When I send someone a link to this blog, I tell them I haven't written here in a while, because I only post something when I'm feeling "particularly eloquent." I think it's sad that I haven't felt "particularly eloquent" since July.
Particularly. Eloquent.
Much has changed in my life, and I suppose that has taken the front seat over something as silly as blogging. I've had to leave New York. This is a six-word version of: I withstood a bedbug infestation, was forced to leave my apartment, my job, the new friends I've made and any future opportunities to regain financial standing and resorted to couch surfing at my alma mater and struggling to find a job while I (for lack of a better term) mooch off of my friends and family.
Particularly. Eloquent.
I think the joy one gets out of blogging stems from happy events in their lives. Though I am surrounded with nothing but hardships and life-altering hurdles, I can't help but stay positive. I haven't had a happy event happen to me in a very long time, but I cling to the little things in life that give me at least SOME satisfaction. I am in the company of friends. I am currently residing on the campus I once called home for five years -- a significant chunk of time, if you really think about it. Also, I think it's fitting that I am on Westfield soil again. It inspires a learning atmosphere. And above all, at this moment in my life, that's exactly what I need to be doing -- learning. It's been said many a time that one never stops learning all throughout one's life. I never realized the philosophy and sheer poetry behind that, harsh as it's been for me to realize. I am learning.
Particularly. Eloquent.
I think it's fitting that Thanksgiving is right around the corner. This situation has really shed some light on the real value of things. I haven't been home in quite some time. It will be the first time I've seen my mother in months. I'll get to spend some quality time with my family. It's been too long, and family's where it's at anyway. I miss Eugene. I miss Tim. I miss New York. And I want to get back there. But right now, I think I need to be with family.
Particularly. Eloquent.
It gets difficult sometimes to maintain the rose-colored-glasses, glass-half-full kind of outlook on life when you feel trapped and unable to get anywhere but where you are. But I have always had the opportunity to rely on the support of my friends. There are times when the support is hard to hear. For example, incredulity at the fact that I still have not procured employment for myself. But on the other side of the coin, I haven't truly been doing all I can possibly do. I'm treading water, but the sharks are circling, which means I'm okay for now, and for a while. I feel strongly that I can pull together the strength, willpower and guts to swim towards shore.
Particularly eloquent. Happy events. I guess not. I'm reminded of a quote from a favorite book of mine.
"Dear Friend, I want you to know that I am both happy and sad. And still trying to figure out how that can be."
Monday, November 16, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
My Beef With Bagels
Normally, I wouldn't dream of titling a blog post so blasphemously. Because, really, when you think about it, bagels are the glue that holds the world together.
A bagel, as defined by the New Oxford American Dictionary on my computer, is a dense bread roll in the shape of a ring, made by boiling dough and then baking it. But to anyone besides Noah Webster, the boiling and baking is replaced with magic. Bagels are universally adaptable to most anything you can imagine to put on top of them. They come in a variety of, well... "flavors" so to speak, leaving the possibilities endless.
So why do I have a beef with them, you ask? Here's why.
When I'm eating one, right? Whether it be my signature Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwich (Bacon, Egg and Cheese on an Onion Bagel), a long-forgotten treat no longer available in stores (a BerryBerry Bagel with Strawberry Cream Cheese), a deli specialty luncheon (a Cajun Bagel with Tuna Salad), or just sliced, toasted and topped (either an Egg Bagel with Butter, a Plain Bagel with Cream Cheese, or a Garlic Bagel with Hummus), the damn thing just ends too soon.
Maybe it's just because I'm a fatass, but maybe it's just because the bagels of the world are just too darn small for connoisseurs such as myself. Either way, something should be done.
A bagel, as defined by the New Oxford American Dictionary on my computer, is a dense bread roll in the shape of a ring, made by boiling dough and then baking it. But to anyone besides Noah Webster, the boiling and baking is replaced with magic. Bagels are universally adaptable to most anything you can imagine to put on top of them. They come in a variety of, well... "flavors" so to speak, leaving the possibilities endless.
So why do I have a beef with them, you ask? Here's why.
When I'm eating one, right? Whether it be my signature Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwich (Bacon, Egg and Cheese on an Onion Bagel), a long-forgotten treat no longer available in stores (a BerryBerry Bagel with Strawberry Cream Cheese), a deli specialty luncheon (a Cajun Bagel with Tuna Salad), or just sliced, toasted and topped (either an Egg Bagel with Butter, a Plain Bagel with Cream Cheese, or a Garlic Bagel with Hummus), the damn thing just ends too soon.
