Pizza
Scotcharoos
Enchiladas
Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Cookies
Buraka
Pizza
Number of Pages I Have Written:
25
Apr 29, 2009
Cabbage salads
Why is cabbage second best to lettuce? It costs less, stays fresh longer, is more flavorful, and it's crunchier.
Apr 23, 2009
Twitter?
I feel like I have too many places to make updates on the Internet. I've got to prioritize. I still don't get this Twitter thing.
Apr 21, 2009
Lit Classes
This is the second time I've tried to read The Crying of Lot 49, and it's not going any better than the first time. I have big problems with metafiction, but this is way beyond that realm. I'm writing a paper on Philip Roth's The Ghost Writer at the same time, and that feels a lot better. And then there's Cymbeline and Henry VIII. I don't even know what to say about those.
Apr 19, 2009
Apr 15, 2009
The Grad School Dilemma
So, the last month has been a whirlwind of attempts at making decisions about grad school for me. First, I thought I wanted to go to U of Pittsburgh, but then I found out that I got wait listed. Then, I got accepted to Ohio State and wasn't really excited about it. I thought, "Oh, just another big state school that's going to require me to take lit classes." Then, around midnight on a Tuesday during spring break, I was sitting on my living room couch while Andy was in the kitchen scrounging for some food.
"What can I eat?" he yelled to me from the kitchen, probably with his head in the refrigerator. At that moment, I spotted a small envelope that said "Carnegie Mellon" in red letters in the top left corner. I had been back in Madison after my trip to San Francisco for three days by this time, but I had not seen it.
My first thought was, "Uh oh, a small envelope."
Without answering Andy's question, I started to tear the envelope.
Andy yelled something from the kitchen again as I began to read the letter. To my surprise, I was accepted. I couldn't believe it. I thought there was no way I would get in there. Andy walked into the living room and I started screaming and jumping on the couch, just like you would imagine it would happen.
So for the next few weeks, I was sure I would go to Carnegie Mellon. I got another acceptance from Arizona State, but by then there was no time left to go out there, and I was so excited about CMU that I didn't even care.
During the first week of April, Andy and I left for Columbus. We were going to Columbus so I could visit Ohio State just because I convinced myself I should see it anyway because they offered to give me money. We talked about Columbus, though, like it was just a pit stop on the way to our real destination--Pittsburgh, PA.
When we arrived in Columbus, though, Andy and I both thought, "Hey, this is kinda nice." When we went out for dinner and beers with Mary (the friend we were staying with), I got this strange feeling like I was at home. There were lots of quirky bars and restaurants that looked fun to explore, and there were people drinking and talking on the sidewalks on the main street through campus. It felt really livable.
The next day I woke up to go to my Ohio State campus visit. The weather was really nice--almost 70 and sunny. First, I met with the director of the first-year writing program. I wasn't expecting to meet with him, but it was a really good idea because I would be teaching first-year writing right away. He was really awesome. He read my writing sample and statement of purpose and asked me questions about them. He seemed really genuine, the perfect kind of person you'd want to help you start your first teaching job.
As the morning went on, I met professor after professor. Each one was just as nice as the first one I met. They all seemed really excited to meet me and about the program. I was feeling really intense positive energy all morning. I got the sense that these people really care about their grad students, their work, and the community of the program. Then, I had lunch with two awesome grad students who seemed to be interested in a lot of the same things I am. They gave me a really truthful, straightforward perspective on the program. After that, I was sold. I was having a blast.
To top it off, the last professor I met with told me he does research in Sweden and is an honorary professor at a Swedish university. Then he said he could get me involved in his work.
I ran out of the building with a huge smile on my face, about to burst. I called Andy to pick me up, and then I lost my phone.
When I got to CMU the next morning, I immediately knew it wasn't for me. I arrived at the breakfast and nobody said hello. No one introduced themselves. It felt like the complete opposite of OSU. The events during the rest of the day continued to support my decision against it.
So not only has this taught me how important it is to do campus visits, but it has also taught me a lot about what I want from graduate school.
I have really loved my experience at UW, and that's why I want to continue with graduate school. It makes sense, then, that I would want to continue somewhere similar to UW rather than totally different. I realized that I am only doing this academics thing because it's a lot of fun. I'm not doing this to be the best, biggest name graduate student ever. There is definitely a part of the academic world that is intensely competitive and prides itself on its prestige, but that element has not been part of the equation of my experience at UW. At UW, it has been an experience of creating strong, exhilarating friendships with others through a high level of thinking, learning, talking and writing. At various moments of thinking, talking, and working with other people in the English dept during my time at UW, I have never been happier in my life.
The English dept at OSU felt like the one at UW but on steroids. They have 100 tenure-track faculty, which means it's probably four times the size of UW's. I hope it will truly be bigger and better in every way.
"What can I eat?" he yelled to me from the kitchen, probably with his head in the refrigerator. At that moment, I spotted a small envelope that said "Carnegie Mellon" in red letters in the top left corner. I had been back in Madison after my trip to San Francisco for three days by this time, but I had not seen it.
My first thought was, "Uh oh, a small envelope."
Without answering Andy's question, I started to tear the envelope.
Andy yelled something from the kitchen again as I began to read the letter. To my surprise, I was accepted. I couldn't believe it. I thought there was no way I would get in there. Andy walked into the living room and I started screaming and jumping on the couch, just like you would imagine it would happen.
So for the next few weeks, I was sure I would go to Carnegie Mellon. I got another acceptance from Arizona State, but by then there was no time left to go out there, and I was so excited about CMU that I didn't even care.
During the first week of April, Andy and I left for Columbus. We were going to Columbus so I could visit Ohio State just because I convinced myself I should see it anyway because they offered to give me money. We talked about Columbus, though, like it was just a pit stop on the way to our real destination--Pittsburgh, PA.
When we arrived in Columbus, though, Andy and I both thought, "Hey, this is kinda nice." When we went out for dinner and beers with Mary (the friend we were staying with), I got this strange feeling like I was at home. There were lots of quirky bars and restaurants that looked fun to explore, and there were people drinking and talking on the sidewalks on the main street through campus. It felt really livable.
The next day I woke up to go to my Ohio State campus visit. The weather was really nice--almost 70 and sunny. First, I met with the director of the first-year writing program. I wasn't expecting to meet with him, but it was a really good idea because I would be teaching first-year writing right away. He was really awesome. He read my writing sample and statement of purpose and asked me questions about them. He seemed really genuine, the perfect kind of person you'd want to help you start your first teaching job.
As the morning went on, I met professor after professor. Each one was just as nice as the first one I met. They all seemed really excited to meet me and about the program. I was feeling really intense positive energy all morning. I got the sense that these people really care about their grad students, their work, and the community of the program. Then, I had lunch with two awesome grad students who seemed to be interested in a lot of the same things I am. They gave me a really truthful, straightforward perspective on the program. After that, I was sold. I was having a blast.
