Adventures in Solitude

This will be my last post for a while. Recent event and thoughts have led me to the conclusion that I'm in need of some kind of cleansing, and I'm going to try at one. And that's why I no longer possess a laptop (for a few weeks, anyway). If you're interested in hearing the tale of a great battle with technology, an awestrucking display of consumerism, and wanton disregard of an inner compass, ask me about my Sunday.

I'm actually pretty excited to be disconnected from the Interwebs. Last spring I uninstalled AIM for quite a while, and it felt damn good. People contacted me who actually needed and wanted to, and there were no pity conversations stemming from boredom and obligation:

"what's up?"

"nothing... you"

"nothing"

"cool"

"yeah"

"definitely"

"yep"

So I plan on only using the computer while I'm at work and maybe sometimes while I'm at my sister's house. I'm sick of sitting passively for hours in front of the glowing screen without actually DOING anything, just checking the same websites over and over again, waiting for people to respond to me or hoping something new will pop up. I love the computer, but I've become a mindless addict who has forgotten its meaningful use. In order to get back my appreciation, I must deprive myself of it. I am not telling you all of this to be praised for going inside my little box, although you can admire me from the outside - I don't mind. (Jonathan Lethem reference, anyone? If not, please read The Disappointment Artist.) But it's just to let you all know that although I am not everpresent on your screens, I am still alive. Maybe more alive than ever. Which is both a healthy thing and a scary thing at the same time. Good and bad, bad and bad; I'm still reeling from it all.

I plan on spending my nights attempting to knock off a few books from my shelf of Unreads, watching intellectual programming (such as Law and Order: Criminal Intent, the John Adams miniseries, Rocko's Modern Life and Jon & Kate Plus 8), and walking over to Albany's Riverfront Park in contemplation. What shall I contemplate? Perhaps why certain parts of the park smell

like ass more than others. It's a tough conundrum, but someone's got to tackle it. I'll still be receiving phone calls and e-mails (NO texting, please!), but I know a lot of you young whippersnappers out there prefer more "distant yet instant" forms of communication. Fortunately, I don't know that many of you.

Hopefully this will not mean a hiatus of writing. I hope it's far from it. I bought a nifty notebook today that I am going to break down into sections to keep track of all the little notes and ideas I've written on various smaller notebooks, napkins, and foreheads. And boy! do I have many notes for possible blog posts. You all have something to look forward to since I know your lives rise and fall with my internet insights and memoirs.

In the meantime, I hope you'll allow me to assign you some homework for when I return. Please listen to the entire album "Challengers" by The New Pornographers, and pay special attention to the songs "My Rights Versus Yours," "Myriad Harbour," and "Entering White Cecilia." There will be an extended discussion and response paper due sometime in the month of August. I can't explain how much this band and that particular album has helped me lately. I really like a lot of music, but it only happens once in a while that I feel "moved." And I feel as moved as one of them peddlers I had to learn so much about in my American Jewish History class.

You Were The Man, Mike.

I received some pretty terrible news today. My comedy godfather, mentor, and role-model, Mike Irwin, passed away today around noon. Mike had been battling Stage IV bone cancer for a few months, eventually contracting a staph infection among a myriad of other complications. If there ever was a guy who deserved to be ridiculously famous and live for billions of years, it would be him. I could try to be eloquent and try to come up with some grand metaphor about the circle of life and blah blah blah, but that just doesn't fit. The only thing I can say that feels right is:

This completely sucks.

There's no way around it. Fuck the universe, as my very insightful friend Brian Peek would say. And he always seems to be right.

If it weren't for Mike Irwin, I wouldn't have ever had the opportunity to pursue comedy. The summer after my freshman year of high school was a restless time. Even though I was barely fourteen, I felt a restlessness inside that wouldn't stop. My family had been in a sort of disrepair for reasons all two of you readers already know and I had just experienced the first year where I could actually notice a bit of social separation between my peers and I. I had been following comedy and various comedians since the time I had fully grasped language, and one night at a Fresno's restaurant while dining with my sister and brother-in-law something clicked.

