So now that the temperature has risen well above that which any human being can endure, I am reminded of a moment in the past, when the air was cooler, and the sun had fled before the wind and snow.
My family, being the pastor's clan, had just come from the candle light service. I was still pulling wax from my skin, where it had pooled from the overly-waxy candle and its inadequate paper holder, causing great pain. I was shivering, as usual, since the van has barely enough energy left in its aged corpse to move forward, let alone to spread heat to its passengers.
I had chosen, or rather been told, that this was a good opportunity to wear a skirt. Muttering words that no PK should say before a church service, I selected the kilt my gran had sewn me from wool she'd bought in Scotland. Hundreds of pleats weighed me down, and the miserable shoes which matched pinched at my toes as I hobbled into the van, out of the van, into the church, out of the church, and back into the van. The last thing I expected was the noise that the van uttered, a miserable groan, a cry of automotive terror; the agony the van was then experienced seemed to be a precursor to its demise.
"What's going on?" I cried. "What was that?!"
Now, in order to understand what happened next, you need to know my father's history with automobiles.
Back in the day, with a friend of his, he had bought and restored a fancy old car, which he then thought made him The Man. However, after restoring the thing, he let it go, got in accidents, and eventually gave up on what could have been a promising hobby of fixing his broken cars. As a result, no car we as a family have owned has ever been fixed in any way by my father.
Instead, he comes up with "solutions" to percieved problems, which include turning up the radio when the engine is making a funny noise, shoving napkins into the gaping holes in the windshield-seal (my car), or calling out random car parts until the repairman says he might be right, and he walks away thinking himself a master diagnostician.
My father has also been known to take the blunt end of an axe to the doors of his car, in an effort to correct the damage done by a run-in with an unfortunate deer. The doors would no longer open more than a few inches, barely enough for a person to squeeze through, and his solution involved bashing in the door near its hinge so it could open with ease. He did, however, neglect to fix this problem on the passenger side, meaning that the poor passenger (me) would either have to shimmy through the tiny gap in the door (the usual solution), or crawl through from the driver's side (people other than me, who were slightly more important). This was the car I dubbed "Puff the Tragic Wagon," and during the years my father drove it, I created an entire theme song set to the tune of "Puff the Magic Dragon." When Dad finally decided to sell it, he made a giant sign proclaiming, "Still Runs Every Day!" in big, happy letters. The man who bought it from Dad took it right then, licence plates and all, and drove it across country until it finally died, at which point he proceeded to walk away. This was possibly the path of his flight from prosecution. In fact, I would bet on it. Dad ended up having to pay to have the vehicle towed from its position on the interstate and to a car graveyard, leading to the tiny sum he had earned from its sale being siphoned into its destruction fund.
So Dad, following these events, no longer answered his children's horrified screams. His solution to any problem was to pretend it did not exist. So when our tire had lost every bit of air at the side of a country road in a blizzard which had pushed snow plows into the ditch of state road 15, I had no idea what was going on.
Seeing as how no country road, even county-line road, had any form of lighting, Dad had to be creative. He took the tiny, AAA battery-sized flashlight from his keychain and held it between his teeth as he struggled to jack up the car and free the flat tire. We all took turns shivering with him in the cold, as a form of family support. However, soon he began to cry "aaaAAHHH!"and the furrow appeared in his brow, sure signs of a coming explosion, so we fled back into the car.
Then, randomly, a man pulled over. Not only did he want to drive us home, he was someone we knew. He took Mom, my brother, and I all to our house, where we turned up the heat and made hot chocolate for Dad, who had begun to put on the spare before we left. We expected him at any moment, and, even as the chocolate cooled, we began to wonder.
A half-hour later, he pounded in from outside.
A problem had occurred. The spare, apparently, had been almost flat too. The man who had picked us up had gone back to Dad, offered help, then had given him a can of emergency tire sealent for the leak in the not-totally flat spare. Dad had fitted the tube of the can into the tire, sprayed it to seal the leak, and had attempted to remove it, to no avail. After trying again and again to free the can, Dad had given up, and had driven home with the can still attatched to the tire, showering sparks behind the van as he drove.
