when we die, do we become limbs? just faceless, legged remnants of a life lived?
i can't look at these ap and reuters photos of devastation in asia without thinking about that. not since 9/11 have i seen photos that so accurately capture the most visceral human emotion, grief.
the photos are like a morbid peep show into something i would never see here in a commercialized world and 9/11 is probably the closest america will come to it.
photographers freeze-frame mourners' faces, contorted into wrinkled, shut eyes and white teeth bared in now still, silent howls of despair.
two men carry a body out of the rubble of a home. the older man lets a cigarette hang loosely from the corner of his mouth. judging by their blank expressions, one would think that they were bored rather than shell-shocked.
and the carnage. even looking at the pictures, i cannot fathom what it must look like, thousands of bodies piled upon one another, faces turned blue and gray and bloated. what does that look like? what does the air taste like to the woman in this photograph who has wrapped her headdress around her nose and mouth? i sit staring at swollen bodies whose lungs are drowned in water.
what made me lucky enough to live land-locked in america?
the look of devastation is the same everywhere, but this disaster has changed the way i regard it.
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
when we die, do we become limbs? just faceless, legged remnants of a life lived?
Saturday, December 25, 2004
And that miracle would be that I got my car ALL the way up my driveway.
After Ohio got bitch-slapped by mother nature herself all day Wednesday and into Thursday afternoon with a little over a foot of snow, we kin who be unaccustomed to such likened weatherins have been done shovelin ourselves outta it for damn near three days.
Granted, a foot or more (or even less) of snow is substantial. Especially when most of it hits an area in say, a twelve hour period. But for Ohioans, who are used to only about three or four inches at MOST at a TIME, the preparation is not there and thus, we suffer all the way into the weekend.
I worked Wednesday from 9 am til 6 pm. My way there was a near white-out on the highway, where I crawled at about 25 miles per hour or less the entire way. I grimaced every time I looked out the storefront window during my day, dreading that some maniac mother in her SUV would come flying around my car and slam the parked QTPUH2T in the rear. Fortunately, no lunatics destroyed anything and I was able to dethaw my car in about a half hour and leave for my way home. The three to four lane I-71 (home and highway of many an eastern traveler who journeys between Florida and the northeast) had become a one or two lane highway for most of its duration between work and my house. The snow was still falling heavily and aside from narrow, limited lanes and terrible vision, the lanes that had been more or less carved out of the snow were lined by ice that grabbed as I drove and threatened to pull me into the ditch.
I got home and faced the beast that is my driveway. The Family driveway is an uphill battle, lengthened at about, oh, a good 100 yards from street to house. As I attempted to get up the drive, I got no further than three feet up and away from the street and decided I'd park elsewhere for the night. I chose Michael's Pest Control down the street and prayed to the extermination gods above that Michael would not tow my car in the morning.
In fact, he shoveled my car out of the snow for me. Thanks, Mike and your pesty friends.
Thursday, I got my car up our drive by about fifteen feet and left QTPUH2T there for the day.
Today I jumped in the car with an hour to spare before work.
"Meh... if it usually takes me fifteen to twenty minutes to get to work, it'll take me about a half hour to forty minutes today with Christmas shoppers. That'll leave me with a little time to run into Best Buy, grab a few last minute things and then go to work."
Yeah, that's what I was thinking.
But no. Instead, it would take me over an hour and a half to get to work. AN HOUR AND A HALF.
Most of the highway had become a tundra, barren ice and packed snow with still only two-lanes of moving traffic where other cars had carved lanes out of the snow (with no particular care to where the lines HAD been painted). Like a battle between nature and machinery, carnage of wrecked cars rusted and weathered in the shoulders and in snow-banks. Scared for mine and my car's future, I gripped the wheel and fought the grip of the ice and snow as the willy-nilly lanes ebbed and flowed from their nonsensical directions.
I sat in stopped traffic to exit I-71 for over forty five minutes and also spent twenty minutes in the parking lot, fighting for a space and getting stuck in a line of cars where there was no thru-way. (We all had to go in reverse one by one in order to get out of our rubix cube jam.)
I clocked in a half hour late, at 1:30, worked only until 6:30 and still got a half hour break. Rock on, Christmas Eve.
I love working Christmas Eve. It's so hectic, and, at least at Old Navy, I thrive on chaos. The busyness lasted for about two and a half hours before our traffic slowed to just about nothing. Unfortunately, I encountered no unusual customers or extremely angry customers this year as I have in years past.
Customers of note on Christmas Eve:
1. Creepy guy 12/24/02 8:30 am:
Bought only socks and underwear.
Said he "liked my hat" (didn't wear Santa hat after that year to work), worked some lame come-ons in, then cut to the chase asking:
"You know, my friend was supposed to come with me tonight to Florida for Christmas but he can't make it. ((slides plane ticket across counter)) You wanna come instead?"
Uh...Well, uh... That's nice of you, but I think my family is expecting me for dinner.
"Are you sure, baby? I can come back for you later. What time you off work?"
That's really okay. I'm busy.
2. The If-You've-Worked-Retail-You-Know-Which-L
Yeah, that's right. The bitch who not only doesn't have a single penny on her, but has emptied the entire store in her shopping cart and now expects you to take her business check. PERSONAL CHECKS ONLY, PLEASE. After yelling at me, throwing merchandise in my face, and asking for a manager, she requested use of our phone, talked to her husband for ten minutes and at 6:20 pm (we closed at 6 pm), decided she didn't want to buy anything and before leaving yelled, "DON'T YOU GUYS KNOW PEOPLE WANT TO SHOP ON CHRISTMAS EVE? WHY DON'T YOU STAY OPEN LATER??!"
3. The Mom with Eight Kids early afternoon 12/24/any-year
I'm pretty sure this is the same mom every year. She just shows up and wreaks havoc on the store. The same kids. The same hijinks... tearing down posters, throwing ornaments, tossing recently-folded shirts off of tables, wearing the dog-reindeer-ears... And the mom, comatose, deaf, dumb and glassy-eyed.
That's one-hundred eighty-one dollars and thirty-two cents, ma'am.... Ma'am?............. Ma'am?!
Don't bother. She's gone, her kids have taken control of the front half of the cash-wrap and her husband is probably at home, piss-ass drunk and watching football. Let her stay in that silent, safe place that only Old Navy can provide.
