When I was a teenager, I wasn't a real big cryer.
Ok, that's not true. I cried when my soccer or softball team lost the championship. I know I definitely cried a lot when Nomar Garciaparra got traded to the Chicago Cubs (who did we even GET in that trade, anyway?). But real things, like natural disasters and human suffering and all that? Never. Call it being conveniently (or generationally) detached.
In college, I only cried over boys. Well, maybe the occasional bad grade or unfair ruling by a teacher on the policy of retaking a poor exam. But mostly boys. Boys whose names I can no longer remember without struggling to picture their faces. Hours spent sobbing into my Red Sox pillowcase in a cinder blocked dorm room while my friends went out and I claimed to be "sick". Call it late-onset teenage angst.
In the wake of reaching my mid-20's, I've started to realize I cry all the time. Not about baseball (well, wait till October, anyway) or boys. All of a sudden I seem to be a hub of emotions, springing up at the strangest times.
Things That Make Me Cry:
1) Country Songs. Not even necessarily sad country songs. Happy ones, too. Touching ones. Songs about daddies and daughters and courageous mothers and the people we all grow up to be. Mainly, these songs prompt a tear when I am alone, driving, in my rusted pickup truck.... did I just write my own song? Sometimes a song invokes a little welling up, but there have been rare occasions where I find myself all-out bawling when I reach my destination. Brad Paisley is always good for that. And Reba! Reba, the queen of a strong sob story. I don't even need beer to cry my tears into.
2) Movies. Specifically movies that have no surprise left for me and that I have seen 865,000 times. I watched You've Got Mail last week and cried like a baby, even though I have every line memorized. The same goes for Field of Dreams, every time. Kevin Costner, standing alone on his majestic field that he created, realizing suddenly that the whole thing came about because of a secret desire to see his father again? "Hey, Dad? You wanna have a catch?" Waterworks kick off wherever I am. I cannot watch that movie with others. One, because I cry, and the second reason being because I recite every line word for word and it drives my friends to the brink of violence.
3) Other People's Suffering. I know you're supposed to feel for others, but I seem to have recently reached a whole new level. I wept openly when I read an article in our local newspaper about a deputy sheriff who, at 25, died in a violent altercation. He left behind a young son and a pregnant wife. When his wife heard the news of his passing, she immediately went into labor and gave birth to a perfect baby girl. Oh, the tears. I don't even know these people! I am sure we can all agree that it's sad, but I am NOT the kind of person who is driven to sobs by stories of strangers. What is wrong with me?
Recently, I spent a day in the Emergency Room for a flu-like illness that was persisting into it's sixth day. I ended up, as chance would have it, in the "room"(read: stall) next to a woman who works for the same company as I. She recognized my voice and started talking to me, and for the rest of the 7.5 hours that they kept me there, poking and tapping me, I had to listen to her go through the various (apparently painful) stages of prepping for gallbladder surgery. She cried several times. I cried right with her. When I was leaving, she tearfully told me they had to cut off her wedding ring. Instead of offering my sympathy and heading for the door, I burst into tears all over again. It was just so sad! Again, what is wrong with me?
The only thing I can conclude is that this is yet another part of the eventual transition into My Mom. I remember watching movies with her as a child, hearing a sniffle and glancing over with the inevitable obnoxious child question: "MOM, are you CRYING?" It was always answered with a sniff and a "no" (liar), but I could never understand what it was about that kind of stuff that moved her to tears. I guess now I can understand. Just so long as it's not early-onset menopause, I think I'll be just fine...
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Without TV
I don't have cable. When people say this, it usually stands to mean that they have several "basic" channels (as in the case of my childhood, ABC, NBC, CBS, FOX and public television). I have none of these. Since connecting the cable in my apartment in December "just to see", I have discovered that one channel, ESPN, comes in crystal clear, and all the other channels fade or get blurry or lose sound the farther you get from channel 15. I also get the workout channel (all women in sports bras, all the time), so I suspect that this arrangement clearly was set up by a former tenant of my apartment - also, clearly, a male.
