A Supposedly Boring Thing I'll Probably Do Again

Right now I am in the midst of a two week span where I have no job.  As such, I’ve done a lot of reading, writing, and furniture painting.  But there are only so many end tables you can paint, so I took to the internet for distraction.  I went onto google hangout to see if anyone I knew was on (which they weren’t, because absolutely no one uses google+).  So I decided to create my own and click the checkmark next to “public” hangout.  I clicked on the icon to apply a cat mask to my face and within a minute my hangout was full.  It was all dudes.  We were all silently staring at each other.  After a while, one guy typed, “Why don’t you talk?” I responded back, “Cats can’t speak.”  Then I typed, “Okay everybody. On the count of 3 I want you all to say hi. 1…2…3.”  Immediately after they all said hello I left the chat.  Do you think this counts as performance art??

Right now I am in the midst of a two week span where I have no job.  As such, I’ve done a lot of reading, writing, and furniture painting.  But there are only so many end tables you can paint, so I took to the internet for distraction.  I went onto google hangout to see if anyone I knew was on (which they weren’t, because absolutely no one uses google+).  So I decided to create my own and click the checkmark next to “public” hangout.  I clicked on the icon to apply a cat mask to my face and within a minute my hangout was full.  It was all dudes.  We were all silently staring at each other.  After a while, one guy typed, “Why don’t you talk?” I responded back, “Cats can’t speak.”  Then I typed, “Okay everybody. On the count of 3 I want you all to say hi. 1…2…3.”  Immediately after they all said hello I left the chat.  Do you think this counts as performance art??

Puppy the 17 Year Old Dachshund When I was in 2nd grade I was terrified of dogs.  I vaguely recall a traumatic experience where a huge dog pinned me against a fence, but I honestly can’t tell if this is a true memory that has been repressed or a fabricated story I made up as a child to justify my fear.  Anyway, when I was 7 years old we went to visit my cousin Katie who, at the time, had three tiny rambunctious children and a string of ill-fated dachshunds.  Every time they got a dachshund, it would try to run away and always met a tragic death. After each death they got a new dachshund and named it Buffy (after their first) with a number attached to it.  This story is about Buffy the 8th (Buffy VIII).   So there I am, a 7 year old who is terrified of dogs, yes even a miniature dachshund.  My parents and Katie came to an agreement that Buffy VIII would be the chosen one, the dachshund who would leave the house alive.  I was mortified, cowering on the edge of the sofa where the puppy was unable to jump (her short legs and all).  The drive back home was 5 hours long and I had to sit with this terrifying little thing in the backseat.  I remember being so infuriated with my parents.  Later they would say, “We had no idea you were scared of dogs!” Bullshit. I was crying as that 4 pound puppy licked my legs. Long story short, I came to love that dog. We grew up together.  Her name was changed to “Puppy” while we thought of a more fitting/less damning name than Buffy.  We never got around to it though and her name is still Puppy.  She is 119 in dog years and her name is Puppy.   My mom really wants Puppy to get into the Guinness Book of World Records, which seems absurd.  Every time I leave for more than 3 days, I assume Puppy will be dead when I return.  As such, I have taken to having my dad take a picture of Puppy and me before I leave.  She just keeps holding on though, so I have this whole series of somber pictures of me and my childhood dog.  What will I do with these pictures when she dies? Make a shrine, perhaps.

Puppy the 17 Year Old Dachshund

When I was in 2nd grade I was terrified of dogs.  I vaguely recall a traumatic experience where a huge dog pinned me against a fence, but I honestly can’t tell if this is a true memory that has been repressed or a fabricated story I made up as a child to justify my fear.  Anyway, when I was 7 years old we went to visit my cousin Katie who, at the time, had three tiny rambunctious children and a string of ill-fated dachshunds.  Every time they got a dachshund, it would try to run away and always met a tragic death. After each death they got a new dachshund and named it Buffy (after their first) with a number attached to it.  This story is about Buffy the 8th (Buffy VIII).  