Other customers are generally just happy dads who don't give a rat's ass how last-minute their shopping is and give you smiles of encouragement and ask how late you have to work. Others are moms with daughters who are aware of how late they are shopping and just look bug-eyed with the fright and thrill of it. These guys I don't mind at all. But if it weren't for those crazy Christmas Eve customers, could I ever have the claim to fame of having been offered a trip to Florida from Creepy McCreepersons?
Back to the miracle that occured this Christmas Eve...
Once I braved The Tundra--I-71 North, I returned back into safe Lebanon, Ohio, where LaRosa's Pizzeria was open, and in small suburban homes, upper middle classers huddled around their Christmas trees to open Old Navy fleeces from Gramma.
Piddling my way up Cincinnati Avenue, I decided that this bitch of a driveway was not going to get me tonight and so I shifted it up into second gear as I turned and gunned it all the way up, my car shuddered and spitted over the ice and lurched to a halt where the snow heightened into a bank that no shovel nor plow could sunder.
As reward for my excellent driving, a (practically) normal family Christmas Eve was had in the Family household. Complete with a nice dining-room-worthy meal, half-Christmas present unwrapping and PJP2, formerly known as the Pope, giving his Midnight Mass. (The true family tradition, watching Midnight Mass on TV.)
And although there would be no late-night holiday light driving due to the road conditions, the Christmas spirit glowed warm in the Family household that night while they were all nestled in bed with plans of really late sleeping-in danced in their heads.
Saturday, November 27, 2004
Today I bought new bras.
(I know this sounds like it's headed nowhere, but bear with me...)
First of all, I don't shop the day after Thanksgiving. In fact, in the first eighteen years of days-after-Thanksgivings I've experienced, either I or my family made a conscious decision to stay inside, cozy up with movies and leftovers, and generally just avoid the conflict that suburban malls bring with them.
So today, when I awoke at 3:00 pm, I thought to myself: Today is the day I will try shopping during this notorious and hellish day.
And indeed, after my 3:30 pm shower and 4:00 pm breakfast of leftovers, I slid into the Beetle, iPod and iTrip close at hand, ready to brave the forces of suburban elitist mothers who drive large SUVs and keep their children at bay with screeching promises of "No dessert!" and "We'll see if you're good enough this year for that toy!!"
((Note: While driving to the lovely Cincinnati Tri-County Mall, I rediscovered my love of driving with the volume up so high that I can shout along with the music and not care what I sound like. Queen, Ray Charles and the Rushmore soundtrack found new homes in the blaring speakers of the Beetle this afternoon.))
I make no pretenses about what I was going to buy. Hell. I stated it right up above. I was buying bras. And, hell yes, I was buying them for myself.
There's nothing more gratifying and/or disturbing in the realm of shopping to a girl than the purchase of intimate garments. I think we can all agree that breasts are pretty awesome and bras are fun things, but they're expensive endeavors. Choose wisely, oh naive shopperette, thine garments wilst stand the tests of self-scrutiny and conscious decision-making: Thou shalt not place thine bra in the firey depths of the DRIER!
But eventually, thou shall, and thou knowst it to be so. But whilst thou stand in front of Victoria Secret's glistened mirrors, thou makest false promises of air-drying.
So hopefully, I haven't lost my entire livejournal audience by discussing laundrying tactics, but this is important. These were the thoughts running through my head while I was deciding while bra to buy.
Buying this underwear at Victoria's Secret (I've never owned one of their bras, by the way...) gave me an opportunity to do some self-reflective and perhaps egocentric thinking. And what better way to do that thinking than doing it while looking at your own reflection??
And, not surprisingly, I figured a few things out.
I haven't hung out with a single person from home since I've been here. I ran into Carolyn working at Kidd Coffee today, but that's the extent of my interaction with "home-folks." And somehow, that's okay.
I guess if this were Christmas break, and I knew I wouldn't be seeing any of them for all that time, I'd be distressed...but maybe not even then.
Instead, right now, I have this inner calm and sense of completeness about who I am and what I am doing. I've talked about my academic future with my parents, and although none of us can definitely know the path it will take, everything seems like it's going to be fine...and more. It will be what I want it to be.
It's having this sudden sense of control that overwhelms me right now. I'm home and home sure isn't what it was two, three or ten years ago...but that's fine. Home now gives me opportunities to be alone and think that school, just as a matter of its essence, cannot...
So maybe that's why when it was just me and my half-naked reflection for a while today at Victoria's Secret, I was thinking:
I know what I want and I know what I am feeling. I know where I want to be and I know who I care about. I want to make the most of myself and I want to make others feel what I feel. And it's alright that I'm at a hiatus right now--things will fall into their places.
That may not make everything okay in the interim. I'll be disappointed. I'll get hurt. I'll fail at times when I hope to succeed. But, with the sense of self I have right now, I challenge the future:
Alright. Show me struggle. And watch me stride through it.
And I'll do it in Body by Victoria style...
Wednesday, November 3, 2004
I feel that it is my duty as
1.) A livejournal user
2.) An active member in American society
3.) A legal Ohio citizen
to update above mentioned livejournal in honor of the current election and its incoming results.
I know too many people who walk a fine line between religious morals and politics and confuse the two who voted conservatively today.
I know too many people who have been hurt in the last four years because of the Bush regime.
I know too many families who have lost jobs to a failing economy.
I know too many people who have been sent over to the Middle East, risked their lives, and then after they were told "Mission Accomplished," they were given orders to go over again.
If Ohio, which has been declared by CNN "a green state" aka: too hard to call, goes to Bush... I'm afraid the people who made the mistake today of voting for him will self-righteously postulate their position for the next four years, and come the next forty, they will learn the hard way.
Our generation is the generation that will clean up the mess of this president. Four years is enough. I can't take four more.
Tuesday, November 2, 2004
Friday, October 22, 2004
We both know I'm one for excitement. I mean, come on. I wouldn't partake in your services were I not!
However, I don't know how appreciative I am of times when the El car I am on catches fire. Smoke is cool and flames can be sometimes, but still...endangering passengers lives is not.
Be thankful that Chicago residents are dull and robotic when they ride the El, otherwise, rather than calmly exiting the car and complacently standing on the platform, we would have rioted and set fire to more of your cars as you rolled away with a cloud of smoke trailing behind you.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
SCHIEFFER And our first question goes to
KERRY Bob, I'm glad you asked me that question, but before I dodge it I'd like to thank you for moderating this debate, I'd like to thank Arizona State University for being such wonderful hosts and I'd like to thank Dick Cheney's daughter for being a lesbian - in case anybody didn't know.
