I haven't blogged since the Napa Valley conference listed all our blogs for each other and since the guys at work showed me how easy I am to cyberstalk. So tonight is the first time I ever viewed my traffic stats (Yep, yep, two readers. If you include that Bollywood guy who is hoping I'll reveal some new screenplay plot even though I had to heavily redact the last one.)
The traffic stats make me sad. Apparently, people Google "inventions" and get dumped into my inventions I want invented post. I have seriously let those (18) people down. And the other six are Googling shiny new australia and come up hands empty with me. I feel like I've reached into their hearts, ripped out seven and a half minutes worth of heartbeats, and yelled, "You'll never get this time back, loser!"
The solution is to take my blog off search, but nobody I know has bookmarked it. Come to think of it, no one I know can remember its name either, so search is useless here. Which leads me to the realization that without the geeks I have no one.
How can this not have occurred to me until now?
Thursday, September 23, 2010
validated
Forget that in the past month I've started classes, aced the GRE (um, well, verbal, not math), painted my living room, written an acclaimed (only by my T.A. but whatever) short story, gathered four job recommendations, and finished my application to Hedgebrook. Biggest all-time unemployment achievement: I'm now an approved commenter on Gawker.
Here is the story of my struggle.
At first I didn't know you had to audition to comment on Gawker, so I wrote kind of a stupid comment about oleanders being poisonous. Oh, how I cringe thinking about it. (It was meant to be funny but the story is too long and involved.) After that initial humiliation, I didn't comment for a very long time. And in fact, I've blocked out my second failed attempt so I can't even recount it here.
But my third. My third was a piece of genius. For an article about how a New Republic editor said that he wasn't sure Muslim-Americans deserved the privilege of free speech, I wrote, "How many Muslim-Americans can name all ten amendments in the Bill of Privileges?" That's like the best joke I'll ever make -- which should indicate to you that you need to begin smoking a lot of weed in my presence if you haven't started already.
Anyway, they despised my third attempt. They didn't even respond. (Hey, it occurs to me that now that I'm approved I could sneak back and post it just out of spite. Coolness.)
I wasn't going to make a fourth attempt. I planned to always remind myself that I could never transcend my bill of privileges moment so I should never waste time trying. But then they posted an article about school anxiety and, well, er, I've been pretty emotional what with all this statement of purpose crap I have to do for grad school apps, so before I knew it I was pouring out my heart to the overworked hipster editors at Gawker.
And they liked me! They really liked me! They didn't roll their eyes or anything (or maybe they did because sometimes they post stuff sardonically just to rile people up, but I'm so happy I don't even care). Three separate people replied nice things to me. It's not necessary to point out that probably hundreds were too polite to tell me they hated me and thousands more were too bored to register any emotion about me whatsoever. Three people were nice!
Which means: I now have a lifetime-until/unless-banned approval to comment on Gawker. It's like living in Brooklyn! It's like wearing baby bangs and red lipstick while going to parties in Brooklyn. Really, it's exactly like that, annoying and obnoxious in just the same way. Reality check: I'm nowhere near approved to write for Gawker. I'm only allowed to comment on Gawker, which really should be a right guaranteed to all Americans.
But whatever! Tonight I wanted to post about Mr. Snuffleupagus and I did, without anybody's permission. Tomorrow, if I feel like writing about my Obama sex fantasies, I will. Someday I might even go off topic, dare to dream.
The real lesson in all of this is that acceptance came only after I allowed my true self to be known. That or else they thought my true self might inspire enough snarky comments to be entertaining.
Or maybe the real lesson is that I need to spend more time looking for a job.
Here is the story of my struggle.
At first I didn't know you had to audition to comment on Gawker, so I wrote kind of a stupid comment about oleanders being poisonous. Oh, how I cringe thinking about it. (It was meant to be funny but the story is too long and involved.) After that initial humiliation, I didn't comment for a very long time. And in fact, I've blocked out my second failed attempt so I can't even recount it here.