So there I am, a 7 year old who is terrified of dogs, yes even a miniature dachshund.  My parents and Katie came to an agreement that Buffy VIII would be the chosen one, the dachshund who would leave the house alive.  I was mortified, cowering on the edge of the sofa where the puppy was unable to jump (her short legs and all).  The drive back home was 5 hours long and I had to sit with this terrifying little thing in the backseat.  I remember being so infuriated with my parents.  Later they would say, “We had no idea you were scared of dogs!” Bullshit. I was crying as that 4 pound puppy licked my legs.

Long story short, I came to love that dog. We grew up together.  Her name was changed to “Puppy” while we thought of a more fitting/less damning name than Buffy.  We never got around to it though and her name is still Puppy.  She is 119 in dog years and her name is Puppy.  

My mom really wants Puppy to get into the Guinness Book of World Records, which seems absurd.  Every time I leave for more than 3 days, I assume Puppy will be dead when I return.  As such, I have taken to having my dad take a picture of Puppy and me before I leave.  She just keeps holding on though, so I have this whole series of somber pictures of me and my childhood dog.  What will I do with these pictures when she dies? Make a shrine, perhaps.

All My Trophies

When I was a child, I remember in the summer my mom would take my brother and me to this place called Leftovers, Etc.  It was some sort of hybrid recycling center/science teacher resource/homeschool collective.  What I remember the most was this huge room full of junk.  For $1, you could fill up a large brown paper bag with anything that would fit in it.  We went here on a weekly basis.  My brother filled his bags with viles of chemicals (which seems decidedly unsafe in hindsight) and I bought trophies.  As the weeks of the summer went by, my room became more and more overtaken with these metal sculptures.  I tried to exclusively collect tennis ones so it would be more believable when I told my friends about my athleticism.  All of these had engraved brass plates which showed them to be from the 70s and 80s, but luckily my 9 year old friends did not have the foresight to look closely at this detail.  As a child I was pretty overweight and all but failed physical education classes in school.  So I really took the opportunity to ride out the moment of glory.  Eventually I got called out for it, so I returned the trophies (and my dreams) to the recycling center.  On the “free” section of craigslist I recently came across a listing for soccer trophies and briefly considered reliving my youth as I decorate my new apartment.  But no, I’m a grown up now.  A grown up who has accepted the truth.

The Date On Which I Regurgitated a Sushi Roll

During my junior year of college I went on a date at a sushi place.  One of the rolls we ordered ended up being really huge.  I awkwardly mused out loud about how I would approach the roll.  “Well, it’s so big that I almost want to cut it in half and eat half at a time.  But people don’t really do that, so I don’t know…” She then nonchalantly put one whole piece into her mouth and chewed like a normal person.  Seeing this, I assumed I would be able to do the same.  I put the roll into my mouth and proceeded to chew for a good 2 minutes.  This is an uncomfortably long time to be chewing, so I decided I needed to start swallowing this rice glob in my mouth.  The seaweed wrap unravelled as it went down my throat.  I could not breathe! My Sapporo glass was dry and all I could do was make exaggerated mime movements of terror.  Picture a cat with a string down its throat.  In essence, I was the cat.  And just like the cat, I had to hairball it up.  I picked up my napkin and, hairball style, began to heave up the sushi.  The person I was with was seemed relatively concerned/freaked out/disgusted, but I couldn’t stop to let her know I would (probably) be okay.  For a second I truly thought that perhaps I would die in this dimly lit sushi restaurant in the middle of the country.  Finally though, the last of the seaweed was out and I had no choice but to put my napkin, containing a regurgitated sushi roll, on the side of our table.  I’m a really good date. You should take me out sometime.  

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

—Leaving Myself Voice Memos

“An idea for a blog post is that I could make a listing of the time and dates of various voice memos I’ve left for myself with the premise that when I lived in Chicago I carried a notebook and wrote everything down and now that I live in St. Louis I spend most of my time getting from place to place driving and can’t do that.  So I seem like a crazier person this way.”

This itself was a voice memo I left for myself at 8:20 am on May 7th as I was driving to work.  As I drive, I incessantly pull out my phone to leave myself little recordings of ideas to write about.  I used to jot these thoughts on the train, but it is unsafe to do this while driving. It’s also arguably unsafe to leave voice memos, but I just have to press one button, so… Anyway, my phone is full with ridiculous, pseudo coherent thoughts. Many of which never make it to the keyboard. For a partial glimpse into my mind:

April 24, 11:58 pm: Essay idea: the desolate Washington University carnival as impetus for my existential crisis 

April 26th, 11:26 am: Essay idea: if relationships were like government jobs.