Bob, as you know, this nation is on the brink of an apocalyptic catastrophe. Civilization as we know it is hanging on by a thread. Our culture has collapsed, our economy is in tatters, the human spirit is extinguished, children never laugh, God is dead, and families like Dick Cheney's are ashamed of their daughters, one of whom is a lesbian. All of this is because of
Did you know that right here in Arizona the average share of the national debt on a per capita basis is rising faster than the inverse of the median lost wages ratio of the typical swing voter in Ohio, Missouri and Florida combined?
Bob, when I'm president, we're going to have a president as gloomy as this country should be. But the difference is that I have a plan to balance the budget. In fact I have seven plans. Seven and a half if you count the one I was working on in the limo, not even counting subclauses. When I'm president, our country is going to marry a really rich country, which will pay for everything. Thank you.
SCHIEFFER Mr. President?
BUSH You need a plan. I know that. I'm president. I wake up every day looking for a plan. In fact, I supported Mitch McConnell's plan. But my opponent voted to raise taxes 1,500 gazillion bazillion times. He even voted for some of my budgets, which have created deficits as far as the eye can see! He's a liberal!
The first thing we need to do is cut back. I'm not going to have a flu shot this year. I'm not even going to take a Tylenol. I'm going to have a root canal right here on this stage without Novocain. But we also need to declare an international war on deficits.
I'm excited about 19-year-old girls in Afghanistan who are voting in favor of the line-item veto for the first time ever. I'm excited about the millions of Iraqis who have been liberated from Saddam's Hussein's trial lawyers and their frivolous lawsuits.
SCHIEFFER According to the prearranged rules of this debate, each candidate will now have two minutes to spew forth sentimental blather in order to connect with the American people.
KERRY Thank you Bob. I'm a Catholic. I was an altar boy. In Nativity plays I was usually cast as one of the posts holding up the manger. I know that a lot of people are tired of politicians who just tell them what they want to hear. America, I want to look you in the eye and pledge I will never pander to you.
Spirituality is important to me. I've always felt that we humans are insignificant maggots scuttling across the muck of the universe, and that life itself is just a meaningless moment of agony between the suffocating stench of the womb and the foul decay of the grave.
SCHIEFFER Thanks for that uplifting message. Mr. President?
BUSH America, we've been through a lot together. Imagine how bad things would be if I'd made any mistakes. But we've come through it.
We haven't enforced the Dred Scott decision. And what about my timber company? Can you believe the networks? Oh, never mind. Do you want some wood? How late does this go, anyway? I'm losing it.
SCHIEFFER As I was driving in tonight one thing occurred to me: All three of us are surrounded by strong women. What the hell are we doing up here? Why aren't they running the country?
KERRY Bob, it's true that I am married. She's my second wife, to be precise. Can't recall her name at the moment, but she's fully funded. And I've got two beautiful daughters. Heterosexuals, both of them.
I want to tell you about my family unit and what it means to me. We're in the 79th percentile in most demographic categories. Our compatibility fitness score is within the standard deviation for median households worldwide. ...
I expected college to be a lot like a series of monologues, where each individual would get a moment of self-declaration and in that moment, we completely mature, learn, and grow. But that hasn't happened and I don't think it will any time soon.
Instead, "College," the theater show, is set on a stage that has been designed as a cest pool of competition, gossip and hormones, where, we the players ("college students") port North Face fleece, Nalgenes, and five-hundred pages of reading for each week, and off stage right, parents and authority figures tell us to function.
"College" should really be a musical instead. Oh, wait. Waa Mu definitely already did that. But they didn't have a musical scene in a library--and that needs to happen.
Last night I was lying in bed thinking about all the things that had happened to me in a week's time. I'm positive nothing happened to me during the entire LENGTH of summer that compared in terms of dramatic interest. More dramas should be set on college campuses.
I've been cryptic lately with everybody. I apologize.
My backyard is big with big trees, divided in half by a white fence that runs the width of the green space. Stretching away from our back door and porch, there is a patio, a walkway to our pool, the white wooden fence, and then another stretch of lawn where our barn flanks the right side and my old wooden swingset flanks the left.
When I was seven, I'd run the entire backyard in circles. I'd start at the backdoor's steps, run crosswise toward my swingset, climb the swingset and jump down, run the width of the yard to the barn, turn, follow the white fence down toward the big tree with the old swing (where I once fell and scraped open my chin), around the pool (keeping my distance from the edge like Mom asked me to), and then leap over the lavender bushes.
Once, as I tried to jump those bunches of lavender in one leap, I thought to myself (as I fell into the grass and proceeded to roll down the hill toward the patio in one motion), "Someday, I'll look back and think about this and I'll know I was really lucky."
And I was right. I do look back. And I was lucky. Everything was simple, and even though I knew it, I couldn't appreciate it.
I think I'm going to jump in leaves later this week and maybe run around campus. I think I'd smile if I saw someone else doing it in between classes or at night on their way to the library, so maybe I should go for it
Monday, October 4, 2004
(Upon Spending Hours in Library and After a Late Beach Walk Full of Introspection the Previous Night)
Monday, October 4, 2004
Please don't let me become just another college student on her way to just another grad school, who will ultimately lead just another suburban-working-mother life. Help me make my life interesting and fill it with the unexpected. Remind me when my eyes glaze over with humdrum existence that a world lives outside of me, begging to be breathed in, exhaled, and experienced. Shake me at my foundation and challenge me daily.
Help me make my life extraordinary, if only for the reason that I lived it.
With much love,
PS. Good job with that whole running the world thing. I'm very impressed. Oh, and could you maybe throw a vote left in this upcoming election? Thanks!
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
I haven't thought about the smell of John Freidman's Brilliant Brunette shampoo in a long time.
In fact, maybe I've never thought about it.
But today, while lathering on that first sudsy layer of the chestnut colored shampoo, a rush of memories from last school year overswept me. It was like I was at the end of winter quarter and the beginning of spring quarter all over again. My brain reacted to the smell and I began to worry about all the things I was worrying about then. Papers. Relationships. The pervasive smell of BO in the hall.
And while I was in Minnesota, using my mom's conditioner from home, the sickeningly sweet aroma of Pantene Pro-V resurfaced memories from high school. Disgustingly perfect situations. White picket fences and such.
