what makes a place a home.
For now, I've got to hunt down some boxes (wiley critters, them boxes), and pack like a mad woman. A spinster's job is never done (sigh).