To top it off, the last professor I met with told me he does research in Sweden and is an honorary professor at a Swedish university. Then he said he could get me involved in his work.
I ran out of the building with a huge smile on my face, about to burst. I called Andy to pick me up, and then I lost my phone.
When I got to CMU the next morning, I immediately knew it wasn't for me. I arrived at the breakfast and nobody said hello. No one introduced themselves. It felt like the complete opposite of OSU. The events during the rest of the day continued to support my decision against it.
So not only has this taught me how important it is to do campus visits, but it has also taught me a lot about what I want from graduate school.
I have really loved my experience at UW, and that's why I want to continue with graduate school. It makes sense, then, that I would want to continue somewhere similar to UW rather than totally different. I realized that I am only doing this academics thing because it's a lot of fun. I'm not doing this to be the best, biggest name graduate student ever. There is definitely a part of the academic world that is intensely competitive and prides itself on its prestige, but that element has not been part of the equation of my experience at UW. At UW, it has been an experience of creating strong, exhilarating friendships with others through a high level of thinking, learning, talking and writing. At various moments of thinking, talking, and working with other people in the English dept during my time at UW, I have never been happier in my life.
The English dept at OSU felt like the one at UW but on steroids. They have 100 tenure-track faculty, which means it's probably four times the size of UW's. I hope it will truly be bigger and better in every way.
Apr 14, 2009
Lessons from the Day
Everyone forgets to set their alarm once in a while, but we continue to act like being late is unacceptable.
My brother applied to Brown University. Emma Watson is going to Brown University. This must mean they will get together.
Never eat vegetable lasagna from Chadbourne cafe ever again.
Everyone agrees that MTV's "College Life" is boring as hell and is disgracing the university. Why the university thought a show on MTV would be a good way to promote the school, however, remains to be known.
Interviews are fun if you want the job.
I've got to get involved in this digital media research business.
My brother applied to Brown University. Emma Watson is going to Brown University. This must mean they will get together.
Never eat vegetable lasagna from Chadbourne cafe ever again.
Everyone agrees that MTV's "College Life" is boring as hell and is disgracing the university. Why the university thought a show on MTV would be a good way to promote the school, however, remains to be known.
Interviews are fun if you want the job.
I've got to get involved in this digital media research business.
Mar 25, 2009
Writing Thoughts
In my writing workshop last night, we had an engaging conversation about the differences between the American education system and eastern education systems. With a Korean student and a Vietnamese student in the class, we were able to talk about the differences between writing pedagogy in the U.S. and eastern education systems. The Korean and Vietnamese students were of the opinion that writing in their homelands meant repeating things they read or that other people have already said. They said that they were never required to create their own theses or arguments. Their input really put the American way of writing into perspective. We like to be original.
Sometimes I think, though, that American writing style is too direct. I appreciate the freedom to argue whatever you want as long as you support it, but I often think that there is not enough room for showing the humanity of the writer. A lot of the time the writer portrays the persona of an expert, like they arrive at their conclusion without any struggle at all. To me, some of the most interesting arguments are ones that divulge information about all the steps (for better or worse) that the writer had to take to arrive at their conclusion. This also makes the writer seem more human and as a result, the material seems more important.
I understand why high school teachers often tell their students not to use "I" in their essays, but like how Joseph Williams calls countless grammar rules "folklore," this piece of advice turns into a rule that student writers think they cannot break. I've been in a number of classes in which students raise their hands and ask, "Do you want us to use 'I'?" when talking about a paper assignment. The teacher usually has a good answer, explaining that you can use it, but you should not use your personal opinions to make your argument. When I meet with students (some of them college seniors), they still don't understand when they should and shouldn't use "I" in academic writing. It's not easy to know when it's appropriate and when it's not, but more experience writing pieces that require both personal and academic voices might help students learn how to negotiate their voices.
Sometimes I think, though, that American writing style is too direct. I appreciate the freedom to argue whatever you want as long as you support it, but I often think that there is not enough room for showing the humanity of the writer. A lot of the time the writer portrays the persona of an expert, like they arrive at their conclusion without any struggle at all. To me, some of the most interesting arguments are ones that divulge information about all the steps (for better or worse) that the writer had to take to arrive at their conclusion. This also makes the writer seem more human and as a result, the material seems more important.
I understand why high school teachers often tell their students not to use "I" in their essays, but like how Joseph Williams calls countless grammar rules "folklore," this piece of advice turns into a rule that student writers think they cannot break. I've been in a number of classes in which students raise their hands and ask, "Do you want us to use 'I'?" when talking about a paper assignment. The teacher usually has a good answer, explaining that you can use it, but you should not use your personal opinions to make your argument. When I meet with students (some of them college seniors), they still don't understand when they should and shouldn't use "I" in academic writing. It's not easy to know when it's appropriate and when it's not, but more experience writing pieces that require both personal and academic voices might help students learn how to negotiate their voices.
Mar 19, 2009
Problems in public school systems bring me to tears
I heard yet another astounding story on This American Life. This time it's about how the NYC public school system holds hundreds of teachers in a reassignment center as a form of punishment for misconduct. It's actually pretty comical. Imagine hundreds of teachers hanging out in a room with nothing to do for years. Sad, too.
The Rubber Room
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PPMtYjhnRqc&NR=1
NY Times story
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/10/education/10education.html
The Rubber Room
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PPMtYjhnRqc&NR=1
NY Times story
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/10/education/10education.html
Mar 16, 2009
Mar 7, 2009
Whose Mom Is Here?
Most college-age women choose to give Halloween some sex appeal with costumes that are ordinarily seen on toddlers. I’m never sure if they actually purchase toddlers’ costumes and stretch the tiny garments around their busts, waists, and nothing else, or if they paint their brassieres black and yellow and tape black paper polka dots to their red panties. In an attempt to stay true to my efforts to live in opposition of the norms of college life at a Big Ten university, however, I avoided the whole dilemma. I never chose to be sexy for Halloween, nor did I choose to be scary. I chose to be ugly.
I got the inspiration for my first costume from the character Jerri Blank (Amy Sedaris) on the short-lived TV series Strangers With Candy. Jerri Blank is a forty-four year old drug and alcohol addicted ex-convict who returns to high school to find that things are not any easier than the first time around. Everyone makes fun of her and the boys are just as hard to woo. In a fat-suit designed to mimic the pear-shaped body of a chubby middle-aged woman, Sedaris dresses in earth-tone turtlenecks and high-waist pants. She wears her short, streaked brown hair swooped to one side and contorts her face to express disappointment, shame, and sexual intrigue and arousal. Having practiced mimicking Sedaris’ facial expression, I saw dressing up as Jerri Blank for Halloween as an opportunity to showcase my amateur acting abilities. Also, having idolized Sedaris for her odd yet hilarious gigs in entertainment, I saw this costume as a testimony to her work.