But my third. My third was a piece of genius. For an article about how a New Republic editor said that he wasn't sure Muslim-Americans deserved the privilege of free speech, I wrote, "How many Muslim-Americans can name all ten amendments in the Bill of Privileges?" That's like the best joke I'll ever make -- which should indicate to you that you need to begin smoking a lot of weed in my presence if you haven't started already.
Anyway, they despised my third attempt. They didn't even respond. (Hey, it occurs to me that now that I'm approved I could sneak back and post it just out of spite. Coolness.)
I wasn't going to make a fourth attempt. I planned to always remind myself that I could never transcend my bill of privileges moment so I should never waste time trying. But then they posted an article about school anxiety and, well, er, I've been pretty emotional what with all this statement of purpose crap I have to do for grad school apps, so before I knew it I was pouring out my heart to the overworked hipster editors at Gawker.
And they liked me! They really liked me! They didn't roll their eyes or anything (or maybe they did because sometimes they post stuff sardonically just to rile people up, but I'm so happy I don't even care). Three separate people replied nice things to me. It's not necessary to point out that probably hundreds were too polite to tell me they hated me and thousands more were too bored to register any emotion about me whatsoever. Three people were nice!
Which means: I now have a lifetime-until/unless-banned approval to comment on Gawker. It's like living in Brooklyn! It's like wearing baby bangs and red lipstick while going to parties in Brooklyn. Really, it's exactly like that, annoying and obnoxious in just the same way. Reality check: I'm nowhere near approved to write for Gawker. I'm only allowed to comment on Gawker, which really should be a right guaranteed to all Americans.
But whatever! Tonight I wanted to post about Mr. Snuffleupagus and I did, without anybody's permission. Tomorrow, if I feel like writing about my Obama sex fantasies, I will. Someday I might even go off topic, dare to dream.
The real lesson in all of this is that acceptance came only after I allowed my true self to be known. That or else they thought my true self might inspire enough snarky comments to be entertaining.
Or maybe the real lesson is that I need to spend more time looking for a job.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
in
I was accepted to the Napa Valley Writer's Conference this summer, and I'm embarrassingly happy about it.
Possibly because it took almost five solid writing classes at SFSU for it to dawn on me that we aren't graded on our writing. This, even though one of my close friends teaches writing at Cal and regularly re-explains CW grading to me.
Basically, for reasons I was about to delineate before it occurred to me mid-sentence that I still don't understand, students are pretty much graded on their ability to come to class, occasionally say something if they aren't too shy, complete assignments on time, and loosely follow instructions. ( Following "instructions" never requires the proper use of punctuation, any basic understanding of grammar, or text formatted in a readable font size or color. Oh, and it's totally okay to use words you don't know without looking them up first.)
All that is pretty discouraging. Apparently, you can get straight A's in writing classes and still graduate, dangling modifiers and mixed metaphors and all. So being accepted to a workshop solely on the basis of a short story I wrote (and, you know, that whole fee payment thing) is way incredible -- it feels like an actual achievement, not just like managing to show up. I've never sent out any fiction before -- and while being allowed to workshop a story is a long, long way from being allowed to publish a story, it's a giant step for me.
When I told my mom, she said, "A book publisher tells a writer, "We love every word of your story." The writer is thrilled. Then the publisher says, "Could you just put them in a different order for us?"
Possibly because it took almost five solid writing classes at SFSU for it to dawn on me that we aren't graded on our writing. This, even though one of my close friends teaches writing at Cal and regularly re-explains CW grading to me.
Basically, for reasons I was about to delineate before it occurred to me mid-sentence that I still don't understand, students are pretty much graded on their ability to come to class, occasionally say something if they aren't too shy, complete assignments on time, and loosely follow instructions. ( Following "instructions" never requires the proper use of punctuation, any basic understanding of grammar, or text formatted in a readable font size or color. Oh, and it's totally okay to use words you don't know without looking them up first.)
All that is pretty discouraging. Apparently, you can get straight A's in writing classes and still graduate, dangling modifiers and mixed metaphors and all. So being accepted to a workshop solely on the basis of a short story I wrote (and, you know, that whole fee payment thing) is way incredible -- it feels like an actual achievement, not just like managing to show up. I've never sent out any fiction before -- and while being allowed to workshop a story is a long, long way from being allowed to publish a story, it's a giant step for me.