As expected, my room sits in the shadow of Evans Scholars. Despite a slight din, I love what my room has come to be so far and I have loved being at school in every moment since arriving. The freshmen look to be wonderful and this year will be great.
(but I have no expectations.)
Sunday, September 5, 2004
Ahh... and another close to another summer.
Although mine hits a little earlier than usual this year, and I suppose it truly IS NOT the end of summer, considering I am going on a vacation, then moving in and not having class until the 22nd... but just to call things even, let's say this is the end of summer.
I really dreaded coming home this summer. I had no idea what to expect from relationships, working, family, and just about every other extension of life that exists. As it turned out, summer ended up being pretty much a blast, if a somewhat quiet and dull blast, but a blast nonetheless. (And we can all use some quiet blasts... I think...)
This summer, as several of my friends and I have agreed upon, was meant to be an exercise in patience, stretching boundaries, and discovering self.
I worked in the same environment, but for the first time, I really genuinely enjoyed it and I got to be closer with my co-workers on the job and even off, which was nice. I finally had a rocking manager who would say things like "Fuck these shirts," while folding them.
I hung out with many of the same people, but the allotted time with all changed.
Some groups of friends, unfortunately, became drastically less, and I'm not sure I'll ever know why that happened.
People changed in the nine months I was gone, in ways that I could not recognize in the periods of time I was home for breaks. Despite the fact that while some of these changes were positive, many were negative, I find that the impact of all of these changes have been positive for me.
I have only become a stronger, more independent, and, therefore, happier person because of the changes my friends have undergone.
Although I didn't read nearly as many novels as I wanted to this summer, I found myself reading more current events than before and felt that I spent my free time well what with doodling, drawing, writing, photography taking, rural-Ohio driving/soul-searching, and finally finding the answers and making decisions about problems that have faced me for years. (No exaggeration.)
I have felt particularly validated in the last few days, spending time with Skraps Eitak (aka: Katie Sparks) and talking with her about many things. Tonight we discussed our shared dislike for the flighty and flirty female and our hope that many girls will stop blaming guys for any set-backs they face, and look to themselves to push themselves forward, and without the help of any boyfriend/fiancée/husband. Perhaps it was scary feminism-talk, but perhaps that's just what we need. I decided I'm happier than I've been with myself in months and a lot of it has to do with the feeling of accomplishment, independence, and strength I've felt recently.
I guess I'm just very quietly happy.
Although I enjoyed this summer, didn't swim enough, breathed the sweet grass of Ohio, adventured in fields and forests, partied with friends, both took classes and taught, got to wear casual to work, bonded with newer closer friends, and developed a new appreciation for the meaning of "home," I think that I might be done with "home" for summers.
I've loved it here, but things will change more and I've got my own life to lead and that comes first before everything. And that's exciting.
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
So whilst talking to Brandon on the phone this afternoon, I got a beep on my other line. I unwittingly walked into the lair that houses disgruntled and uppity Medill secretaries and aides.
I had emailed a prof in Medill for the course I want to take come fall quarter that had filled in the section I wanted. The only section open, which I would have signed up for, conflicted with my schedule. I sent this email that I worked on for quite a while to word "just right," and make sure he knew how much I wanted to get into this other section so I could take the course.
When I answered the beep, I got a garble of introductions from a haughty woman on the other line, all I caught was Northwestern University. I deduced that she must be calling about my class switch.
Before I could say more than hello, she hissed into the receiver, "You DO realize, I'm SURE, that you CANNOT BE a journalism major."
She went on to spit and steam about how I was in CAS (woah! is that what school i applied to because NU's damned admissions office made journalism sound impossible?? oh right!) and how I couldn't be a journalism major because of that.
Right, I said. It was my intention to take this course as a student in CAS and provided that, as will most likely happen, I enjoy the course, I will apply to transfer into Medill for winter quarter.
(let it be known, if you don't know already, this decision has been a huge struggle for me...the last thing i need is some lower end registrar telling me what to do with my life.)
Wellll, she huffed, It is difficult, if not nearly impossible, for sophomores to transfer into Medill. It's hard to get into the Medill School of Journalism as a freshman.
(Hey, thanks for the encouragement and words of advice...)
Well, I said, Regardless, I want to take this course.
She quickly exhaled a curt and disapproving "hmph."
I sat on the other line while she grumbled complaints and put-downs for five minutes, changing my schedule.
Thanks so much for your help, I said earnestly when she finished.
Not even a "you're welcome," but rather I got a final word from her: Well, just because you're IN this class doesn't mean you're a journalism major. Very few people are accepted as transfers into Medill. If you don't do well in this class, you might as well not get your hopes up.
I sometimes want to take a reality stick and beat people with it. Or maybe certain organizations.
Get over yourself, I'd say as I beat them with the hard oak of get-real.
Fortunately, I received an email from the professor this afternoon, asking me if all went well with my class switch. He said if there was any reason it didn't go smoothly, to contact him and he'd fix things.
Maybe I should tell him to fire his uppity secretary.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
It's about time I rant about retail. I've done it oh-so little.
Sometimes, stores close. This unfortunate calamity, in fact, happens every day...in EVERY store...except for, perhaps, your local Kroger.
When stores close, it's not the employees' faults.
We, the employees, do not choose when we are open and when we are closed. If we could, we would, but we can't.
So, please. Do the employee a favor... Don't throw slut-phrases around like:
"Weeeehlp, mah daughtah an' I travel ah who' hour tah get 'ere. Y'all didn't make yer announcement thatchy'all were closin' like y'always do."
Well, ma'am, I'm sorry. We do close at six.
(NOTE: there is NO announcement, nor has there ever been one. I'd gladly get on a loudspeaker and tell people to "Kindly make your final (damn) purchases and make your way (haul some freaking ass up) to buy your items (shit).")
"Weeeeeehl, that geeeeeeerhhhllll back dere in y'all's fittin' room done said mah daughtah can't try her clothes on."
Well, ma'am since we do close at six, we can't let anyone back after closing since the registers will close. And you have the option of returning all your items and receiving the full price for which you paid them, should you keep your receipt during the 90 day return period.
(NOTE: "the registers will close:" A white lie told to all customers. The registers cannot actually be closed until the last customer leaves the store and the doors are locked behind him and/or her. Don't believe retailers who tell you that load of crap.)
"Weeeeeeehl, none of this 'ere clothin' will prolly fit mah daughtah. An' we all live an hour away from this 'ere Old Navy."