I rarely find myself missing television. I think if I had TV, I would have it on almost all the time for "background noise", something that I have discovered is completely unnecessary. I also don't have a stereo, so sitting in silence is pretty common in my place.
Also, not having TV, you can avoid those silly conversations with most people. "Ohmygod, have you seen that new commercial? The one for Geico, where the guy is walking down the street and goes--" can be cut off with a shrug and a simple statement of "I don't have cable". This ends the description of the commercial that I haven't seen, and also detours the conversation away from the inevitable "well, you had to see it yourself I guess" moment. In certain circumstances, the commercial watcher will continue with their description, assuming that their powers of storytelling are colorful enough to make me appreciate the humor and cleverness in the advertisement without ever seeing it myself. (Incidentally people, please stop. No one has those powers.)
One thing I do miss about television, however, is TV movies. I swear, I can waste an entire afternoon (okay, weekend) on Lifetime movies or ABC Family originals. The acting is horrible, the plots are predictable, and 9 times out of ten, the film is going to make me cry. Nothing like a good made-for-television cry on a rainy Saturday afternoon, because Kelly just found out that the boy who pressured her into sex, saying he would love her forever, not only knocked her up but also gave her syphilis. Tear-jerker, everytime. Or that Janie Doe, who thought she had a perfect suburban life, found out her husband was actually a stalking psycho killer with big-haired, shoulder-pad wearing girlfriends in 3 counties. Now that's a good plot.
Ok, maybe I lied. Maybe I really do miss television. Because I have to admit that despite my love of sports, especially this time of year, ESPN just doesn't have quite the same affect on me...
I rarely find myself missing television. I think if I had TV, I would have it on almost all the time for "background noise", something that I have discovered is completely unnecessary. I also don't have a stereo, so sitting in silence is pretty common in my place.
Also, not having TV, you can avoid those silly conversations with most people. "Ohmygod, have you seen that new commercial? The one for Geico, where the guy is walking down the street and goes--" can be cut off with a shrug and a simple statement of "I don't have cable". This ends the description of the commercial that I haven't seen, and also detours the conversation away from the inevitable "well, you had to see it yourself I guess" moment. In certain circumstances, the commercial watcher will continue with their description, assuming that their powers of storytelling are colorful enough to make me appreciate the humor and cleverness in the advertisement without ever seeing it myself. (Incidentally people, please stop. No one has those powers.)
One thing I do miss about television, however, is TV movies. I swear, I can waste an entire afternoon (okay, weekend) on Lifetime movies or ABC Family originals. The acting is horrible, the plots are predictable, and 9 times out of ten, the film is going to make me cry. Nothing like a good made-for-television cry on a rainy Saturday afternoon, because Kelly just found out that the boy who pressured her into sex, saying he would love her forever, not only knocked her up but also gave her syphilis. Tear-jerker, everytime. Or that Janie Doe, who thought she had a perfect suburban life, found out her husband was actually a stalking psycho killer with big-haired, shoulder-pad wearing girlfriends in 3 counties. Now that's a good plot.
Ok, maybe I lied. Maybe I really do miss television. Because I have to admit that despite my love of sports, especially this time of year, ESPN just doesn't have quite the same affect on me...
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Your Mother's Daughter
It's often said that people take after their parents. I don't think I ever really understood that statement while growing up. I assumed that theory was probably in reference to how you pick up another person's habits if you're around them enough.
Then I hit my twenties.
This morning, I found myself looking up the Pittsburgh Steelers and Green Bay Packers logos online, so I could pipe 6 different colors of frosting onto two football-shaped cakes for a Superbowl party. Why, you ask? Because even though I work at a bar, where I know that no one will eat cake today (beer and sweets don't mix, ask anyone), when asked to "bring a dish" to any event, anywhere, anytime, my first instinct is to bake something.