May 2nd, 4:42 pm: I spent a minute deciding if the smell was trash or hamburger before then throwing up a little in my mouth.

May 3rd, 3:01 pm: Maybe I should think about reviewing boxed wine, but make it seem even more desperate…like maybe take the almost empty bag out of the box and sip from the wine bladder. High brow meets low brow?

May 7th, 8:19 am: Instead of “yo mama’s so fat…” jokes we can tell “yo baby’s so tiny…” jokes. Yo baby’s so tiny it got enveloped in the folds of its own stroller, for example.

“I couldn’t help but notice you’re breathing really heavily,” the woman at the other table says.  The way she says it tells you that despite the potentially awkward nature of the statement, she felt it urgent enough to say something.  “Oh sorry,” you meekly reply.  You think about explaining to her that when you’re really focused on writing something, you tend to breathe in an alarmingly laborious way.  You think of telling her how when you send a long and heated text message, you worry you might hyperventilate.  Instead, you come out of your thoughts, back to the situation and settle on, “I just got caught up in my writing. I’m fine though, really. Thanks.”  She goes on to tell you that she is an asthmatic and offers you her inhaler.  You size the woman up—she is tall, conventionally glamorous, business like in a late 20s way.  Her glossy leopard stilettos and sheer white top would lead anyone to assume that breathing problems were something she never knew.  She sat down at her table over 30 minutes ago and asked the server to bring two glasses of water, she would be meeting someone here.  She is still sitting by herself, asking frivolous questions of the server like, “Can you tell me about the strawberry poppyseed dressing?” You wonder if this woman is happy, if she has a dog, if she gets along with her mother.  You politely decline her inhaler and tell her that you really must get back to your writing.  But now all you can think of is your breathing and her breathing and the breathing of everyone on Washington Avenue.  Why are we all at a cafe mid afternoon?

“I couldn’t help but notice you’re breathing really heavily,” the woman at the other table says.  The way she says it tells you that despite the potentially awkward nature of the statement, she felt it urgent enough to say something.  “Oh sorry,” you meekly reply.  You think about explaining to her that when you’re really focused on writing something, you tend to breathe in an alarmingly laborious way.  You think of telling her how when you send a long and heated text message, you worry you might hyperventilate.  Instead, you come out of your thoughts, back to the situation and settle on, “I just got caught up in my writing. I’m fine though, really. Thanks.”  She goes on to tell you that she is an asthmatic and offers you her inhaler.  You size the woman up—she is tall, conventionally glamorous, business like in a late 20s way.  Her glossy leopard stilettos and sheer white top would lead anyone to assume that breathing problems were something she never knew.  She sat down at her table over 30 minutes ago and asked the server to bring two glasses of water, she would be meeting someone here.  She is still sitting by herself, asking frivolous questions of the server like, “Can you tell me about the strawberry poppyseed dressing?” You wonder if this woman is happy, if she has a dog, if she gets along with her mother.  You politely decline her inhaler and tell her that you really must get back to your writing.  But now all you can think of is your breathing and her breathing and the breathing of everyone on Washington Avenue.  Why are we all at a cafe mid afternoon?

The Final Frontier of Being Alone

You’ve always felt that you need more alone time than most.  You’re too observant, always thinking, need time to reflect and decompress.  It’s a conundrum though because you don’t possibly want to miss a thing and so you turn down no invitations.  After a while though you feel fine, even exhilarated to do things alone.  Moving to Chicago was one of the best things you ever did.  While there you lost all semblance of self-consciousness and purposely saught out bizzare solitary ventures.  True, a large motivation was to gain new writing material, but regardless of the impetus you were finally able to let go and stop worrying about others—you were a terribly insecure teenager.  

You tested the waters of being alone by doing things that were socially sanctioned as okay for an individual.  You rode the train, went to coffee, went shopping.  Then you went to the movies by yourself.  After that it was the bar, which you quickly realized sent the wrong message.  So instead you tried the late-night queer performance art event hosted at a the bar.  All of this was fine, great actually, but there was always one activity left unexplored—eating at a sit-down restaurant.  Sure, one time you ate alone at Wiener Circle, but that was different (terrible and different).  