Maybe it's just because I'm a fatass, but maybe it's just because the bagels of the world are just too darn small for connoisseurs such as myself. Either way, something should be done.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Fortuity and Coincidence and Synonyms, Oh My
You know how you have a day, or sometimes even a week, where everything just goes to shit? And while filled with moments that make you smile, you still sit in bed at night angry at something, sad about something, upset by something. no matter how many times people send you their love in every capacity they can muster: facebook posts, texts, hugs, email, a phone call... something still eats at you and there's no way to shake it.
Well, it was like that this week. But then, you know how something will happen every so often that makes you forget about life for a while, and embrace everything good? Well, it was like that today.
I received a phone call from a woman at work today. She said her name was Fran, and immediately, I pictured an ugly someone in their late 40s or early 50s. That image vanished, as I listened to her talk. She sounded no older than 35. And kind of pretty. I listened to her plight, and took it all in. She was the spokesperson for this small dance troupe downtown, that's what she was really passionate about. The fact that she skated right over the fact that she's currently producing Hair on Broadway as though it was nothing surprised me a little, but I listened even more intently after that fact was ever-so-covertly dropped. She explained that the troupe was scheduled for a performance at our theatre in September, but she desperately needed a second performance added. My boss has been out of the country for two weeks, and she's due back in a few days. Fran hadn't known this, so I handled it gracefully, and told her what I knew.
"She'll be back by Friday," I said cautiously, "I don't know if that means she'll be back in the country on Thursday, and back in the office on Friday..." My tone quivered with the air of a question. "That would be my guess. It definitely sounds like we can help you out, but Leslie is the one you'll want to speak to, and I can make sure this is one of the first things she deals with after she's home and settled."
Fran seemed more than pleased. She felt bad for leaving multiple messages on Leslie's phone, and she said, "Tell Leslie, she can just disregard all those messages I left her. I feel just awful."
"Don't worry about a thing," I said casually, "she's probably expecting hundreds of messages when she returns. It shouldn't be a problem."
Fran then asked me for my name. I told her and she proceeded to give me a gentle version of the proverbial "third degree." She wanted to know what I did at Dixon Place, how I got my position. I told her that I was the Administrative Assistant, and I took over the position from a girl I had gone to college with who had been the previous intern. Fran then asked where college was for me. After I told her, she wanted to know what I was hoping to pursue, as far as a career. Forgetting who I was speaking to, I looked around the office at the revolting people I work with who seemed bemused by the fact that anyone would be having such a conversation with me. I made a face at them as if to say, "I know you guys! Haha! This is hysterical! Who does she think she is? Haha!" Then I rolled my eyes at their absurdity, and turned my focus back to my call. I told her I was in the performing arts, and I would love to pursue a career in performance or directing.
"Well, that's fantastic," she said. "I wonder if you wouldn't mind forwarding your resume to me. I don't have anything right now, but things come across my desk all the time, and you're just so wonderful on the phone. It's really a breath of fresh air. Let me give you my email address."
I was beside myself. Three months I had spent in this office, getting nothing but grief. And here was this one phone call, ten days before I was faced with the bittersweet combination of freedom from tyranny and lack of income. I finished up the part of the project I was working on before she called, and I emailed her my resume with a tailored cover letter for a job that may or may not even exist. I thanked her for considering me for hire and asked if there was any further information about the company which I could read in my spare time, to research a little bit about what they stand for, what I'd be assisting with.
After that, the day flew by, and I haven't felt angry or sad since. Still frustrated at the ignoble poltroons under whom I diligently work - of course. But hey, I could be working for a Broadway producer. That wins.
Well, it was like that this week. But then, you know how something will happen every so often that makes you forget about life for a while, and embrace everything good? Well, it was like that today.
I received a phone call from a woman at work today. She said her name was Fran, and immediately, I pictured an ugly someone in their late 40s or early 50s. That image vanished, as I listened to her talk. She sounded no older than 35. And kind of pretty. I listened to her plight, and took it all in. She was the spokesperson for this small dance troupe downtown, that's what she was really passionate about. The fact that she skated right over the fact that she's currently producing Hair on Broadway as though it was nothing surprised me a little, but I listened even more intently after that fact was ever-so-covertly dropped. She explained that the troupe was scheduled for a performance at our theatre in September, but she desperately needed a second performance added. My boss has been out of the country for two weeks, and she's due back in a few days. Fran hadn't known this, so I handled it gracefully, and told her what I knew.
"She'll be back by Friday," I said cautiously, "I don't know if that means she'll be back in the country on Thursday, and back in the office on Friday..." My tone quivered with the air of a question. "That would be my guess. It definitely sounds like we can help you out, but Leslie is the one you'll want to speak to, and I can make sure this is one of the first things she deals with after she's home and settled."
Fran seemed more than pleased. She felt bad for leaving multiple messages on Leslie's phone, and she said, "Tell Leslie, she can just disregard all those messages I left her. I feel just awful."
