There are not many things that I am really, really good at. I am adequate at many, decent at some, and good at few. But really, really good? Why, it's almost unheard of. That being said, I have discovered something I am really, really good at.
By this point, we all know I'm excellent at being sick. That basically doesn't even count anymore. However, being sick does play a role in my newly realized talent. So, um, yes. On with it.
I am really, really good at ruining holidays for myself.
Awesome, right? I totally think a $50,000 cash prize is headed my way somewhere in the near future. Although, if this talent is going to win me any contests, I'd better supply something to back my statement up. So here it is, a few of the more recent occasions that I've managed to make miserable:
1. It hasn't happened yet, but this Christmas will suck because I'm sick right now, and viruses generally take me and my incompetent immune system 4-5 weeks to fight off.
2. This past Thanksgiving, I spent the night before throwing up, and the day itself curled up on a couch with no appetite, refusing my grandmother's constant culinary offerings. (which, by the way constitutes an unforgivable crime in her household)
3. Halloween, I sat in my basement with my dog, because I have no friends.
4. My birthday 2005, 2004, and 2003, I was grounded.
5. Last Mother's Day, I slept all day (I was just released from the hospital a day before) and in doing so, convinced my mother that I hated her.
I'm only giving you five, because my skills are getting a little depressing. Happy Kwanzaa. I haven't screwed that one up yet....
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
In which Krissy upsets herself
I started to clean my room today. When this occurs, it is not generally prompted by my mother's requests. Nor is it prompted by her threats ("No Martha Stewart magazine until your room is clean!"). Rather, it occurs only when I have the desperate need or want to find something long buried by piles of clothes or hidden in shoeboxes of random junk.
Today I remembered something, and realized how sorry I was to have forgotten it.
Wasting time on facebook, I began to think about (naturally) my friends. I started to miss them, like I always do, and I began to reminisce about last year, before moving to Maryland. Then I started thinking about my going-away party, and then I started thinking about the going-away gifts, cards, and letters I received. I suddenly had the urge to find them, to sit and reread what had been written.
And so my search began. I started with the bin I keep pictures in, and began removing albums and loose photographs. First I unearthed my Damn Yankees phone tree, then my G.I. medals. I hadn't found what I was looking for, but I was on to something else. I continued my search elsewhere, in shoeboxes, folders, and bins. Now I was looking for not only going-away letters, but, reminded of G.I. and my various E.R. and hospital visits, for get-well cards and pictures, and perhaps most importantly, a set of notes written on Hilton notepaper that I received at G.I. state finals last year. I thought about this more and more, about how I had almost missed it because of collapsing, how my mother drove me down by myself because I missed the bus for a doctor's appointment, and how, upon my arrival in Springfield, I was greeted so warmly by my friends. Sometime that weekend, several of my friends gave me notes or drew me pictures (a certain someone surprised me with fruit snacks). I kept those notes, and put them on my bulletin board when I got home. I remembered now how I had packed them, along with everything else pinned on that piece of cork, and everything else inside my room, in an assortment of boxes and bins one week last June. And now, digging in my closet in Maryland, I wanted to find those notes.
I can't exactly explain why I wanted to find them so badly, aside from sentimentality. All I know is that I tore through dozens of still-unpacked boxes that are housed in the back of my closet, under my bed, and stacked in corners of my room. I dug, frantically, through every receptacle that had even the slightest possibility of containing that for which I searched. At the end of all this, I sat.
In the middle of the floor, surrounded by throw pillows, unironed slacks, human Geography papers and more, I began to cry. I couldn't find them. I had come across some letters sent by friends after I moved, and read over them fondly, but they weren't what I needed to find. Wiping away my seemingly unnecessary tears, I began to understand why I needed to find the particular notes that I did. It was because if couldn't find them, every scrap of paper and photograph and unremarkable object that I had ever saved and placed inside a shoebox was random junk. If I couldn't find them, it meant that somewhere along the line of packing and moving and unpacking, I threw them away. I discarded something meaningful, irreplaceable, and truly valuable. I left myself only with random junk.
The phrase "random junk" is significant, because you see, I used to think of my shoebox stuff as "homeless mementos". I would occasionally keep something given to me by a friend, or made by a younger cousin, and stow it away in one of these boxes, because I had no other place to put it. But all of this time, I believed that I cared about my shoebox stuff. I believed that I kept it for a reason. Upon the realization that I had disposed of such wonderful gifts from friends, I could no longer continue thinking that kept that which was important or meaningful. At whatever point I started "cleaning out" my boxes to save space (or whatever reason I had at the time), I turned my homeless mementos into random junk.
I'm still looking, in binders and drawers and folders, for those couple of notes. I'm quite sure that they're gone, because I've searched everywhere I can remember packing that sort of thing. Because sifting through my memories like I have today has made me want to read them. More than that though, it has made me want to prove to myself that I was not so foolish as to cast off a crumpled letter, and to keep only what was framed or purchased.
Today I remembered something, and realized how sorry I was to have forgotten it.
Wasting time on facebook, I began to think about (naturally) my friends. I started to miss them, like I always do, and I began to reminisce about last year, before moving to Maryland. Then I started thinking about my going-away party, and then I started thinking about the going-away gifts, cards, and letters I received. I suddenly had the urge to find them, to sit and reread what had been written.
And so my search began. I started with the bin I keep pictures in, and began removing albums and loose photographs. First I unearthed my Damn Yankees phone tree, then my G.I. medals. I hadn't found what I was looking for, but I was on to something else. I continued my search elsewhere, in shoeboxes, folders, and bins. Now I was looking for not only going-away letters, but, reminded of G.I. and my various E.R. and hospital visits, for get-well cards and pictures, and perhaps most importantly, a set of notes written on Hilton notepaper that I received at G.I. state finals last year. I thought about this more and more, about how I had almost missed it because of collapsing, how my mother drove me down by myself because I missed the bus for a doctor's appointment, and how, upon my arrival in Springfield, I was greeted so warmly by my friends. Sometime that weekend, several of my friends gave me notes or drew me pictures (a certain someone surprised me with fruit snacks). I kept those notes, and put them on my bulletin board when I got home. I remembered now how I had packed them, along with everything else pinned on that piece of cork, and everything else inside my room, in an assortment of boxes and bins one week last June. And now, digging in my closet in Maryland, I wanted to find those notes.
I can't exactly explain why I wanted to find them so badly, aside from sentimentality. All I know is that I tore through dozens of still-unpacked boxes that are housed in the back of my closet, under my bed, and stacked in corners of my room. I dug, frantically, through every receptacle that had even the slightest possibility of containing that for which I searched. At the end of all this, I sat.
In the middle of the floor, surrounded by throw pillows, unironed slacks, human Geography papers and more, I began to cry. I couldn't find them. I had come across some letters sent by friends after I moved, and read over them fondly, but they weren't what I needed to find. Wiping away my seemingly unnecessary tears, I began to understand why I needed to find the particular notes that I did. It was because if couldn't find them, every scrap of paper and photograph and unremarkable object that I had ever saved and placed inside a shoebox was random junk. If I couldn't find them, it meant that somewhere along the line of packing and moving and unpacking, I threw them away. I discarded something meaningful, irreplaceable, and truly valuable. I left myself only with random junk.
The phrase "random junk" is significant, because you see, I used to think of my shoebox stuff as "homeless mementos". I would occasionally keep something given to me by a friend, or made by a younger cousin, and stow it away in one of these boxes, because I had no other place to put it. But all of this time, I believed that I cared about my shoebox stuff. I believed that I kept it for a reason. Upon the realization that I had disposed of such wonderful gifts from friends, I could no longer continue thinking that kept that which was important or meaningful. At whatever point I started "cleaning out" my boxes to save space (or whatever reason I had at the time), I turned my homeless mementos into random junk.
I'm still looking, in binders and drawers and folders, for those couple of notes. I'm quite sure that they're gone, because I've searched everywhere I can remember packing that sort of thing. Because sifting through my memories like I have today has made me want to read them. More than that though, it has made me want to prove to myself that I was not so foolish as to cast off a crumpled letter, and to keep only what was framed or purchased.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
I do not like to put a space between the can and not of cannot.
I am in the sort of mood to be quiet and read Jane Austen novels, the sort of mood to twist my hair up and secure it with a pen. Naturally, I should be drinking tea. And eating apple crisp. In bed, with flannel sheets and a big down comforter. Also, my dog should be curled up at the end of the bed, not smelling of dog.
Instead, I am blogging. And punctuating fragments as sentances. Soon, I will get between normal cotton sheets and blankets and pretend I am sleeping. I will not be. I'll accidentally kick my iron footboard, and it will bang against the wall, interrupting the quiet, which is the only part of my plan that will actually be carried out tonight. I'll get thirsty and sip from the waterbottle on the floor next to my bed, in the shoebox with all of my pills. I will shut my door to keep the dog out, because if I let her in she would only make noise and smell.
Good night.
Instead, I am blogging. And punctuating fragments as sentances. Soon, I will get between normal cotton sheets and blankets and pretend I am sleeping. I will not be. I'll accidentally kick my iron footboard, and it will bang against the wall, interrupting the quiet, which is the only part of my plan that will actually be carried out tonight. I'll get thirsty and sip from the waterbottle on the floor next to my bed, in the shoebox with all of my pills. I will shut my door to keep the dog out, because if I let her in she would only make noise and smell.
Good night.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
What an eyesore
"Oh, how bizarre, how interesting and bizarre..." says Dr. Tong, examining the technician's findings. I'm sitting, slightly elevated, in an optical exam chair. Dr. Tong leans over charts filled with measurements (of what? I don't know) and my mother wrings her hands nervously. "Well," he says, "you have fourth-nerve palsy." I lean back, and for a reason I cannot recall, mutter "I gots me some palsy." to myself.
Dr. Tong continues, explaining exactly what the condition is. To paraphrase, a specific nerve/muscle combination that controls my left eye is screwed up. He stands up, takes a series of prisms from a drawer, and walks over to my mother's chair. "Using these prisms," he says, with a precise and oddly-emphasized English characteristic of non-native speakers, "I will simulate for you the way Kristen's eyes see the world." He lines up the prisms and holds them up to her eye. "Oh, my," my mother said, screwing her face up in concentration. "How on earth does she..." Her sentence goes unfinished. Dr. Tong removes the prisms and asks her what she saw. "Well, everything was doubled," she began. "But not just that. One half of something would be over here," she gestured to her left. "and the other half would be somewhere to the right and above it! I don't know how Krissy possibly sees." Dr. Tong nods. "Hold on," I say, "I don't see like that. I mean, I'll get double vision when I look in certain directions, but it's nothing so drastic as that." "Ah," Dr. Tong turns to me, "But it is!"