The response to my costume, however, was less reverential and more confusing. Shortly before Halloween, while visiting my parents’ house I asked my mom if I could borrow a few things from her for a costume. “Oh sure!” she said, too excited to even ask what kind of a costume I needed them for. Overjoyed as always by the act of giving things away, she pulled out the perfect pair of jeans and a turtleneck from her closet, handing them to me with a smile. I ordered a wig called the “You’re Fired!” wig off the Internet, which I assume was intended for the Donald Trump or "big mean boss" costume. On the night of Halloween I stuffed the back of my over-sized jeans with two small, square pillows and the front of the jeans with a bunch of rolled up socks. I put on the turtleneck, the wig, some blue eyeshadow, and some tennis shoes.
With low expectations I hauled my new self off to my friends’ party. On my walk, I received a number of hollers from college guys in passing cars. I didn’t quite know how to react yet. I hadn’t gotten in character. When I walked into the house everyone started giggling, but when I turned around to sit down in a chair, they started laughing hysterically. It was a hit.
When my boyfriend and his friend arrived, though, I experienced a new perspective on my costume. At first they laughed like everyone else, but when my boyfriend and his friend saw my backside, their expressions turned to horror.
“It looks really…realistic,” his friend said, staring.
“Yeah, yeah it does,” said my boyfriend, laughing uncomfortably.
Throughout the night I caught my boyfriend’s friend staring at me with the same look of horror on his face. Finally I approached him.
“Do I scare you?” I said, joking.
“Yeah,” he said, snapping out of it. “Yeah, you do.”
I laughed.
“Why? Don’t you know Jerri Blank?” I said, making the face.
“Yeah, it’s just—“
“What?” I said.
“Don’t ever get fat, Annika. Or old. Please.”
I stared at him. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if it was an insult or not, so I started laughing. I hadn’t realized my costume looked so realistic.
The next year I didn’t have as grand of a plan, but I knew I wanted to continue to counteract the sexy Halloween costume trend. The night of Halloween, I pulled out a black fur hat that I found in my grandmother’s apartment in Sweden a few years before. It was the strangest looking hat. My mom always seemed nostalgic about the hat, repeating over and over again that she wore it to school when she was maybe ten, smiling every time, but I never understood it. There was no doubt that the hat would be warm—it covered every inch of the head including the ears, jawbone, and underneath the chin with thick, black animal fur—but I couldn’t take the way it looked seriously. It looked like a gorilla head.
So that’s what I dressed up as. I put on a pair of black pants and long-sleeve black shirt to which I taped part of a paper bag that I had cut out so that it looked like a monkey’s chest. I drew nipples on the chest and put on the big, black fur hat. Nobody knew what I was. Actually not many people even asked. I seemed to disappear in the crowd. I obviously wasn’t sexy, but I wasn’t ugly either. I looked like a black blob.
So the next year I decided to put more effort into making a statement about Halloween costumes. For the past two years, I had been thinking about the year I dressed as Jerri Blank as one of the best times of my life, so I decided I would do something similar. Since the big ass was the best part of the costume, I looked for a costume that would allow me to stuff my pants again. Browsing at a second hand store, I noticed that most of the clothing looked like something a grandma would wear, so I decided to go for it. I dressed as a grandma. It made things easy since I could pick up almost anything from the racks and it would work. I selected a pair of bright peach Capri pants and a white t-shirt with small red palm trees on it. To top it off, I picked up a bright purple visor with a palm tree pattern on the brim.
At home I got to work immediately, pulling out the old “You’re Fired!” wig, rolling a bunch of socks into balls, and releasing the square pillows from their handmade pillow cases. I borrowed a pair of white tube socks from my roommate and put on my running shoes. Within five minutes, I was ready. I knew what to do, and it looked great. My ass looked huge and just as realistic as two years ago, and the wig fit nicely under the palm tree visor. “Florida Grandma,” I named myself.
At the party I got a similar reaction to when I first arrived as Jerri Blank. Everyone started laughing.
“That is the best costume I’ve ever seen,” someone said. This time my boyfriend was less horrified. I think he knew what to expect when I told him I was going to dress as a grandma, so he acted more proud than anything else that his girlfriend had such a hilarious costume. With this attitude I felt like I was going to be able to live my role as a grandma to the fullest that night.
As more guests started to arrive, though, my costume slowly started to lose its thrill. Good friends of mine reacted positively, laughing and complimenting me. As the party progressed normally as most parties do, however, (into groups of people standing around drinking and talking), I kept finding that I had no one to talk to. It wasn’t that I didn’t know anyone at the party. I knew who plenty of the people at the party were—I wasn’t necessarily friends with them—but when I tried to get their attention, they either failed to notice me or diverted their attention. I felt like everyone was acting like they didn’t know who I was. A few times I tried to join the conversation groups in which my boyfriend was participating, but no one acknowledged my presence. When I tried to get a word in, the conversation kept going as though I never said anything. So I gave up.
Standing against the wall with no one to talk to, I heard an unfamiliar male voice say, “Whose mom is here?”
I saw a few masked faces turn in my direction, and then I heard a cohort of chuckles. I retreated to the kitchen and indulged myself in the snacks.
What is going on? I started to wonder. People didn’t normally treat me like this. And why wasn’t my boyfriend helping me out? He wasn’t even including me in the conversation. Maybe it’s because I’m ugly tonight, I thought. My anger started stewing.
I dashed down to the basement. I stopped and observed the groups of costumed people. I couldn’t catch anyone’s glance. Not even my boyfriend’s roommates’ or his sister’s. Not even his. I stormed up to my boyfriend and pulled him out of his circle. I pulled his head down and yelled into his ear over the music.
“You’re not including me in conversation because I'm ugly, right?” I said.
He pulled his head back and stared at me.
“What are you talking about?” he said.
I was too upset to make a better argument.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Forget it.”
I walked back upstairs to the snack table.
The night started to improve. I finally got the attention of some of my friends and had good conversations. It felt so normal and natural that I forgot I was dressed like a fat grandma for most of the rest of the night.
Near the end of the party, I was standing in the kitchen by myself finishing off the last of the snacks. I was really enjoying eating whatever was there—some veggies and dip probably—when I looked to my right and saw myself in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall. I almost jumped. I was standing with my mouth agape and a dip-frosted carrot about to enter a bulb shaped body. The peach, and the purple, and the red colors glared back at me, hurting my eyes. My feet were like little white pins compared to my middle. Dark strings of messy hair protruded from underneath the bright purple visor. I didn’t even recognize myself. I wanted my blond hair back.