It goes farther. After creating two less-than-perfect (my mother's would be magazine-worthy) logo cakes, my next instinct was to take pictures and post them online for all to see. If any of you (if anyone is even reading this) happen to be "friends" on Facebook with my mother, you know that she does this almost daily. "Food Porn" (a term invented by Mom and despised by my older sister) is all over her page, and including dinner on Thursday, my own now has three similar photos.
As previously mentioned, I can't bring myself to vacuum (ever), I think framing photos, painting my furniture and re-potting my plants are higher priorities than cleaning the bathroom, and the last time I went to the grocery store with a friend, she rolled her eyes and walked away after the third time I tried to lecture her about the importance of "price per unit". (Incidentally, price per unit is an extremely important thing to know about. The smaller, usually orange price tag in the top corner of an item's price label tells you how much your product costs in units. i.e. sure, the 4-pack of Charmin toilet paper seems cheap, but each roll only has 400 sheets - Scott has 1,000, making the "price per unit" significantly lower. See, here I go, trying to educate the "masses" about the importance of saving 6 cents on your toilet paper. Oh, God.)
The only conclusion to be drawn is that yes, what they say is indeed true: we do turn into our parents. However, I can also conclude that this isn't always a bad thing. Sure, my house will never be clean, but it will likely always be creatively decorated. And I may slowly fatten my friends with baked goodies, but at least I can take solace in the fact that I will always, always have plenty of cheap toilet paper.
Then I hit my twenties.
This morning, I found myself looking up the Pittsburgh Steelers and Green Bay Packers logos online, so I could pipe 6 different colors of frosting onto two football-shaped cakes for a Superbowl party. Why, you ask? Because even though I work at a bar, where I know that no one will eat cake today (beer and sweets don't mix, ask anyone), when asked to "bring a dish" to any event, anywhere, anytime, my first instinct is to bake something.
It goes farther. After creating two less-than-perfect (my mother's would be magazine-worthy) logo cakes, my next instinct was to take pictures and post them online for all to see. If any of you (if anyone is even reading this) happen to be "friends" on Facebook with my mother, you know that she does this almost daily. "Food Porn" (a term invented by Mom and despised by my older sister) is all over her page, and including dinner on Thursday, my own now has three similar photos.
As previously mentioned, I can't bring myself to vacuum (ever), I think framing photos, painting my furniture and re-potting my plants are higher priorities than cleaning the bathroom, and the last time I went to the grocery store with a friend, she rolled her eyes and walked away after the third time I tried to lecture her about the importance of "price per unit". (Incidentally, price per unit is an extremely important thing to know about. The smaller, usually orange price tag in the top corner of an item's price label tells you how much your product costs in units. i.e. sure, the 4-pack of Charmin toilet paper seems cheap, but each roll only has 400 sheets - Scott has 1,000, making the "price per unit" significantly lower. See, here I go, trying to educate the "masses" about the importance of saving 6 cents on your toilet paper. Oh, God.)
The only conclusion to be drawn is that yes, what they say is indeed true: we do turn into our parents. However, I can also conclude that this isn't always a bad thing. Sure, my house will never be clean, but it will likely always be creatively decorated. And I may slowly fatten my friends with baked goodies, but at least I can take solace in the fact that I will always, always have plenty of cheap toilet paper.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Solo Living
For those of you who do not know, I recently moved. This is nothing new: I have now lived in four different apartments since I graduated from college in 2007. 4 places, 2 different roommates, 1 lost security deposit and endless boxes packed and unpacked later, I have my own place.
I have stewed with the idea of living alone several times before. Each time it seemed either financially prohibitive or too lonely to tolerate. And while everyone says that roommates come with a whole collection of problems, I had been lucky enough in the last 3.5 years to have lived with two different housemates (both males) with whom I got along famously.
Then I realized I was living 9 miles outside of "town" (town being the booming metropolis of Oneonta, NY, population approx. 11,000, not including college students) and driving into town at least once every day. With a full-sized pickup truck (which I just HAD to have during my "all my friends drive big trucks and I want one too" phase), I figured I was spending between $6 and $9 a day on gas.