Well, ma'am, I'm sorry (you live out in the middle of nowhere and) our store is inconveniently placed (in this suburban shopping center. God knows that it's never ever shopped at ALL and we constantly get complaints about how its location directly between Best Buy and Barnes and Noble marks its desolate position.)
Location: That inconveniently-placed Old Navy
Day and time: Sunday, 6:15-6:35 pm
Regular closing time on said day: 6 pm.
Number of customers still in said location: 1
Location of said customer: Register 6
Time said customer has spent at said register: 20 minutes
Brief transaction description:
--customer began transaction, requesting use of expired coupon
--customer said she did not need gift receipts
--after half of transaction is rung up, customer requests gift receipts for certain previously rung items
--customer requests cashier's assistance: "What size would a girl who looks like she's 30 in the face, 12 in the body, but she's 16, wear?"
--customer returns to store floor to grab new sizes in girl's size based on cashier's compromise suggestion of a size 14, since the girls' department does not carry a size 30, and clothing sizing is never based on faces.
--customer returns with new items, changes mind on some as they are rung up
--customer comments that she does not, in fact, know her own son's size, asks cashier if she would know
--cashier responds, surprisingly, that she does not know the customer's son's size
--customer's cell phone (with loud annoying song) rings at approximately 6:30, mystery-size son calling
--customer asks son following questions: "What size do you wear? I already chose a bunch."..."What's your favorite color denim, the one blue or the other blue?"..."Does Sissy like pants?"
--when transaction is totaled, customer attempts to use expired coupon again
--cashier takes coupon, throws it away
--6:35, customer leaves
Character description: The BAD PARENT, (usually accompanied by one to three BAD CHILDREN)
-BAD PARENT is male or female, usually parent to young BAD CHILDREN
-Most likely, BAD PARENT is dressed very nicely, while his and/or her BAD CHILD is dressed in rags
-Discipline for BAD PARENT involves combat and/or screaming
-Misbehavior from BAD CHILD involves combat and/or screaming
Sample scene 1:
OLD NAVY CASHIER: Hi, ma'am! Did you find everything you needed today?
BAD PARENT (not listening to ONC, yells at son, age 8): Joey!! Get your butt over here or else we're not having dinner tonight!
JOEY (enters from stage left): MOOOOOM!!!!! You SAID I could get a DOG BONE! I WAAAAAANT a dog bone!!!! YOU SAID!
BP: Shut your mouth, Joey! THAT'S IT!! You're done!!!
ONC (while ringing last item): And is that it for you today, ma'am? Did you want to open an Old Navy Account and save ten percent on this and your next purchase?
BP: Shit. No. Yeah, that's it. No credit cards for me, thanks. (pauses, watching son who is currently sticking hangers in electric outlets and kicking over piles of clothing) JOEY!!! Get over here NOW.
J: I HATE YOU, MOM! YOU SAID!
Sample scene 2:
PREGNANT BP stands in line at register with shopping cart in front of her. Her three-week old INFANT/NOT-YET RUINED CHILD is in the built-in car seat of the shopping cart. Her BAD CHILD/TODDLER is running around the front display, grabbing shirts and throwing them.
PREGNANT BP is distracted by ONC and turns back on both INFANT and TODDLER.
TODDLER runs around display twice, then at cart, jumps on end of cart, sending cart tipping over on its end, pinning TODDLER underneath and sending INFANT sailing six feet in air and landing on head on concrete floor.
Now then. I'd, unfortunately, be lying if I said any of the above wasn't true. So I just would like to make a plea.
I know you're the customer. You come first. We all do because we're all customers.
Take pity on the poor salesperson, who hath giveth his soul to the dark demon of Retail. He knoweth not what he does and what dark lord he serveth. Easeth his suffering with quick responses, a kind smile in return to the one giveth to you, and every once in a while, openeth a credit card account. He will feeleth your mercy.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Don't open your mouth too soon, everyone. The excitement level for the summer picked up a few notches in one surprise swoop.
Today started as your usual day, with the exception of going out for a "last supper (ie: Chipotle lunch)" with Michael. I was awoken by my mom at 10:30, lounged in bed, got a call from Brandon at 11... you know... nothing spectacular that you want to read about.
As I was drying my hair in my bedroom, my parents come galavanting in, yelling something about a mystery being solved.
As my parents made me guess what the solved mystery is and I grabbed for my pink kimono to cover myself up (since they HAD just barged into my room unannounced and obviously hyped up), my dad waved around some plant leaf in his hand.
And thus, mystery solved indeed.
Growing in our backyard.
On our property.
For some reason, this was really exciting for me too, and I got up and bounced around my room, laughing. I really don't know why, doing that made a lot of sense at the time.
We all laughed as pieces of the bizarre neighbor puzzle came together.
Flashlights and whispering in our property line bushes at night...
Mysterious vehicles coming at the wee hours of the morning to our neighbor's house...
Loud raucous laughing, you know the laugh I mean, at seemingly nothing.
I should really clarify, though. This neighbor is actually my neighbor, Jerry's tenent. He lives in a smaller house on Jerry's property and takes care of the pool and yard and such. He's always been a little weird and the like.
He's the type who will yell things like "FUCK THIS BULLSHIT!!!!" at the top of his lungs in broad daylight. I think we all have a neighbor like that, or at least someone in close proximity. Or maybe we ARE that person...
Anyhaps, so in about the course of an hour, the police came and questioned my family and poked around the bushes and then went to our neighbor's to do whatever it is they do in these situations.
Seriously. Summer excitement level, increased from about a 2.3 to a 7.0 today.
I suppose if I really wanted to increase the level more, I would have picked some of the plant and have it hanging in my basement to dry right now, but I did not do that. So, summer excitement level will probably plateau back down to about a 4.0.
Sunday, August 8, 2004
Like Robert Frost said...
The house had gone to bring again
To the midnight sky a sunset glow.
Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
Like a pistil after the petals go.
The barn opposed across the way,
That would have joined the house in flame
Had it been the will of the wind, was left
To bear forsaken the place's name.
No more it opened with all one end
For teams that came by the stony road
To drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs
And brush the mow with the summer load.
The birds that came to it through the air
At broken windows flew out and in,
Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh
From too much dwelling on what has been.
Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf,
And the aged elm, though touched with fire;
And the dry pump flung up an awkward arm:
And the fence post carried a strand of wire.
For them there was really nothing sad.