The idea of going to a place where a server comes to the table seems horrifying though.  You feel bad admitting it, but you’ve always looked at solo diners with pity.  You imagine this as the highlight of their week—the other nights they eagerly wait the two and a half minutes for their frozen dinner to defrost.  Honestly though, those people are probably way more self-actualized than you.  You recently decided that you should stop being such a dick and should branch out into the final frontier of being alone—going by yourself to a full service restaurant.

While in Denver for a job training,  an unfamiliar city where you don’t really know anyone, you realize that it would be the perfect context to test the water.  The first night out you yelp extensively and planned out where to go, but wimped out as you walked past the patio and saw big groups of friends drinking and laughing together.  You settled on a taco place where orders are placed at the counter and the food is brought to the table.  And they claimed to have the “freshest and strongest margarita in Denver.”  You’re sold.  Though you accidentally ordered $16 worth of tacos, you have no regrets.  

The next night you have full intentions to go to a local microbrewery for dinner, but get turned about three times despite your phone with GPS capabilities.  In an act of desperation, you turn onto a side street and find a place whose sign boasts that they were featured on “Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives.”  After establishing that they have both a full bar and an open table on the patio, you are seated.  The handsome young server acts a little weird about you being here by yourself and forgets to come back to your table for an hour after the food came, but other than that it was not traumatic.  Wait no, it was uncomfortable when a dude came up to you and introduced himself, presuming you were someone from Michigan that apparently “had the hookup,” whatever that means.  Other than that though it was non-eventful.  You resisted the temptation to play on your phone the entire time though you did a fair amount of texting.

The next day, your last night in Denver, you decide to try solo dining again. This time you didn’t feel weird or apologetic.  And you only took out your phone once, to take a picture of yourself.  It was great to have the solitary time to write and drink happy hour priced beer.  In fact, you’re uncertain why you ever made a big deal about eating alone.  What a frivolous concern, completely undeserving of an essay.  

Previously I wrote about my misadventures in music and can’t believe I neglected to remember my time at St. Louis Opera Theater camp. Twelve is the oldest you can be and get into the camp without auditioning.  I knew it was my only chance, since I am physically incapable of hitting any given note.  The instructor quickly picked up on this and encouraged me to write an opera that could be performed by my classmates.  This seemed fine, even exciting, to me.  The opera was called “Wake Up Ned” and is about a couple who hears a crying baby that has been left on their doorstep.  It turns out that not enough people wanted to be in my opera, so I ended up performing the role of Ned’s wife.  The whole thing was incredibly queer as we snuggled under a blanket on the floor in front of the audience.  The instructor basically forgot about me and my modern opera as she helped the non-reject students practice for their final performance of Pinocchio.  By the time she remembered, it was already dress rehearsal, which is when these pictures were taken.  She seemed disgusted with the end result of my opera, which I think I reveled in a little too much. I mean, look at my smirk in that picture.  It was too late for major revisions and my mom had already paid for what was essentially my independent study in opera, so the show went on.  My dream is to have the video of “Wake Up Ned” transferred from VHS to DVD.

Before my mom was my mom, I guess she was a hipster. (left to right: dad, mom, grandma, their friends?)

Before my mom was my mom, I guess she was a hipster. (left to right: dad, mom, grandma, their friends?)

Out In It

You smell the stale oil as it splashes upwards, along with a splatter of warm water, onto your right calf.  None of this was planned and should probably be distressing, but somehow it all feels so right—so freeing.  Since moving to Chicago you have taken to riding your bike when making excursions that would require more than one transfer on public transportation.  After meeting up with an old friend who lives exactly four miles east and two miles north, you begin your journey home through the summer night.  Suddenly, from the dark of the midnight sky, an unexpected downpour comes upon you.  The rain reactivates a distinct urban smell that rise from the street.  Wafts of hotdogs, cigarettes, and hot asphalt make their way into your nostrils.  You are not repulsed, but rather comforted.  Though a non-smoking vegetarian, somehow your body’s production of norepinephrine is in overdrive. All of the memories from your new life in the city come flooding back with this single sense.  The time you went for a late-night swim in Lake Michigan.  The time you took the train as far south as it would go, just to see.  The rain is coming down harder and harder. 