"Don't worry about a thing," I said casually, "she's probably expecting hundreds of messages when she returns. It shouldn't be a problem."
Fran then asked me for my name. I told her and she proceeded to give me a gentle version of the proverbial "third degree." She wanted to know what I did at Dixon Place, how I got my position. I told her that I was the Administrative Assistant, and I took over the position from a girl I had gone to college with who had been the previous intern. Fran then asked where college was for me. After I told her, she wanted to know what I was hoping to pursue, as far as a career. Forgetting who I was speaking to, I looked around the office at the revolting people I work with who seemed bemused by the fact that anyone would be having such a conversation with me. I made a face at them as if to say, "I know you guys! Haha! This is hysterical! Who does she think she is? Haha!" Then I rolled my eyes at their absurdity, and turned my focus back to my call. I told her I was in the performing arts, and I would love to pursue a career in performance or directing.
"Well, that's fantastic," she said. "I wonder if you wouldn't mind forwarding your resume to me. I don't have anything right now, but things come across my desk all the time, and you're just so wonderful on the phone. It's really a breath of fresh air. Let me give you my email address."
I was beside myself. Three months I had spent in this office, getting nothing but grief. And here was this one phone call, ten days before I was faced with the bittersweet combination of freedom from tyranny and lack of income. I finished up the part of the project I was working on before she called, and I emailed her my resume with a tailored cover letter for a job that may or may not even exist. I thanked her for considering me for hire and asked if there was any further information about the company which I could read in my spare time, to research a little bit about what they stand for, what I'd be assisting with.
After that, the day flew by, and I haven't felt angry or sad since. Still frustrated at the ignoble poltroons under whom I diligently work - of course. But hey, I could be working for a Broadway producer. That wins.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Christmas in July... in my mouth
apologies to eugene. i had a bowl of your root-beer-float ice cream. not only was it delectable, it made me feel giddy inside. not since i was seven has an ice cream succeeded in doing its one assigned task. sure, there have been ice creams that come along and lead you on - tempt your palate into thinking they, too, are filled with all the wonderment and childhood fancy you once knew lived inside such a confection... but no. true, they may be sultry, sexy, pompous, or flashy... they may even a little bit boring and lackluster, but none have ever made you giggle after you take the first bite.
the cold spoon glides past the teeth and the crystals of the ice cream immediately begin to dance on your tongue. each crystal carries a feather that tickles your taste buds, or tells you a joke, or makes a funny face, wears a goofy hat, does a headstand, or maybe even shows you a magic trick or five.
this delightful dance goes on for a deceptively long period of time before it's interrupted by, what right then can seem like the most offensive sound in the world: the clink of your spoon hitting the bottom of the empty dish. appalled, you gaze into the bowl in wild wonder that someone, something, some force greater than yourself has somehow managed to put an end to such joy. ruefully, you get up and walk to the sink, a mix of residual buoyancy from the ice cream and cynicism and dejection from the fact that it's all over.
until next time, turkey hill.
the cold spoon glides past the teeth and the crystals of the ice cream immediately begin to dance on your tongue. each crystal carries a feather that tickles your taste buds, or tells you a joke, or makes a funny face, wears a goofy hat, does a headstand, or maybe even shows you a magic trick or five.
this delightful dance goes on for a deceptively long period of time before it's interrupted by, what right then can seem like the most offensive sound in the world: the clink of your spoon hitting the bottom of the empty dish. appalled, you gaze into the bowl in wild wonder that someone, something, some force greater than yourself has somehow managed to put an end to such joy. ruefully, you get up and walk to the sink, a mix of residual buoyancy from the ice cream and cynicism and dejection from the fact that it's all over.
until next time, turkey hill.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Fleeting happiness
i had a hankering for some tea last night, and i have this monstrous, 24-ounce mickey mouse mug. i bought it when i went to disney world a couple years ago. it's maroon and there is an illustration of mickey, clearly having just gotten out of bed in the morning. arrows point out his "morning ear droop," "cheesy robe," "twisted tail," and "goofy old slippers. he's holding a danish in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. his eyes are half closed and his sleep mask is flopping over his forehead. splay-legged, he looks to the implied camera as if to say, "mm? whazgoingon?"
unfortunately for this tea junkie, this mug is inside of a plastic tub in which i've been keeping a random assortment of things since i moved. and this tub is underneath some shoeboxes and other such clutterfuckery-slash-debris. i move all the things out of my way to get to this opaque plastic bin with a white lid. i stumble my way back over the mess i'd just made to get back to the bed, where i have a clean surface to begin my excursion through junkish memorabilia. i find gum that, still wrapped in its packaging, is still good. a few of my quality pens have made their way into a shoebox, so i retrieve them and placed them in a more appropriate area: my pen drawer. (don't ask.) then, there it sits, my mickey mug.