Among a few other factors, this discovery spawned the search for an apartment. My price range was quite limited, but I found a place in a building owned by a friend. After my new landlord completed several minor repairs to the unit (including a bathroom sink that didn't drain and a leak in the ceiling), I painted the entire apartment. Voila! Home sweet home.
I have been living in my apartment for about 8 weeks. So many discoveries are made when you don't have to think about anyone but yourself. For instance:
Garbage: I have made exactly 3 full bags of trash since I moved in. I am quite sure that Jeremiah and I (my last roommate) were disposing of about 1 bag of trash a week, sometimes more. I haven't figured out exactly why I make significantly less waste, but I have been bragging about it to anyone who will listen. Hey! I'm going green!
Toilet Paper: I have used about 3 rolls of TP since December 1st. Don't worry, this doesn't mean I am neglecting my hygiene. But it is interesting, since both of my former male roommates had suggested that I purchase the toilet paper because, as a female, I was obviously using more than them. Ha! Take that. I'm going REALLY green.
Privacy: My apartment is on the 3rd floor of a tall building. In fact, the tallest building on the block. When I look out any of my three dormer windows, I see the tops of other people's homes. If I look down from my living room window, I can see what appears to be the next door neighbor's living room couch. More often than not, the couch is occupied by a small gray kitten, so needless to say the view from up here isn't so bad. I can also do anything I want in my apartment, with no chance of being seen. Yesterday I baked 6 dozen cookies in my bra. Talk about liberating.
There are never dishes in the sink that I didn't use myself. Every time I buy groceries, they're still in the fridge when I want to use them. The perks are endless. However, there are some downsides:
Cleaning: I have never been particularly motivated when it comes to vacuuming. I suspect this trait is genetic (sorry, Mom), but I never seem to think about vacuuming until I can actually SEE physical particles on the floor. By this time the rugs are probably filthy with invisible dirt, but I so rarely have any guests in my apartment that it simply doesn't seem like a priority. I also never put my boots or sneakers in the shoe rack where they belong. You'd think this wouldn't be a problem, but that brings me to my next point...
Electricity: My entire apartment is wired on one breaker. 13 outlets. If I want to dry my hair, I need to be sure to turn off the television and most of the lights. If I forget, pitch darkness ensues. I woke up this morning at 6:00 a.m. to discover that my breaker had tripped in the night. Curious, since I wasn't running any appliances or lights. On my way out the door to the basement (tiny pen flashlight in hand), I tripped on 2 pairs of workboots and stubbed my toe on the door frame. Ouch.
Now, if I can just figure out how to steal free cable to go with the neighbor's internet that I am illegally tapping into...
I have stewed with the idea of living alone several times before. Each time it seemed either financially prohibitive or too lonely to tolerate. And while everyone says that roommates come with a whole collection of problems, I had been lucky enough in the last 3.5 years to have lived with two different housemates (both males) with whom I got along famously.
Then I realized I was living 9 miles outside of "town" (town being the booming metropolis of Oneonta, NY, population approx. 11,000, not including college students) and driving into town at least once every day. With a full-sized pickup truck (which I just HAD to have during my "all my friends drive big trucks and I want one too" phase), I figured I was spending between $6 and $9 a day on gas.
Among a few other factors, this discovery spawned the search for an apartment. My price range was quite limited, but I found a place in a building owned by a friend. After my new landlord completed several minor repairs to the unit (including a bathroom sink that didn't drain and a leak in the ceiling), I painted the entire apartment. Voila! Home sweet home.
I have been living in my apartment for about 8 weeks. So many discoveries are made when you don't have to think about anyone but yourself. For instance:
Garbage: I have made exactly 3 full bags of trash since I moved in. I am quite sure that Jeremiah and I (my last roommate) were disposing of about 1 bag of trash a week, sometimes more. I haven't figured out exactly why I make significantly less waste, but I have been bragging about it to anyone who will listen. Hey! I'm going green!