He begins pointing things out about me, things like my crooked glasses and the way I tilt my head slightly to the left. My mother tells him that the glasses are nothing, that I've always had crooked glasses, I have since I was in preschool, and so that couldn't possibly indicate anything. Growing more passionate with his speech, Dr. Tong responds. "Precisely!" He takes out some angle-measuring device and, holding it up to my glasses, mutters a rapid series of complex measurements to himself. "Her glasses are crooked at the exact angle to partially alleviate her condition! And you say they have been like this since she was young?" "Well," my mother says, "We always thought she was just rough on them." "Kylie always thought I had crooked ears.." I add. Dr. Tong is fascinated. "It all makes sense." he says. "The way you have bent them is therapeutic to your eyes. It moves things for you. Do you remember how your mother said things looked split through the prism?" I nod. "Well, by tilting your glasses, the lens moves things closer to where they should be. It is remarkable though, for a patient, even subconsciously, to have made these adjustments, especially from a young age!" "Oh. But if that doesn't entirely remedy my condition, how come I see fairly normally?" "Well, you tilt your head to the left, and while it is only a slight tilt, it contributes to the effect of the tilted glasses. Aside from these outward remedies, the rest is done through muscular compensation. You say that you have been diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome?" he asks. "Well, yes," I answer, "But I think that has more to do with the Ehlers-Danlos* syndrome than anything else..." "This may be true," Dr. Tong continues, nodding, "But the muscles of your left eye are working five, perhaps more, times as hard as your right eye in order to straighten out your vision. While it does not seem like your eyes could make you feel tired, this could be a major contributor to your already existent problem. You may not feel strained at this point in your life, but somewhere down the line, perhaps sooner than you think, the constant fight to see will take a toll on you. It will be too much." My mother looks at me, but I don't quite know what to say. "Furthermore," Dr. Tong continues, "your head tilt is dangerous, especially since you have Ehlers-Danlos. Over time, the vertebrae in your neck will stop looking like they are discs, and start looking like they are wedges. Your bones will change shape." "She's already in physical therapy for her back and neck!" my mother blurts out, looking overwhelmed. "Well," Dr. Tong says, "Let us explore the treatment options."
I sit back, waiting for the expected round of drugs that usually comes my way when doctors discuss my treatment options. "You have three options." Dr. Tong begins. "You can have surgery, wear prism glasses, or do nothing. I strongly warn you not to do nothing, because while it may not seem like an insurmountable challenge to overcome right now, fighting this disorder will only become harder for you. Surgery is your best option." "Well, we don't really want surgery." my mother says. "What are the prism glasses?" "The prism glasses use special glass, prisms, to shift the problem. You must be aware though, that the problem is not corrected, it is merely shifted. As Kristen currently sees, her vision to the right (with glasses) is fine. The center is mostly fine, but she occasionally sees double, and her vision to the left is awful. What prism glasses will do is shift the problem so there is no problem in the middle, less problem to the left, but the right, where there was no problem, will now have some problem. That is why I recommend surgery." Alright, but exactly what does the surgery entail?" my mother asks, clearly unsure of herself.
"Well, we don't actually take the eyeball completely out..." says Dr. Tong.
And so it looks like I'm getting eye surgery pretty soon. (I don't know how long it takes to get an appointment.) It also looks like I gots me some palsy.
Dr. Tong continues, explaining exactly what the condition is. To paraphrase, a specific nerve/muscle combination that controls my left eye is screwed up. He stands up, takes a series of prisms from a drawer, and walks over to my mother's chair. "Using these prisms," he says, with a precise and oddly-emphasized English characteristic of non-native speakers, "I will simulate for you the way Kristen's eyes see the world." He lines up the prisms and holds them up to her eye. "Oh, my," my mother said, screwing her face up in concentration. "How on earth does she..." Her sentence goes unfinished. Dr. Tong removes the prisms and asks her what she saw. "Well, everything was doubled," she began. "But not just that. One half of something would be over here," she gestured to her left. "and the other half would be somewhere to the right and above it! I don't know how Krissy possibly sees." Dr. Tong nods. "Hold on," I say, "I don't see like that. I mean, I'll get double vision when I look in certain directions, but it's nothing so drastic as that." "Ah," Dr. Tong turns to me, "But it is!"
He begins pointing things out about me, things like my crooked glasses and the way I tilt my head slightly to the left. My mother tells him that the glasses are nothing, that I've always had crooked glasses, I have since I was in preschool, and so that couldn't possibly indicate anything. Growing more passionate with his speech, Dr. Tong responds. "Precisely!" He takes out some angle-measuring device and, holding it up to my glasses, mutters a rapid series of complex measurements to himself. "Her glasses are crooked at the exact angle to partially alleviate her condition! And you say they have been like this since she was young?" "Well," my mother says, "We always thought she was just rough on them." "Kylie always thought I had crooked ears.." I add. Dr. Tong is fascinated. "It all makes sense." he says. "The way you have bent them is therapeutic to your eyes. It moves things for you. Do you remember how your mother said things looked split through the prism?" I nod. "Well, by tilting your glasses, the lens moves things closer to where they should be. It is remarkable though, for a patient, even subconsciously, to have made these adjustments, especially from a young age!" "Oh. But if that doesn't entirely remedy my condition, how come I see fairly normally?" "Well, you tilt your head to the left, and while it is only a slight tilt, it contributes to the effect of the tilted glasses. Aside from these outward remedies, the rest is done through muscular compensation. You say that you have been diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome?" he asks. "Well, yes," I answer, "But I think that has more to do with the Ehlers-Danlos* syndrome than anything else..." "This may be true," Dr. Tong continues, nodding, "But the muscles of your left eye are working five, perhaps more, times as hard as your right eye in order to straighten out your vision. While it does not seem like your eyes could make you feel tired, this could be a major contributor to your already existent problem. You may not feel strained at this point in your life, but somewhere down the line, perhaps sooner than you think, the constant fight to see will take a toll on you. It will be too much." My mother looks at me, but I don't quite know what to say. "Furthermore," Dr. Tong continues, "your head tilt is dangerous, especially since you have Ehlers-Danlos. Over time, the vertebrae in your neck will stop looking like they are discs, and start looking like they are wedges. Your bones will change shape." "She's already in physical therapy for her back and neck!" my mother blurts out, looking overwhelmed. "Well," Dr. Tong says, "Let us explore the treatment options."
I sit back, waiting for the expected round of drugs that usually comes my way when doctors discuss my treatment options. "You have three options." Dr. Tong begins. "You can have surgery, wear prism glasses, or do nothing. I strongly warn you not to do nothing, because while it may not seem like an insurmountable challenge to overcome right now, fighting this disorder will only become harder for you. Surgery is your best option." "Well, we don't really want surgery." my mother says. "What are the prism glasses?" "The prism glasses use special glass, prisms, to shift the problem. You must be aware though, that the problem is not corrected, it is merely shifted. As Kristen currently sees, her vision to the right (with glasses) is fine. The center is mostly fine, but she occasionally sees double, and her vision to the left is awful. What prism glasses will do is shift the problem so there is no problem in the middle, less problem to the left, but the right, where there was no problem, will now have some problem. That is why I recommend surgery." Alright, but exactly what does the surgery entail?" my mother asks, clearly unsure of herself.
"Well, we don't actually take the eyeball completely out..." says Dr. Tong.
And so it looks like I'm getting eye surgery pretty soon. (I don't know how long it takes to get an appointment.) It also looks like I gots me some palsy.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
I feel like Harry Potter, and for once it's not teen angst
Last night, I had a terrible dream. I can't quite recall what happened that made it so terrible, but I woke up trembling, with this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach that can only be described as a feeling of dread, or possibly doom. I keep getting that feeling, or a random shiver, and I'm not sure if I caught whatever nervous disorder Kylie has over Thanksgiving, or if some subconscious event (that of my dream) is goin' all psychosomatic on me. Or, perhaps it is dementors! I haven't noticed any frosty windows around the house (it's 70 degrees here), and eating chocolate doesn't work, so I guess not. Perhaps, though...
Anyhow, I haven't the foggiest what's really causing it. Maybe it's just Maryland. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I should try the chocolate one more time, just to be safe.
Anyhow, I haven't the foggiest what's really causing it. Maybe it's just Maryland. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I should try the chocolate one more time, just to be safe.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Why I stuffed my mouth with Kleenex at 2:40 last night
I can't sleep.
That came first. I came off a med or two, started up some new ones, and I can't sleep. Okay, fine. The doctor said that might happen. Sure, it's uncomfortable when four o' clock rolls around and I'm still tossing and turning, but cool. Whatever, I'll just take a nap tomorrow.
It continues. Three nights later, my problems start. Not sleep deprivation. Not even headaches. Nope.
Saliva.
It's only 11:30 on Tuesday night. I'm awake, no surprises here. But holy shit, I'm swallowing an awful lot. Hold on, maybe I'm just being paranoid, maybe it's just because I'm lying here with nothing else to think about except swallowing. That's it.
Gulp.
It's 3:45 now, and what the hell? I can't stop swallowing! Okay, everyone swallows their spit. I've always done it...so why is it happening so often, or why am I noticing so much? Maybe a drink of water will help.
Ugh!
The stuff's only tasted worse at wellgroup waiting for a urine sample. And that's saying something. It's probably just the meds. I'll get used to it. I fall asleep sometime after 4:30.
I'm fine.
Until Wednesday night. It happens again, only it starts in at nine, not eleven. I haven't even crawled into bed yet. Again, swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...that's all my brain is doing. Telling me to swallow. I try to focus on other things, anything!
4:15
...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...
Somewhere along the line I drift off. 8:30, Mom calls upstairs, time to get up. And swallow.
No!
This went away after sleeping yesterday! Well, as crime fighters everywhere (or maybe just Buzz Lightyear) bellow at evil-doers: "Not today!!" And so ,as Gogol Bordello would say: "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"
Twelve hours pass.
Still swallowing. And still not knowing if its the meds or I'm just crazy.
That came first. I came off a med or two, started up some new ones, and I can't sleep. Okay, fine. The doctor said that might happen. Sure, it's uncomfortable when four o' clock rolls around and I'm still tossing and turning, but cool. Whatever, I'll just take a nap tomorrow.
It continues. Three nights later, my problems start. Not sleep deprivation. Not even headaches. Nope.
Saliva.
It's only 11:30 on Tuesday night. I'm awake, no surprises here. But holy shit, I'm swallowing an awful lot. Hold on, maybe I'm just being paranoid, maybe it's just because I'm lying here with nothing else to think about except swallowing. That's it.
Gulp.
It's 3:45 now, and what the hell? I can't stop swallowing! Okay, everyone swallows their spit. I've always done it...so why is it happening so often, or why am I noticing so much? Maybe a drink of water will help.
Ugh!
The stuff's only tasted worse at wellgroup waiting for a urine sample. And that's saying something. It's probably just the meds. I'll get used to it. I fall asleep sometime after 4:30.
I'm fine.
Until Wednesday night. It happens again, only it starts in at nine, not eleven. I haven't even crawled into bed yet. Again, swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...that's all my brain is doing. Telling me to swallow. I try to focus on other things, anything!
4:15
...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...
Somewhere along the line I drift off. 8:30, Mom calls upstairs, time to get up. And swallow.
No!
This went away after sleeping yesterday! Well, as crime fighters everywhere (or maybe just Buzz Lightyear) bellow at evil-doers: "Not today!!" And so ,as Gogol Bordello would say: "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"
Twelve hours pass.