When I told my mom, she said, "A book publisher tells a writer, "We love every word of your story." The writer is thrilled. Then the publisher says, "Could you just put them in a different order for us?"
Monday, March 22, 2010
cyberstalking hyperhooping
I haven't posted since not one but two guys at my job bragged to me about how quickly and effortlessly they had cyberstalked me. One pretended it was a coincidence. He apparently happened to be reading a book that was a compilation of letters to Ask Cecil, when he came across my tirade about dual citizenship laws. Don't get me started on dual citizenship; I become eerily emotional.
But anyway, it's hard not to blog. There are so many crazy things happening in the world inviting comment. Like! One of my cyberstalking friends taught me to hula hoop last week! (I realize that I should've already known how, but my memory of hooping is that you can maybe balance 3 or 5 times, but after that it slinks to the ground. Unless you're married to the president, of course, and then you can casually hoop 23 times in a row while doing an interview about the presidential fitness council and wearing a matching spring sweater set.
So when Sam threatened to bring his hoop to work, I knew that I needed to at least try to be like Michelle Obama, even if I never regained my dignity after the attempt. Neither Sam nor I have parking permits this quarter, so our cars were tucked neatly away on a quiet side street away from the prying eyes of our coworkers (although I suspect he may have secretly taped the whole thing).
Sam brought a giant-sized heavy-duty hoop out of his trunk, that he claimed he made himself at a hoop-making party. (I never get invited to stuff like that.) It was made from some special plastic piping, soldering was involved, and I had to listen to a discourse on the friction coefficients of different types of duct type. There were no beads swirling around inside the hoop, which I considered a major design flaw.
Sam disagrees, but his credibility was lost sometime around when he started setting hoops on fire and then hooping with them until the flames died down. Anyway, his tricked-out hoop was a little intimidating. I worked really hard to keep it aloft and was, to my astonishment, actually doing it, despite that Sam seemed to be laughing about something -- maybe a friend had just texted him a joke? After I stopped he told me, "You can stand in one place. You don't have to walk around while you're hooping."
After that, we discussed the exact knee motion (ovals, mostly front to back) and I resumed operation loss of dignity. I was much better this time -- hey, hardly any motion is required! I suddenly saw how people could do this "indefinitely." And I saw how I could be one of those people, which really made up for the whole swirly bead disappointment.
I mean, imagine my new life. I'd move to Washington, D.C. I'd stand outside the White House. I'd have my whole sweater set picked out. And then all I'd need to do is start hooping. Before very long, Obama would come out, tell me (without naming names) how much better I hoop than anyone he knows, and then, because I'm so easy to cyberstalk, he'll mention that he read my letter in Savage Love (but hopefully not the one in Ask Cecil) and summarily divorce his wife and embark on a lifetime of optimal friction coefficients with me.
It's that simple, people! Knees in an oval motion!
But anyway, it's hard not to blog. There are so many crazy things happening in the world inviting comment. Like! One of my cyberstalking friends taught me to hula hoop last week! (I realize that I should've already known how, but my memory of hooping is that you can maybe balance 3 or 5 times, but after that it slinks to the ground. Unless you're married to the president, of course, and then you can casually hoop 23 times in a row while doing an interview about the presidential fitness council and wearing a matching spring sweater set.
So when Sam threatened to bring his hoop to work, I knew that I needed to at least try to be like Michelle Obama, even if I never regained my dignity after the attempt. Neither Sam nor I have parking permits this quarter, so our cars were tucked neatly away on a quiet side street away from the prying eyes of our coworkers (although I suspect he may have secretly taped the whole thing).
Sam brought a giant-sized heavy-duty hoop out of his trunk, that he claimed he made himself at a hoop-making party. (I never get invited to stuff like that.) It was made from some special plastic piping, soldering was involved, and I had to listen to a discourse on the friction coefficients of different types of duct type. There were no beads swirling around inside the hoop, which I considered a major design flaw.