Laughter spontaneously erupts from your lungs as you continue on your solitary ride through the storm.  Fullerton Avenue is normally bustling with cabs, pedestrians, and fellow cyclists but now you are the lone figure for as far as the eye can see.  The whole city must be inside, snuggled under a blanket with a hot tea, you think.  You feel the rain pelting down on your skin, your clothes are clinging to you with every fiber of their being.  Even if you jumped into a pool, you could not possibly be more wet.  The only saving grace is the spot of hair that is not accessible via the vents in your helmet.  

You bike faster and faster, still laughing by yourself.  It dawns on you that if you were in a movie, nostalgic notes would be heard as this potentially defining moment of your young adult life was montaged.  The solitary ride through the storm in a city that is still somewhat unfamiliar to you signifies so much.  You are forging your own way through life, more so than in the past, feeling and seeing as much as you can.  Even in the moment, you are already longing for these fragments of your youth that haven’t yet faded. 

“Bring my bike on the train?” you scoff at the friendly suggestion.  It feels so natural, so right to engage your muscles as you move your legs to move the peddles to move the wheels to get you home.  Nothing could be better; there is no other way to be more in tune with the night right now, you muse.  Darkness always makes it hard for you to see, so you narrowly miss the first pothole you come across, though you end up dipping right into the third.  The jar of the impact breaks your idyllic state and you’re reminded that life is not always linear.  With this setback, you’re again connected with the laborious process of biking through the downpour.  Quickly though, you feel that the effort is well worth the cost. 

“I wonder if I will ever be this happy and free and young again?” you wonder.  At the time you’re not sure, but later on you will realize that this is just one of the many joyous moments you will have, completely in synch with the world around you.  After what feels like two hours and ten gallons of rain, you finally make it to the curb outside your apartment.  As you skid to a stop, old oil again splashes you on the calf.  Though this time it is on the left side.  This feels so right, as if it is the only way to conclude the night ride.  You lock your bike, walk up the three flights of stairs, and open your door.  You peel off your soaked clothes and make yourself a hot tea, trying to connect with the rest of the Chicagoans who were presumable inside, snuggled up warm during the storm.  “It’s better to be out in it,” you decide.

Today I got locked in a public restroom for about 20 minutes.  When the door closed, the slightly opened window caused it to slam and create a tight seal, rendering me helpless.  My first instinct was to document the experience. The window was covered in dark splotches of mildew. If I were a more dramatic person, I probably would have felt like I was suffocating in the stale air.  I started knocking on the door, lamely saying, “Help?” over and over.  I was inside of a coffee shop/grocery store combo and the bathroom was in the far back corner, where my pathetic situation went unknown as the employee ran the vacuum across the floor.  For a minute I resigned myself to the fact that perhaps I would spend the rest of my life in this tiny disgusting room.  Then I realized I have an iPhone and could call the store. But what store was I at? I had not ended up going where I intended and I hadn’t bothered to remember the name as I walked in.  After some frantic yelp searching, I located and dialed the number.  The man who had previously poured my iced coffee was soon releasing me back into the free world.  We made a few lame jokes about the situation and then I went outside to drink my coffee while getting a nice sunburn.

Never has there been a more aptly named snack: a Want Want review.

p.s. I couldn’t figure out how to put the commercial at the end of my video, so here is one. This kid and I share the exact same feeling when consuming Want Want products:

Elementary Reflections (and I’m back)

 