But though they rejoiced in the nest they kept,
One had to be versed in country things
Not to believe the phoebes wept.
The barn and tavern are about 50 yards apart. The cemetary is up the hill, about 250 yards, overlooking a ravine that leads to the river...
the view up into the rafters...
part of the cabinet that was part of the schoolhouse in the upper room of the barn...
more of the cabinet...
the cabinet, with all its worn colors...
somewhat disconcerting discovery on the top floor of the barn...
perhaps someone who IS well-versed in country things can tell me what kind of farm machinery this is...
old nail and chains hanging from it, next to the uhh...wagon?
close-up of the front of the wagon-like thing... note that the wheels on the front are super sharp.
this mystery dial was on the front of the mystery machinery...
sunlight peeks through into the barn...
the rear view of the adjacent tavern...
the upper rear window...
the layers of paint peel off a window sill of the tavern...
a shattered window and glimpse inside the kitchen...
a better shot of inside the kitchen through the broken window...
the view of the barn from the tavern...
the front of the Cross Keys Tavern (operated as tavern from 1809-1820, schoolhouse where friend Amy's neighbor was instructed thereafter, currently maintained by Camp Kern(??))
John and Osee Terry's headstone, (one of the best in condition there)...
typical rural Ohio, this schoolbus is in the woods, visible from the cemetary...
Henry Stibbs' headstone, seemingly very successful farmer, the father of John Stibbs, grandfather of Jackson Stibbs, would outlive most of his grandchildren as he lived to the remarkable age of 98. Walked through his old property today...
These two headstones were near the Stibbs' plots, the names are illegible, but these red silk flowers that some person left there mark the graves...
Tuesday, August 3, 2004
Today I drove.
It was the most important thing I've done in a while.
I realized many things in the time it took my gas needle to sink from half empty to quarter full.
I leave the house, my hands damp with the humidity and heat, fingers pressing the flip-key of the Volkswagen. And as if in slow motion, I move down my steps unevenly jumping two at a time (clip-clop, clip-clop).
I unlock the door just before my hand reaches for the arched handle of the car. Slipping into the hot seat, the faux leather burns my thighs and bare arms. I turn the key in the ignition, roll down my windows, and turn on my music.
Usually I complete this expected and framed moment by tearing my hairband out of my hair, pulling my sunglasses over my eyes and immediately putting my hand on the gearshift and my foot on the clutch. I'm ready.
Each turn is decided by whim. I veer toward the unknown, the blind corners, the shadows, green hills lined with the ribbon of black pavement at their crests.
I want to be somewhere unknown, where no one knows me. When I find those places, I photograph it. I make those places mine.
Sometimes its the stark contrast of color that draws me: the seering green against a brilliantly ominous sky or the toffee color of thrushed wheat.
Sometimes its the people: the old man sitting in his lawn chair on the main street of an impoverished town, his two scrawny granddaughters bent over in gutter, playing in their worn swimsuits in the dilapidated concrete and dirt, a light blue 1960 Ford pickup truck parked alongside the old man's store that is marked by an old Coca-Cola sign that has faded from red to orange in the sunlight.
Sometimes its the smells: a bonfire in the country, freshly cut fields, skunks, gasoline, manure, burning rubber, plants crushed underfoot, rain. Each smell fresh as the next and unexpected.
It's enough to see my hand on the wheel in front of me, my thumb anxiously stroking the bumpy surface. Enough to grab the gearshift and move from third to fourth as I peak around that curve. To feel my hair whipped by the wind, stinging my eyes.
Somewhere in the gas needle's descent, I realize it's okay to make decisions and be scared of your future. That nothing is ever final. That even if I go to law school, I can take a year off and do this--drive and think.
I realize, too, that I take memories from the past, and like blocks build something that never existed and can't stand by itself. I've worked too hard to hold this construction up and it's time I let it crumble.
I realize (as I speed by the small airport where Amy's grandfather took her as a little girl to watch the planes take off and bought her an ice cream cone but grass flew into the cone and stuck and her grandfather had laughed but Amy had cried) while I'm in my car, time stops. Location becomes unimportant. I can piece together my past and present and see my future.
I drove by a cemetary today at a stoplight and as I sat idle, I read a gravestone on the hill that read: "Sarah, Died Dec. 23, 1823." I wondered what Sarah thought about at my age and in her time and if she could have gotten in her Beetle and driven hundreds of miles in one summer, if she would have. I then thought about how sad it was she died the day before Christmas Eve. I wondered what she had planned to give to her friends and family.
Later that day, I looked at Christmas ornaments and thought about buying my mom one. I didn't realize the workings of my subconscious until now.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
So for those of you who don't know, I'm currently taking a Children's Book Illustration course at Miami U with this published kids' writer named Catherine Siracusa. She won the Children's Choice Award a few years back for her big hit "The Giant Zucchini." It's really great experience so far, but it's exhausting as hell since Miami is about a 45-50 minute drive from my house (I drove it in 35 today.) and I draw/write from about 8:30 am until 5 pm. For kicks, and with the creative brainstorm talk I had with Bryan, I decided to write and illustrate a story about Wink, the accidentally magical cat (woot), and who is based on my cat, Scout.
Not surprisingly, this experience has provided for some interesting times with the people in my class and at Miami ("back-up" school numero uno).
My class is comprised of thirteen people, including myself, the majority of whom are at least over thirty, if not forty.
To put it shortly, I have been introduced to the scary, creepy world of disgruntled adults who have been rejected by publishing companies and seek revenge. Granted, not every adult in the class is like this stereotype. Let's do a run-down of the standouts in the class.
Two kind women from Cleveland: currently sleeping in the dorms, met in college 20 years ago and love being roommates again, been published in kids' magazines. The two are very nice women, despite a certain grudge they hold against Random House, Inc. They are very chummy with our instructor and I think they have mutual friends due to the publishing industry.
Frank: at least 75 years old, fourth year taking this course. Frank is writing a story about his cat, Declawdia, and is not very good at drawing cats or people.
Now, I don't rock at either, but we sit next to one another, and although Frank could kick my ass at drawing steam engine trains and watercolor landscapes any day, my cat is mos def out-doing his cat.
Today I noticed that he stands angrily over me while I draw sometimes, and this creeps me out. He is very defensive about his cat and will bring Declawdia up into conversation with little or no prompting.
The other day, he snapped at the one of the two other girls my age when she referred to his scissors as hers. ("WHOSE scissors did you say those were?! MYYYY scissors!")