"I think I could do stand-up comedy. Why not? So many ridiculous things have happened to me that it seems like something I have to do."

My brother-in-law was especially encouraging, but at the time I didn't think either of them were really taking me seriously. I went home and left them a voicemail at their apartment:
"I'm really serious about this. I'm going to do it. I'm going to. I have to. I'm serious."
The rest of the summer was spent e-mailing comedians and researching classes and clubs. The whole process was actually quite a success, and I caught a few comedians when they were stll answering their own e-mails. My favorites, of course, were from a one Mr. Galifianakis and I had an oddly lenghty correspondence with Jay Mohr who told me to "sin bravely."

Towards the end of the summer, I found the website for our local comedy club, The Comedy Works, which was then located at a Quality Inn in Glenmont. Mike Irwin was offering stand-up comedy classes there and I immediately e-mailed him my situation, about how I was a youngin' but I knew that this was something I was very passionate about. He was quick to respond and said he would check about things, making no promises but said: "If you really want to do comedy, you'll find a way."

I e-mailed the owner of the club to see what he had to say, and I later found out that he had suspected I might be a police officer posing as a little girl to conduct some kind of sting operation. So, like all kids do, I had my mom call. And then Mike Irwin got back to me with good news: the only thing I had to do was send in a permission slip, which I did right away. I was warned that there would be "adult content" and was instructed to prepare 2-3 minutes for the first night of class.

At the time, I was the goalie for my school's JV soccer team and went directly from practices and games right to class. Sweat, adrenaline, and all. I was so nervous before my first class, but as soon as I met everyone my large intestine sensed there was nothing to fear.

Mike did not treat me any different than the rest of the class, although the next youngest person after me was around 20. No one watched their language, watered their material down, or made me feel awkward about being there. It was from Mike I learned about stage presence, the basic joke forms, how to memorize sets, and how squeeze the most out of every single minute on stage. He taught us his "5 Rules of Comedy," which have always rung true. Comedy is almost impossible to pigeon-hole into various equations and explanations and organizations, but somehow Mike did it. Every week we were given assignments and writing exercises, many of which I still use today. One of my favorite assignments was when we had to make a list of things that were orange. By far, the best answer came from my pal Don: "Bougars mixed with blood!" I remember choking on my water from chortling. It's the best kind of pain there is.

The most valuable things I gained from the class were my "older comedian friends" and my relationship with Mike. Every teenage girl should have them, and they're the only reason I wish I could go back to high school, so I could spend time with them on a regular basis again.

Every week we each had to perform on stage for 2-3 minutes and even if we sucked, Mike would make sure to find something positive about what we did. But he wasn't afraid to tell us what didn't go so well. Sure, many comedians may end up bitter and jaded, but Mike knew that it didn't have to be that way - and that we weren't going to succeed if it happened to us. Later that year I took an improv class with him and some of my friends, and he opened up that world for me as well. He could have just said, "Go away, kid, get outta here. Come back when you're not a fetus." But he didn't. Honestly, I probably would have given up my quest. Without his belief in me and my potential, I think I'd have hung back more in my life. I don't think I would have pushed myself or accomplished anything near what I have. His instruction and faith gave me the confidence and tools to make the best of my situation that I desperately needed at that particular point in my life.

I don't think I have ever seen Mike get angry or badmouth another comedian. When I think of all the god-awful comedians (famous and not), managers, and Biz people he's had to deal with, that fact truly amazes me. It seems that no one ever got the best of him, and he was always ready to do favors.

When I started performing more, opening shows and going to open mics, he was always there when I had questions. He seemed to be watching proudly as I kept at it, and whenever I perform I perform as if he were there, because I know that's when I do my best.