Working in elementary schools for the past several years has induced a lot of reflection over my own school experience.  As a chid, I was given more leeway than others in terms of infracting the rules, I think partly due to the fact that I peaked intellectually at age 11.  I was able to weasel my way out of almost an entire year of schooling and as a result, I still have anxiety when asked to recall the multiplication facts that I couldn’t be bothered to memorize.  I spent the school year of 1996 designing American Greeting cards and printing them on the newly purchased classroom color printer;  I wrote elaborate soap opera screen plays and designed paper doll characters.  I almost wish the internet had been a bigger thing during those pivotal years of my life, because I definitely would have gone viral with stop motion videos.  In addition to third grade math, I also eluded typing class.  I still type all wrong.  When I should have been playing a computer game called “Mario Teaches Typing” I was instead covertly chatting and gossiping with my classmates.  I discovered that I could open Notepad, type what I wanted to say, highlight the text, and then click a button called “text to speech.”  Upon sitting down, my friend at the computer next to me and I would switch headphones and this way the things I typed on my computer would be heard through her earphones and vice versa.  It was really great because there were about 12 options for the computer voice that read the text.  I always liked to choose “little brother” which sounded less like anyone’s brother and more like a robot with severe intonation problems.  We would launch into fits of laughter and then minimize the Notepad window as our teacher came over.  I was a hopeless case.  There was no way I would finish learning the home row on the keyboard by the end of 3rd grade.  By 4th grade, they had figured me out. I was put on a computer with no Notepad application and I was punished with “Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing.”  I always thought she was a famous historical figure, but it turns out she is just a fictional word processing character.  I didn’t like the way she wanted me to place my hands on the keyboard, and I didn’t like the idea that I could not look at the keys as I typed.  As a result, I taught myself to type really quickly while looking at the keyboard and using my right hand for all but 9 of the keys (q,w,e,a,s,d,z,x,c).  As a result, I am now an adult who looks silly as she types on her macbook in public.  

This is the draft of a story one of my students is writing. I conferred with her about it and wanted to be like, “Please make the title ‘Hey Gays What Up’” but instead had to ask her if the rest of the story was “school appropriate.” Dude, being a teacher is serious shit.

(click on the picture for a larger, more readable version, of the story)

From Here to There

As mentioned in my last post, my family and I went on a vacation to Key West.  The trip itself had noteworthy happenings that I could write about, but I’m going to instead choose to tell you about my airport experiences.  I flew separately from my family and had one connecting flight each way.  

St. Louis —> Miami

My parents reminded me many times that we would be leaving for the airport promptly at 4:00 a.m.  At 3:40 a.m. I was still out, because it’s Winter Break and really, what else would I be doing on a Thursday night? Anyway, at that time I received a text from my dad that read “We r leaving @ 4. R u coming to Key West??” I got home just as they were loading the car to leave.  My mom gave me a look of judgement.  Once at the airport, I bought an overpriced coffee and tried to get as close to curling into a fetal position as socially acceptable.  I boarded the plane and headed for my window seat, only to find a man with a receding hairline in my seat slowly folding t-shirts.  I stood there for a while waiting for him to finish and finally said, “Hey, that’s my seat, but if you just want to sit there it’s cool with me. I can sit in the middle.”  He accepted and almost immediately proceeded to tell me, “I just want to disclose that my wife and I are separated.  This holiday season I’m looking to mingle and I don’t mind a lady who’s a little disheveled!” He bit his lip slightly and winked at me.  I was so tired and repulsed that I told him, “I’m not much of a mingler…also I’m going to sleep now. I didn’t go to sleep last night.” He continued with a bizarre conversation until I fell asleep.  When I woke up he said, “You look really nice when you sleep.” God! 

Miami —> Key West

There are many things I could recount, but there are only two important things; I sat next to a dachshund and my pilot’s name was Captain Michael Jackson.

Key West —> Miami

Again, my luck is such that I sat next to another socially inept man.  As soon as I sat down he started to talk to me about his brambleberry tea. I gave him a nod and smile intended to express, “That’s nice, but you need to stop talking to me now.”  I wanted to read my book, but my book is on a borrowed nook and e-readers aren’t allowed during takeoff and landing.  So I decided to indulge this man’s rambling for a while.  He kept talking about Sky Mall and seemed sad that his seat back was missing a copy, so I handed him mine.  He went through the catalog, item by item, telling me his interest level in each product.  It turns out he was wearing the trampoline shoes featured on p. 6.  Around this point in the page turning he said, “Oh, I think it would be best if I put a star next to each thing that I already own and circle each thing that I want.”  ”Okay,” I told him.  More than anything, he wants a spy pen to put in his pocket.  I didn’t even want to ask why.   

Miami —> St. Louis

On an otherwise completely booked flight, I had an entire row to myself.  I think this is what they mean by Christmas miracle, right?