full to the brim is the unholy grail and spilling over with the little trinkets of little-to-no value whatsoever. pushpins, keyrings, paper
clips, safety pins, rubber bands, canadian quarters that have no reason to exist in this country. so i find another small box -- one which i have not been using for anything important. a circular box in which i received a christmas present a few years ago. at the moment it is holding my crappy wal-mart digital camera (that i can't very well use due to lack of usb connector cord.) and my nintendo ds charger. i gently scoot them to the side and dump the contents of my mickey mug into the circular box. i look at the now-empty mug and notice a particularly unsettling gritty veneer on the bottom... alas, i had forgotten to clean it completely when i packed.
hence distracted momentarily from my tea-making plans, i begin to plunge into the depths of my worthless treasure. and all of a sudden, my eyes fall upon it. a glint of silver... and a tiny metallic string... i thought i had forgotten it on the bureau in beverly. the only two known things i had left behind were the painting on the wall, and the crock pot in the bottom cabinet. i assumed i had left a third behind. but here it is, inches from my fingertips. one of my most prized possessions, once thought to be lost, had somehow managed to find its way into my life again at a most depressing time.
i keep it on me now, even when i sleep. the ring james gave me. on a silver chain. around my neck, the ring falls between my heart and my voice. it's comforting to know it's there. happiness comes when you least expect it, and i could not have been more grateful for its impeccable timing.
unfortunately for this tea junkie, this mug is inside of a plastic tub in which i've been keeping a random assortment of things since i moved. and this tub is underneath some shoeboxes and other such clutterfuckery-slash-debris. i move all the things out of my way to get to this opaque plastic bin with a white lid. i stumble my way back over the mess i'd just made to get back to the bed, where i have a clean surface to begin my excursion through junkish memorabilia. i find gum that, still wrapped in its packaging, is still good. a few of my quality pens have made their way into a shoebox, so i retrieve them and placed them in a more appropriate area: my pen drawer. (don't ask.) then, there it sits, my mickey mug.
full to the brim is the unholy grail and spilling over with the little trinkets of little-to-no value whatsoever. pushpins, keyrings, paper
clips, safety pins, rubber bands, canadian quarters that have no reason to exist in this country. so i find another small box -- one which i have not been using for anything important. a circular box in which i received a christmas present a few years ago. at the moment it is holding my crappy wal-mart digital camera (that i can't very well use due to lack of usb connector cord.) and my nintendo ds charger. i gently scoot them to the side and dump the contents of my mickey mug into the circular box. i look at the now-empty mug and notice a particularly unsettling gritty veneer on the bottom... alas, i had forgotten to clean it completely when i packed.
hence distracted momentarily from my tea-making plans, i begin to plunge into the depths of my worthless treasure. and all of a sudden, my eyes fall upon it. a glint of silver... and a tiny metallic string... i thought i had forgotten it on the bureau in beverly. the only two known things i had left behind were the painting on the wall, and the crock pot in the bottom cabinet. i assumed i had left a third behind. but here it is, inches from my fingertips. one of my most prized possessions, once thought to be lost, had somehow managed to find its way into my life again at a most depressing time.
i keep it on me now, even when i sleep. the ring james gave me. on a silver chain. around my neck, the ring falls between my heart and my voice. it's comforting to know it's there. happiness comes when you least expect it, and i could not have been more grateful for its impeccable timing.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Racism vs. indignance
here's ridiculous for you:
hire an first- or second-generation indian-american with a thick accent at your federal government's financial crisis phone operation headquarters (a.k.a. unemployment). then when a customer poses a question to clarify something, this employee repeatedly snaps and retorts back with a rude and derogatory tone. this employee (after hastily spewing out two phone numbers, hence reeling the customer into not just ONE, but TWO endless webs of automated messages and 45-minute waiting periods) does not extend courteous ritual goodbyes and formalities. he hangs up, audibly muttering something indecipherable.
here's my question. how did this man receive employment in THIS particular field? or, maybe he just had a bad day.
if so - dude needs a vaca.
hire an first- or second-generation indian-american with a thick accent at your federal government's financial crisis phone operation headquarters (a.k.a. unemployment). then when a customer poses a question to clarify something, this employee repeatedly snaps and retorts back with a rude and derogatory tone. this employee (after hastily spewing out two phone numbers, hence reeling the customer into not just ONE, but TWO endless webs of automated messages and 45-minute waiting periods) does not extend courteous ritual goodbyes and formalities. he hangs up, audibly muttering something indecipherable.
here's my question. how did this man receive employment in THIS particular field? or, maybe he just had a bad day.
if so - dude needs a vaca.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)