Silent angry guy: about mid or late twenties. see name for description.
Ericka: most likely mid-twenties, taking the class so she can finally graduate with her art degree from Miami, a year late.
She doesn't show up for class until afternoon.
Debbie: My PERSONAL favorite. Early to mid 50s. First day, she gave a two minute introduction to herself, when we were asked to give just our names. She also asked our teacher if there was a crucial difference between the terms "educational books" and "teaching books."
She demands the instructor's attention for half of the day and criticizes other people's work, even though hers is terrible.
(Note: She is writing her story, with her, "Grandmother Deidre," as the MAIN character.(good thing she changed her name, "grandmother deidre" will be much less of a mouthful for the kiddies as compared to "grandma debbie" or just "gramma").
Kids just love reading stories from the perspective of their grandparents. Especially when the kids themselves are secondary figures in the story and all the large spreads are just of the grandmother.
It's also good of Debbie to take up two tables of workspace. I mean, she REALLY deserves it with that killer story of hers.
Debbie brought in goat cheese on Tuesday to share with the class. When someone asked where she bought it from, she snapped that "Iiiiiiiii have a goat. Myyyyyyy goat MADE it." When the girl, embarassed, asked where she could buy some cheese like Debbie's, Debbie responded: "HOW should Iiiiii know?? I MAKE me cheese, REMEMBER?"
I don't often see goats pasteurizing their own dairy products, but whatever.
And damn it, I did eat her cheese. But it doesn't mean I have to like her.
Tuesday, she also brought in examples of her own artwork with woodcuts rather than bringing in her favorite kids' book, as our instructor had asked. But hey, what's the difference, right??
Today, she brought in a crystal vase and daylilies. This single vase took up a third table that was previously someone else's workspace. I thought perhaps she was using it to observe while drawing it, but no.
She just brought it.
And to show off.
And to tell the teacher when she just politely commented, "Oh those are nice," that she not only has those, but she also has twenty other varieties of daylily. Good thing Debbie is God and created daylilies for all of us to appreciate.
Today we had to have a group photograph taken of our class. I believe that we organized ourselves the best that any group of humans ever have for a photograph. Seriously perfect. Two exact lines with perfect height and our teacher sitting in front (holding the vase of Debbie's daylilies).
Well. It was perfect. Until Debbie decided she was meant for stardom, and literally positioned herself exactly in the middle, not in any line but between the two lines, and directly in front of one of the nice women from Cleveland. Incredible.
Debbie and Frank don't like each other. They argued about Frank's cat today. That was terribly amusing. I'm afraid I'm behind drawing because I'm too busy listening in on everyone's conversations.
Also. If you've read this far, here are some interesting differences between Miami U and Northwestern, as well as FYI about Miami...
1. Miami's student center has a nicer dining area indoors.
2. Miami's outdoor dining cannot compare by default of not having a lake.
3. Girls: If you are in need of some sort of female necessity, don't rely on a.) any bathrooms in all of the student center being open because they'll all be under repair. and b.) the one bathroom that IS open having any of said necessities. Good plan: go across campus to find open bathroom that carries the goods (this will take a while.)
4. Miami is beautiful. No denying it. Beautiful.
5. Miami has multiple fine arts buildings. Northwestern has one.
6. Guys at Miami: J-Crew models.
7. Girls at Miami: anorexic.
8. Volleyball campers will die under the blood-stained wheels of my vehicle if the persist to meander in the roads. (This really is nothing about Miami, but it's important.)
9. Miami has fountains. The Rock used to be a fountain.
10. There's nothing to do in Oxford, but there's lots of parking!
So this has been an incredibly long entry and I bet half of it was about Debbie. So... I'm going to go work on my drawings. Thanks for bein a pal and readin'. :)
Sunday, July 4, 2004
1. Work today was actually kind of fun and flew by, despite little cashiering. Shocking, I know.
2. I am reading Word Freak, the book of Scrabble drama. I'm really excited to play Scrabble again...maybe even Speed Scrabble.
3. I went out with Abby from Old Navy after work to Fridays for a really late dinner. It was nice. I also made plans to hang out with Cat and Matt Zito to discuss F9/11 next week or so. The prospect and reality of hanging out with fun people from work after hours is wonderful.
4. Tonight I drove by Kings Island as the fireworks crowds were dispersing. It was surreal because I:
a. always go.
b. didn't go this year.
c. saw the traffic and remembered EVERY other year I've gone with Brandon, Michael, and company, leaned out the windows of the bug in dead-stop traffic and sang overly patriotic songs to people in other cars, getting them to sing along with me and my friends. There's nothing quite as wonderfully abnoxious as three lanes of traffic singing "Fifty Nifty United States."
5. I work on the Fourth. I am:
a. half sad (because I'll be working during part of my FAVORITE holiday, and I'll not get to drive around and shout overly patriotic things at people who are out in their frontyards or on their porches.)
b. half happy (because I get time and a half and can be overly patriotic to customers instead. i plan to wear some horrendous red, white, and blue outfit.)
6. Possible breakfast party with Brandon and Michael tomorrow to watch Roddick and Federer. Who's siked? I am!
7. Speaking of "siked," I watched the "Las Vegas Wedding" conclusion to Saved By the Bell: The College Years, yesterday. I never saw it before, and only now is life worth living.
8. I miss school. (Bunches.)
Thursday, June 24, 2004
A few nights ago, Ryan and I had the big "Dude-we're-totally-switching-to-journal
I was so confident in my feelings about it. Yeah! Why didn't I apply Medill in the first place?? It was what I wanted to do way back when I was younger. Remember? Peter Jennings was your idol?! Okay. We've chosen something, self. Good.
Then, two nights ago, while coughing in bed (cause I do that instead of sleeping these days), I realized law school was definitely the path for me.
Sure, I maybe COULD go to Medill, maybe double major in some history or writing or something, and THEN go to law school! There IS that intership I want to do next summer...and after all, I've grown up in that environment, I'm already THINKING like a lawyer. Great! I better look at CAESAR so I can drop that stupid drawing class right away.
Last night, after compiling some of my photographs, I talked to Bryan about photojournalism.
Of course. Why haven't I thought about double majoring in the arts department. I love photography, after all. I love art! I can combine my two passions! Writing and art! And then write children's books much later when I'm older and wiser. Screw law school.