Later the next day, Dad liberated what remained of the can by cutting off the tube and using pliers to free it from the tire.
Mom, finding all of this as humorous as I, took the flashlight and fashioned it into a Christmas ornament.
Now, every Christmas season, it is the first to adorn the tree. When we see it, we all dissolve into laughter, except Dad, who goes outside to check the air levels in every tire, including the spares.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Somebody Call the UN
My dad has just brought home paint again. It is a blue-gray color, usually the color of a cloudy day, the color that means we stay inside and read good books and drink cocoa. But I know better. The cans he brought were not a nice omen, because they were filled with house paint.
Now, Mom has been begging us to do something about the house for over two years. Dad is way too busy to handle managing the painting, unless he takes vacation time, since he is attatched via a Brethren umbilical cord to all members of our congregation, their friends, relatives, and distant aquaintences. She is miserable with the way the paint has curled up, whimpering, and given up the hope of clinging to our siding, falling away in long, snakelike chips, never to return. And the mold growing behind our bushes in the front of the house, which made its appearance a full two weeks after our last paint-job, has reduced her to tears more than once. I firmly believe that the mold was always there, but the green paint of my childhood had shielded us from noticing what cadet blue has drawn to our attention.
From the moment I saw the cans, anxiety has been growing deep inside me. Yesterday, when I nonchalantly picked up a paintbrush to put it away, I had a full-out flashback, which led me to drop the brush in horror, shaking bodily.
I am twelve. Dad is thrilled with Mom's decision to repaint the house, because he has realized that his children have reached the age where slave-labor is acceptable. Or at least they could be employed legally. He has determined that they will paint alongside him, so he can teach them a Work Ethic. They will then become Responsible Adults, proving that he has been a Good Father, after all.
However, he also knows that, being young, the two young and innocent members of the family might need valuable fatherly attention while learing to paint. This, he concludes, is far too much of a commitment on his behalf. He needs all his attention to put toward the house painting, not the supervision of two novices. He has conveniently forgotten that his children had painted INDOORS many times already, and is convinced that they have never held a paintbrush.
He also knows (or fears) that if he leaves them under the watchful eye of his wife, they will be allowed to wander away to other pursuits. This is unacceptable. No pain, no gain.
So Dad set off for the hardware store. Now the owners of the hardware store know my father by sight. The few times I have accompanied him on trips there, I have watched as they scurry to the back room, scattering keys and paint-stirrers in their wake. The novices are left to listen to my father's rambling, aimless questions, their eyes wide, shaking behind their counter. I pity them all. But this time, Dad knew exactly what he wanted.
Hey kids!" he cried when he returned, brandishing the nondescript brown paper bag. "I got you a suprise!"
I was looking forward to painting the house, quite naively. I closed my eyes, imagined white overalls, a little white hat, and an artistic sprinkle of multi-colored paint over the purity of my crisp new clothing. I would perhaps have a smear of paint on my cheek, which would be alluring on a tween like myself. My hair, in its loose ponytail would be shiny in the sunlight. Passing motorists would be transfixed by the adorable Laura, expertly painting her home, and would hire her to paint their homes, paying her in library cards and trips to Barnes and Nobles.
Dad pulled the bag open and brandished his gift.
It was a half-inch wide, barely two inches long, with a flimsy, four-inch wooden handle. And it was made of foam. He had brought home sponge-brushes,
Believing his children incapable of handling a real paintbrush, he had determined that the best solution was to bring them a fail-safe: something that would easily protect from errors of massive proportions, no drips, no loose fibers caught in the paint, no spiders drowned and fused with the siding, no mistakes.
Laura and Paul spent the next two weeks grasping the miniature brushes, meant by their designer for fine-detail work, never for painting the massive sides of a country home. Paint dripping down their forearms, they were unable to swat the mosquitos which fed off their blood.
By the time Mom discovered the sponge brushes were in use, I had lost so much blood that I could no longer stand without assistance, and I spent the next two weeks believing I had contracted malaria.So, standing at home yesterday, I dropped the paintbrush that I had discovered, which clattered to the ground at my feet. Ever since then I have been in the office, drinking Big Gulps of Dr. Pepper and eating Tums like candy. With any luck, the house will be finished before Dad notices I'm gone.