Last summer I had the pleasure of doing a guest spot when he was headlining at The Comedy Works, which is now located on the corner of State & Eagle Streets in Albany. I got to hang out with him, his wife, and his son - and my friend - Carter. It was one of the best nights of that summer. Of course I had seen Mike perform, but not for a while. I've always admired how he never stopped writing and always had new bits. What sticks out in my mind about his performances, however, was the pure, unadulterated glee that you could tell filled him whenever he was behind a microphone. His smile and manly giggle were enough to make me smile and -yes, perhaps a bit masculinely - giggle.

Like many comics, he took his life's struggles as fodder for entertainment. But there was something twisted and sharp and endearing about his cadence and writing that never got boring. He was the kind of guy who wanted to win the lottery just for the interview. He wondered why the winners always want to buy a car when there's so much that can be done. Mike knew just what he would do: create a jell-o shortage. The man was a genius.

Of course, I saved my favorite joke of his for last. He used to talk about how one of his relatives had been on the wrong side of World War II, and the only picture they had was of him in his uniform. So whenever people would come over to his family's house, everyone would see all the normal, lovely pictures of the family. . .

"and then some fuckin' Nazi."

"Oh, who's that?"
"Umm...that's just Gramps. He was really into the theater."

Mike, all us comics miss you.

This Song Just Saved My Life

I Fell Off The Face of The Earth and Might Continue to Do So From Time To Time

but something's coming soon...

Every meal tells a story.

I'm sorry I haven't posted in a while, but times haven't been conducive to my former late-night blogging schedule. I started a day job along with my night job, so last week I worked 67.5 hours. My brain is fried. Fortunately and little unfortunately (as I will miss my rebel teacherly friends) my exam scoring job ended on Tuesday night. So my nights are now free.

What will I do with my free time, you ask? Oh, the usual. Bowl, drive around, the occasional acid flashback. Maybe a yoga class. Hopefully I'll get back on the arduous Upstate NY Comedy Circuit. I think my lack of personal productivity is contributing mercillessly to recent stresses and upheavals. That must be changed!

For this post, I'd like to share an experience from someone other than me. Turn things around a bit. I'm a bit sick of myself.

Recently, my friend Steph - the same one who fell in love with the young busboy - shared an uplifting story with me. She currently subs at a Nursery School, and is finding it rather rewarding. She feeds them, washes their grimy faces, teaches them the alphabet, and sings songs about manners and baby animals. Steph attends to the kids' every need and whim - even their budding sexual desires. What can I say? She loves the youths.

But it's not what you think: "We were outside on the playground. I was just standing there. Two kids came up to me joking like aahhh I'm gonna get you or something like that, and one was hugging my leg. And that one became the humper." A three-year-old boy humped her leg, which brings about two questions that I would like answered, no matter how prudish you readers may be, and because I know you two readers, you have no excuse. Here are the hard-hitting questions:

1) Does that action even feel "good" and "special" at that age?

2) Should Steph stop taking the kid to Chuck E. Cheese every Friday night to "play" with him in the ball pit?

In other news...

On Tueday a friend and I purchased cheesy gordita crunches before our last night of exam scoring. It took forever as usual, but it was also worth it... as usual. As we stepped out of the car to go inside, we noticed that two infants were sleeping in their carriers in the back of a sedan next to us, with only one of the back windows open. At the very worst we hoped the parent was just running in to use the bathroom or to get something quick. Not that this would be acceptable, but it's better than what we ended up witnessing.

After we had waited 15 minutes for our tasty helpings of tortilla, beef, cheese, and vegetables in various combinations, we made our way back to the car to speed off. Following us out the door was a young couple in their late twenties. They sauntered over to the sedan with large fountain drinks in hand. They got in the car. They drove away slowly.