Sam disagrees, but his credibility was lost sometime around when he started setting hoops on fire and then hooping with them until the flames died down. Anyway, his tricked-out hoop was a little intimidating. I worked really hard to keep it aloft and was, to my astonishment, actually doing it, despite that Sam seemed to be laughing about something -- maybe a friend had just texted him a joke? After I stopped he told me, "You can stand in one place. You don't have to walk around while you're hooping."
After that, we discussed the exact knee motion (ovals, mostly front to back) and I resumed operation loss of dignity. I was much better this time -- hey, hardly any motion is required! I suddenly saw how people could do this "indefinitely." And I saw how I could be one of those people, which really made up for the whole swirly bead disappointment.
I mean, imagine my new life. I'd move to Washington, D.C. I'd stand outside the White House. I'd have my whole sweater set picked out. And then all I'd need to do is start hooping. Before very long, Obama would come out, tell me (without naming names) how much better I hoop than anyone he knows, and then, because I'm so easy to cyberstalk, he'll mention that he read my letter in Savage Love (but hopefully not the one in Ask Cecil) and summarily divorce his wife and embark on a lifetime of optimal friction coefficients with me.
It's that simple, people! Knees in an oval motion!
Friday, February 19, 2010
japanese schoolgirl
Last night I popped over to the neighbor's apartment mostly to check out their decorating scheme. (I saw Colin's bachelor pad back in the day; now I had to see which direction Eleanor's design sensibilities had taken his new apartment.) They had a houseguest there from Japan and we ended up having what I now consider one of the greatest conversations of my life.
After spending quite some time listening to Pica's travel plans to visit the Peru, the New Orleans, and the Carmel, I had to put a stop to her definite article abuse. This led to an interesting discussion comparing Japanese and English grammar, in the midst of which I remembered that I don't speak Japanese. This is how much of a nerd I am: even though I don't know the language, I'm familiar with the grammar. In fact, I'm a highly-trained speaker of pseudo-Japanese (which basically means I know that I'm supposed to introduce the subject before the verb as in, "About that cookie. Are you going to eat it?) I even used to know the Japanese word for "about" although I've forgotten it now.
It turned out that Pica is in a band and that she's opened for Shonen Knife. (My favorite Japanese band by virtue of being the only Japanese band I know of.) Pica met Eleanor when Eleanor went to Japan to do a documentary on her band. The director of the film quit so it was never finished, but Eleanor still has a lot of raw footage on VHS that Pica has never seen. Which prompted Eleanor to ask,
"Do you have a VCR?"
I said, "Yeah, sure, you have a key to my place so just come over and watch it tomorrow while I'm at work."
She no sooner thanked me than Pica asked,
"Oh, and do you have a schoolgirl outfit?"
You know how, when something unexpected happens, you have several thousand thoughts simultaneously? Here are some of mine:
1. Of course. It's totally natural that a Japanese rock star would ask that.
2. What is it about videotape that makes people immediately associate it with schoolgirl outfits?
3. I should have a schoolgirl outfit! It's like a little black dress -- every woman should own one.
4. Wait. My roommate does own one.
5. How do I know that about my roommate?
6. Is Pica going to wear it or does she want me to wear it?
7. There's gotta be a reasonable explanation.
The best thing about people who barely speak English is that they say everything in this totally deadpan way. Pica had already made me cry tears of laughter by describing her Peruvian toothache, her nude modeling job ("No moving! I spent three years not moving!"), and the various incarnations of Shonen Knife. The schoolgirl outfit explanation promised to be good.
It was actually pretty simple, albeit strange. Pica didn't go to her high school graduation ceremony, so Eleanor and Colin are going to recreate the ceremony here. Pica thought it would be a good idea to get an authentic schoolgirl outfit for the occasion. I told her I could hook her up with a pleated skirt.
The thing is, when I got home Christina was still out somewhere so I had to leave her a note. And the note had to explain "for a joke, not for sex." When I woke up this morning there was a microscopic plaid skirt, complete with a shoebox of patent leather mary jane platforms, on the dining room table. I loved the gratuitous shoes more than anything.