Still swallowing. And still not knowing if its the meds or I'm just crazy.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
It's sleek and speedy. And not a Dell.
I imagine that it will echo in my dusty corner of cyberspace when this entry is posted. The space has long been empty. It will probably take several years for some intrepid explorers to uncover this post. The "Abandoned Blog" sign has scared most readers off long ago. But here it is, to be found tomorrow or next August: An update of Krissy's blog.
I've rediscovered the internet, it seems, after months of ignoring it. The principal reason behind my rediscovery is the computer I'm typing on. While not the apple I'd hoped for, my new Sony Vaio is certainly satisfactory. No more busted-up Dell with dial-up. Quite frankly, it's inspiring.
So that's what brings me back to the internet. Hopefully, I'll stay here, and not drift back into technological seclusion, but I can't say for sure...
I've rediscovered the internet, it seems, after months of ignoring it. The principal reason behind my rediscovery is the computer I'm typing on. While not the apple I'd hoped for, my new Sony Vaio is certainly satisfactory. No more busted-up Dell with dial-up. Quite frankly, it's inspiring.
So that's what brings me back to the internet. Hopefully, I'll stay here, and not drift back into technological seclusion, but I can't say for sure...
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Coming soon to Krissy's blog....Photos and updates a-plenty!
I apologise for not writing more frequently. My life is frightfully dull.
Right now, though, as I speak (or type or something), something exciting is happening! there are six men in my front lawn digging holes! That's right, holes! Now I'm sure you all are curious as to why they are digging holes. It must be, as I said, terribly exciting! Is there hidden treasure? An ancient burial site? Or perhaps an expansive network of undergroud caves that my mother discovered while gardening?!?!
It is none of these.
Right now, six men are digging holes in our lawn to bury a cable. That's right, a cable. A cable which will bring with it faster downloading, more efficient blog updates, and will free our singular phone line from the bondage of Kylie's lengthy online fanfics! That's right, friends, I'm getting high-speed internet!!!
Please note: I do not endorse, promote, or encourage excessive punctuation in any way, shape, or form. However, in order to convey such an overwhelming emotion, it was necessary for this post. I will continue to make efforts aimed at minimizing the use of this unfortunate and tasteless device in the future. Thank you.
Right now, though, as I speak (or type or something), something exciting is happening! there are six men in my front lawn digging holes! That's right, holes! Now I'm sure you all are curious as to why they are digging holes. It must be, as I said, terribly exciting! Is there hidden treasure? An ancient burial site? Or perhaps an expansive network of undergroud caves that my mother discovered while gardening?!?!
It is none of these.
Right now, six men are digging holes in our lawn to bury a cable. That's right, a cable. A cable which will bring with it faster downloading, more efficient blog updates, and will free our singular phone line from the bondage of Kylie's lengthy online fanfics! That's right, friends, I'm getting high-speed internet!!!
Please note: I do not endorse, promote, or encourage excessive punctuation in any way, shape, or form. However, in order to convey such an overwhelming emotion, it was necessary for this post. I will continue to make efforts aimed at minimizing the use of this unfortunate and tasteless device in the future. Thank you.
Monday, July 24, 2006
I've got a bag of Milanos, a shopping magazine, and an iPod in my carry-on.
For lack of anything better to do, I have devoted my life to Audrey Hepburn-ing.
It makes me happy. Cropped black pants and tailored shirts, sixties evening-wear, and short pixie-ish haircuts....what's not to love? I can sit in my basement and drink cocoa and watch movies and almost forget that I live in the lamest place ever. It's nice. I can hug my poodle and and hum along to corny romance themes that play under the dialouge....and then I can go to my room and read the biographies of Audrey that I keep getting from the library.
It's pathetic, it's a waste of time, and it's fun. So hrmfp. I'll do what I want, bitch!!! (That is me being assertive. Not bad, eh? Note the excessive punctuation.)
Anyhow, I'll be back in Illinois (pronounced in the French manner: eel-ee-nwah) by 9:30 tonight, and for a week, my only unhappiness will come from stressing about not having time to see everyone I want to.
It makes me happy. Cropped black pants and tailored shirts, sixties evening-wear, and short pixie-ish haircuts....what's not to love? I can sit in my basement and drink cocoa and watch movies and almost forget that I live in the lamest place ever. It's nice. I can hug my poodle and and hum along to corny romance themes that play under the dialouge....and then I can go to my room and read the biographies of Audrey that I keep getting from the library.
It's pathetic, it's a waste of time, and it's fun. So hrmfp. I'll do what I want, bitch!!! (That is me being assertive. Not bad, eh? Note the excessive punctuation.)
Anyhow, I'll be back in Illinois (pronounced in the French manner: eel-ee-nwah) by 9:30 tonight, and for a week, my only unhappiness will come from stressing about not having time to see everyone I want to.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Krissy reaches a new low
Before I come out and say it, I want to establish a few things:
1. I still dislike being white.
2. I still dislike (as a whole) white people.
3. I still dislike WASPS.
4. I still dislike my recent tendency to continue getting WASPier.
Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do. You see, and please don't hate me for it, I
1. have decided that J. Crew is almost my new favorite store (it was a close tie with Banana Republic)
2. bought myself a leather and linen handbag for far too much money
3. wear white cropped pants and a grosgrain ribbon belt at least every other week.
4. wear heels to the grocery store
And, worst of all,
5. saw a coach bag in the store and intend to buy it, despite the fact that A) It is Coach, and I hate Coach, as well as people who like Coach. B) I will be wasting 118 dollars on it.
Please. Still talk to me. I know it will never be the same, but I didn't mean to like it! It just happened! I only wish I had never seen it, and that we all could return to the happy days of my Coach loathing. But we can't. I've already seen it, and wanted it, and decided that it would go really nicely with my black wool coat. All I can say is that I'm sorry.
If it's any consolation, it is black, which automatically makes apparel better, and because of that, you cannot so clearly see the little "C" design printed all over it. I know, I know, it's the principal of the thing, but face it, kids, things have changed.
1. I still dislike being white.
2. I still dislike (as a whole) white people.
3. I still dislike WASPS.
4. I still dislike my recent tendency to continue getting WASPier.
Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do. You see, and please don't hate me for it, I
1. have decided that J. Crew is almost my new favorite store (it was a close tie with Banana Republic)
2. bought myself a leather and linen handbag for far too much money
3. wear white cropped pants and a grosgrain ribbon belt at least every other week.
4. wear heels to the grocery store
And, worst of all,
5. saw a coach bag in the store and intend to buy it, despite the fact that A) It is Coach, and I hate Coach, as well as people who like Coach. B) I will be wasting 118 dollars on it.
Please. Still talk to me. I know it will never be the same, but I didn't mean to like it! It just happened! I only wish I had never seen it, and that we all could return to the happy days of my Coach loathing. But we can't. I've already seen it, and wanted it, and decided that it would go really nicely with my black wool coat. All I can say is that I'm sorry.
If it's any consolation, it is black, which automatically makes apparel better, and because of that, you cannot so clearly see the little "C" design printed all over it. I know, I know, it's the principal of the thing, but face it, kids, things have changed.
I'm addicted to lazy.
I am all kinds of unhappy right now. My migranes are back, despite my various meds, I live in Ellicott City, my father is annoying, I have absolutely nothing to do with myself all day, I have a stupid schedule at my new school, and, oh yeah, I'm fat now!
I have no idea if it's the meds, which can cause weight gain, or my constant boredom (read: constant eating), but I've definitely gone from a size 4-6 to an 8. I only know this because I went shopping yesterday, and also because I fit perfectly into my baggy jeans. I know it's stupid and superficial, and it shouldn't bother me, but it really does. Also, I know that I'm not obese or anything, but it's just one more thing on top of everything else. Oh, and also my parents, father included, were telling me that they weighed less than me in college. This again? Didn't my mother get this out of her system when I was in seventh grade? I didn't think parents wanted their children to become anorexic, but hey, what do I know?
In not-so-stupid news, I gave my dog a bath today. Yes, that is how bored I am here. I chose to bathe my dog.
Back to stupidity. (But wait, Krissy, how was you blogging about bathing your dog not stupid?) I can't eat feta anymore.
(space to react)
I just can't. We even found a middle-eastern grocery, where I can get any variety my heart desires, fresh pitas, hummus, pastries, and everything else I live for. The only thing is, there's a pound of Bulgarian feta in my kitchen just waiting to be devoured, and I can't go near it!
Maybe this is why I'm fat! Maybe, there was some enzyme in the feta that sped my metabolism, and now that I'm not eating it, my already disfunctional body's entire digestive system has slowed down! Yeah! I'll bet that's it! I'm a genius!
My brilliance aside, I really don't know what's going on with this whole feta thing. It worries me though...
I have no idea if it's the meds, which can cause weight gain, or my constant boredom (read: constant eating), but I've definitely gone from a size 4-6 to an 8. I only know this because I went shopping yesterday, and also because I fit perfectly into my baggy jeans. I know it's stupid and superficial, and it shouldn't bother me, but it really does. Also, I know that I'm not obese or anything, but it's just one more thing on top of everything else. Oh, and also my parents, father included, were telling me that they weighed less than me in college. This again? Didn't my mother get this out of her system when I was in seventh grade? I didn't think parents wanted their children to become anorexic, but hey, what do I know?
In not-so-stupid news, I gave my dog a bath today. Yes, that is how bored I am here. I chose to bathe my dog.
Back to stupidity. (But wait, Krissy, how was you blogging about bathing your dog not stupid?) I can't eat feta anymore.
(space to react)
I just can't. We even found a middle-eastern grocery, where I can get any variety my heart desires, fresh pitas, hummus, pastries, and everything else I live for. The only thing is, there's a pound of Bulgarian feta in my kitchen just waiting to be devoured, and I can't go near it!
Maybe this is why I'm fat! Maybe, there was some enzyme in the feta that sped my metabolism, and now that I'm not eating it, my already disfunctional body's entire digestive system has slowed down! Yeah! I'll bet that's it! I'm a genius!
My brilliance aside, I really don't know what's going on with this whole feta thing. It worries me though...
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Flexible Fabric Is Better
I really hate plastic band-aids. They remind me of every part of my chilhood that I hated. The uncomfortable feeling of it being either too tight or too loose depending on how you move, the way it never really fits, I can't stand it. No matter what you do, a plastic band-aid will not be comfortable.
You have to make sure, when applying a plastic band-aid, to choose the correct size. If you pick one too large, you will not only waste it, because there are always less big ones ion a box, but you will cover a larger area with adhesive than neccessary. This means more stinging than neccessary when the time comes to rip the band-aid off. If you choose one too small, it will fall off easily, exposing the wound and losing adhesive. You will then have to apply a secondary band-aid. A careful consideration of band-aid proportion is very important.
I hate things that don't fit. I always have, always will. I refused to wear anything but stretch pants until the age of eleven. I still refuse to wear souvenir tee-shirts until at least two years later, after they've shrunk and I've grown. I will only wear certain pants with certain shirts, not because I care so much that I look cool, but so that things don't bulge or baag or cling in the unappealing ways that most people don't even think about. Things don't necessarily have to be tailored--the occasional tunic or breezy linen blouse is fine. However, they must be carefully matched so that the outfit is balanced, not baggy all over, but not loose on the top and skin-tight on the bottom. I like it when things fit.