This winning boyfriend and girlfriend duo (no rings) had ordered a meal and ate it inside while their infants slept in the oppressive car heat. If everything we do is an argument, this one's a doozy. Their actions argued that eating inside Taco Bell is of more value to them than the comfort and well-being of their TWO babies. What disgusts me is the fact that they value eating inside the Taco Bell establishment at all. It's sticky, badly lit, uncomfortable and - worst of all - plays the "number one hit music station" of the Capital Region. I would rather eat in oppressive car heat with screaming infants surrounding me. Couldn't one of them have gone inside to get the food? Then they could have gone home and ate together as a family, fighting over the television remote and who was going to get the last cinnamon dessert twist.

Discuss.

A few days ago my friend Jackie and I dined at the Macaroni Grill and we had an excellent dinner for a chain restaurant. At the Mac Grill they have paper tablecloths and the servers write their names on it upside down in an act of friendliness. Like a party trick to break the ice. They leave the crayons on the table, and for some reason at tables with only adults at them the crayons are left undisturbed. It's okay for children to amuse themselves while they wait for sustinence but adults have been conditioned to sit quietly and make inane small talk until they glance their meals coming to the table from the corner of their eye.

"Yeah, yes. . . it's uhh terrible that they uhh in the news I saw ummm. . . Oh, here's the food!"


Fun and colors and art and doodles are nothing to be ashamed of. Jackie and I had a grand old time drawing cartoon cows and stars and writing our names and playing games and it really took the edge off our hunger. We discussed that a trip to an establishment like the M. Grill would be a great place for dinner in the early stages of dating. I'm not saying I endorse testing those you date and I'm not saying I ever have, but I think we've got something here. Does your date even notice the crayons? What color does he/she choose first? What kinds of pictures or words do they draw? Do they press hard or shade lightly? These answers could serve as an intriguing litmus test of personality.


I - pretty obviously - would enjoy someone who draws and doodles furiously without hesitation. Preferably elaborate stick figures or other amusing illustrations. No mundane boxes, please.

Speaking of a a dislike for the mundane, I'm not so much excited for my actual birthday weekend as much as the two weekends that follow. Although I've planned this weekend chock full of karaoke, parties, and Cranium, I'll still be in waiting. For next weekend one of my best friends, whom I admiringly refer to as just "Givney" is having me up to her camp on Lake Champlain.


Many a good time and life lessons have happened up at that there beach. Her family and I get along well. I'm pretty sure, after attempting water-skiing, that one of her uncles wiped the snot from my nose. We've bonded. I think everything was solidified after one enchanting occasion.



Givney and I were sitting in the camper enjoying refreshing beverages. This day I was partaking in Mountain Dew: Code Red, as when I was younger I used to consume it every day of my life. Just as I was taking a sip, Givney's father walked in the room from his shower with a silky royal blue Hawaiian shirt bearing an eye-catching pattern.

Givney brightly remarked, "Wow, Father, don't you look dapper today!"

Tears flowed into the ducts and my body convulsed. I felt the cold cherry flavor travel up my sinus cavity and to my nasal one, surging out of my nose while simultaneously an eruption of soda charged back up through my esophagus (accompanied by other stuffs, but I won't get into that) and out of my pie-hole.


I laughed so hard I puked.

And that is true friendship.

I rarely laugh heartily to the point of tears, so time with Givney and her posse is always top priority. Puke seems to be a common topc of discussion, and not just because of this incident. But, I'm legally and socially obliged not to give up the rest in public. Sucks to be you on the outside, that's all I"m gonna say.

I'm excited to have a bash with them to celebrate me still being younger than everyone else. I think I'm looking forward to this weekend more than returning to NYC for the 4th of July. I look forward to stepping into the camper again, where there lies a fabulous stain on their carpet, constantly reminding me of good times.

I am looking forward to going back home, though. Yes, home. It will be there that I celebrate my day of birth for the third weekend in a row. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I guess I can celebrate America, too. Does anyone know of any 4th of July festivities to be had? If you're in the city, I think on Saturday night I'll be dropping by the Sidewalk Cafe to see the afforementioned Frank Hoier and Feral Foster. I'm going down on a Thursday night so I will have 2 full days of summer in the City, plenty of time to take what it has to offer and not enough time to get so sucked in that I hole myself up in a stranger's apartment, refusing to return to the place I was born.