I ripped my wig off and ran outside, gripping the tangled brown and purple mess in my hand, carrying it high in the air like a torch.
“I don’t want to be ugly anymore!” I yelled as I ran to where my boyfriend was saying goodbye to a few friends.
He turned, and then his friends did the same.
“I don’t want to be ugly anymore,” I said once more as I stopped in front of them.
They smiled and turned back around, saying their final goodbyes. I caught my breath and lowered my palm tree patterned torch. That’s it? I thought. They completely ignored my epiphany. It seemed like they already knew what I had just realized. I yanked the pillows out of my pants and threw them on the ground.
My boyfriend walked away from his friends and bent to pick up the pillows.
“Why are you throwing these on the ground?” he said.
“Look!” I said, throwing my arms up in the air to show my figure. “I’m not ugly anymore!”
I got the inspiration for my first costume from the character Jerri Blank (Amy Sedaris) on the short-lived TV series Strangers With Candy. Jerri Blank is a forty-four year old drug and alcohol addicted ex-convict who returns to high school to find that things are not any easier than the first time around. Everyone makes fun of her and the boys are just as hard to woo. In a fat-suit designed to mimic the pear-shaped body of a chubby middle-aged woman, Sedaris dresses in earth-tone turtlenecks and high-waist pants. She wears her short, streaked brown hair swooped to one side and contorts her face to express disappointment, shame, and sexual intrigue and arousal. Having practiced mimicking Sedaris’ facial expression, I saw dressing up as Jerri Blank for Halloween as an opportunity to showcase my amateur acting abilities. Also, having idolized Sedaris for her odd yet hilarious gigs in entertainment, I saw this costume as a testimony to her work.
The response to my costume, however, was less reverential and more confusing. Shortly before Halloween, while visiting my parents’ house I asked my mom if I could borrow a few things from her for a costume. “Oh sure!” she said, too excited to even ask what kind of a costume I needed them for. Overjoyed as always by the act of giving things away, she pulled out the perfect pair of jeans and a turtleneck from her closet, handing them to me with a smile. I ordered a wig called the “You’re Fired!” wig off the Internet, which I assume was intended for the Donald Trump or "big mean boss" costume. On the night of Halloween I stuffed the back of my over-sized jeans with two small, square pillows and the front of the jeans with a bunch of rolled up socks. I put on the turtleneck, the wig, some blue eyeshadow, and some tennis shoes.
With low expectations I hauled my new self off to my friends’ party. On my walk, I received a number of hollers from college guys in passing cars. I didn’t quite know how to react yet. I hadn’t gotten in character. When I walked into the house everyone started giggling, but when I turned around to sit down in a chair, they started laughing hysterically. It was a hit.
When my boyfriend and his friend arrived, though, I experienced a new perspective on my costume. At first they laughed like everyone else, but when my boyfriend and his friend saw my backside, their expressions turned to horror.
“It looks really…realistic,” his friend said, staring.
“Yeah, yeah it does,” said my boyfriend, laughing uncomfortably.
Throughout the night I caught my boyfriend’s friend staring at me with the same look of horror on his face. Finally I approached him.
“Do I scare you?” I said, joking.
“Yeah,” he said, snapping out of it. “Yeah, you do.”
I laughed.
“Why? Don’t you know Jerri Blank?” I said, making the face.
“Yeah, it’s just—“
“What?” I said.
“Don’t ever get fat, Annika. Or old. Please.”
I stared at him. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if it was an insult or not, so I started laughing. I hadn’t realized my costume looked so realistic.
The next year I didn’t have as grand of a plan, but I knew I wanted to continue to counteract the sexy Halloween costume trend. The night of Halloween, I pulled out a black fur hat that I found in my grandmother’s apartment in Sweden a few years before. It was the strangest looking hat. My mom always seemed nostalgic about the hat, repeating over and over again that she wore it to school when she was maybe ten, smiling every time, but I never understood it. There was no doubt that the hat would be warm—it covered every inch of the head including the ears, jawbone, and underneath the chin with thick, black animal fur—but I couldn’t take the way it looked seriously. It looked like a gorilla head.
So that’s what I dressed up as. I put on a pair of black pants and long-sleeve black shirt to which I taped part of a paper bag that I had cut out so that it looked like a monkey’s chest. I drew nipples on the chest and put on the big, black fur hat. Nobody knew what I was. Actually not many people even asked. I seemed to disappear in the crowd. I obviously wasn’t sexy, but I wasn’t ugly either. I looked like a black blob.
So the next year I decided to put more effort into making a statement about Halloween costumes. For the past two years, I had been thinking about the year I dressed as Jerri Blank as one of the best times of my life, so I decided I would do something similar. Since the big ass was the best part of the costume, I looked for a costume that would allow me to stuff my pants again. Browsing at a second hand store, I noticed that most of the clothing looked like something a grandma would wear, so I decided to go for it. I dressed as a grandma. It made things easy since I could pick up almost anything from the racks and it would work. I selected a pair of bright peach Capri pants and a white t-shirt with small red palm trees on it. To top it off, I picked up a bright purple visor with a palm tree pattern on the brim.
At home I got to work immediately, pulling out the old “You’re Fired!” wig, rolling a bunch of socks into balls, and releasing the square pillows from their handmade pillow cases. I borrowed a pair of white tube socks from my roommate and put on my running shoes. Within five minutes, I was ready. I knew what to do, and it looked great. My ass looked huge and just as realistic as two years ago, and the wig fit nicely under the palm tree visor. “Florida Grandma,” I named myself.
At the party I got a similar reaction to when I first arrived as Jerri Blank. Everyone started laughing.
“That is the best costume I’ve ever seen,” someone said. This time my boyfriend was less horrified. I think he knew what to expect when I told him I was going to dress as a grandma, so he acted more proud than anything else that his girlfriend had such a hilarious costume. With this attitude I felt like I was going to be able to live my role as a grandma to the fullest that night.
As more guests started to arrive, though, my costume slowly started to lose its thrill. Good friends of mine reacted positively, laughing and complimenting me. As the party progressed normally as most parties do, however, (into groups of people standing around drinking and talking), I kept finding that I had no one to talk to. It wasn’t that I didn’t know anyone at the party. I knew who plenty of the people at the party were—I wasn’t necessarily friends with them—but when I tried to get their attention, they either failed to notice me or diverted their attention. I felt like everyone was acting like they didn’t know who I was. A few times I tried to join the conversation groups in which my boyfriend was participating, but no one acknowledged my presence. When I tried to get a word in, the conversation kept going as though I never said anything. So I gave up.
Standing against the wall with no one to talk to, I heard an unfamiliar male voice say, “Whose mom is here?”