Now, Mom has been begging us to do something about the house for over two years. Dad is way too busy to handle managing the painting, unless he takes vacation time, since he is attatched via a Brethren umbilical cord to all members of our congregation, their friends, relatives, and distant aquaintences. She is miserable with the way the paint has curled up, whimpering, and given up the hope of clinging to our siding, falling away in long, snakelike chips, never to return. And the mold growing behind our bushes in the front of the house, which made its appearance a full two weeks after our last paint-job, has reduced her to tears more than once. I firmly believe that the mold was always there, but the green paint of my childhood had shielded us from noticing what cadet blue has drawn to our attention.
From the moment I saw the cans, anxiety has been growing deep inside me. Yesterday, when I nonchalantly picked up a paintbrush to put it away, I had a full-out flashback, which led me to drop the brush in horror, shaking bodily.
I am twelve. Dad is thrilled with Mom's decision to repaint the house, because he has realized that his children have reached the age where slave-labor is acceptable. Or at least they could be employed legally. He has determined that they will paint alongside him, so he can teach them a Work Ethic. They will then become Responsible Adults, proving that he has been a Good Father, after all.
However, he also knows that, being young, the two young and innocent members of the family might need valuable fatherly attention while learing to paint. This, he concludes, is far too much of a commitment on his behalf. He needs all his attention to put toward the house painting, not the supervision of two novices. He has conveniently forgotten that his children had painted INDOORS many times already, and is convinced that they have never held a paintbrush.
He also knows (or fears) that if he leaves them under the watchful eye of his wife, they will be allowed to wander away to other pursuits. This is unacceptable. No pain, no gain.
So Dad set off for the hardware store. Now the owners of the hardware store know my father by sight. The few times I have accompanied him on trips there, I have watched as they scurry to the back room, scattering keys and paint-stirrers in their wake. The novices are left to listen to my father's rambling, aimless questions, their eyes wide, shaking behind their counter. I pity them all. But this time, Dad knew exactly what he wanted.
Hey kids!" he cried when he returned, brandishing the nondescript brown paper bag. "I got you a suprise!"
I was looking forward to painting the house, quite naively. I closed my eyes, imagined white overalls, a little white hat, and an artistic sprinkle of multi-colored paint over the purity of my crisp new clothing. I would perhaps have a smear of paint on my cheek, which would be alluring on a tween like myself. My hair, in its loose ponytail would be shiny in the sunlight. Passing motorists would be transfixed by the adorable Laura, expertly painting her home, and would hire her to paint their homes, paying her in library cards and trips to Barnes and Nobles.
Dad pulled the bag open and brandished his gift.
It was a half-inch wide, barely two inches long, with a flimsy, four-inch wooden handle. And it was made of foam. He had brought home sponge-brushes,
Believing his children incapable of handling a real paintbrush, he had determined that the best solution was to bring them a fail-safe: something that would easily protect from errors of massive proportions, no drips, no loose fibers caught in the paint, no spiders drowned and fused with the siding, no mistakes.
Laura and Paul spent the next two weeks grasping the miniature brushes, meant by their designer for fine-detail work, never for painting the massive sides of a country home. Paint dripping down their forearms, they were unable to swat the mosquitos which fed off their blood.
By the time Mom discovered the sponge brushes were in use, I had lost so much blood that I could no longer stand without assistance, and I spent the next two weeks believing I had contracted malaria.So, standing at home yesterday, I dropped the paintbrush that I had discovered, which clattered to the ground at my feet. Ever since then I have been in the office, drinking Big Gulps of Dr. Pepper and eating Tums like candy. With any luck, the house will be finished before Dad notices I'm gone.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
At Three A.M.
Everything seems bleak.
This is the time of day when Pink Floyd sounds its best.
I debate philosophy and sip raspberry lemonade in the blue glow of my computer monitor, writing blogs I never post.
This is when I question "Never."