Here's something fun that was a major belly-laugh initiator towards the end of this past semester:

Hasta luego.

I've Made Up My Miiiiiiind...

...Don't try and tell me otherwise! I can't keep from talkin' 'bout these guys.

These are a couple NYC musicians that must be recognized. Before Washington Square Park was in disrepair, Feral Foster and Frank Hoier, were often found in their own musical world under one of the cozy tree spots. I had the pleasure of sitting next to Feral Foster on the edge of the fountain one day and he asked to borrow my pen. I let him keep it. Feral Foster is a raggedy-haired, passionately gruff belter and Frank Hoier croons like a bird. One evening my friends and I sat with Feral and Frank and enjoyed a sing-a-long. I've been following their careers ever since. At the Sidewalk Cafe, the home of Anti-Folk, The F's are often found. One time I went there and Feral did a fantastic version of the classic "John Henry." They both have great respect for traditional and new folk/blues/bluegrass/etc and put their own fascinating spin on it. Frank's song "Jesus Don't Give Tax Breaks to the Rich" was featured on some new political song list created by Neil Young.

The "41st Street Blues" are fantastic. My favorite lines are:

You're ridin' downtown in that old wheelchair,

But I can't stop starin' at your pretty brown hair!

You look good to me, you look good to me

Oh, ou look good to me and I hope you like me, too

Here's and interesting live version:

Frank & Feral:

Feral's rendition of "Orange Blossom Special":

Alright, had to get that out of my system. Hasta luego.

If y'all become disorientated you lose your accuretzy.

Just one of the gems found at my worthless day of orientation for my office job at Albany Med. It was a waste of time. I will be working on the computer hid away in some office not even in the hospital, I do not need to know a lick about latex allergies or disposing of syringes or how to be culturally sensitive to my patients. The only patience I'll need is enough to sit through another few days of boring computer training.

I know that I jokingly mentioned team-building exercises in my last post, but it turned out to be more than a joke. My "team" and I had to create a product, a jingle, a sloga, and a celebrity spokesperson. Then we had to present and sing our jingle in front of everyone. I usually don't mind making a fool of myself, but my group lacked an interesting sense of humor. They laughed when, after the obligatory loud, piercing, fuzzy BEEEEEEEEEEEEP that accompanies all professional audio/visual presentations, the speaker said, "Heh, everyone awake now?!"

On a side note, is it a rule that any kind of video presentation given in a professional setting can never run smoothly? It seemed like it was every single presenter's first day giving their ungodly speeches. They stared at the DVD player controls and light switches like they were Neandertals delivered to our confusing world of flashing lights and shiny knobs.

This is what my group came up with:
- Product: Zippy Clean Self-Cleaning Bed Pan
- Jingle: "Twinkle, twinkle, little John..."
- slogan: "You don't have to touch to flush!"
- Celebrity spokesperson: Mr. Clean

They didn't like my ideas for Wilford Brimley being our spokesperson. They didn't even know who Wilford Brimley is. I even tried the more mainstream Hugh Hefner. No dice. What the hell!

This is what I would've gone with, keeping the same self-cleaning bedpan idea:
- Product Name: Waste-Away
- Celebrity Spokesperson: Aaron Neville
- Slogan: Look at me, I'm so hands-free, when I pee!
- Jingle: (to the tune of the famous Neville song) "I don't kno-ow much, but I know I don't have to touch my poooooooo. . ."

The other groups would've been dead in the water.