Tonight, Brandon, while sifting through my photographs and drawings on my laptop suddenly grabs my shoulders and looks me in the eye and says: CC. You're always wondering what you should do with yourself. Why haven't you thought about computer graphics? You can apply yourself creatively in a great medium. You love doing this stuff. So do it!
Yeah, Brandon! I thought. You're completely right. I DO love this stuff. My favorite class in high school WAS Consumer Art! That was amazing times. I doodle with art instead of writing my papers. Doesn't that mean I love it more than writing my papers?? I should totally look into this.
Hi, my name is CC and I have a problem. I don't want to major in anything.
((the city/cave to hibernate with bears/barn turned country cottage/Paris/Morocco/parents' house))
((go to law school/write about the experience/photograph the country/live off of tips at a local café/take photographs and write while learning the language on the fly/mooch)).
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
finally started the drive-around-Ohio-and-photodocument-it mission. First stop? The abandoned gunpowder factory in Kings Mill.
This place is amazingly creepy/beautiful. Abandoned during World War 2, the factory has become a haven for kids who wish to wreak havoc, drink, and seek out the ghosts of the workers who died in gunpowder explosions. Perhaps, judging by the inside of some of the rooms, painted with messages like:
OUR GOAL IS TO BE EXTREMELY SCARY.
Perhaps some of those kids are the ones being the ghosts too.
Nature, too, is staking a claim here. Inside one portion of the factory, a large generator of sorts is rusting as it looms over a sapling. Ivy thrives on the interior walls of the factory and cats have made a home of the space as well.
I'm putting what pictures I can for now up. My computer memory is literally so low that I can no longer edit the photos. So, for now, here are some...
Monday, June 21, 2004
Tonight I hung out with Sparks, B, Mike and KTO. I felt very out of place. They've created their own memories that I'm not a part of.
As if it's not weird enough that KTO and Mike are back together (after two summers of double dates with them. every. single. night. out. just. b/cc. mike/kto. and then them being broken up while b and i were still together...)
It's not that I feel lacking, I just feel uneasy because everything's different.
But tonight, as they, some of my closest friends who are recently graduated, talked about how weird it will be to leave home and that they can't imagine making new friends and starting new....I realized how much that other place means to me.
I sat, looking through the screen of the gazebo and grazing my fingertips over its rough surface, thinking about everyone. Individually. Considering memories with each person.
Does (this random friend, maybe you reading this) know me better than mike? my favorite person to call up and just talk for hours with? my favorite duet partner? my best hairy friend?...
better than a? my enemy for so many years turned best friend during the latter half of high school? my art buddy and favorite crazy friend?...
better than b?? b--who was my other half for so long. b--who was my stunt double, my swing dancing partner, my picnic buddy, my skinny-dipping fellow swimmer, my favorite person to bicker with, my best friend, my boyfriend. The person who brought out the best and the worst in me for four years.
Then I realized. Yeah. You do.
And even though I already knew this, the feeling is all the more visceral now. And I miss you.
Sunday, June 20, 2004
I came up with a Father's Day gift earlier this week and got all the necessities this afternoon while shopping with Amy. It's my Sensory Basket of Memories with Dad. It includes
1. A lottery ticket and beanie baby bear for sight (like middle school after-school trips all over again)
2. Dove Ice Cream Bars and York Peppermint Patties for taste (since my earliest memories are of sitting in my "playpen" and my dad trying to feed me those)
3. Sandalwood soap for smell (since it is his favorite)
4. A Garrison Keillor Prarie Home Companion CD for sound (I grew up listening to this with my parents in the van)
5. All wrapped up in a basket, stuffed with red tulle for touch (since when I had my first ballet recital in a red tutu, I told my dad then that it felt like his scruffy face)
Amy and I attended the Ben Folds, Guster, Rufus Wainwright concert at Fraze tonight. It was really great. Ben Folds is officially my favorite performer and I want him to be my brother.
Nothing beats him teaching the audience what a triad is and then climbing up on a piano in the heat of musical passion to get them to sing it back.
And the fact that both he and Guster walked around Kettering separately all afternoon. Ben Folds took photographs of the suburban houses, hoping not to get caught by the owners; and the lead singer of Guster bought a ten-speed bike from one of the many garage sales that he visited, deeming the bike "the best 10-speed seventies bike this side of the Mississippi."
Rufus was, of course, wonderful, but I think the order for the concert would have been better as follows: Guster, Rufus, Ben... rather than Ben, Guster, Rufus. But that's just me, and I'm a Benophile.
Other good moments included Ben Folds just sitting on the side of the stage during Guster, eating a banana...and Rufus Wainwright repeatedly apologizing for his singing, even though it was amazing as usual, and then putting it out there that no one should vote for Bush.
Friday, June 11, 2004
I'm getting all sentimental. That sucks.
I just got off the phone from an hour and a half long conversation with Brandon. Before that, I was with my parents moving around storage and we drove around looking at the old "familiar" sights of Wilmette.
One last final
Burning CDs, a lot
Dinner at Panera
Running in the rain with John down Sherman
Slideshows and pizza
Naps at midnight
Quietly spending last nights with friends
Stayed up last night with John til 4 am talking about our coming summers. Lil Jess came in shortly thereafter and we reviewed our short college experiences til 5. What stereotypical last-few-nights talks, but I think they had to happen.
Outside my window, cars nearly ram into one another in efforts to get parking spots near the dorms. It's chaos.
So many people left today. How can it be that I feel like I still JUST got to college and yet I have such a connection with a still unfamiliar place?
I was still just getting to know so many people and I don't want summer to interrupt. I'm, of course, anxious to get home and try to settle back into my old skin, but I don't know if that's going to be completely possible.
Sorry to make this cliche end-of-my-freshman-year-at-college entry, but I think...it had to happen. :)
Monday, June 7, 2004
I've had an incredible end to this school year. I couldn't have asked for more in the last few days. Well, could someone cancel my exams this week? That'd be okay. I cannot possible describe the fun I had Saturday Luau'in, beachin', and music/movie/rearrangin' roomin' it up. Friday was amazing as well, what with finishing up a course a week early and seeing Harry Potter 3. So, in an abreviated version... Here are photos to let you know what I've been up to...
He almost managed to get me back...
Scott is amazing. This is what I love about kids.
Bryan and I in sepia-toned action.
Don't worry. We're still best buds, but we just taste better!
Ryan and Barrak fighting.
I think I look like the Virgin Mother of Pudding in this photo.
The dirty girls.
PS. I love life.