I have become a student of Never. I am submersed in this concept, in the Nevers of my life.
What is existence without Never? I believe the human race defines itself by what it is not, what each individual fails to accomplish, accept, or experience. We believe our Nevers save us, protect us, ensure us success or failure. Never doing wrong by default makes us right, by definition, and ensures that even if we cannot define "right," we are in the clear.
I have contemplated twenty of my Nevers. They are as follows and in no particular order. I will leave them to you to define:
-Never disobeyed my parents
-Never failed a class
-Never complained about being a PK
-Never liked Rap music
-Never doubted God
-Never been the Pretty Friend
-Never voted Republican
-Never held hands, kissed, dated, or had my heart broken by anyone
-Never forgave myself for not achieving perfection
-Never believed myself worthy of praise
-Never accepted human mortality
-Never liked High School; never missed it
-Never liked talking on the phone
-Never been happy with my appearance
-Never looked good in shorts
-Never took a trip somewhere new alone
-Never played sports for fun
-Never got drunk
-Never fought with my mom
-Never been socially brave
This is the time of day when Pink Floyd sounds its best.
I debate philosophy and sip raspberry lemonade in the blue glow of my computer monitor, writing blogs I never post.
This is when I question "Never."
I have become a student of Never. I am submersed in this concept, in the Nevers of my life.
What is existence without Never? I believe the human race defines itself by what it is not, what each individual fails to accomplish, accept, or experience. We believe our Nevers save us, protect us, ensure us success or failure. Never doing wrong by default makes us right, by definition, and ensures that even if we cannot define "right," we are in the clear.
I have contemplated twenty of my Nevers. They are as follows and in no particular order. I will leave them to you to define:
-Never disobeyed my parents
-Never failed a class
-Never complained about being a PK
-Never liked Rap music
-Never doubted God
-Never been the Pretty Friend
-Never voted Republican
-Never held hands, kissed, dated, or had my heart broken by anyone
-Never forgave myself for not achieving perfection
-Never believed myself worthy of praise
-Never accepted human mortality
-Never liked High School; never missed it
-Never liked talking on the phone
-Never been happy with my appearance
-Never looked good in shorts
-Never took a trip somewhere new alone
-Never played sports for fun
-Never got drunk
-Never fought with my mom
-Never been socially brave
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Carpal Tunnel Syndrome
Friday was marked by an important event...
I finished and turned in the last paper I will ever have to turn in, and delivered it to a professer teaching the last lit class I ever will have to take. That's it. My English major is done.
I've written a lot of papers through the years. Some of them were good, some of them were crap, but the one thing they all had in common was the fact that they had to be turned in typed. English majors type well. We have the kind of speed only achieved by future secretaries, or medical transcriptionists. I can type a five page paper in the time it takes to make myself Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. And if you consider that I typically write my paper while typing it, this is no mean feat.
The invention of the modern keyboard began in a way much more efficent than what we now know and tolerate. Originally, the positioning of the keys was much different. It was intended to be comfortable, easily used. But then people tried to use this arrangement with the typewriters in circulation. And things had to change. You see, if you had a decent typist using one of the typewriters with the efficient design, the keys would jam together. You either had to have a crappy typist, which no business wanted, or a crappy keyboard, which was the option agreed upon.
Years passed. The typewriter was improved, then discarded. Keys could be pressed at rapid speeds, with little to no force.
But one thing didn't change.
The keys stayed in the same place.
You see, it would be too hard to change it now. People would have to re-learn how to type. That would be unneccessary.
So now we're back to my day, when college students are basically given the same amount of paper to type as professional assistants, and a problem erupts. I feel it even now.
When the old keyboard was made, the idiots who okayed the design were aware of a little flick of the wrist which would need to be made, often, and which could lead to some problems...
They thought it was pretty good. Then their secretaries would slow down even more, because typing would hurt. You see, if a person didn't get above a high school or vocational school education, business people thought they deserved to suffer. They thought it would teach those slackers a lesson to get excruciating pain in their wrists and hands, to be plagued by limited mobility, calcification of the joints and tendinitis. That was cool. It wasn't their problem.