But when I came home from work, the outfit was still there. I took it down to Pica's house to give to her. She looked puzzled and said, "That is a schoolgirl outfit here?" Then it hit me that Japanese schoolgirls wear navy we-were-conquered-in-WWII blue, not Catholic plaid. That's why she didn't take the outfit earlier -- she didn't recognize it as a school uniform. I reassured her that it was and she seemed okay with it even though it probably screwed up, like, only the biggest day of her life.
Walking home, I pieced together some more parts of the story. In Japanese Pica was probably thinking, "school uniform" but in English that got translated to "schoolgirl outfit" without her being aware of the shift in connotation. Which is why she could ask me for one without any hesitation. And since everyone in Japan wears school uniforms, she probably thought most people would have an old uniform lying around. Which is why she assumed I'd have one.
So in the end it all makes incredibly non-sexual sense. And I'm not even going to attempt to make grammatical sense of all my other simultaneous thoughts and feelings.
After spending quite some time listening to Pica's travel plans to visit the Peru, the New Orleans, and the Carmel, I had to put a stop to her definite article abuse. This led to an interesting discussion comparing Japanese and English grammar, in the midst of which I remembered that I don't speak Japanese. This is how much of a nerd I am: even though I don't know the language, I'm familiar with the grammar. In fact, I'm a highly-trained speaker of pseudo-Japanese (which basically means I know that I'm supposed to introduce the subject before the verb as in, "About that cookie. Are you going to eat it?) I even used to know the Japanese word for "about" although I've forgotten it now.
It turned out that Pica is in a band and that she's opened for Shonen Knife. (My favorite Japanese band by virtue of being the only Japanese band I know of.) Pica met Eleanor when Eleanor went to Japan to do a documentary on her band. The director of the film quit so it was never finished, but Eleanor still has a lot of raw footage on VHS that Pica has never seen. Which prompted Eleanor to ask,
"Do you have a VCR?"
I said, "Yeah, sure, you have a key to my place so just come over and watch it tomorrow while I'm at work."
She no sooner thanked me than Pica asked,
"Oh, and do you have a schoolgirl outfit?"
You know how, when something unexpected happens, you have several thousand thoughts simultaneously? Here are some of mine:
1. Of course. It's totally natural that a Japanese rock star would ask that.
2. What is it about videotape that makes people immediately associate it with schoolgirl outfits?
3. I should have a schoolgirl outfit! It's like a little black dress -- every woman should own one.
4. Wait. My roommate does own one.
5. How do I know that about my roommate?
6. Is Pica going to wear it or does she want me to wear it?
7. There's gotta be a reasonable explanation.
The best thing about people who barely speak English is that they say everything in this totally deadpan way. Pica had already made me cry tears of laughter by describing her Peruvian toothache, her nude modeling job ("No moving! I spent three years not moving!"), and the various incarnations of Shonen Knife. The schoolgirl outfit explanation promised to be good.
It was actually pretty simple, albeit strange. Pica didn't go to her high school graduation ceremony, so Eleanor and Colin are going to recreate the ceremony here. Pica thought it would be a good idea to get an authentic schoolgirl outfit for the occasion. I told her I could hook her up with a pleated skirt.
The thing is, when I got home Christina was still out somewhere so I had to leave her a note. And the note had to explain "for a joke, not for sex." When I woke up this morning there was a microscopic plaid skirt, complete with a shoebox of patent leather mary jane platforms, on the dining room table. I loved the gratuitous shoes more than anything.
But when I came home from work, the outfit was still there. I took it down to Pica's house to give to her. She looked puzzled and said, "That is a schoolgirl outfit here?" Then it hit me that Japanese schoolgirls wear navy we-were-conquered-in-WWII blue, not Catholic plaid. That's why she didn't take the outfit earlier -- she didn't recognize it as a school uniform. I reassured her that it was and she seemed okay with it even though it probably screwed up, like, only the biggest day of her life.
Walking home, I pieced together some more parts of the story. In Japanese Pica was probably thinking, "school uniform" but in English that got translated to "schoolgirl outfit" without her being aware of the shift in connotation. Which is why she could ask me for one without any hesitation. And since everyone in Japan wears school uniforms, she probably thought most people would have an old uniform lying around. Which is why she assumed I'd have one.