Also important when using a plastic band-aid is applying it. Certain angles are not condusive to muscular movement, and certyain locations on the body are hard to fit band-aides to. When dealing with a difficult spot, multiple band-aids are sometimes needed to protect a wound. It is also important that they are not made too tight or loose, as it may case wrinkling or other undersirable things, like peeling or loss of adhesive.
I'm pretty sure that half of my childhood was spent making sure things fit properly. I did not like it when I was playing with a friend dressed in pastels and I was wearing brights. I did not enjoy putting on my mother's shoes, because they were obviously too big. I wasted hours and hours of collective classtime reorganizing my desk at school to accomadate each and every new item, from a stray pencil to a new workbook. Textbooks on the right, stacked parallel to the blackboard, folders and workbooks on the left, perpendicular, pencil cases and tissue boxes had to be level, and no more than two writing utensils coiuld fit in the pencil tray without being stacked. This was very important.
When wearing a plastic band-aid, regardless of whether or not the box says "waterproof", bear this in mind: Plastic band-aids are not waterproof. Do not wash your hands if you are wearing one on your thumb. It will start peeling and you will have to reapply. After bathing or showering, you must also reapply. It is possible though, to kind of "wash around" a bandaid, say, when rinsing your hands off because they are sticky. To avoid loss of adhesive, use one hand to carefully wash the other, rather than slathering both in suds under the faucet. With great care, it is possible to both wash your hands and keep a band-aid. It doesn't quite get your hands as clean, and the band-aid doesn't ever really stay dry, so really it's simply a hassle.
I also really hated conflict as a child, I still do. When I weas young, though, I really hated it. I hated disagreements and uncomfortableness to a point where when my sister and I made up imaginary games, I would sooner have our characters redecorate three times than have them go on an adventure and potentially get in trouble with their imaginary parents or get lost in an imaginary world. I couldn't watch "Arthur" if the characters were fighting. It made me too upset. This feeling applyed to my real life as well, where from third to eigth grade, I carefully cultivated friendships with members of "groups" that did not get along. In elementary school I would schedule when I would sit at what lunch table, because my friends didn't all get along, and I didn't want to upset anyone by not sitting with them. Monday, Wednesday, Friday at Bridget's table, Tuesday and Thurday at Sam's. Every week the schedule rotated, so it was even. The two groups never hated each other, they just didn't get along. I scurried back and forth this way well through juniopr high, taking pains to ensure everything remained intact, that I wouldn't lose bearing in one group by spending too much time with the other. I sidestepped conflict, promoted mediation, and made compromise my middle name.
Plain plastic band-aids are ugly. They not only have the discomforts listed above, but they are just not as cool as the neon ones with cartoons on them. They are boring and tacky, but not in the over-the-top tacky way band-aids should be.
Because of my chilhood quirks above, I turned out to be a really dull child. I hated dirt, activity, games, adventure, and just about everything else that makes a childhood a childhood. I was a delusional six-year-old who thought she was an interior designer. I was a stupid sixth-grader who thought she was an event planner. I kind of hated fun. It wasn't orderly, you couldn't rearrange it, and you had to be spontanious. I wasn't a trouble-maker who started food fights or a pre-teen who had strings of prepubescent boyfriends. As long as I can remember, even in my pre-Kindergarten days, I cannot remember ever wanting to do what my peers were doing. I was always "too mature" or "too good". As result, I became a ridiculously dull child. To this day, I wonder why I ever had friends.
That is why I hate plastic band-aids.
You have to make sure, when applying a plastic band-aid, to choose the correct size. If you pick one too large, you will not only waste it, because there are always less big ones ion a box, but you will cover a larger area with adhesive than neccessary. This means more stinging than neccessary when the time comes to rip the band-aid off. If you choose one too small, it will fall off easily, exposing the wound and losing adhesive. You will then have to apply a secondary band-aid. A careful consideration of band-aid proportion is very important.
I hate things that don't fit. I always have, always will. I refused to wear anything but stretch pants until the age of eleven. I still refuse to wear souvenir tee-shirts until at least two years later, after they've shrunk and I've grown. I will only wear certain pants with certain shirts, not because I care so much that I look cool, but so that things don't bulge or baag or cling in the unappealing ways that most people don't even think about. Things don't necessarily have to be tailored--the occasional tunic or breezy linen blouse is fine. However, they must be carefully matched so that the outfit is balanced, not baggy all over, but not loose on the top and skin-tight on the bottom. I like it when things fit.
Also important when using a plastic band-aid is applying it. Certain angles are not condusive to muscular movement, and certyain locations on the body are hard to fit band-aides to. When dealing with a difficult spot, multiple band-aids are sometimes needed to protect a wound. It is also important that they are not made too tight or loose, as it may case wrinkling or other undersirable things, like peeling or loss of adhesive.
I'm pretty sure that half of my childhood was spent making sure things fit properly. I did not like it when I was playing with a friend dressed in pastels and I was wearing brights. I did not enjoy putting on my mother's shoes, because they were obviously too big. I wasted hours and hours of collective classtime reorganizing my desk at school to accomadate each and every new item, from a stray pencil to a new workbook. Textbooks on the right, stacked parallel to the blackboard, folders and workbooks on the left, perpendicular, pencil cases and tissue boxes had to be level, and no more than two writing utensils coiuld fit in the pencil tray without being stacked. This was very important.
When wearing a plastic band-aid, regardless of whether or not the box says "waterproof", bear this in mind: Plastic band-aids are not waterproof. Do not wash your hands if you are wearing one on your thumb. It will start peeling and you will have to reapply. After bathing or showering, you must also reapply. It is possible though, to kind of "wash around" a bandaid, say, when rinsing your hands off because they are sticky. To avoid loss of adhesive, use one hand to carefully wash the other, rather than slathering both in suds under the faucet. With great care, it is possible to both wash your hands and keep a band-aid. It doesn't quite get your hands as clean, and the band-aid doesn't ever really stay dry, so really it's simply a hassle.
I also really hated conflict as a child, I still do. When I weas young, though, I really hated it. I hated disagreements and uncomfortableness to a point where when my sister and I made up imaginary games, I would sooner have our characters redecorate three times than have them go on an adventure and potentially get in trouble with their imaginary parents or get lost in an imaginary world. I couldn't watch "Arthur" if the characters were fighting. It made me too upset. This feeling applyed to my real life as well, where from third to eigth grade, I carefully cultivated friendships with members of "groups" that did not get along. In elementary school I would schedule when I would sit at what lunch table, because my friends didn't all get along, and I didn't want to upset anyone by not sitting with them. Monday, Wednesday, Friday at Bridget's table, Tuesday and Thurday at Sam's. Every week the schedule rotated, so it was even. The two groups never hated each other, they just didn't get along. I scurried back and forth this way well through juniopr high, taking pains to ensure everything remained intact, that I wouldn't lose bearing in one group by spending too much time with the other. I sidestepped conflict, promoted mediation, and made compromise my middle name.
Plain plastic band-aids are ugly. They not only have the discomforts listed above, but they are just not as cool as the neon ones with cartoons on them. They are boring and tacky, but not in the over-the-top tacky way band-aids should be.
Because of my chilhood quirks above, I turned out to be a really dull child. I hated dirt, activity, games, adventure, and just about everything else that makes a childhood a childhood. I was a delusional six-year-old who thought she was an interior designer. I was a stupid sixth-grader who thought she was an event planner. I kind of hated fun. It wasn't orderly, you couldn't rearrange it, and you had to be spontanious. I wasn't a trouble-maker who started food fights or a pre-teen who had strings of prepubescent boyfriends. As long as I can remember, even in my pre-Kindergarten days, I cannot remember ever wanting to do what my peers were doing. I was always "too mature" or "too good". As result, I became a ridiculously dull child. To this day, I wonder why I ever had friends.
That is why I hate plastic band-aids.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
After tripping on the patio...
Ow. Ow. Ow!
Oh, woe.
My left big toe
wrapped in half a roll of paper towel and the blood soaking through it is beginning to show.
It drips onto the patio.
I'm quite the poet, am I not? So yeah, ow. I can't manage to go more than two days without seeing a doctor. They can't put stitches in it, though, because of its location. Thank God. I will, however, be taking advantage of my get-out-of-class-five-minutes-early pass, so I can hobble from class to class.
I am ridiculously pathetic.
Oh, woe.
My left big toe
wrapped in half a roll of paper towel and the blood soaking through it is beginning to show.
It drips onto the patio.
I'm quite the poet, am I not? So yeah, ow. I can't manage to go more than two days without seeing a doctor. They can't put stitches in it, though, because of its location. Thank God. I will, however, be taking advantage of my get-out-of-class-five-minutes-early pass, so I can hobble from class to class.
I am ridiculously pathetic.
Friday, May 26, 2006
AP Euro, Adrien Brody, and Blogging
My glands are swollen. And I am in Euro. Also, I am not very cool, as is becoming rapidly apparant by Sophie's ring of Sri Lankian(?) bloggers. They are cool. They have friends, and dance, and go camping in tents made of blankets, and ride trains, and take really cool pictures of wasps. Not my kind of wasp, either, it's the kind that is yellow and buzzes. Also, they are very pretty and tanned.
Sophie has moved on mow to researching the Warsaw ghetto uprising, as per Mr. Osman's directions, which I am choosing to rebelliously ignore! I feel dangerous. As dangerous, you might say, as a Nazi in Poland. (Not quite...)
Due to the lack of both point and direction, I will now discontinue my post.
Sophie has moved on mow to researching the Warsaw ghetto uprising, as per Mr. Osman's directions, which I am choosing to rebelliously ignore! I feel dangerous. As dangerous, you might say, as a Nazi in Poland. (Not quite...)
Due to the lack of both point and direction, I will now discontinue my post.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Krissy Triumphs Over the Poor Design Choices of Middle America
I win!! My parents said when we move we can remodel the kitchen right away, rather than waiting for several months. That means that I won't have to go through with my threat of not cooking until it's de-vinyl-pine-and-laminate'd and granite-hardwood-and-tile-ified, which I was prepared to do in the name of good taste, but didn't really want to. True, this change of plans is based on the fact that someone actually wants to buy our house!!! and therefore my dad's company won't have to buy it, and therefore we get more money for it, but still, I like to think that I, alongside my crusade for a tasteful culinary environment, won.
Also, I am very excited to shop for bedroom textiles. 'Twill be very fun and stuff.
Also, I am very excited to shop for bedroom textiles. 'Twill be very fun and stuff.
Monday, May 15, 2006
My mother thinks I'm breaking up with her
So, yesterday was Mother's Day! How nice. My dad bought flowers that Kylie and I pretended to have picked out for her, I made her favorite kind of cookies because I was craving them but didn't say anything, and, oh yeah, we got in a huge fight.
The thing is, I had no idea we were fighting.