Toilet Paper: I have used about 3 rolls of TP since December 1st. Don't worry, this doesn't mean I am neglecting my hygiene. But it is interesting, since both of my former male roommates had suggested that I purchase the toilet paper because, as a female, I was obviously using more than them. Ha! Take that. I'm going REALLY green.
Privacy: My apartment is on the 3rd floor of a tall building. In fact, the tallest building on the block. When I look out any of my three dormer windows, I see the tops of other people's homes. If I look down from my living room window, I can see what appears to be the next door neighbor's living room couch. More often than not, the couch is occupied by a small gray kitten, so needless to say the view from up here isn't so bad. I can also do anything I want in my apartment, with no chance of being seen. Yesterday I baked 6 dozen cookies in my bra. Talk about liberating.
There are never dishes in the sink that I didn't use myself. Every time I buy groceries, they're still in the fridge when I want to use them. The perks are endless. However, there are some downsides:
Cleaning: I have never been particularly motivated when it comes to vacuuming. I suspect this trait is genetic (sorry, Mom), but I never seem to think about vacuuming until I can actually SEE physical particles on the floor. By this time the rugs are probably filthy with invisible dirt, but I so rarely have any guests in my apartment that it simply doesn't seem like a priority. I also never put my boots or sneakers in the shoe rack where they belong. You'd think this wouldn't be a problem, but that brings me to my next point...
Electricity: My entire apartment is wired on one breaker. 13 outlets. If I want to dry my hair, I need to be sure to turn off the television and most of the lights. If I forget, pitch darkness ensues. I woke up this morning at 6:00 a.m. to discover that my breaker had tripped in the night. Curious, since I wasn't running any appliances or lights. On my way out the door to the basement (tiny pen flashlight in hand), I tripped on 2 pairs of workboots and stubbed my toe on the door frame. Ouch.
Now, if I can just figure out how to steal free cable to go with the neighbor's internet that I am illegally tapping into...
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Why
Welcome, to the very first blog post I have ever written. Well, perhaps I should amend that. I had a "livejournal" in college. On this public forum, I posted the intimate details of every illegal act I committed (from which lawn ornaments my friends and I stole to the ounce measurements of the beers we were chugging in bars at the tender age of 19). Of course, that ended badly when it was discovered by my mother. I don't like to think of that as a "blog" anyway, since it was more like an annoying, whiny diary that everyone in cyberspace could read. Not that I think many did, because it was annoying. And whiny.
Mainly, I am writing a blog because my mother has a blog. While I don't have any delusions of being half the writer (or person) that she is, I like to think that it's possible the creative genes have been passed down in a diluted state and that I might possess some fraction of her abilities. I guess that makes judges out of anyone who reads this. Daunting.
I suppose I should take a moment to address the title of this blog. In the event that I actually end up with any readers who do not already know me personally, here is a brief synopsis: I am 25, have a four-year degree in history from a liberal arts school, and I work as a groundskeeper full-time for a large, multi-location facility for developmentally disabled children and adults. I supplement my income by bartending part time, but that's a story for many, many subsequent posts.
A quick story about an event that drove me towards blog-creation:
At my place of work (called "Springbrook), the staff have the opportunity to collect boxes of goods from the local food bank. The food bank provides Springbrook with items ranging from dented cans and boxes of food to returned items, such as housewares and kitchen gadgets with damaged or no packaging. Whatever the homes and the school cannot use is sent to the staff break room, where anyone who works at Springbrook is welcome to paw through it and look for treasure.
Yesterday was a food bank delivery day. I happened to walk into the break room, so I looked around. I collected an ice cream scoop, a veggie peeler, a couple boxes of macaroni and cheese and one insulated beer "koozie" that looks like a referee's jersey. One table contained several Brita water pitchers and PUR water faucet filtration systems. These things are not cheap. Since I have recently moved back into town, I have been drinking chlorinated city water for six weeks. I investigated the table, but couldn't figure out what might be wrong with any of the items. So, I gestured and asked a member of the education staff who had been placing things on tables, "what's up with all of these?"