So in the end it all makes incredibly non-sexual sense. And I'm not even going to attempt to make grammatical sense of all my other simultaneous thoughts and feelings.
Monday, December 28, 2009
secret agent
There's a whole backstory about how one of Sequoia's littermates was adopted by a family who lived a few blocks from me and that's how I met Rachel and Alice, the teenage girls who keep me au courant on teen idols, media trends, and high school (mis)interpretations of literary classics. I met Rachel when she was 12, but fast foward: now she's applying to colleges.
And today her mom told me that she wrote about me in her application essays. And I know what you're thinking, but no! It was not part of some cautionary tale.
Her essay began, "Since I was a little kid, I wanted to grow up to be a secret agent. Everyone laughed at me, except for [insert my full name here, which I don't want to include even though it appears in the sidebar -- I have my reasons]."Then she went on to say how I sent her links to CIA and Secret Service websites that had information about internships and degree requirements. And that's how she decided to learn three foreign languages during high school (yes, she's amazing) and then apply to major in International Studies.
I don't know which makes me happiest: the fact that I encouraged someone to pursue her dream and now she really is pursuing it, or the fact that the dream I encouraged is so zany. I mean, I totally love that it felt completely normal to me to figure out how a 12-year old girl could become a secret agent. I was curious. It never occurred to me (until I heard her mom say the words "secret agent" aloud) that anyone would laugh at that choice of profession. But when I hear it told back to me, it's hilarious. It's exactly the kind of nutty thing that I (insert full name here) would encourage.
But whatever, it absolutely makes sense. It's a real job that people do and she is the perfect candidate (smart, athletic, ambitious) for work like that. If you don't count blowing your cover on your college application essays at age 17 (and providing counterspies with the full name of who to kidnap and torture and kill when the torture thing doesn't make her talk), she's going to be an outstanding "clandestine service core collector," a job title that only the CIA could dream up and one that rivals "secret agent" for its sheer entertainment value.
Of course, all this means that eventually I'll be responsible for whatever horrific spy fate that may befall her, but for now I feel pretty much like George Baily in It's a Wonderful Life.
And today her mom told me that she wrote about me in her application essays. And I know what you're thinking, but no! It was not part of some cautionary tale.
Her essay began, "Since I was a little kid, I wanted to grow up to be a secret agent. Everyone laughed at me, except for [insert my full name here, which I don't want to include even though it appears in the sidebar -- I have my reasons]."
I don't know which makes me happiest: the fact that I encouraged someone to pursue her dream and now she really is pursuing it, or the fact that the dream I encouraged is so zany. I mean, I totally love that it felt completely normal to me to figure out how a 12-year old girl could become a secret agent. I was curious. It never occurred to me (until I heard her mom say the words "secret agent" aloud) that anyone would laugh at that choice of profession. But when I hear it told back to me, it's hilarious. It's exactly the kind of nutty thing that I (insert full name here) would encourage.
But whatever, it absolutely makes sense. It's a real job that people do and she is the perfect candidate (smart, athletic, ambitious) for work like that. If you don't count blowing your cover on your college application essays at age 17 (and providing counterspies with the full name of who to kidnap and torture and kill when the torture thing doesn't make her talk), she's going to be an outstanding "clandestine service core collector," a job title that only the CIA could dream up and one that rivals "secret agent" for its sheer entertainment value.
Of course, all this means that eventually I'll be responsible for whatever horrific spy fate that may befall her, but for now I feel pretty much like George Baily in It's a Wonderful Life.
Friday, October 23, 2009
big kid cookie
I'm way younger than my four older siblings, so many of them got stuck babysitting me during their teenage years. The other side of that is that I spent a lot of time seeing what my future as a teenager might be like. Which might sound kinda cool, but in real life it just consisted of being frightened by all the complicated things they had to navigate and master and that I'd never be ready for.
My brother showed me algebra when I was seven. I was just learning whatever it is we learn at that age -- subtraction? But with numbers, people! Because math is done with numbers, not letters. I seriously thought he was playing a prank on me until he brought out his algebra book.