I stayed, aside from going downstairs to eat/make food, in my room all day, as I have for the past four days since returning from the hospital. My head hurt, and due to various side effects from various new medications*, I sleep for at least 16 hours a day now. Anyway, Sunday. At lunch, when seated with my family, my father kept asking me questions about how I felt. Not, "Does your head still hurt?", but "What emotion are you feeling right now?". Gee, Dad, how about "Pissed off"? This is because, since returning home, my father is convinced that I am suicidal, depressed, and made up my heart condition and seizures to, I don't know, why would I make that up? So all he had done was ask me, "How are you doing... emotionally, I mean?".
Here I must deviate again, so that you understand why this question, coming from him, pisses me off. We are WASPs. We don't hug. We don't even brush shoulders when we sit next to each other on the couch. I haven't told my parents that I loved them since I was six years old. We are cold, socially akward, WASPs. We DO NOT talk about our feelings. We don't talk about anything but work, school, redecorating, and the occasional anecdote. Now, when my father thinks I'm going to kill myself and faked unconciousness that resulted in a four-day hospital stay and the discovery of a medical condition that caused my unconciousness (yeah Dad. Just kidding! My heart didn't really stop beating during that test, I faked it!Haha!), now, he wants me to show some emotion.
So I was mad at him. And so I mumbled "fine" and continued eating. My head hurt, still, and so conversation, especially this one, was not really something I wanted to take part in. I sat in silence, save for a few good-natured remarks about my sister's lack of aptitude in the area of handling cutlery, but they just my usual, sarcastic, well-recieved bits. You know, like, "Kylie, unlike the Spainish members of the royal court in the sixteenth century, you should by now be familiar with the fork and how to use it, as it is no longer classifiable as a new invention". Stuff like that. Kylie doesn't recognize it as nasty or intentionally harmful, nor does anyone else who at all knows me. My mother though, couldn't take it. Sheleft her plate, half un-eaten, and went upstairs to cry.
Unaware of why she left, I continued eating, then went back to my room to sleep for four more hours. All this time, I had absolutely no idea that she was upset. The only thing that could have created friction between us in the past day or so was an incident on Saturday night, in which I had an episode, passed out in the living room, and came to while she was yelling at me for sleeping with my face in a book. Confused and shakey, I started crying, she yelled at me for sleeping on my face and crushing my glasses, my father came in, knew that I had been unconcious and not sleeping, and told my mother to calm down. He asked me if I was stressed, because he thinks I have episodes on purpose to be excused from my responsibilities. I said yes, because after awaking to my mother literally yelling in my face for sleeping, when I had absolutely done nothing wrong, I was kind of stressed. I told him this. He said, "I know, but your mother just was stressed so she started yelling. This whole business of yours has been very hard on her, you know." And so, choosing to ingnore his talk of "this business" of mine, and just how hard my medical woes, including chonic pain that triggers my heart condition, was on her, I nodded and wobbled upstairs to my room, to sleep.
Apparntly this was our falling out. I had no other incident or words to go on, when Sunday evening my father approached me and asked "Are you mad at your mother?". I answered no, out of honesty, though I cannot say my voice was not tense with resraint. I had had it with his attempts at a heart-to-heart, and was trying not to let my anger towards him blow up into something unmanagable. "Well, then," he said. "Are you being mean to her for a reason?"
"What?"
"ARe you purposefully being mean to her on Mother's Day for a reason?"
"What did I do?!?"
"All right."
"What???"
And he got up and left the room.
My mother has not spoken to me since. She only gives pained looks, and turns away at the sight of me, then goes to read her eight or so "Thinking of you" and "I'm here for you in these hard times" greeting cards from friends. (NOTE: I have two get-well cards. I don't want more, but, why does she have eight?)
So that's it, kind of. My mother is mad at me, I'm mad at my father, and I can't leave the house for another week. Oh, and did I mention she's having her friend babysit me? Anyhow, life kind of sucks here, with the exception of feta, but I'm dealing with it.
*Um, I was going to go into it, but it's too long. Another post, guys, another post...
The thing is, I had no idea we were fighting.
I stayed, aside from going downstairs to eat/make food, in my room all day, as I have for the past four days since returning from the hospital. My head hurt, and due to various side effects from various new medications*, I sleep for at least 16 hours a day now. Anyway, Sunday. At lunch, when seated with my family, my father kept asking me questions about how I felt. Not, "Does your head still hurt?", but "What emotion are you feeling right now?". Gee, Dad, how about "Pissed off"? This is because, since returning home, my father is convinced that I am suicidal, depressed, and made up my heart condition and seizures to, I don't know, why would I make that up? So all he had done was ask me, "How are you doing... emotionally, I mean?".
Here I must deviate again, so that you understand why this question, coming from him, pisses me off. We are WASPs. We don't hug. We don't even brush shoulders when we sit next to each other on the couch. I haven't told my parents that I loved them since I was six years old. We are cold, socially akward, WASPs. We DO NOT talk about our feelings. We don't talk about anything but work, school, redecorating, and the occasional anecdote. Now, when my father thinks I'm going to kill myself and faked unconciousness that resulted in a four-day hospital stay and the discovery of a medical condition that caused my unconciousness (yeah Dad. Just kidding! My heart didn't really stop beating during that test, I faked it!Haha!), now, he wants me to show some emotion.
So I was mad at him. And so I mumbled "fine" and continued eating. My head hurt, still, and so conversation, especially this one, was not really something I wanted to take part in. I sat in silence, save for a few good-natured remarks about my sister's lack of aptitude in the area of handling cutlery, but they just my usual, sarcastic, well-recieved bits. You know, like, "Kylie, unlike the Spainish members of the royal court in the sixteenth century, you should by now be familiar with the fork and how to use it, as it is no longer classifiable as a new invention". Stuff like that. Kylie doesn't recognize it as nasty or intentionally harmful, nor does anyone else who at all knows me. My mother though, couldn't take it. Sheleft her plate, half un-eaten, and went upstairs to cry.
Unaware of why she left, I continued eating, then went back to my room to sleep for four more hours. All this time, I had absolutely no idea that she was upset. The only thing that could have created friction between us in the past day or so was an incident on Saturday night, in which I had an episode, passed out in the living room, and came to while she was yelling at me for sleeping with my face in a book. Confused and shakey, I started crying, she yelled at me for sleeping on my face and crushing my glasses, my father came in, knew that I had been unconcious and not sleeping, and told my mother to calm down. He asked me if I was stressed, because he thinks I have episodes on purpose to be excused from my responsibilities. I said yes, because after awaking to my mother literally yelling in my face for sleeping, when I had absolutely done nothing wrong, I was kind of stressed. I told him this. He said, "I know, but your mother just was stressed so she started yelling. This whole business of yours has been very hard on her, you know." And so, choosing to ingnore his talk of "this business" of mine, and just how hard my medical woes, including chonic pain that triggers my heart condition, was on her, I nodded and wobbled upstairs to my room, to sleep.
Apparntly this was our falling out. I had no other incident or words to go on, when Sunday evening my father approached me and asked "Are you mad at your mother?". I answered no, out of honesty, though I cannot say my voice was not tense with resraint. I had had it with his attempts at a heart-to-heart, and was trying not to let my anger towards him blow up into something unmanagable. "Well, then," he said. "Are you being mean to her for a reason?"
"What?"
"ARe you purposefully being mean to her on Mother's Day for a reason?"
"What did I do?!?"
"All right."
"What???"
And he got up and left the room.
My mother has not spoken to me since. She only gives pained looks, and turns away at the sight of me, then goes to read her eight or so "Thinking of you" and "I'm here for you in these hard times" greeting cards from friends. (NOTE: I have two get-well cards. I don't want more, but, why does she have eight?)
So that's it, kind of. My mother is mad at me, I'm mad at my father, and I can't leave the house for another week. Oh, and did I mention she's having her friend babysit me? Anyhow, life kind of sucks here, with the exception of feta, but I'm dealing with it.
*Um, I was going to go into it, but it's too long. Another post, guys, another post...
Friday, May 12, 2006
Her Glorious Return
Home again, and the cat meows and my dad never stops conference-calling the plant at Lake Charles on speakerphone and we get kicked out by prospective buyers and a slightly pushy realtor and I have piles of missed schoolwork to do...it's good to be back.
I was released yesterday with four new prescriptions that I'll never remember to take, three scheduled follow-ups, an order to be home-bound for up to another week, and no dietary resrictions. NO DIETARY RESTRICTIONS!! The first thing I did with my dizzy and drugged self when I got home was to break out the gorgonzola and order Chinese. Hell, I don't care if my heart momentarily spazzes and I sieze unconciously, it's better than my no dairy, no acid, no spices diet. I can eat cheese! And asian food! Mexican! Italian! INDIAN!!
I am happy. That's right, not angry, not cynical, well, still cynical, not depressed or anything else I normally am. I feel wonderful. It's truly awesome, as awesome as ten billion hot dogs, what a bit of salty, smelly, viened cheese can do.
I was released yesterday with four new prescriptions that I'll never remember to take, three scheduled follow-ups, an order to be home-bound for up to another week, and no dietary resrictions. NO DIETARY RESTRICTIONS!! The first thing I did with my dizzy and drugged self when I got home was to break out the gorgonzola and order Chinese. Hell, I don't care if my heart momentarily spazzes and I sieze unconciously, it's better than my no dairy, no acid, no spices diet. I can eat cheese! And asian food! Mexican! Italian! INDIAN!!
I am happy. That's right, not angry, not cynical, well, still cynical, not depressed or anything else I normally am. I feel wonderful. It's truly awesome, as awesome as ten billion hot dogs, what a bit of salty, smelly, viened cheese can do.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
F-A-D spells stupid.
Okay, guys, here's a question. What is up with pop culture and spelling bees? I mean, the musical, the movies, and now, get this, a Frosted Mini-Wheats commercial? I just don't get it. Were spelling bees ever really that exciting or cool? No! They weren't! The kids that win them think so for a few years, but even they have to admit that the prestige quickly fades. I mean, when it gets to a certain point in a battle of wits, throwing out "Well, I won the all-school spelling bee in fifth grade!" really doesn't further your argument. Why, then, has the world gone spelling-bee crazy?
I, of all people, understand the thrill of big words. Don't get me wrong there. I was the kid that got really excited for a box of 500 vocabulary flashcards and played games with them for fun. I mean, prefixes and suffixes are some pretty cool things. Even I, however, know that this is not really good material to make a movie about.
So why is this so popular? Why is Starbucks endorsing it? Is it the whole geek chic thing? The thinking that America is so stupid that intelligence is novel and cool? I couldn't tell you, honestly. I kind of thought geek chic was over. I could be wrong though, easily. I am in no way a pop culture expert, in fact I'm far from it. However, the spelling bee fad has intrigued me. Tell me what you think, kids...
I, of all people, understand the thrill of big words. Don't get me wrong there. I was the kid that got really excited for a box of 500 vocabulary flashcards and played games with them for fun. I mean, prefixes and suffixes are some pretty cool things. Even I, however, know that this is not really good material to make a movie about.