And with the computer revolution, the only thing that changed was: that problem became mine.
I don't know what the heck is the matter with me right now. I sure hope it isn't carpal tunnel.
But it really hurts. Bad. So you understand, when I don't post a blog a day. I have to type it. You guys just have to use a mouse. Which, by the way, I can't use with my right had at all anymore.
So know, I haven't forgotten you. I will finish my comical romance. I just have to find an OTC pain reliever which will do its job before I lose both appendages for good.
I finished and turned in the last paper I will ever have to turn in, and delivered it to a professer teaching the last lit class I ever will have to take. That's it. My English major is done.
I've written a lot of papers through the years. Some of them were good, some of them were crap, but the one thing they all had in common was the fact that they had to be turned in typed. English majors type well. We have the kind of speed only achieved by future secretaries, or medical transcriptionists. I can type a five page paper in the time it takes to make myself Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. And if you consider that I typically write my paper while typing it, this is no mean feat.
The invention of the modern keyboard began in a way much more efficent than what we now know and tolerate. Originally, the positioning of the keys was much different. It was intended to be comfortable, easily used. But then people tried to use this arrangement with the typewriters in circulation. And things had to change. You see, if you had a decent typist using one of the typewriters with the efficient design, the keys would jam together. You either had to have a crappy typist, which no business wanted, or a crappy keyboard, which was the option agreed upon.
Years passed. The typewriter was improved, then discarded. Keys could be pressed at rapid speeds, with little to no force.
But one thing didn't change.
The keys stayed in the same place.
You see, it would be too hard to change it now. People would have to re-learn how to type. That would be unneccessary.
So now we're back to my day, when college students are basically given the same amount of paper to type as professional assistants, and a problem erupts. I feel it even now.
When the old keyboard was made, the idiots who okayed the design were aware of a little flick of the wrist which would need to be made, often, and which could lead to some problems...
They thought it was pretty good. Then their secretaries would slow down even more, because typing would hurt. You see, if a person didn't get above a high school or vocational school education, business people thought they deserved to suffer. They thought it would teach those slackers a lesson to get excruciating pain in their wrists and hands, to be plagued by limited mobility, calcification of the joints and tendinitis. That was cool. It wasn't their problem.
And with the computer revolution, the only thing that changed was: that problem became mine.
I don't know what the heck is the matter with me right now. I sure hope it isn't carpal tunnel.
But it really hurts. Bad. So you understand, when I don't post a blog a day. I have to type it. You guys just have to use a mouse. Which, by the way, I can't use with my right had at all anymore.
So know, I haven't forgotten you. I will finish my comical romance. I just have to find an OTC pain reliever which will do its job before I lose both appendages for good.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
SuperMegaActionYouveNeverSeenAnythingLikeThisAndNeverWillAgain
Part Eight
Carie was dead.
She was pretty sure that this was the only proper explaination. But there was a lingering question, outside of her grasp of the known universe, the relationship of the soul to organic flesh and bone. How could she know truth at all? How could she reason out her own demise or prove to herself that she did in fact exist? It was all very much out of her grasp. She engaged in what could only be described as a short reprise of all modern philosophical considerations on the subject, quickly finding that none of them accurately described the current quandry.
It had been very hot outside. She had been very thirsty, for a very long time.
There was no telling what had happened.
But you are more fortunate than Carie.
You have a narrator who writes from the third person, and the third person omniscient at that! I know everything, and can tell you all. Isn't that lovely?
However pleasant that knowledge has just made you feel, I do have to warn you. Carie, alive or dead, is in terrible danger. If she does make it out of this dreadful place, she won't be very happy at all. And knowing how stressful human life can be for all of you, I have to tell you, you may be better off forgetting Carie altogether. You don't know her very well after all. If you passed her on the street, I'm certain you wouldn't recognize her at all. It would be like meeting your hairstylist at Target, you wouldn't know her from any other customer. And it all would be rather embarassing for the both of you.
I'll give you some time to think it over.
No?
You'd like to know?
Well, okay. But don't say I haven't warned you.
Carie was dead.
