The other day, I dropped by the county library, got myself a library card for the first time since I was like 12. I think I mentioned this in some previous entry, but the last time I had a library card, I'm pretty sure I held out on paying a 50 cent fine I accumulated at the age of 12 until I moved away at the age of 17. So, this was a big moment for me. I still had a slight fear these librarians would know somehow. I know that I'm on a completely different side of the country and these librarians have never seen me before. But still! Isn't that a requirement for librarians...they must know all? They're old enough.
Plus, I've decided I don't trust small towns and their gossip. They have such crazy networks and magical powers, I'm starting to think that small town mayors everywhere collaborate, meet every year and relate all the goings-on in their respective towns. How Jane dared to marry a boy from the town 30 minutes down the road and how that would mess up the dynamics of next week's football game, how Jake is moving to Mayor Jones's town but that Mayor Jones should know that Jake has a drinking problem - he likes to have beer once a week, shame. I might be paranoid. But surely I am in a computer file somewhere as being a library fine dodger. Or, did that go away when I turned 18? If so, I've wasted a lot of my time worrying about 50 cents.
Anyway, after getting my library card from the little old lady, I wandered around the rows of fiction, trying to figure out their system. Not that it's different from any other system - that's just my excuse for walking around aimlessly and smelling books. Don't judge me.
So, I'm innocently standing there in the middle of the fiction section, looking at a sign, trying to remember my alphabet, when this dude in his late 30s comes up. (That's me being generously young. I've never been good with ages. I'd talk to an 18-year-old thinking he was 25.) Anyway, this guy pauses in front of me for a second blocking my view, and just kind of whisper mumbles, "You're pretty." At least, I think that's what he said, he was awfully quiet. Not inside voice library quiet, but like, send chills up your spine creepy quiet. I kind of looked at him for a second, half-way smiled - I didn't know what else to do! - and moved on down the aisle. I peeked at him through the gaps in the bookshelves, and I saw him glance over his shoulder a couple of times as he walked in the opposite direction. Perhaps, he was hoping I would follow him to a dark corner for some sort of library fantasy of his. I DON'T KNOW!
Okay, normally, I might be a little flattered, grateful that I'm not actually invisible. But this guy was like 40-something with a really really bad goatee. In my automatic bright side moment as a die-hard optimist, I thought, "Well, at least I somewhat interacted with a real human today." But then, I started to really think about it, and I decided that anyone who just walks up to some random stranger, in a library no less, and whispers, "You're pretty," has got issues. I don't care if he's 24, drop-dead-gorgeous and has a million dollar trust fund. It's just creepy.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
I've Been Glory-fied
Wow, I'm behind. I've been doing a lot of other writing in the last week...and pressure washing. I spent a total of like 10 hours pressure washing last week. I have no inclination of turning it into a business though. (Confused? Check out Dream Come True?) For one, I can't seem to go more than 5 minutes without getting tangled up in the cord, the water hose, or the hose of the pressure washer. This leads to curse words, water spewing everywhere, and a red-faced Natty. I'm not cut out for this crap.
The other day, I was attempting to wash my sheets in that bleary-eyed state of I-just-woke-up-and-I'm-not-quite-sure-of-the-world's-existence, and I accidentally dumped the fabric softener into the compartment for detergent. First of all, my parents have some fancy new-fangled machine that supposedly saves water and there are way too many compartments. Second, I'm not used to using fabric softener. When I was a poor college student, that was one of the first things I skimped on. Why have soft clothes when I could, you know, eat, or drink beer?
Well, shit. How did I know if this mistake wasn't going to fuck something up in the inner-workings of the fancy machine. So, I ran up the stairs into my mom's room and said, "Mom, mom, I made an oops," like I was five years old and she hadn't just spent a kajillion dollars on my college education. Turns out, it wasn't that big of a deal, but still...
When my parents and I lived in South Africa, we inherited a live-in housekeeper from the people who lived in the house before us. Her name was Glory, and her story is pretty fascinating...and depressing, but that's for another time. She was incredible. She mopped two or three times a week, washed all of our clothes almost daily, washed dishes, cleaned the bathrooms and kitchen all the time...basically, she spoiled us. We'd never had this luxury before. (Not to mention, we also had a gardener named Fanny who kept our yard BEAUTIFUL.) Every once in a while she'd majorly screw something up though. She'd wash dad's shirts with a pen in the pocket, she'd shrink my shirts, she'd leave the hot iron on a shirt long enough to leave a triangle burn mark, she'd bleach something she wasn't supposed to, etc. After any of these mess-ups, she'd run into the house yelling, "Ma'am, ma'am, I made mistake," in her broken English and Tsutu accent. To this day, I can still here it. I miss her voice, and the way "ma'am" always sounded vaguely close to "mom." Anyway, obviously, we never got angry about her mistakes; we just coined an adjective to describe the item...it was "Glory-fied."