So why is this so popular? Why is Starbucks endorsing it? Is it the whole geek chic thing? The thinking that America is so stupid that intelligence is novel and cool? I couldn't tell you, honestly. I kind of thought geek chic was over. I could be wrong though, easily. I am in no way a pop culture expert, in fact I'm far from it. However, the spelling bee fad has intrigued me. Tell me what you think, kids...
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Quality time
"Zinzi, I hate this."
Zinzi trots over and stands in front of me. I look inside my house, barely able to make out my living room furniture for the glare. I am sitting on the steps to my back patio that come out of our dining room. The steps are green, and our patio is the faded, whitish color that asphalt gets when it hasn't been properly maintained. I look down at my dog, then again at the window, squinting. This time I can see my grandmother sitting inside, reading a book, and my grandfather stooping over a newspaper propped on the footstool. Zinzi sits down.
"What will you do, Zinzi, if you don't make any new friends in Maryland?"
She inches towards me to rest her chin on my lap.
"What if the other dogs there are all just a bunch of golden retrievers and labaradors? What there aren't any poodles, or Spainish water-dogs, or cumberland spaniels? What if they're mean to you?"
Zinzi snorts.
"Awww. Well, we will come bakc and you can visit your friends from the pooch parlor, Zinzi, don't you worry. Even if the doggies there aren't nice, we'll come back to see your puppy friends."
Zinzi sees a bird and chases it. I sit still, by myself now.
Zinzi can't come back for visits. They don't let poodles on airplanes. As much as I want to tell my dog that she will get to come back as much as she wants, and that she'll be happy, it might not be true. Zinzi will probably never see her puppy friends again, quite frankly. Zinzi, though, will get along just fine. You see, Zinzi likes other dogs. She does not think she is too good for some, or dislike the nature of others. She wants to be friends with everyone. She is very nice to other dogs, and does not cynically disapprove of their decisions or motivation. Zinzi will be very happy.
"Come on, puppy, inside we go."
She bounds back and grins at me, in that goofy way that only a friendly dog can, and trots ahead of me to the door.
"Go on, Zinzi."
I hold the door open and she walks in. I follow her, and sigh.
Zinzi trots over and stands in front of me. I look inside my house, barely able to make out my living room furniture for the glare. I am sitting on the steps to my back patio that come out of our dining room. The steps are green, and our patio is the faded, whitish color that asphalt gets when it hasn't been properly maintained. I look down at my dog, then again at the window, squinting. This time I can see my grandmother sitting inside, reading a book, and my grandfather stooping over a newspaper propped on the footstool. Zinzi sits down.
"What will you do, Zinzi, if you don't make any new friends in Maryland?"
She inches towards me to rest her chin on my lap.
"What if the other dogs there are all just a bunch of golden retrievers and labaradors? What there aren't any poodles, or Spainish water-dogs, or cumberland spaniels? What if they're mean to you?"
Zinzi snorts.
"Awww. Well, we will come bakc and you can visit your friends from the pooch parlor, Zinzi, don't you worry. Even if the doggies there aren't nice, we'll come back to see your puppy friends."
Zinzi sees a bird and chases it. I sit still, by myself now.
Zinzi can't come back for visits. They don't let poodles on airplanes. As much as I want to tell my dog that she will get to come back as much as she wants, and that she'll be happy, it might not be true. Zinzi will probably never see her puppy friends again, quite frankly. Zinzi, though, will get along just fine. You see, Zinzi likes other dogs. She does not think she is too good for some, or dislike the nature of others. She wants to be friends with everyone. She is very nice to other dogs, and does not cynically disapprove of their decisions or motivation. Zinzi will be very happy.
"Come on, puppy, inside we go."
She bounds back and grins at me, in that goofy way that only a friendly dog can, and trots ahead of me to the door.
"Go on, Zinzi."
I hold the door open and she walks in. I follow her, and sigh.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Today is one of those days where I don't really have anything to blog about. It also happens to be one of those days when I nothing better to do than blog.
I did spend the last twenty or so minutes myspacing out. Now, I don't have a myspace,nor do I particularly like them, but I've found the website a useful tool for research. I look up a town that I will probably be living in next year, such as Catonsville, and find high school/college age students that live in or are from the area. It is through this research that I have decided that I hate Ellicott City. I hate Catonsville less, but don't get me wrong, it still sucks. You see, Catonsville is the sort of small town that isn't small. It's got its historic small town feel, with a downtown area, (which I must say was better than Ellicott City's historic downtown, which had only hippie shops and yuppie shops) but was still a bit "quaint" for my liking. Given, I'll take Catonsville quaint-ness over Columbian sprawl, but I still find it irritating.
Anyway, Catonsville highschooloers: Are they cool? This is what I'm struggling with. I mean, they have myspaces, wich already lame-ifys them, but that aside, would I like them? I'm sure that if I saw some of my current friends' myspaces that I would like them less, but it is some indicator of personality and interst...The Catonsville kids altoghether seem to be an artsier, more offbeat crowd than Ellicott City, but I've got some problems with them. I'm going to make you a list describing the Catonsville youth, as per Myspace. Draw your own conclusions.
1. Every Catonsville myspace that I saw had Harry Potter listed under its "Favorite Books".
2. There are self-described "theatre kids"...
3. There was this, which displays a disturbing amount of town pride, but was actually kind of funny. It even made me like Catonsville for a minute there...
4. There were far fewer trying-to-look-sexy/beauty/airbrushed fifteen-year-old type profile pictures.
5. There were far fewer drunken/polo-wearing/asshole-looking/party-at-John's house-'cause-his-dad-has-a-full-bar-in-his-basement-and-we-can-totally-get-some-chicks-drunk-and-hook-up-with-them pictures.
6. There were less myspaces.
So overall, Catonsville is "Less Up Its Own Ass than Towson" (a suburb we looked at but was too far away and sucked)but still not great.
I did spend the last twenty or so minutes myspacing out. Now, I don't have a myspace,nor do I particularly like them, but I've found the website a useful tool for research. I look up a town that I will probably be living in next year, such as Catonsville, and find high school/college age students that live in or are from the area. It is through this research that I have decided that I hate Ellicott City. I hate Catonsville less, but don't get me wrong, it still sucks. You see, Catonsville is the sort of small town that isn't small. It's got its historic small town feel, with a downtown area, (which I must say was better than Ellicott City's historic downtown, which had only hippie shops and yuppie shops) but was still a bit "quaint" for my liking. Given, I'll take Catonsville quaint-ness over Columbian sprawl, but I still find it irritating.
Anyway, Catonsville highschooloers: Are they cool? This is what I'm struggling with. I mean, they have myspaces, wich already lame-ifys them, but that aside, would I like them? I'm sure that if I saw some of my current friends' myspaces that I would like them less, but it is some indicator of personality and interst...The Catonsville kids altoghether seem to be an artsier, more offbeat crowd than Ellicott City, but I've got some problems with them. I'm going to make you a list describing the Catonsville youth, as per Myspace. Draw your own conclusions.
1. Every Catonsville myspace that I saw had Harry Potter listed under its "Favorite Books".
2. There are self-described "theatre kids"...
3. There was this, which displays a disturbing amount of town pride, but was actually kind of funny. It even made me like Catonsville for a minute there...
4. There were far fewer trying-to-look-sexy/beauty/airbrushed fifteen-year-old type profile pictures.
5. There were far fewer drunken/polo-wearing/asshole-looking/party-at-John's house-'cause-his-dad-has-a-full-bar-in-his-basement-and-we-can-totally-get-some-chicks-drunk-and-hook-up-with-them pictures.
6. There were less myspaces.
So overall, Catonsville is "Less Up Its Own Ass than Towson" (a suburb we looked at but was too far away and sucked)but still not great.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
In Desperate Need of some Bulgarian Lovin'
Feta cheese. Is that all I've got? Is that really the only thing that makes me excited, satisfied, and validated? Is it possible for a salty, crumbly, smelly, hunk of dairy product to affect me more than any other pursuit of interest? I should certainly hope not...
...And yet, it does. I think, and I write this with utmost despair, that it is time for a bit of a change.
The problem I am now faced with is this: What to do with myself? I'm obviously not going to ignore my feelings for feta cheese, but I feel moving on is not only inevitable, but necessary. How can I, without betraying my feelings for feta, move on with my life and direct my passion towards a more fruitful, sensible, and accessable interest? Is it possible? Will I learn to live with out the constant cravings for some good Bulgarian lovin'(er, eating...they're very similar, you know), or will I distance myself from the cheese, but never really stop craving it, and thus starve?
These are truly times of uncertainty for me. As it is, I find the notion of anything replacing feta's high position in my ladder of appeal and desire slightly ridiculous. But then, all things can change. Maybe with time and a little direction, feta and I can, while maintaining a fairly close relationship, function apart.
I think it might get a bit lonely, really. I'll be lying awake at night, worrying, only I won't have a tasty companion to distract myself with. I'll have to resist my urges to slice off a hunk, close my eyes, and just devote myself entirely to the pleasure which feta brings. I'm going to become independant. I don't want to have to rely on something that I can't always have, or something that when thought about, triggers only salivation. No, I'm going to focus on something else. Something, perhaps, that actually matters. Maybe it will be Russian literature, or current events. I could become an activist or a devoted fan of something. I could be a writer, a painter, or a volunteer for a worthy cause! I could be passionate about something that has influence and bearing in this world! I could broaden my mind, help the less fortunate, stand up for what is right! For some people, these things are like feta. They think about them, dedicate time to them, and look forward to enjoying the benifits of these activites.
Maybe someday. Right now though, there's a little bit of feta in the fridge, and even if never again , it's got my name written all over it.
...And yet, it does. I think, and I write this with utmost despair, that it is time for a bit of a change.
The problem I am now faced with is this: What to do with myself? I'm obviously not going to ignore my feelings for feta cheese, but I feel moving on is not only inevitable, but necessary. How can I, without betraying my feelings for feta, move on with my life and direct my passion towards a more fruitful, sensible, and accessable interest? Is it possible? Will I learn to live with out the constant cravings for some good Bulgarian lovin'(er, eating...they're very similar, you know), or will I distance myself from the cheese, but never really stop craving it, and thus starve?
These are truly times of uncertainty for me. As it is, I find the notion of anything replacing feta's high position in my ladder of appeal and desire slightly ridiculous. But then, all things can change. Maybe with time and a little direction, feta and I can, while maintaining a fairly close relationship, function apart.
I think it might get a bit lonely, really. I'll be lying awake at night, worrying, only I won't have a tasty companion to distract myself with. I'll have to resist my urges to slice off a hunk, close my eyes, and just devote myself entirely to the pleasure which feta brings. I'm going to become independant. I don't want to have to rely on something that I can't always have, or something that when thought about, triggers only salivation. No, I'm going to focus on something else. Something, perhaps, that actually matters. Maybe it will be Russian literature, or current events. I could become an activist or a devoted fan of something. I could be a writer, a painter, or a volunteer for a worthy cause! I could be passionate about something that has influence and bearing in this world! I could broaden my mind, help the less fortunate, stand up for what is right! For some people, these things are like feta. They think about them, dedicate time to them, and look forward to enjoying the benifits of these activites.