And then he asked my dad (who hadn't gone to high school) to help him with factoring. My dad was really good at "how stuff works" when the stuff was building furniture or fixing machines or just logically figuring something out. But of course he'd never been taught algebra. (This wasn't a traumatic thing, he just reminded my brother that his math ended before algebra began.) So the idea that my brother was doing math that didn't make sense to begin with was compounded -- first by the idea that he couldn't understand it on his own, and then further by the idea that there was no one who could help him. That's the kind of thing that I witnessed a lot as a kid.
My sister's high school Home Ec class had a day when they could bring a younger sibling to school. Actually, I'm just guessing that's why I was dragged to school one day -- I have no idea, really, how I got there or why I wasn't in my own school. All I know is that one day I was on an enormous giant-sized campus with 2,000 people walking by. The whole place was terrifying, but my sister promised me a cookie.
Okay, background: although huge cookies are pretty standard today, they didn't yet exist in the marketing world. Or any world. I'd never seen or heard of a cookie larger than two inches in diameter. Imagine, if you will, a hamburger magnified three times. Or a quart-sized glass of milk. Wouldn't that freak you out? Yes, yes it would.
So she gets me this cookie. And it's -- well, it's standard size now. But if you think of a cookie with radius of six inches, you'll have the idea. The cookie was the most apocalyptic thing I'd ever experienced. I think I started crying. I remember her consoling me that I didn't have to eat it all, and that yeah, it was strangely big. I also remember her Home Ec friends gathering around and sympathizing and remarking that they too had wondered about the cookies. Oh, wait, I just realized -- if she was in high school I was probably only about 4 or 5, so I hadn't even started school yet. God, that cookie was scary.
The big cookies were still there when I started high school. No explanation or anything. They still freaked me out. But a couple of years later, a few places started selling big cookies. In that context they were okay -- it was always some specialty cookie store (which actually, was also a new phenomenon), and the cookies were always presented as this really amazing novelty item. They didn't try to act like big cookies were normal. People were expected to point and stare and laugh and be amazed.
But back to childhood for a second. I was 6 when my sister started college. And of course, I got dragged to college as well, probably on some registration or buying books errand. On this trip, we walked past the handball courts. People were hitting tennis balls against those green backboards that are maybe 20 feet high. I misunderstood and thought they had to hit the balls over the wall. To another person. Whom you can't see. There is no way that it is possible to get that good in a sport.
My sister told me she was required to take P.E., or maybe that she wasn't required to take P.E. -- I was too busy breathing into a paper bag to properly grasp what she was saying. She did end up talking me down -- somehow she managed to communicate that the tennis ball going over the backboard was an accident, not a part of the official game. Still, these are the kinds of visions that haunted my childhood.
So when a friend of Lisa's met me for lunch last summer in order to give me tips about applying to grad school, and then told me how many books she'd be required to read her first year there (which is, I've subsequently learned, more than in any other grad school program anyone I know has ever heard of), all I could think was "big kid cookie." I started worrying that even if my dream of grad school came true, there was no way I could factor the x's, hit the tennis balls 20 feet high, or finish the big kid cookies.
Which is why I was relieved to see her here on a visit this past week, looking happy and well and acting like she isn't on ... oh, wait, I forgot to tell that story. In high school, my brother had a druggie friend that my mom didn't approve of. After graduation, my brother ran into his old friend, who had straightened himself up and was then in college and working part-time. Or full-time, or something that my mother found unbelievable. She said to my brother, in front of me, "He must be on speed." So yeah, I'm glad that grad school chick didn't appear to be on speed, despite how necessary my mom thinks it is to surviving any combination of work and college.
Grad school chick even told me that there are grocery stores where she lives and they sell produce. (Hey, if you've ever visited the midwest or NYC, you'll understand my concern in this regard.) And Lisa said that, instead of the 5 classes a semester that I had imagined, there are only 2 -- although I doubt that I heard that right, because I'm pretty sure you need 36 to 54 units to graduate. Whatever. If there's one thing my childhood should've taught me it's that the future is made up of giant baked goods and there's no need to worry.
My brother showed me algebra when I was seven. I was just learning whatever it is we learn at that age -- subtraction? But with numbers, people! Because math is done with numbers, not letters. I seriously thought he was playing a prank on me until he brought out his algebra book.