I saw a few masked faces turn in my direction, and then I heard a cohort of chuckles. I retreated to the kitchen and indulged myself in the snacks.
What is going on? I started to wonder. People didn’t normally treat me like this. And why wasn’t my boyfriend helping me out? He wasn’t even including me in the conversation. Maybe it’s because I’m ugly tonight, I thought. My anger started stewing.
I dashed down to the basement. I stopped and observed the groups of costumed people. I couldn’t catch anyone’s glance. Not even my boyfriend’s roommates’ or his sister’s. Not even his. I stormed up to my boyfriend and pulled him out of his circle. I pulled his head down and yelled into his ear over the music.
“You’re not including me in conversation because I'm ugly, right?” I said.
He pulled his head back and stared at me.
“What are you talking about?” he said.
I was too upset to make a better argument.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Forget it.”
I walked back upstairs to the snack table.
The night started to improve. I finally got the attention of some of my friends and had good conversations. It felt so normal and natural that I forgot I was dressed like a fat grandma for most of the rest of the night.
Near the end of the party, I was standing in the kitchen by myself finishing off the last of the snacks. I was really enjoying eating whatever was there—some veggies and dip probably—when I looked to my right and saw myself in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall. I almost jumped. I was standing with my mouth agape and a dip-frosted carrot about to enter a bulb shaped body. The peach, and the purple, and the red colors glared back at me, hurting my eyes. My feet were like little white pins compared to my middle. Dark strings of messy hair protruded from underneath the bright purple visor. I didn’t even recognize myself. I wanted my blond hair back.
I ripped my wig off and ran outside, gripping the tangled brown and purple mess in my hand, carrying it high in the air like a torch.
“I don’t want to be ugly anymore!” I yelled as I ran to where my boyfriend was saying goodbye to a few friends.
He turned, and then his friends did the same.
“I don’t want to be ugly anymore,” I said once more as I stopped in front of them.
They smiled and turned back around, saying their final goodbyes. I caught my breath and lowered my palm tree patterned torch. That’s it? I thought. They completely ignored my epiphany. It seemed like they already knew what I had just realized. I yanked the pillows out of my pants and threw them on the ground.
My boyfriend walked away from his friends and bent to pick up the pillows.
“Why are you throwing these on the ground?” he said.
“Look!” I said, throwing my arms up in the air to show my figure. “I’m not ugly anymore!”
Jun 2, 2008
Retirement
My father asked me a few days ago over the phone, "So what's retirement like?" "Boring," I said, laughing. "But it can be fun." I'm not retired. I haven't even started working yet. I'm a 21-year old college student, and I've been studying in Northern Sweden for the past five months. Everyone knows that studying abroad is not usually the most academically rigorous semester you'll ever have. After all, the purpose of the whole thing is to experience a different way of living, a new culture. Some students choose to go to the bathroom in a outhouse in a third world country for six months, others choose to live like royalty in English-speaking countries. Many study abroad programs, though, lie somewhere in between the outhouses and the royalty, but none sell themselves under the title, "Retirement." The following are reasons why my study abroad experience in Sweden was like being retired.
I had nothing to wake up for in the morning but still set my alarm clock for 8 am everyday. Even though I knew I had nowhere to be, I wasn't going to let myself fall into the pattern of sleeping late and staying up late. If I reached that point, I would enter the category of lazy teenager, one which I have long hoped to abandon. So my alarm clock would go off at 8 am every day, and I would push the sleep button 6 times until it stopped going off half an hour later. At this point, I would fall fully back to sleep and not wake up until 9:30 or 10.
I only had to be somewhere once a week and that was a lot to ask. My classes only met once a week or once every other week for an hour and a half. For the first few weeks, I looked forward to going to my one class in the middle of the week. I would do all the reading, make sure I had something to offer to the seminar, and get there early, ready to make an impression on the teacher because we were only given a few chances to do so. After the first month or two, though, I started to get really angry when the one day a week rolled around that I had to go to class. My corridor mate and I would whine about it all morning and on the way to campus. Most likely having not completed the assigned readings, we would sit through the seiminar with disgusted looks on our faces, waiting for the hour and a half to pass so we could carry on with our lives.
The grocery store was often where I would run into the most people I knew. Every time i walked into the store, I would look to the check-out lines to see who was there that I knew, and there was almost always at least one. I would also have long, personal conversations with friends in front of the shampoo section or the potatoes, and in line to pay for my single onion or head of broccoli. When I met up with friends outside of the grocery store, we would often tell each other who we saw in the grocery store that day. Apparently I wasn't the only retired college student.
I watched a lot of TV. In the States, I watch so little TV that I'm always hearing, "Oh my god you haven't seen that?!" about some commercial or new series. In Sweden, though, my friends and I watched so much TV that we could recite the songs of at least five different Swedish commercials, and we each had our favorite. I also had the chance to catch up on a lot of American TV, most of which was terribly outdated. Married With Children. Friends. Oprah. Made, Dirty Jobs. Next. Unfortunately, I will still be behind the times when I get home.
I was very unproductive with my free time. When you live a busy life, it seems like you could do so many things if you had more time. Big readers like to wear that t-shirt that says, "Too many books, too little time," but if they had only lived in Sweden once in their life, they'd know that more time does not equal more books. I am ashamed to admit that I did not read a single book during my study abroad time, and this is only the second piece of writing I have even attempted.
You're probably wondering, then, what I have done. Somehow, i was only truly bored for the first week or two. After that, I got used to it. It becomes normal to wake up slowly, spend forty minutes eating breakfast and watching TV, to spend the whole afternoon walking around outside with friends, eat some more and then go to bed. I have to say, though, that I would have been bored if I hadn't found a group of really close friends. Even though our boring lives didn't always provide us with new things to talk about with each other, just being around people from different countries was entertaining enough. If we ran out of other interesting cross-cultural comparisons to make, we would resort to talking about languages. And if that wasn't entertaining enough, we started drinking.
To better answer my dad's question about what retirement is like, then, I have to say, like everything else, you get used to it. And is that not the point of studying abroad? To be forced to adjust to a new way of living? If it is, then I think I have successfully completed my task, but unfortunately, the other half of the deal is that you have to return to the old way of living, where college students are never mistaken for retirees.
I had nothing to wake up for in the morning but still set my alarm clock for 8 am everyday. Even though I knew I had nowhere to be, I wasn't going to let myself fall into the pattern of sleeping late and staying up late. If I reached that point, I would enter the category of lazy teenager, one which I have long hoped to abandon. So my alarm clock would go off at 8 am every day, and I would push the sleep button 6 times until it stopped going off half an hour later. At this point, I would fall fully back to sleep and not wake up until 9:30 or 10.