His response: "Oh, they're water purifiers. You know, like to filter your tap water. You can either run it through the pitcher or you can use one of the other ones that hooks on your faucet to filter it right there."
I almost slapped him. Now, it should be noted that I strolled in around 2:30 pm, half an hour before quitting time and wearing my work clothes, which on this day happened to be a full Carhartt outfit and winter boots, all soaking wet and covered in grease and road salt. None of this matters, as this particular staff member already knows I work in the maintenance department.
I nearly opened my big mouth and informed him that I happen to be literate, could read the boxes that clearly described the items (with pictures!) and that, furthermore, I possess a 4-year liberal arts degree and choose to work maintenance because I enjoy it, not because I am unqualified for anything else. I also considered noting that I happen to know that HIS job requires nothing more than a G.E.D. Of course, I said none of this because I realized less than 5 seconds later that it would have been a tad of an overreaction.
And so, a blog is born. A blog about the interesting (I hope) happenings in the life of an educated 20-something who is willfully choosing not to use her very expensive degree. I guess I could have entitled it "My Unexpected Life", but maybe that will have to wait to be the title of the book.
Mainly, I am writing a blog because my mother has a blog. While I don't have any delusions of being half the writer (or person) that she is, I like to think that it's possible the creative genes have been passed down in a diluted state and that I might possess some fraction of her abilities. I guess that makes judges out of anyone who reads this. Daunting.
I suppose I should take a moment to address the title of this blog. In the event that I actually end up with any readers who do not already know me personally, here is a brief synopsis: I am 25, have a four-year degree in history from a liberal arts school, and I work as a groundskeeper full-time for a large, multi-location facility for developmentally disabled children and adults. I supplement my income by bartending part time, but that's a story for many, many subsequent posts.
A quick story about an event that drove me towards blog-creation:
At my place of work (called "Springbrook), the staff have the opportunity to collect boxes of goods from the local food bank. The food bank provides Springbrook with items ranging from dented cans and boxes of food to returned items, such as housewares and kitchen gadgets with damaged or no packaging. Whatever the homes and the school cannot use is sent to the staff break room, where anyone who works at Springbrook is welcome to paw through it and look for treasure.
Yesterday was a food bank delivery day. I happened to walk into the break room, so I looked around. I collected an ice cream scoop, a veggie peeler, a couple boxes of macaroni and cheese and one insulated beer "koozie" that looks like a referee's jersey. One table contained several Brita water pitchers and PUR water faucet filtration systems. These things are not cheap. Since I have recently moved back into town, I have been drinking chlorinated city water for six weeks. I investigated the table, but couldn't figure out what might be wrong with any of the items. So, I gestured and asked a member of the education staff who had been placing things on tables, "what's up with all of these?"
His response: "Oh, they're water purifiers. You know, like to filter your tap water. You can either run it through the pitcher or you can use one of the other ones that hooks on your faucet to filter it right there."
I almost slapped him. Now, it should be noted that I strolled in around 2:30 pm, half an hour before quitting time and wearing my work clothes, which on this day happened to be a full Carhartt outfit and winter boots, all soaking wet and covered in grease and road salt. None of this matters, as this particular staff member already knows I work in the maintenance department.
I nearly opened my big mouth and informed him that I happen to be literate, could read the boxes that clearly described the items (with pictures!) and that, furthermore, I possess a 4-year liberal arts degree and choose to work maintenance because I enjoy it, not because I am unqualified for anything else. I also considered noting that I happen to know that HIS job requires nothing more than a G.E.D. Of course, I said none of this because I realized less than 5 seconds later that it would have been a tad of an overreaction.
And so, a blog is born. A blog about the interesting (I hope) happenings in the life of an educated 20-something who is willfully choosing not to use her very expensive degree. I guess I could have entitled it "My Unexpected Life", but maybe that will have to wait to be the title of the book.
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