She was pretty sure that this was the only proper explaination. But there was a lingering question, outside of her grasp of the known universe, the relationship of the soul to organic flesh and bone. How could she know truth at all? How could she reason out her own demise or prove to herself that she did in fact exist? It was all very much out of her grasp. She engaged in what could only be described as a short reprise of all modern philosophical considerations on the subject, quickly finding that none of them accurately described the current quandry.
It had been very hot outside. She had been very thirsty, for a very long time.
There was no telling what had happened.
But you are more fortunate than Carie.
You have a narrator who writes from the third person, and the third person omniscient at that! I know everything, and can tell you all. Isn't that lovely?
However pleasant that knowledge has just made you feel, I do have to warn you. Carie, alive or dead, is in terrible danger. If she does make it out of this dreadful place, she won't be very happy at all. And knowing how stressful human life can be for all of you, I have to tell you, you may be better off forgetting Carie altogether. You don't know her very well after all. If you passed her on the street, I'm certain you wouldn't recognize her at all. It would be like meeting your hairstylist at Target, you wouldn't know her from any other customer. And it all would be rather embarassing for the both of you.
I'll give you some time to think it over.
No?
You'd like to know?
Well, okay. But don't say I haven't warned you.
SuperMegaActionYou'veNeverSeenAnythingLikeThisAndNeverWillAgain
Part Seven
The recovery had been almost painless; Toby's new kidney was functioning fine. He was thrilled and honored to find that another patient had just given him a kidney on the spur of the moment.
All his life he'd been restricted because of his health. Now he could climb Everest. He could tour Europe. He could sky-dive. Life was wonderful!
Except, he really didn't want to do any of those things. Toby knew he'd be much more comfortable sitting at home. He would really rather keep things as they were. He liked the bus, riding his bike to work would only make him sweaty, and he'd really rather not bump into people walking to the office. And he liked the mask the doctor had made him wear over his nose and mouth. It kept him from catching colds. Besides, Nepal was too far away. He'd have to ride in a plane, and everyone knew how sick you could get breathing all that recycled air. And how was he supposed to take his morning and evening showers at the top of a mountain?
He would just rent a documentary. Over the internet, so he wouldn't have to compete with other customers for a copy. Then he could cut up a few vegetables--organic, of course--and watch it in peace.
Toby grabbed his jacket. It was only around 70 degrees outside, he wouldn't want to catch a chill.
The real question was what to do first. His parents were dead. His wife had divorced him years earlier. She was dating her yoga instructor now. They had had no children. He had always found them to be unhygenic.
It would be great, he thought, to meet the woman who had done this for him. She deserved a personal thank you.
Toby turned and walked toward the bus stop. It would only be a three-minute ride from his house to the hospital.
***
Victoria was worried. She'd been home from the hospital for a few days, but the pressing sense of concern had never left her. She seemed to have forgotten something important.
Carie hadn't called yet. Typical. Her daughter had no sympathy for her nerves. There were no letters, no messages on the answering machine, no e-mails, no telegrams...
Carie had been in Alexandria for two weeks without a word. Carie's flight had landed, but the airport insisted she hadn't collected her luggage. How could her daughter be so inconsiderate?
The doorbell rang, Victoria answered it, hoping it was Carie.
"Hello my darling," Drake was somewhat disappointed. Drake was doting, but he seemed unconcerned and uninteresed about Carie.
"Come in," she stood aside as he swept through the door.
"Dinner?" he smiled.
"No, I don't think so Drake," Victoria hung her head. "I want to find Carie. Will you go with me to Alexandria? She needs to know how worried she's made me! I have to tell her how inconvenient it was for me to leave right now. I mean, look!" Victoria gestured to her spotless living room. "Can't you see how much I have to do?"
"You know I cannot leave the hospital, Darling," he cooed. "You'll have to take care of it on your own."
Victoria was disgusted. This was her love affair? How droll.
"She is an adult, isn't she? I should think she could take care of herself. And you can't think of risking illness so soon after your surgery, Victoria darling. I wouldn't want to have to operate again," he looked at her wistfully.