Then we had to watch a fantastic safety video, which I've luckily found on YouTube to spare myself the grand efforts of describing its gloriousness:


The snarky comments were the hosts of the "Found Film Festival" and, unfortunately, were not on the recording I saw today. My favorite is the person who leans over non-chalantly and BAM! gets a face full of acid. The guy who gave us the safety talk was very much like my Health teacher, Mr. Novak. Only a bit more Scared-Straight. The kind of guy like in that movie Mean Girls who said everything will make you pregnant. Only in this case, everything will make your eyes and hair fall out. Another highlight was the head security guy. His presentation consisted of a slideshow of pictures of the security officers posing in their different seasonal uniforms. They looked like the cliche vacation photos you always see in the talking picture shows nowadays.

I don't mean to be Negative Nancy or Debbie Downer or Molly Malcontent, but... well... it's funnier that way. Comedy wasn't made out of puppy dogs and ice cream.

More to come some day soon, as usual.

P.S. I've been obsessed with a musician named Mike Doughty lately.



Check him out. He does a cover of Mary J. Blige's "Real Love" on the guitar. Got his first cd for free in some Sony BMG package and became entranced, then saw him at Barnes and Noble this past semester and was very impressed by his cadence. He has something called his "Dude Theory" - what's not to love?

P.P.S. I've got tickets to Wilco at Tanglewood in August, and am looking to go see The Police w/ Elvis Costello and perhaps even Bob Dylan when they all come to Saratoga at various times this summer. Only problem: I need someone to go with. Contact me if you're interested! The only requirement is that you don't absolutely hate the music. And you have to be ready for a kick-ass time.

Regression Session

I don't mean to always talk about my job, and I promise it's not all-consuming. Actually, it's far from it. It just happens that things that happen there parlay into other thoughts and it always seems to provide great little intro anecdotes.

Friday nights are always very brutal. It's the ultimate home stretch. We don't get out until 10:30 and although most adults do not really kick off their weekends until then, all us workers are too tired. We end up driving home by ourselves with the windows open, listening to the oldies station or a Van Morrison greatest hits album. Usually we stay up late anyway, reading or blogging or passively televisioning. Or maybe that's just me. But I don't think it is. Everyone at my job comes very much from the same mold. We all have a little bit of a rebel in us, not afraid to sacrifice our weeknights. We're teacher-types with a bit of an edge. We have no problem sharing personal stories with people we've only known for a few weeks or making fun of one another mercilessly. If there's a slower, less sharp person at our table, we let them know (in a good-hearted way). And if you are that slower person, you love the attention and we all laugh. This past Friday night was an especially grueling ordeal. We were short by 20 people and the place was filled with empty seats to remind us all of the parties and dinners and laughs that were going on without us. Things got so boring that everyone in the room seemed to regress back to the age of the kids' whose papers we were grading.

"I'll pay you four dollars to eat that nasty piece of black licorice."

There's a day shift, too, and I think things are the same for them. Every night we come in, we find toys and little amusing signs and candy wrappers crowding our desk. Hovering over our table is a goofy picture of trumpeter Chuck Mangione, which must be some kind of inside joke. (I recognize the pattern because around the group I was in charge of last year we had a shrine to Aaron Neville. It seems that those led into the exam scoring business are fascinated by C-list musicians with awkward looking faces. We chose Aaron Neville because I do a wicked impression and somehow it came up. Ask me to do it. I will not disappoint.)

At my table this year is a small toy horse, a little squishy cat, a wind-up car, a galactic robot, and a large Darth Vader action figure. Who knows how those came to be brought in. They're coming in handy, though. Whenever the boss comes by I knock over Darth in warning to be a little quieter. For some reason we all call him Steve. Massive amounts of "quality time" spent in any group formulates a certain genre of humor that only that group finds hysterical. Giggles and tears and snorts (unfortunately, those are mostly by me) are common noises to be found in our quarters. We've found that this genre of humor only sometimes translates to other tables in the room and we tend to get shushed a lot. I guess somehow the most rebellious of the Capital Region's free-spirited teacher-types found themselves at my table.