When we came back to the US, my mom wished she could have brought Glory with us. She had become our friend, and she was also nice to have around for all that shit you didn't want to do. Now, instead of Glory, she has me. Hence why I'm pressure-washing, cleaning the house for company, washing dishes, cleaning the kitchen and bathrooms, doing laundry, and yes, screwing up a lot. Mom's even started calling me Glory. Not sure how that looks on my resume...but hey, it's something.
The other day, I was attempting to wash my sheets in that bleary-eyed state of I-just-woke-up-and-I'm-not-quite-sure-of-the-world's-existence, and I accidentally dumped the fabric softener into the compartment for detergent. First of all, my parents have some fancy new-fangled machine that supposedly saves water and there are way too many compartments. Second, I'm not used to using fabric softener. When I was a poor college student, that was one of the first things I skimped on. Why have soft clothes when I could, you know, eat, or drink beer?
Well, shit. How did I know if this mistake wasn't going to fuck something up in the inner-workings of the fancy machine. So, I ran up the stairs into my mom's room and said, "Mom, mom, I made an oops," like I was five years old and she hadn't just spent a kajillion dollars on my college education. Turns out, it wasn't that big of a deal, but still...
When my parents and I lived in South Africa, we inherited a live-in housekeeper from the people who lived in the house before us. Her name was Glory, and her story is pretty fascinating...and depressing, but that's for another time. She was incredible. She mopped two or three times a week, washed all of our clothes almost daily, washed dishes, cleaned the bathrooms and kitchen all the time...basically, she spoiled us. We'd never had this luxury before. (Not to mention, we also had a gardener named Fanny who kept our yard BEAUTIFUL.) Every once in a while she'd majorly screw something up though. She'd wash dad's shirts with a pen in the pocket, she'd shrink my shirts, she'd leave the hot iron on a shirt long enough to leave a triangle burn mark, she'd bleach something she wasn't supposed to, etc. After any of these mess-ups, she'd run into the house yelling, "Ma'am, ma'am, I made mistake," in her broken English and Tsutu accent. To this day, I can still here it. I miss her voice, and the way "ma'am" always sounded vaguely close to "mom." Anyway, obviously, we never got angry about her mistakes; we just coined an adjective to describe the item...it was "Glory-fied."
When we came back to the US, my mom wished she could have brought Glory with us. She had become our friend, and she was also nice to have around for all that shit you didn't want to do. Now, instead of Glory, she has me. Hence why I'm pressure-washing, cleaning the house for company, washing dishes, cleaning the kitchen and bathrooms, doing laundry, and yes, screwing up a lot. Mom's even started calling me Glory. Not sure how that looks on my resume...but hey, it's something.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Dream Come True?
Well, it looks like the family dream is coming true. Let me rephrase that...it looks like my father's family dream is coming true. Growing up, Dad only expected a few things out of my sister and brother and I:
1. You must learn to fish.
2. Never ride your bike without shoes on. Flip flops don't count.
3. You're not taking a car to college your freshman year. So, forget it.
4. He'd front the cost of a pressure washer if you wanted to start a pressure washing business.
Rules two and three were pretty strictly adhered to, and they make some sense. To this day, I still don't ride a bike without shoes on. To Dad's utter disappointment, none of us turned into fishermen. Yes, we did learn how to fish, but that was his selfish rule - he just wanted a fishing partner. As for number four, my two older siblings and I were hounded with this business venture every single summer after we turned 15 or 16. Of course, because I'm the youngest with 9 years between my sister (who's the oldest) and me, I heard this spiel...well, a lot.
Obviously, he was trying to teach us something about business, but I'm not sure why he settled on the pressure washer. It was never a lemonade stand or a lawn mowing business. It was always, always, always a pressure washer. It kind of became this family joke. It was like that time when my brother asked if he could have a motorcycle and Dad replied with, "Why don't we just take you out in the backyard and shoot you? It'd save us some time and money." The Family Pressure Washing Business just became one of those "Dad Things" that we laughed about. It was something to put in amongst the few childhood memories the three of us actually share because of the age differences.
Last week, Mom came home with a pressure washer. Yeah, that's right, a pressure washer. Since apparently it rains in Oregon 9 months out of the year, the outside decks, porches, and stairs grows moss and slime like nobody's business, and she wants me to wash all these surfaces before winter. Dad's reaction? "Ah, my dream is coming true! One of my children now owns a pressure washer! Get to work, Nat."
My reaction was to text my brother and sister with, "Guess what...Mom and Dad bought a pressure washer..." They weren't as sympathetic as I had hoped. They laughed. Don't they get that it's not a joke anymore?
1. You must learn to fish.
2. Never ride your bike without shoes on. Flip flops don't count.
3. You're not taking a car to college your freshman year. So, forget it.
4. He'd front the cost of a pressure washer if you wanted to start a pressure washing business.
Rules two and three were pretty strictly adhered to, and they make some sense. To this day, I still don't ride a bike without shoes on. To Dad's utter disappointment, none of us turned into fishermen. Yes, we did learn how to fish, but that was his selfish rule - he just wanted a fishing partner. As for number four, my two older siblings and I were hounded with this business venture every single summer after we turned 15 or 16. Of course, because I'm the youngest with 9 years between my sister (who's the oldest) and me, I heard this spiel...well, a lot.