I only had to be somewhere once a week and that was a lot to ask. My classes only met once a week or once every other week for an hour and a half. For the first few weeks, I looked forward to going to my one class in the middle of the week. I would do all the reading, make sure I had something to offer to the seminar, and get there early, ready to make an impression on the teacher because we were only given a few chances to do so. After the first month or two, though, I started to get really angry when the one day a week rolled around that I had to go to class. My corridor mate and I would whine about it all morning and on the way to campus. Most likely having not completed the assigned readings, we would sit through the seiminar with disgusted looks on our faces, waiting for the hour and a half to pass so we could carry on with our lives.
The grocery store was often where I would run into the most people I knew. Every time i walked into the store, I would look to the check-out lines to see who was there that I knew, and there was almost always at least one. I would also have long, personal conversations with friends in front of the shampoo section or the potatoes, and in line to pay for my single onion or head of broccoli. When I met up with friends outside of the grocery store, we would often tell each other who we saw in the grocery store that day. Apparently I wasn't the only retired college student.
I watched a lot of TV. In the States, I watch so little TV that I'm always hearing, "Oh my god you haven't seen that?!" about some commercial or new series. In Sweden, though, my friends and I watched so much TV that we could recite the songs of at least five different Swedish commercials, and we each had our favorite. I also had the chance to catch up on a lot of American TV, most of which was terribly outdated. Married With Children. Friends. Oprah. Made, Dirty Jobs. Next. Unfortunately, I will still be behind the times when I get home.
I was very unproductive with my free time. When you live a busy life, it seems like you could do so many things if you had more time. Big readers like to wear that t-shirt that says, "Too many books, too little time," but if they had only lived in Sweden once in their life, they'd know that more time does not equal more books. I am ashamed to admit that I did not read a single book during my study abroad time, and this is only the second piece of writing I have even attempted.
You're probably wondering, then, what I have done. Somehow, i was only truly bored for the first week or two. After that, I got used to it. It becomes normal to wake up slowly, spend forty minutes eating breakfast and watching TV, to spend the whole afternoon walking around outside with friends, eat some more and then go to bed. I have to say, though, that I would have been bored if I hadn't found a group of really close friends. Even though our boring lives didn't always provide us with new things to talk about with each other, just being around people from different countries was entertaining enough. If we ran out of other interesting cross-cultural comparisons to make, we would resort to talking about languages. And if that wasn't entertaining enough, we started drinking.
To better answer my dad's question about what retirement is like, then, I have to say, like everything else, you get used to it. And is that not the point of studying abroad? To be forced to adjust to a new way of living? If it is, then I think I have successfully completed my task, but unfortunately, the other half of the deal is that you have to return to the old way of living, where college students are never mistaken for retirees.
Aug 11, 2006
New method teaches foreign language students to learn from hard of hearing senior citizens
AUG 11 – Local language-learning experts, urging community schools to adopt the latest in teaching methods, held a press conference yesterday to cultivate support for their new movement. Involving senior citizens in the foreign language classroom, language-learning expert Marion Schorr told the press, rapidly heightens the students’ auditory and verbal skills.
“In the past language teachers have used audio tapes and videos, but now we have found that there is no better alternative for this type of learning than bringing the elderly into the classroom. Partaking in exchanges with people with impaired hearing allows students to grasp pronunciation and understand more at a quicker pace.”
The board of experts went on to explain the details of the method. Having completed three case studies, University of Plainside Professor Janet Diere explained that the presence of the elderly in the classroom created an environment that required elevated levels of volume.
“The students were forced to shout and repeat the answers to their daily activities and the foreign language-speaking senior citizens were forced to scream at each other. This way the students could more clearly hear syllables and inflections as well as learn through repitition.”
In a Russian class at the University of Plainside, student Harry Taryle explained that he enjoys this new method, noting that it adds a unique element to the language-learning experience.
“Everyday the old people come in super early with their walkers or their canes and take a seat in a row of desks facing the rest of the class. The second they arrive they have something to say to one another so the shouting and the, ‘What?!’s begin immediately. Almost everything that is said has to be repeated at least twice so we just sit back, relax and listen to the old people until the lesson starts.”
When asked about his experience as a participant in the new language-learning method, Boris Stein replied, ‘что?!’ (English translation: ‘What?!’)
The conference did not conclude without opposition though. The nature of the method spurred some unrest among AARP rights leaders. Near the end of the conference a few shouts were heard from AARP representatives Conrad Hermann and Gayle O’Connor.
“This is unjust and discriminatory! Innocent senior citizens are being taken advantage of and used for their disabilities! We will not stand for it!”
A reply about the participation being voluntary was heard from a member of the board, but the AARP representatives could not hear the response, leading to the conference’s closure.
“In the past language teachers have used audio tapes and videos, but now we have found that there is no better alternative for this type of learning than bringing the elderly into the classroom. Partaking in exchanges with people with impaired hearing allows students to grasp pronunciation and understand more at a quicker pace.”
The board of experts went on to explain the details of the method. Having completed three case studies, University of Plainside Professor Janet Diere explained that the presence of the elderly in the classroom created an environment that required elevated levels of volume.
“The students were forced to shout and repeat the answers to their daily activities and the foreign language-speaking senior citizens were forced to scream at each other. This way the students could more clearly hear syllables and inflections as well as learn through repitition.”
In a Russian class at the University of Plainside, student Harry Taryle explained that he enjoys this new method, noting that it adds a unique element to the language-learning experience.
“Everyday the old people come in super early with their walkers or their canes and take a seat in a row of desks facing the rest of the class. The second they arrive they have something to say to one another so the shouting and the, ‘What?!’s begin immediately. Almost everything that is said has to be repeated at least twice so we just sit back, relax and listen to the old people until the lesson starts.”
When asked about his experience as a participant in the new language-learning method, Boris Stein replied, ‘что?!’ (English translation: ‘What?!’)
The conference did not conclude without opposition though. The nature of the method spurred some unrest among AARP rights leaders. Near the end of the conference a few shouts were heard from AARP representatives Conrad Hermann and Gayle O’Connor.
“This is unjust and discriminatory! Innocent senior citizens are being taken advantage of and used for their disabilities! We will not stand for it!”
A reply about the participation being voluntary was heard from a member of the board, but the AARP representatives could not hear the response, leading to the conference’s closure.
Aug 8, 2006
Häagen Das Wouldn't Be a Bad Name
I remembered today that I wanted my parents to name my brother Nicholas. I was only three when he was born and nothing but unhappy about the whole idea of the guy coming into my world, but I was convinced that Nicholas was the perfect name for him. I remember climbing on top of the upstairs bathroom toilet to whine to my father about it in the same way I whined about everything from wanting something from the ice cream truck to having a bad dream. I have no idea why I liked the name so much, but I can only guess that it was either because Nicholas was the only boy's name I knew at the time or because I had already experienced the effects of having an odd name.