And then he asked my dad (who hadn't gone to high school) to help him with factoring. My dad was really good at "how stuff works" when the stuff was building furniture or fixing machines or just logically figuring something out. But of course he'd never been taught algebra. (This wasn't a traumatic thing, he just reminded my brother that his math ended before algebra began.) So the idea that my brother was doing math that didn't make sense to begin with was compounded -- first by the idea that he couldn't understand it on his own, and then further by the idea that there was no one who could help him. That's the kind of thing that I witnessed a lot as a kid.
My sister's high school Home Ec class had a day when they could bring a younger sibling to school. Actually, I'm just guessing that's why I was dragged to school one day -- I have no idea, really, how I got there or why I wasn't in my own school. All I know is that one day I was on an enormous giant-sized campus with 2,000 people walking by. The whole place was terrifying, but my sister promised me a cookie.
Okay, background: although huge cookies are pretty standard today, they didn't yet exist in the marketing world. Or any world. I'd never seen or heard of a cookie larger than two inches in diameter. Imagine, if you will, a hamburger magnified three times. Or a quart-sized glass of milk. Wouldn't that freak you out? Yes, yes it would.
So she gets me this cookie. And it's -- well, it's standard size now. But if you think of a cookie with radius of six inches, you'll have the idea. The cookie was the most apocalyptic thing I'd ever experienced. I think I started crying. I remember her consoling me that I didn't have to eat it all, and that yeah, it was strangely big. I also remember her Home Ec friends gathering around and sympathizing and remarking that they too had wondered about the cookies. Oh, wait, I just realized -- if she was in high school I was probably only about 4 or 5, so I hadn't even started school yet. God, that cookie was scary.
The big cookies were still there when I started high school. No explanation or anything. They still freaked me out. But a couple of years later, a few places started selling big cookies. In that context they were okay -- it was always some specialty cookie store (which actually, was also a new phenomenon), and the cookies were always presented as this really amazing novelty item. They didn't try to act like big cookies were normal. People were expected to point and stare and laugh and be amazed.
But back to childhood for a second. I was 6 when my sister started college. And of course, I got dragged to college as well, probably on some registration or buying books errand. On this trip, we walked past the handball courts. People were hitting tennis balls against those green backboards that are maybe 20 feet high. I misunderstood and thought they had to hit the balls over the wall. To another person. Whom you can't see. There is no way that it is possible to get that good in a sport.
My sister told me she was required to take P.E., or maybe that she wasn't required to take P.E. -- I was too busy breathing into a paper bag to properly grasp what she was saying. She did end up talking me down -- somehow she managed to communicate that the tennis ball going over the backboard was an accident, not a part of the official game. Still, these are the kinds of visions that haunted my childhood.
So when a friend of Lisa's met me for lunch last summer in order to give me tips about applying to grad school, and then told me how many books she'd be required to read her first year there (which is, I've subsequently learned, more than in any other grad school program anyone I know has ever heard of), all I could think was "big kid cookie." I started worrying that even if my dream of grad school came true, there was no way I could factor the x's, hit the tennis balls 20 feet high, or finish the big kid cookies.
Which is why I was relieved to see her here on a visit this past week, looking happy and well and acting like she isn't on ... oh, wait, I forgot to tell that story. In high school, my brother had a druggie friend that my mom didn't approve of. After graduation, my brother ran into his old friend, who had straightened himself up and was then in college and working part-time. Or full-time, or something that my mother found unbelievable. She said to my brother, in front of me, "He must be on speed." So yeah, I'm glad that grad school chick didn't appear to be on speed, despite how necessary my mom thinks it is to surviving any combination of work and college.
Grad school chick even told me that there are grocery stores where she lives and they sell produce. (Hey, if you've ever visited the midwest or NYC, you'll understand my concern in this regard.) And Lisa said that, instead of the 5 classes a semester that I had imagined, there are only 2 -- although I doubt that I heard that right, because I'm pretty sure you need 36 to 54 units to graduate. Whatever. If there's one thing my childhood should've taught me it's that the future is made up of giant baked goods and there's no need to worry.
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