Victoria thought over the situation. There were terrorists out there. And tribal warfare. And scorpions. And she had heard of the Egyptian Asp. Who hadn't? She wouldn't want to end up like Cleopatra. She examined Dr. Ramore. It was a pity she was so dreadfully ill, in so much danger, he would have made such a handsome Mark Antony...
The recovery had been almost painless; Toby's new kidney was functioning fine. He was thrilled and honored to find that another patient had just given him a kidney on the spur of the moment.
All his life he'd been restricted because of his health. Now he could climb Everest. He could tour Europe. He could sky-dive. Life was wonderful!
Except, he really didn't want to do any of those things. Toby knew he'd be much more comfortable sitting at home. He would really rather keep things as they were. He liked the bus, riding his bike to work would only make him sweaty, and he'd really rather not bump into people walking to the office. And he liked the mask the doctor had made him wear over his nose and mouth. It kept him from catching colds. Besides, Nepal was too far away. He'd have to ride in a plane, and everyone knew how sick you could get breathing all that recycled air. And how was he supposed to take his morning and evening showers at the top of a mountain?
He would just rent a documentary. Over the internet, so he wouldn't have to compete with other customers for a copy. Then he could cut up a few vegetables--organic, of course--and watch it in peace.
Toby grabbed his jacket. It was only around 70 degrees outside, he wouldn't want to catch a chill.
The real question was what to do first. His parents were dead. His wife had divorced him years earlier. She was dating her yoga instructor now. They had had no children. He had always found them to be unhygenic.
It would be great, he thought, to meet the woman who had done this for him. She deserved a personal thank you.
Toby turned and walked toward the bus stop. It would only be a three-minute ride from his house to the hospital.
***
Victoria was worried. She'd been home from the hospital for a few days, but the pressing sense of concern had never left her. She seemed to have forgotten something important.
Carie hadn't called yet. Typical. Her daughter had no sympathy for her nerves. There were no letters, no messages on the answering machine, no e-mails, no telegrams...
Carie had been in Alexandria for two weeks without a word. Carie's flight had landed, but the airport insisted she hadn't collected her luggage. How could her daughter be so inconsiderate?
The doorbell rang, Victoria answered it, hoping it was Carie.
"Hello my darling," Drake was somewhat disappointed. Drake was doting, but he seemed unconcerned and uninteresed about Carie.
"Come in," she stood aside as he swept through the door.
"Dinner?" he smiled.
"No, I don't think so Drake," Victoria hung her head. "I want to find Carie. Will you go with me to Alexandria? She needs to know how worried she's made me! I have to tell her how inconvenient it was for me to leave right now. I mean, look!" Victoria gestured to her spotless living room. "Can't you see how much I have to do?"
"You know I cannot leave the hospital, Darling," he cooed. "You'll have to take care of it on your own."
Victoria was disgusted. This was her love affair? How droll.
"She is an adult, isn't she? I should think she could take care of herself. And you can't think of risking illness so soon after your surgery, Victoria darling. I wouldn't want to have to operate again," he looked at her wistfully.
Victoria thought over the situation. There were terrorists out there. And tribal warfare. And scorpions. And she had heard of the Egyptian Asp. Who hadn't? She wouldn't want to end up like Cleopatra. She examined Dr. Ramore. It was a pity she was so dreadfully ill, in so much danger, he would have made such a handsome Mark Antony...
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Fear and Self-loathing in North Manchester
Alas, I am an absolute idiot.
What can I do?
My character seems to be fixed.
I have just realized what an unbelievably insane thing I have done.
I volunteered to deliver a speech. And not just any speech! I am speaking at the HONOR'S CONVOCATION! Or, as I like to call it, the Festival of Horrors.
Let's chat about public speaking.
Every time I speak in front of my fellow human beings, I am overwhelmed with uncontrollable panic. The last time this occurred (while I was doing a photography presentation) I had an out-of-body experience. For those of you who don't know what this is, an out-of-body experience is when you float away from your body (hopefully not your soon-to-be corpse) and have the blissful realization that you are seperate from it. You feel horribly sorry for whoever it is standing there stammering on and on, but, as Vonnegut would say, so it goes. It took a full six or seven minutes of talking Monday before I returned to Being. I think that the philosophers who theorized about the human soul must have had panic attacks too.