Maybe someday. Right now though, there's a little bit of feta in the fridge, and even if never again , it's got my name written all over it.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
I also went to Perros Gyros
Yesterday, I found out just how boring my life is.
Kylie and I wanted to go somewhere yesterday. We weren't stuck at home for any reason, what with Kylie being able to drive/having a car, so we decided to go out. We sat, at our breakfast bar, her eating cookies and me sipping juice, trying to think of anywhere we could go. Not downtown, it was too expensive and too far. Not in Flossmoor, too expensive and too boring. This continued for at least half an hour. Finally, having exhausted all other options, we decided.
"Lincoln mall?" I asked, mostly to myself as we settled into car on the way out of the garage.
"Where else?" she said, her neck craned behind her so as not to run over the garbage cans she hadn't brought back to the house.
"Well," I said, hand extended under my chin to catch the crumbs from the Milanos I was eating, "At least it's got a bookstore."
After stopping at the bank, and taking the long way 'round, we arrived at the mall. We walked through its barren parking lot into Carson's, one of the few major retailers remaining in this ghost mall.
"Why are we here?" I asked, as we blazed through men's wear.
"No idea." Kylie answered mechanically, swserving suddenly to avoid crashing into a colonge display.
We emerged from the department store into the bustling atrium. All right, so it wasn't bustling, and the atrium is about the most pathetic mall you've ever seen. But still, it was light filled, and had it not been eleven-thirty on a Tuesday mornig, you might have heard excited shouts of children and witnessed frantic shoppers whizzing by....
We walked. Through the southwest wing, and nothing. Through the east wing, and nothing. Through the nothwest wing, and still nothing. It was time to go upstairs.
Finally, after covering the majority of the second level, we saw it.
"Look, Krissy, Bargain Books!"
"Finally!"
Our pace quickened, and soon, we were in the entry of the saddest, emptiest bookstores we had ever been inside. There were no shelves, only long, unorganized tables, labeled with signs that said "SELF-HELP", "HUMOR", "SPIRITUAL" and "NEW ARRIVALS: FICTION". This bookstore sucked. Until, that is, I saw the sign.
"Kylie!" I half-yelled, pointing at a children's easel with a poster propped against it.
"Art, photography, and literature, 50% off!" I read. "Where's the art, photography, and litereature sections?"
After some quick searching, we found it. A whole corner, right behind the stacks of "One Hundred Easy Wiccan Spells" and "The Christian Soldier" (both on the "SPIRITUAL" table), was devoted to art and literature. Some Doestevesky for $1.50, Best American Non-Required Reading for $2.00, and so on. All half off! We spent, easily, twenty or so minutes, thumbing through art books, and sorting through stacks of literature. Finally, hands full, we staggered to the checkout.
So there. Be sides the library booksale, that was my excitement for the week. And so, I have concluded that my life is, indeed, just as we all suspected, boring.
Kylie and I wanted to go somewhere yesterday. We weren't stuck at home for any reason, what with Kylie being able to drive/having a car, so we decided to go out. We sat, at our breakfast bar, her eating cookies and me sipping juice, trying to think of anywhere we could go. Not downtown, it was too expensive and too far. Not in Flossmoor, too expensive and too boring. This continued for at least half an hour. Finally, having exhausted all other options, we decided.
"Lincoln mall?" I asked, mostly to myself as we settled into car on the way out of the garage.
"Where else?" she said, her neck craned behind her so as not to run over the garbage cans she hadn't brought back to the house.
"Well," I said, hand extended under my chin to catch the crumbs from the Milanos I was eating, "At least it's got a bookstore."
After stopping at the bank, and taking the long way 'round, we arrived at the mall. We walked through its barren parking lot into Carson's, one of the few major retailers remaining in this ghost mall.
"Why are we here?" I asked, as we blazed through men's wear.
"No idea." Kylie answered mechanically, swserving suddenly to avoid crashing into a colonge display.
We emerged from the department store into the bustling atrium. All right, so it wasn't bustling, and the atrium is about the most pathetic mall you've ever seen. But still, it was light filled, and had it not been eleven-thirty on a Tuesday mornig, you might have heard excited shouts of children and witnessed frantic shoppers whizzing by....
We walked. Through the southwest wing, and nothing. Through the east wing, and nothing. Through the nothwest wing, and still nothing. It was time to go upstairs.
Finally, after covering the majority of the second level, we saw it.
"Look, Krissy, Bargain Books!"
"Finally!"
Our pace quickened, and soon, we were in the entry of the saddest, emptiest bookstores we had ever been inside. There were no shelves, only long, unorganized tables, labeled with signs that said "SELF-HELP", "HUMOR", "SPIRITUAL" and "NEW ARRIVALS: FICTION". This bookstore sucked. Until, that is, I saw the sign.
"Kylie!" I half-yelled, pointing at a children's easel with a poster propped against it.
"Art, photography, and literature, 50% off!" I read. "Where's the art, photography, and litereature sections?"
After some quick searching, we found it. A whole corner, right behind the stacks of "One Hundred Easy Wiccan Spells" and "The Christian Soldier" (both on the "SPIRITUAL" table), was devoted to art and literature. Some Doestevesky for $1.50, Best American Non-Required Reading for $2.00, and so on. All half off! We spent, easily, twenty or so minutes, thumbing through art books, and sorting through stacks of literature. Finally, hands full, we staggered to the checkout.
So there. Be sides the library booksale, that was my excitement for the week. And so, I have concluded that my life is, indeed, just as we all suspected, boring.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
This is what I do before I go to bed every night.
I'm sitting here, listening to lovely Brazillian music, and thinking about what I shall do this week befor leaving for Maryland.
I'm going to make a movie with Aly.
I'm going to listen to lots of music that I got from the library.
I'm going to read at least three of my new old books that I bought today.
I'm going to watch Masterpiece Theatre.
I'm going to finish the scarf I half-knitted over Christmas.
I'm going to stop throwing up so I can eat Mexican/Asian food, which I am totally craving.
I'm going to make a lot of lists.
I'm going to sleep.
I'm going to make a movie with Aly.
I'm going to listen to lots of music that I got from the library.
I'm going to read at least three of my new old books that I bought today.
I'm going to watch Masterpiece Theatre.
I'm going to finish the scarf I half-knitted over Christmas.
I'm going to stop throwing up so I can eat Mexican/Asian food, which I am totally craving.
I'm going to make a lot of lists.
I'm going to sleep.
Monday, March 20, 2006
"Do you think I could get those spinny rims for the Pacifica, too?"-my mother
This past week I've felt a lot like an Expressionist artist. Stressed, dealing with illness, and er, living with the gruesome images of war frozen in my memory...
Alright, so I'm not feeling that much like an expressionist paper. And yes, for those that are wondering, my AP Euro paper is about post-WWI German art.
This weekend, whilst my mother and Kylie were in Michigan, our 1993 Dodge Minivan broke down. So, naturally, they drove a 2006 Lincoln Navigator home. For those not familiar with that way my family works, I will explain. This week, my grandfather tired of his Lincoln Aviator and pickup truck. He decided to replace them with a Navigator and a Cadillac Escalade Pickup. These are both comepletely ridiculous vehicles for my grandparents, as there are only two of them and they use their vehicles for hauling construction supplies and landscaping materials between their various properties. Now, my grandmother's Cadillac car doesn't fit in their garage, so they've decided to keep it at their lake house (less that five miles from their house) rather than get rid of it. So basically, they bought a bunch of frivolous and inefficient vehicles that they don't really need and don;t suit their purposes very well. But I digress. My mother and Kylie arrived in Michigan, after which our ancient van promptly broke down. This caused our family, who actually has a need for three cars, to run into problems, the most pressing being the means of return to Illinois. Since we would need a new car anyway, and my grandparents didn't really need the Cadillac, my mother suggested we buy it off of them. This greatly upset my grandmother, who couldn't possibly part with her car that she replaces with a newer one every two years anyway. After much consideration, my grandfather decided to have us take the Navigator, because he "needed" his Escalade pickup this week. So now, sitting in our driveway, is a massive, shining, fancy-pants, thing. The worst part of all, though, is that my mother loves it. Ugh. If she buys one to replace the van, I am so running away from home. Like, totally.
So that's my story for today. It's of frivolity and suburbia at its best, is it not?
Alright, so I'm not feeling that much like an expressionist paper. And yes, for those that are wondering, my AP Euro paper is about post-WWI German art.
This weekend, whilst my mother and Kylie were in Michigan, our 1993 Dodge Minivan broke down. So, naturally, they drove a 2006 Lincoln Navigator home. For those not familiar with that way my family works, I will explain. This week, my grandfather tired of his Lincoln Aviator and pickup truck. He decided to replace them with a Navigator and a Cadillac Escalade Pickup. These are both comepletely ridiculous vehicles for my grandparents, as there are only two of them and they use their vehicles for hauling construction supplies and landscaping materials between their various properties. Now, my grandmother's Cadillac car doesn't fit in their garage, so they've decided to keep it at their lake house (less that five miles from their house) rather than get rid of it. So basically, they bought a bunch of frivolous and inefficient vehicles that they don't really need and don;t suit their purposes very well. But I digress. My mother and Kylie arrived in Michigan, after which our ancient van promptly broke down. This caused our family, who actually has a need for three cars, to run into problems, the most pressing being the means of return to Illinois. Since we would need a new car anyway, and my grandparents didn't really need the Cadillac, my mother suggested we buy it off of them. This greatly upset my grandmother, who couldn't possibly part with her car that she replaces with a newer one every two years anyway. After much consideration, my grandfather decided to have us take the Navigator, because he "needed" his Escalade pickup this week. So now, sitting in our driveway, is a massive, shining, fancy-pants, thing. The worst part of all, though, is that my mother loves it. Ugh. If she buys one to replace the van, I am so running away from home. Like, totally.
So that's my story for today. It's of frivolity and suburbia at its best, is it not?
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
All things must come to an end...
Well, it's my last day in the school library for gym class. The book fair has moved on, and the silver dome has disappeared just as mysteriously as it came. All that's left is a forgotton poster outside the library doors, advertising "Cool stuff" and "Hot picks". It's almost kind of sad, really. No, not the fact that the book fair is gone or that I never figured out what the dome was for, but the fact that without these ridiculous library-promotions, I have nothing to say. As silly as they were, they gave me an outlet for pent up sarcasm, something to scoff at. I need something to scoff at. I can't handle taking everything seriously and respecting it. I just don't have it in me.
Oh, book fair! For all of the cynicism I hurled in your direction, I really enjoyed the time we had together. You would stand, with your flashy merchandise and cardboard signs, drawing freshman lit. classes in with your promise of all things "cool", and I would sit, at the computer three feet away with legs crossed and eyes rolling, and watch. Book fair, I never really thought that I would miss you. In fact, at first I wished that you had never come. Now, though, that your mobile shelves and carts of useless trinkets have made their way to another south suburban library somewhere, I kind of miss your presence...
I suppose that's it. This marks the end of my library phase. Sure, I'll post again, but it just won't be the same. I will be at home, on my own time, and I won't get to feel like a badass for blogging instead of researching ice skating (as per my gym teacher's instructions). So with regards from the library, That is all.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Theatre kids are such attention whores...