My father didn't want to name me Annika. Growing up as a Rudolph, he knew what it was like to be the kid with the funny name. I didn't understand why until I heard the classic Christmas carol "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" for the first time. I couldn't help but laugh at my father. What could be funnier than imagining your own father as a reindeer with a very shiny nose? So in an attempt to avoid all possibly connections to unflattering popular culture references, my father wanted to stay away from all uncommon names. For whatever reason, though, some of my mother's Swedish friends had the power to convince my parents that Annika was going to be my name. (I assume it had something to do with my mother's attachment to Sweden and my father's obsession with being married to a Swedish woman).
So I was born Annika and my brother was born Alex, contrary to some people's opinion. By the first grade I hated my name. Kids, teachers and parents alike could not pronounce it correctly and being the shy kid that I was, it was utterly difficult to open my mouth and whisper the correct pronunciation. I've heard my name mispronounced at least a dozen different ways--like it's a disease of the anus, like it's the name of a Japanese-made VCR, the sister company of the outlet mall store Mikasa, and a strange diminutive of the name Nick (aNICKa).
But that's only when my name is read. After introducing myself, I've heard a variety of mispronunciation that are even harder to correct, the most difficult being when people think my name is "Hanukkah" and proceed to ask me if I'm Jewish. "No," I reply in a confused tone and then realize that they probably think my name is the name of one of the biggest Jewish holidays of the year. Eventually I or someone else corrects them before they continue calling me a Jewish holiday, but who knows if some people I've met have gone on thinking my name is Hanukkah.
Rather than just mispronouncing my name, sometimes others ask me questions about the origin of my name. The most intriguing question was posed to me by a boy probably around the age of 14 after first meeting me and my two best friends. "Did your parents mean to name you Monica but forgot the 'm'?" he asked me as sincerely as possible. I didn't know what to say. There were two things wrong with this question: first, he was assuming that my name was spelled completely phonetically and like a vacuum cleaner brand and second, he was assuming that my parents are idiots that can't spell. But there was no possible way I could portray all of this to this gangly, preteen creature in a polite, concise way, so I simply replied, "No," and everybody laughed.
But as most would assume, I've grown into my name and have the confidence to correct people when they mispronounce it. Over the past few months at least a handful of people have informed me that they know a little girl named Annika, so it seems the name is on the rise and on its way to leaving the category of weird names. But today when I told my brother that I wanted him to be named Nicholas, we contemplated the idea of it, and thought nothing of it. Not much would be different--he would probably feel like the same person and others would see him as the same person, although I would have been a happier child. When he announced that he wishes he were named Hans, though, I took it back. I imagined him going around wearing nothing but tight, black turtle necks and reminding people of Hansel & Gretel or even the foreign ice cream brand Häagen Das. It wouldn't be a bad name for him though--as long as he's okay with being forever associated with candy-eating Germans and things like that.
My father didn't want to name me Annika. Growing up as a Rudolph, he knew what it was like to be the kid with the funny name. I didn't understand why until I heard the classic Christmas carol "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" for the first time. I couldn't help but laugh at my father. What could be funnier than imagining your own father as a reindeer with a very shiny nose? So in an attempt to avoid all possibly connections to unflattering popular culture references, my father wanted to stay away from all uncommon names. For whatever reason, though, some of my mother's Swedish friends had the power to convince my parents that Annika was going to be my name. (I assume it had something to do with my mother's attachment to Sweden and my father's obsession with being married to a Swedish woman).
So I was born Annika and my brother was born Alex, contrary to some people's opinion. By the first grade I hated my name. Kids, teachers and parents alike could not pronounce it correctly and being the shy kid that I was, it was utterly difficult to open my mouth and whisper the correct pronunciation. I've heard my name mispronounced at least a dozen different ways--like it's a disease of the anus, like it's the name of a Japanese-made VCR, the sister company of the outlet mall store Mikasa, and a strange diminutive of the name Nick (aNICKa).
But that's only when my name is read. After introducing myself, I've heard a variety of mispronunciation that are even harder to correct, the most difficult being when people think my name is "Hanukkah" and proceed to ask me if I'm Jewish. "No," I reply in a confused tone and then realize that they probably think my name is the name of one of the biggest Jewish holidays of the year. Eventually I or someone else corrects them before they continue calling me a Jewish holiday, but who knows if some people I've met have gone on thinking my name is Hanukkah.
Rather than just mispronouncing my name, sometimes others ask me questions about the origin of my name. The most intriguing question was posed to me by a boy probably around the age of 14 after first meeting me and my two best friends. "Did your parents mean to name you Monica but forgot the 'm'?" he asked me as sincerely as possible. I didn't know what to say. There were two things wrong with this question: first, he was assuming that my name was spelled completely phonetically and like a vacuum cleaner brand and second, he was assuming that my parents are idiots that can't spell. But there was no possible way I could portray all of this to this gangly, preteen creature in a polite, concise way, so I simply replied, "No," and everybody laughed.
But as most would assume, I've grown into my name and have the confidence to correct people when they mispronounce it. Over the past few months at least a handful of people have informed me that they know a little girl named Annika, so it seems the name is on the rise and on its way to leaving the category of weird names. But today when I told my brother that I wanted him to be named Nicholas, we contemplated the idea of it, and thought nothing of it. Not much would be different--he would probably feel like the same person and others would see him as the same person, although I would have been a happier child. When he announced that he wishes he were named Hans, though, I took it back. I imagined him going around wearing nothing but tight, black turtle necks and reminding people of Hansel & Gretel or even the foreign ice cream brand Häagen Das. It wouldn't be a bad name for him though--as long as he's okay with being forever associated with candy-eating Germans and things like that.
Jul 31, 2006
Warts
My father is a lawyer. Sometimes he says he wishes he were a history professor, but I think that's just a cover-up for the odd jobs he really enjoys.
For the past few weeks I have been convinced that I have grown a wart on the side of the pointer finger on my left hand. As far as I know I've never had a wart before and I used to think all the kids who had them were repulsive. In elementary school I prided myself in not having any warts, somehow believing that I was of a superior disposition for never having warts. "I"ve never had a wart," I would always make sure to declare when one of my friends would begin to complain about the wart on their foot or their toe. "Really?" they would ask surprisedly, giving me that ultimate sense of superiority about my hygiene as I emphasized it again with a confident, "Nope!"
Even when I spent my high school summers as a day camp counselor, I would quickly investigate which kids had warts and note to never hold their hands. A few times a sweet little Kathryn or Daniel would spend the majority of the day in tears for a variety of possible reasons (missed mother, wet pants, stolen toy, lack of Ritalin) and I would not make any consolations concerning the hands. With a quick flick of the wrist, I learned to shake a kid's hand out from underneath my palm and leave the scene before mayhem erupted.