I am a people-pleaser. Yes, I will bake you a cake. Yes I will ice it. Yes I will drive through three states and take a plane into the heart of Africa in order to deliver it. Yes I will track down your long lost third cousin twice removed who lives there, and whose name you do not know, in order to deliver this cake. Yes I will complete these tasks in time to edit your paper for [INSERT ANY CLASS YOU LIKE HERE] in time for you to turn it in on time. No, it isn't any trouble. I promise. No, I mean it. I really feel like I can do it! It will be TONS of fun! I can't wait!
So I have to develop an idea and present it at convo. For you non-MC people, convo is basically an all-school assembly. So everyone I know will be staring at me when I reveal what a hopeless case I am.
I am a trickster, you see. Somehow I have the ability to make everyone and anyone who meets me come away with the impression that I am educated, poised, maybe even talented. I have been awarded scholarships, fellowships based on this ability. Luckily, most of these people never see the true me. They never know that I am in fact a dissappointment. I must be a skilled liar to achieve this. But my lack of honesty is easier to believe than the possibility that I retain a shred of intellect, talent, skill.
When I humiliate myself, I will undoubtedly return to the cycle of panic attacks which plaged me in September and January-March. Know that I have warned you, and understand the development of obsessive-compulsive behavior, such as re-cleaning the Lounge, which will ensue. At least the horror will take place before finals, so that I will be able to channel the mania into studying for ETA and European History. If, however, the panic is too great, you may be seeing me on campus for academic reasons rather than just so I can add a teaching certificate to my English major. "So it goes."
What can I do?
My character seems to be fixed.
I have just realized what an unbelievably insane thing I have done.
I volunteered to deliver a speech. And not just any speech! I am speaking at the HONOR'S CONVOCATION! Or, as I like to call it, the Festival of Horrors.
Let's chat about public speaking.
Every time I speak in front of my fellow human beings, I am overwhelmed with uncontrollable panic. The last time this occurred (while I was doing a photography presentation) I had an out-of-body experience. For those of you who don't know what this is, an out-of-body experience is when you float away from your body (hopefully not your soon-to-be corpse) and have the blissful realization that you are seperate from it. You feel horribly sorry for whoever it is standing there stammering on and on, but, as Vonnegut would say, so it goes. It took a full six or seven minutes of talking Monday before I returned to Being. I think that the philosophers who theorized about the human soul must have had panic attacks too.
I am a people-pleaser. Yes, I will bake you a cake. Yes I will ice it. Yes I will drive through three states and take a plane into the heart of Africa in order to deliver it. Yes I will track down your long lost third cousin twice removed who lives there, and whose name you do not know, in order to deliver this cake. Yes I will complete these tasks in time to edit your paper for [INSERT ANY CLASS YOU LIKE HERE] in time for you to turn it in on time. No, it isn't any trouble. I promise. No, I mean it. I really feel like I can do it! It will be TONS of fun! I can't wait!
So I have to develop an idea and present it at convo. For you non-MC people, convo is basically an all-school assembly. So everyone I know will be staring at me when I reveal what a hopeless case I am.
I am a trickster, you see. Somehow I have the ability to make everyone and anyone who meets me come away with the impression that I am educated, poised, maybe even talented. I have been awarded scholarships, fellowships based on this ability. Luckily, most of these people never see the true me. They never know that I am in fact a dissappointment. I must be a skilled liar to achieve this. But my lack of honesty is easier to believe than the possibility that I retain a shred of intellect, talent, skill.
When I humiliate myself, I will undoubtedly return to the cycle of panic attacks which plaged me in September and January-March. Know that I have warned you, and understand the development of obsessive-compulsive behavior, such as re-cleaning the Lounge, which will ensue. At least the horror will take place before finals, so that I will be able to channel the mania into studying for ETA and European History. If, however, the panic is too great, you may be seeing me on campus for academic reasons rather than just so I can add a teaching certificate to my English major. "So it goes."
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