Hmm. I suppose all thespians aren't that bad. I'm actually glad that I did G.I. (Group Interpretation) this year, finally. I was getting really sick of dreading my time spent with theatrical types. I enjoyed rehearsal today, even though we performed for the cast of Contest Play. I dislike performing for people I know. I feel stupid when I do. That being said, the performances for the school later this week should be really fun for me. Oh well, at least G.I. gets me out of class, right?
Ah, well enough theatre-talk. No one wants to hear about it anyway.What do you want to hear about, though? Do you prefer sarcasm-soaked encounters and events, or refelective-thought stuff? What is interesting to you? Should I even be asking that question?
No! No, I shouldn't! This is my blog! I am the author of it, it consists of my thoughts, whatever they may be. I don't have to listen to you, to give you what you want! I can write whatever I want, thanks. You can't influence me, or try to sway me with your comments! Ha! I laugh at comments! I don't need them. I don't need anyone's input or approval for anything! I am independant! Opinionated! I don't need you, you need me!
So, um, comment if want, guys...
...Please?
Really, I mean, you don't have to. As I expressed earlier, I in no way need your input or attention to fell satisfied with myself.
Seriously.
But if you wanted to comment or something, I can't exactly stop you...
Well, I could, but that would, er, be, um, hindering your right
to...er..express...your...individual...ity. Yes. Individuality. Which is totally what I'm all about.
Right, then. Comment if you wish.
Ah, well enough theatre-talk. No one wants to hear about it anyway.What do you want to hear about, though? Do you prefer sarcasm-soaked encounters and events, or refelective-thought stuff? What is interesting to you? Should I even be asking that question?
No! No, I shouldn't! This is my blog! I am the author of it, it consists of my thoughts, whatever they may be. I don't have to listen to you, to give you what you want! I can write whatever I want, thanks. You can't influence me, or try to sway me with your comments! Ha! I laugh at comments! I don't need them. I don't need anyone's input or approval for anything! I am independant! Opinionated! I don't need you, you need me!
So, um, comment if want, guys...
...Please?
Really, I mean, you don't have to. As I expressed earlier, I in no way need your input or attention to fell satisfied with myself.
Seriously.
But if you wanted to comment or something, I can't exactly stop you...
Well, I could, but that would, er, be, um, hindering your right
to...er..express...your...individual...ity. Yes. Individuality. Which is totally what I'm all about.
Right, then. Comment if you wish.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Wouldn't it be nice if I were inetresting?
Yet again, I'm coming to you live from HF's school library! Yes, the book fair is still going, and yes, they still (remarkably) have troll pens left for purchase. I suggest,though, that you seize this opportunity while it lasts, because there's another class coming in right now, and I'm getting the feeling that trool pens are going to be a pretty hot commodity. All sarcasm aside, people really do like the troll pens. Seriously. I mean, at first I thought the idea of people wanting one was just funny, but appartantly Schoolastic knows what they're doing. Just yesterday in my AP Euro class, I overheard a girl saying "Hey you know that book fair, they've got those troll pens... I totally want one. Will you lend me money so I can get one?...Pleeeease, they're so cool!" So yeah. People actually want this stuff.
In other library news, there is a large, inflated dome behind the reference section. The dome is maybe fifteen feet across and ten feet high. It is silvery-gray, and does not seem to be serving any purpose. There is no indication nearby of what the dome may be there for, and no students or staff members have approached it since I've been here. Perhaps it is a side attraction of the bookfair, or possibly a new, advanced, referance media that allows the student to step insidew the inflatable dome, and experiance a 360-degree holographic projection featuring up-to-the-minute information from credible researchers worldwide, as well and audio and video clips that would greatly enhance a student's research. Probably not, though. But really, I've no idea what the "dome" is.
In other library news, there is a large, inflated dome behind the reference section. The dome is maybe fifteen feet across and ten feet high. It is silvery-gray, and does not seem to be serving any purpose. There is no indication nearby of what the dome may be there for, and no students or staff members have approached it since I've been here. Perhaps it is a side attraction of the bookfair, or possibly a new, advanced, referance media that allows the student to step insidew the inflatable dome, and experiance a 360-degree holographic projection featuring up-to-the-minute information from credible researchers worldwide, as well and audio and video clips that would greatly enhance a student's research. Probably not, though. But really, I've no idea what the "dome" is.
Monday, February 27, 2006
We'll be here 'til Thursday
So right now I am sitting in HF high school's library. It is not very big, but not very small, not very useful, and not very exciting. It is pretty much a normal place. THere are (obviously) books, internet, and tables with wooden chairs. It is a fairly pleasant place to spend one's gym period when out on "medical" leave. However, today is not just a usual* day in HF's library. Today, there is a book fair! THe book fair, usually featured in elementary schools, holds many exciting and interesting items availiable for purchase. There are books at eigth grade reading levels, erasers shaped like smiley faces, and even a box full of assorted holographic bookmarks! THere are "Hot Picks!" and "Cool Stuff!" as indicated by colorful cardboard signs. All in all, it is quite the fair. I mean, this place is buzzing with action and excitement. THey even have troll pens. Troll pens!! How awesome is that?!? AW man, book fair, you are so cool! (And the best part is, students, my peers, my supposed equals, are buying this crap!) I find all of this rather remarkable.
*"a usual"...is that correct? Because you use "an" before a word that starts with a vowel, but "an usual" does not work. I think, that because of the "y" sound at the beginning of usual, it must be "a usual". If any of you have knowledge on this subject, do share it with me.
*"a usual"...is that correct? Because you use "an" before a word that starts with a vowel, but "an usual" does not work. I think, that because of the "y" sound at the beginning of usual, it must be "a usual". If any of you have knowledge on this subject, do share it with me.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Colonial, Ranch, or Split-level?
So...today I'm resesrching houses and schools in MD. Here's some of what I found:
My first thought upon the encounter of this website was "Why, it's just like HF! They, too, have a tradition of excellence!" Upon further examination, I discovered that I could join breakdancing club, latin dancing club, German, Italian, or French club, or, my personal favorite, Jewish awareness club. The club's purpose is "to share Jewish heritage and customs with Jewish and non-Jewish students". Gee, that sounds great.I'll bet they get to learn about the Holocaust, too.
Now here's a school I really like. See, I happen to be a person, so I matter! They sure know how gove the people what they want...
My actual favorite is Howard High, who doesn't have a slogan. Maybe that's why I like it. Or maybe, it's because it's the only high school that I"ve looked at to have an AP program. I think, though, it's because of this:
It's by far the coolest house that exists in Columbia, MD (and the surrounding area). It's in the middle of a woods, on tons of land, although if I really feel like chilling in suburbia, it's right outside the forest.
Plus, it is not an ugly vinyl-siding and brick split-level horror. And...check this out
Purple=black people
Yellow=asians
Teal=Hispanic
Blue=(you guessed it) white people
I know that the whites are still a huge majority, but I mean, there are still other ethnic groups represented, more than the other schools, too.
So I guess that's the best I'm going to get. Disappointing, but okay.
My first thought upon the encounter of this website was "Why, it's just like HF! They, too, have a tradition of excellence!" Upon further examination, I discovered that I could join breakdancing club, latin dancing club, German, Italian, or French club, or, my personal favorite, Jewish awareness club. The club's purpose is "to share Jewish heritage and customs with Jewish and non-Jewish students". Gee, that sounds great.I'll bet they get to learn about the Holocaust, too.
Now here's a school I really like. See, I happen to be a person, so I matter! They sure know how gove the people what they want...
My actual favorite is Howard High, who doesn't have a slogan. Maybe that's why I like it. Or maybe, it's because it's the only high school that I"ve looked at to have an AP program. I think, though, it's because of this:
It's by far the coolest house that exists in Columbia, MD (and the surrounding area). It's in the middle of a woods, on tons of land, although if I really feel like chilling in suburbia, it's right outside the forest.
Plus, it is not an ugly vinyl-siding and brick split-level horror. And...check this out
Purple=black people
Yellow=asians
Teal=Hispanic
Blue=(you guessed it) white people
I know that the whites are still a huge majority, but I mean, there are still other ethnic groups represented, more than the other schools, too.
So I guess that's the best I'm going to get. Disappointing, but okay.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Ugh.
So I can't remember having taken this picture. I kind of like it, though.
I'm sitting in my basement now, kind of cold because I'm only wearing a tee-shirt. My mother is talking to the television, watching American Idol. My dog is chewing on a tennis ball, matting down the lime fuzz with her foul-smelling saliva. It's kind of distgusting, actually. I mean, the fact that my mother is totally entertained by this is really disappointing. Not to mention irritating. I mean, I'm in the same room, I have ears, have some respect, jeez.
Well, I've got a lot to do. I need to finish cleaning my basement and my room, make muffins for breakfast tomorrow, take my dog for a walk, and finish my homework, so I'm going to leave.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Ummm...
Today I think I'll reflect on/ramble about... I don't know. Um, teen angst! Life sucks! I didn't have any intriguing thoughts, no particularly interesting incidents took place today, and no major changes in my life have occured. What else can I blog about? Suburbs sucking? High school sucking? Me sucking? I've got nothing else.
On that note, I'll go finish watching Scrubs and find something else to eat.
On that note, I'll go finish watching Scrubs and find something else to eat.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Another Something New...
Damn Yankees is over. Thank God.
Actually, the end of this show has given me about the most mixed feelings I've had in a while. Not just the whole "Oh my god, I can't believe it's over. I'm so relieved, but I'll miss it sooo much!" , but mixed feelings in general. About lots of stuff. About friends, and un-friends, and what I like, and who I like, and what I think, and mostly what I want. I don't know shit about what I want. Oh well. Things will return to their usual. Either that, or I'll adjust to a new usual, which will probably be the case. Right now, my usual is sitting in a windowless, fluorescent-lit room with about ten to forty other thespians at any given moment. Right now, usual is feeling overtired, sick, and generally unhappy with myself. I need a new usual really badly. I like change... most of the time. Anyway, um, have a picture. This one is me in the aforementioned green room, only the lighting looks way cooler in this picture (which, by the way, I obviously didn't take).
Now I need to go finish illustrating my comic book of the Brothers Karamazov for English class.
Much love to you all
Actually, the end of this show has given me about the most mixed feelings I've had in a while. Not just the whole "Oh my god, I can't believe it's over. I'm so relieved, but I'll miss it sooo much!" , but mixed feelings in general. About lots of stuff. About friends, and un-friends, and what I like, and who I like, and what I think, and mostly what I want. I don't know shit about what I want. Oh well. Things will return to their usual. Either that, or I'll adjust to a new usual, which will probably be the case. Right now, my usual is sitting in a windowless, fluorescent-lit room with about ten to forty other thespians at any given moment. Right now, usual is feeling overtired, sick, and generally unhappy with myself. I need a new usual really badly. I like change... most of the time. Anyway, um, have a picture. This one is me in the aforementioned green room, only the lighting looks way cooler in this picture (which, by the way, I obviously didn't take).
Now I need to go finish illustrating my comic book of the Brothers Karamazov for English class.
Much love to you all
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