This weekend has been an odd one. I felt caught in the ultimate battle between childhood and adulthood. I still feel like a child in that I'm living at home and coming to grips with the fact that by the time I'm just turning 21, all of my friends will be "in the real world" with "real jobs" and perhaps even starting with their "real families." I guess I'll be in it, too, but it will be a bit different. Will anyone take me seriously? Will my friends be bored of going out by then? Will they be all elegant and educated and prefer a quiet night in drinking wine? Maybe not. I don't know. Sure, I'll be educated, but I won't have gone through that important "going out" stage that most people do in college. Although I do have fun, I don't go OUT because. . . I can't. And I won't be able to without a hassle for a long time. For all the kids who resented me in grade school and high school, you have the last laugh! The "shush girl" who quieted the class with her hands folded because she was deathly afraid of getting in trouble can't have a drink with her educationally equal colleagues!

Everyone around me is a couple years older, which is kind of a big deal at this point in our lives. 18 sounds a LOT younger than even 20 or 21. When I was in grade school I was already friends with the older kids from having certain classes with them. In high school it was a novelty that everyone poked fun of. I liked the attention, it worked out pretty well. In college, it's a little weird. We're at the same point in our lives, but simultaneously we're not. I feel that I'm on the same level as everyone else in most important aspects, but there are some where I know I'm not. I dread the day I have to start going to all of my friends' weddings. Don't worry, I'll go, but if I'm single and I don't have anything awesome going on in my life I ain't gonna be the cheeriest. Christ, The Wedding Planner was on Friday night and I could hardly handle that. . . maybe I'll just send you all a toaster now. A couple of my friends have been in serious relationships for a while, and that scares me. The slow trains a-coming. Sure, I will always be able to flaunt my youth, but not when I feel so old.

On Saturday my family and I went to this restaurant we used to go to every week when I was little. Ralph's. I would always order a grilled cheese with a root beer. I still remember the day I felt like a big girl because my parents let me get two since I was so hungry. This time I ordered a slightly more sophisticated dish, spaghetti and meatballs. I was sitting with my niece, who was drawing on the back of the placemat like I used to do. Things had changed there, but not that much. I'm thankful for still being young when I don't have to pay for meals.

The next day, today, we went to the Albany Med employee picnic and while my sister and mother and Emma went to go get food, there was a terrential downpour. My cousin and I sat under a golf umbrella trying to brave the storm but to no avail. I thought I was protecting my phone by sitting on it, but soon I was sitting in a puddle. After a little while, thunder was angrily applauding everyone's attempts to scrape up whatever free food was left. Fights broke out over seats under the metal pavilion. It was starting to resemble a refugee camp, only some of the people were dressed a little better. Not many, though. My sister and I scampered out barefoot into the muck and the mess and the blankets of water while my mother and Emma shuffled to the van under an umbrella. Jenn and I found our way back to the van only to find that none of us had the keys. There was a lot of screaming and yelling and tears and chaos. I kept calling my cousin because my mom believed she had the keys. I also kept offering to go run back and look to see if we dropped them or to see if I found Renae. No one paid any attention to me. They just kept yelling at me and at Emma and at the world.

I handed them my phone to keep calling my cousin and I decided to get away from their unwarranted outrage at no one. We were already soaked. What was a few more minutes? I ran as fast as I could, and it felt good. The mud felt like wet clay that I molded with my small but full-grown feet. I slipped and almost fell into a welcoming, murky puddle and part of me wishes that I had. I combed the grass with my eyes and heard my name being called. It was my cousin, she had our keys. I ran over to her. The rocks were sharp but did not hurt my feet, and I swiftly returned back to the van where my sister and Emma were under the umbrella with my mother. I had the keys and we could now go home. My sister and mother hardly even noticed I was the one who got them. They stood there ready to call someone to pick us up, but I took action. I didn't say anything to them, and it was then that I realized I was an adult. With dirty feet and wet undergarments.