Now that I look back upon it, though, my uppity attitude about warts could have really just been a cover-up for my ignorance about the world of warts. Many of my friends shared horrifying stories with each other about their wart removal visits to the doctor. After leaving school midday, they would return to an onset of curious peers, "Did it hurt?!" they would ask, unable to stay seated in expectation. "Not at all," the confident, wart-free peer would answer, gaining a sense of confidence that had the ability to bury mine, leaving me unable to come to terms with the fact that maybe I really wanted to have warts.
But now I think I finally have one. My mother thinks I don't (she's even more disallusioned about my family's hygenic superiority than I am) but my father has been right on it. After dinner tonight he dragged out his what must be five year old wart removal kit and began the demolishing process.
After retrieving the kit from the upstairs bathroom, he stumbled down the basement while I sat in the kitchen awaiting the process I have been coveting for so long. I wondered what it will be like. Will there be dry ice? Will it sizzle? Will it be hot or cold? Will it hurt? What if it hurts? Maybe I'm not tough enough for this. Maybe I'm destined to never have any warts because I can't handle the treatment. Damn it! I can never beat the warty people! Not only do they have better stories but they're also tougher!
My father returned from the basement still in search for his magnifying glass so that he could read the instructions on the bottle. They're not in the kitchen either. He asked my mother to read the directions but she couldn't find her reading glasses so after five minutes of reading/magnifying glass commotion, my brother grabbed the bottle and announced what we were to do. Wash, Apply. Wash.
My father took the little brown bottle away from my brother and started to unscrew the cap. Here it comes. He started toward my finger with the application brush.
"Wait. Aren't you supposed to wash the area?" I asked.
My father made a disgruntled sound.
"Dad. Don't we need to wash it?" I repeated.
"Nah," he said as he intently dabbed the solution onto the knuckle of my left pointer finger.
I waited. No sizzling. No smoke. No disappearing wart. He screwed the cap back onto the bottle and announced in a doctorly way that we had to repeat the process daily for as long as needed.
Well maybe it's still a wart then, I thought. If it's not gone yet that still gives it a good chance of being a wart.
"I just don't think that's a wart," my mother said as she grabbed my finger and inspected it, bringing it close to her face.
In an attempt to avoid my mother's doubts, I escaped the room with my still bumpy finger. Maybe it isn't a wart but if it's not, I don't know what it is and I don't think it's going away. It's not a pimple (believe me I've tried popping it and there's nothing in there). But if whatever it is stays there forever, it will always remind me of my false sense of hygenic excellence and my father's passion for odd jobs. Who needs law school when you can remove your children's warts? It most definitely means something to me.
For the past few weeks I have been convinced that I have grown a wart on the side of the pointer finger on my left hand. As far as I know I've never had a wart before and I used to think all the kids who had them were repulsive. In elementary school I prided myself in not having any warts, somehow believing that I was of a superior disposition for never having warts. "I"ve never had a wart," I would always make sure to declare when one of my friends would begin to complain about the wart on their foot or their toe. "Really?" they would ask surprisedly, giving me that ultimate sense of superiority about my hygiene as I emphasized it again with a confident, "Nope!"
Even when I spent my high school summers as a day camp counselor, I would quickly investigate which kids had warts and note to never hold their hands. A few times a sweet little Kathryn or Daniel would spend the majority of the day in tears for a variety of possible reasons (missed mother, wet pants, stolen toy, lack of Ritalin) and I would not make any consolations concerning the hands. With a quick flick of the wrist, I learned to shake a kid's hand out from underneath my palm and leave the scene before mayhem erupted.
Now that I look back upon it, though, my uppity attitude about warts could have really just been a cover-up for my ignorance about the world of warts. Many of my friends shared horrifying stories with each other about their wart removal visits to the doctor. After leaving school midday, they would return to an onset of curious peers, "Did it hurt?!" they would ask, unable to stay seated in expectation. "Not at all," the confident, wart-free peer would answer, gaining a sense of confidence that had the ability to bury mine, leaving me unable to come to terms with the fact that maybe I really wanted to have warts.
But now I think I finally have one. My mother thinks I don't (she's even more disallusioned about my family's hygenic superiority than I am) but my father has been right on it. After dinner tonight he dragged out his what must be five year old wart removal kit and began the demolishing process.
After retrieving the kit from the upstairs bathroom, he stumbled down the basement while I sat in the kitchen awaiting the process I have been coveting for so long. I wondered what it will be like. Will there be dry ice? Will it sizzle? Will it be hot or cold? Will it hurt? What if it hurts? Maybe I'm not tough enough for this. Maybe I'm destined to never have any warts because I can't handle the treatment. Damn it! I can never beat the warty people! Not only do they have better stories but they're also tougher!
My father returned from the basement still in search for his magnifying glass so that he could read the instructions on the bottle. They're not in the kitchen either. He asked my mother to read the directions but she couldn't find her reading glasses so after five minutes of reading/magnifying glass commotion, my brother grabbed the bottle and announced what we were to do. Wash, Apply. Wash.
My father took the little brown bottle away from my brother and started to unscrew the cap. Here it comes. He started toward my finger with the application brush.
"Wait. Aren't you supposed to wash the area?" I asked.
My father made a disgruntled sound.
"Dad. Don't we need to wash it?" I repeated.
"Nah," he said as he intently dabbed the solution onto the knuckle of my left pointer finger.
I waited. No sizzling. No smoke. No disappearing wart. He screwed the cap back onto the bottle and announced in a doctorly way that we had to repeat the process daily for as long as needed.
Well maybe it's still a wart then, I thought. If it's not gone yet that still gives it a good chance of being a wart.
"I just don't think that's a wart," my mother said as she grabbed my finger and inspected it, bringing it close to her face.
In an attempt to avoid my mother's doubts, I escaped the room with my still bumpy finger. Maybe it isn't a wart but if it's not, I don't know what it is and I don't think it's going away. It's not a pimple (believe me I've tried popping it and there's nothing in there). But if whatever it is stays there forever, it will always remind me of my false sense of hygenic excellence and my father's passion for odd jobs. Who needs law school when you can remove your children's warts? It most definitely means something to me.
Jul 27, 2006
Welcome
This is Fragment Studios, my blog and a literary adaptation of Figment Studio, my sister's design company. Visit www.figmentstudio.com if you don't like to read a lot. If you like colors and lively shapes, you should visit her site, but if you like dull, flat black and white characters, stay here. If you want to buy custom portraits, go to her site. If you want to see a picture of my sister, leave. If you are fashionable and like to wear artful t-shirts and amusing jewelry, go there. So in conclusion, if you are nerdy, colorblind, insipid, cheap, nonvisual and unstylish, STAY HERE!
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