That and I wipe my own ass.

Well, I'm off. I've got orientation for my new office employment tomorrow. I think there are going to be icebreakers and a few "team-building exercises." I need all the rest I can get not to overturn the cheap coffee in everybody's faces.

And I'd Really Love To See You Tonight. . .

I saw this video a few weeks ago, and by chance caught the song on the radio just yesterday, and had a dream about Mr. Galifianakis last night (we went to a concert!). If there ever was a sign I needed to post something, that would be it. Enjoy!

You can check out any time you like. . .

but you can never leave.


I've been kind of a wreck lately so I haven't really had a clear enough mind to develop one strong flowing post. However, as usual, my nights have afforded me some fun things to share.


The kids have to write about a skill they have developed or wish could develop outside of school. If I have to read about another kid who thinks playing baseball makes him unique, wants to be a "machanik," or likes to draw because it expresses her feelings (When I'm sad I draw a frowny face in dark colors, when I'm happy I draw a happy face in yellows and oranges!) I'm going to hurt myself or others.


"Have you ever heard of a sport called soccer?!? Well, I'm gonna tell you aLL about it!" Some of the worst papers are the sports ones. The kids who write about sports tende to explain every single piece of equipment involved, including the brand. They then explain how the sport is played as if the person reading had never even heard of basketball before. I don't even read them anymore.


Bubbly handwriting? They get a C.
Kids who skip lines between paragraphs? They get a C, too.
Did they write 4 pages? B+.
Kids who ski to "spend time with their family"? Definitely C-.
Anyone who uses the word "canter" get's a B.


Last night there were a few gems. Once you've seen thousands of papers, any kind of flavor or personality that comes out in a kid's writing is a wonderful comic relief. Some of my recent favorites:

"Someone's art can be seen through many different persektives. Some people might think that Jackson Pollock's paintings look like puke."

"Whenever I dance, I always hear a lyric from my favorite song in my head. It is 'Hotel California' by The Eagles. 'Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.' I always dance to forget."
(What are you forgetting there, girlie? How your friend got gum in your hair last month?)

The best one for me, if only for "The Break-Up" reference is:
"When Michelangelo painted the 16th chapel, he didn't just wake up and do it in one day. You have to practice."


When you sit with the same group of people for 5 hours straight every night, several weeks in a row, you can't help but bond over your mutual desire to stab every 13 year old you see. Lately, however, we've been grading eachother's stories and quips.


"Hmm, I'd give that story a C in content and a B- in grammar. I didn't really understand where you were going with that story about your angry mother one and your sentences were a little choppy."

"Yeah, I'll give that one a B and an A because you didn't really give me any vibrant details about why the conversation you had with your love interest is giving you a bad day. But it was very well said, though. Very complex sentences. I appreciate your effort."

"Boy, sounds like you have a crisis, there!"


On our computer screens, we can label a kid as a "crisis" if we think he or she has issues. There are some pretty bad papers, but you become immune after a while. For anything to be a crisis, it has to mention wanting to harm other people or that the kid is being abused. If the kid writes that he's just been kicked out of his house for not being able to pay rent, not a crisis. If a kid mentions how he's depressed and wants to build things out of wood because his father always tells him he's not good enough, it's not a crisis. If a kid mentions living on the streets, it's not a crisis. But, if a kid mentions wanting to be an axe murderer, THAT'S a crisis. Do these people not realize that the former leads to the latter?


When someone gets a "Crisis Paper" they raise their hand and shout, "I have a crisis!"
My table and I were thinking about how wonderful it would be if one of us yelled "I have a crisis!" and then when meeting with the boss, you would proceed to explain a very embarassing and lengthy personal problem of your own.


I think I'm going to do it on my last day. Making corporate people uncomfortable is something I live for.


Catch you later on down the trail.

Gals & Gilgamesh

Thank you, Meg, for sending me this. It made my day a little brighter. A post with substance is coming either today or tomorrow.