Obviously, he was trying to teach us something about business, but I'm not sure why he settled on the pressure washer. It was never a lemonade stand or a lawn mowing business. It was always, always, always a pressure washer. It kind of became this family joke. It was like that time when my brother asked if he could have a motorcycle and Dad replied with, "Why don't we just take you out in the backyard and shoot you? It'd save us some time and money." The Family Pressure Washing Business just became one of those "Dad Things" that we laughed about. It was something to put in amongst the few childhood memories the three of us actually share because of the age differences.
Last week, Mom came home with a pressure washer. Yeah, that's right, a pressure washer. Since apparently it rains in Oregon 9 months out of the year, the outside decks, porches, and stairs grows moss and slime like nobody's business, and she wants me to wash all these surfaces before winter. Dad's reaction? "Ah, my dream is coming true! One of my children now owns a pressure washer! Get to work, Nat."
My reaction was to text my brother and sister with, "Guess what...Mom and Dad bought a pressure washer..." They weren't as sympathetic as I had hoped. They laughed. Don't they get that it's not a joke anymore?
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
82 Words per Minute
A couple of days ago, I started this really depressing post because, well, I was kind of depressed.
"I'm a nomad. And yet, here I am, idle. My friends are moving on with their lives, and I just feel like I'm waiting for my adventure to start."
How un-entertaining could I possibly be?!
See, what really happened was that I was talking to my friend who just moved to Ecuador and was having a fabulous time, and I somehow forgot how much fun I'm having in Discombobulate, Oregon. Seriously, Heathcliff, Elizabeth Bennett, Edmond Dantes, Gregor Samsa, and I are having fantastic parties together every night. We drink strong cocktails on my back porch overlooking the river. We play some pool, maybe some Monopoly, or Heathcliff's favorite, "Name that Phantom at the Window!" Edmond is always playing dress-up while Elizabeth and I play duets on the piano, just for background noise, you know. Gregor really loves the piano, but he can't always express it. He only speaks Insect, you see. We're just becoming the best of friends, as long as Heathcliff and Edmond don't decide they need to commit some sort of revenge on each other for that poker game last week. And you know what else? They appreciate me for me, Bachelor's in English and all.
(I sincerely apologize to those of you who are not book nerds, like myself, for the previous paragraph. It was sarcasm. The aforementioned characters belong to Wuthering Heights, Pride & Prejudice, The Count of Monte Cristo, and Metamorphosis, respectively.)
What I didn't realize is that my adventure has but just begun! I've already made friends with a whole slew of literary characters, I've written five shitty pages of a novel, and I discovered that I can type 82 words per minute! What a feat! I took the test, and the lady said they don't find many people who can do such a thing as type 82 words per minute. I guessed she was ranking the accomplishment somewhere up there with my Bachelor's degree in English and graduating magna cum laude. But that's just a guess.
Point is, my life here is very exciting. Maybe a little different from the average adventure my friends seem to be finding themselves on. But this is my adventure, and I shall be proud of it. At the very least, I can put out blog posts at a higher word count per minute.
Oh, and I went kayaking. The end.
"I'm a nomad. And yet, here I am, idle. My friends are moving on with their lives, and I just feel like I'm waiting for my adventure to start."
How un-entertaining could I possibly be?!
See, what really happened was that I was talking to my friend who just moved to Ecuador and was having a fabulous time, and I somehow forgot how much fun I'm having in Discombobulate, Oregon. Seriously, Heathcliff, Elizabeth Bennett, Edmond Dantes, Gregor Samsa, and I are having fantastic parties together every night. We drink strong cocktails on my back porch overlooking the river. We play some pool, maybe some Monopoly, or Heathcliff's favorite, "Name that Phantom at the Window!" Edmond is always playing dress-up while Elizabeth and I play duets on the piano, just for background noise, you know. Gregor really loves the piano, but he can't always express it. He only speaks Insect, you see. We're just becoming the best of friends, as long as Heathcliff and Edmond don't decide they need to commit some sort of revenge on each other for that poker game last week. And you know what else? They appreciate me for me, Bachelor's in English and all.
(I sincerely apologize to those of you who are not book nerds, like myself, for the previous paragraph. It was sarcasm. The aforementioned characters belong to Wuthering Heights, Pride & Prejudice, The Count of Monte Cristo, and Metamorphosis, respectively.)
What I didn't realize is that my adventure has but just begun! I've already made friends with a whole slew of literary characters, I've written five shitty pages of a novel, and I discovered that I can type 82 words per minute! What a feat! I took the test, and the lady said they don't find many people who can do such a thing as type 82 words per minute. I guessed she was ranking the accomplishment somewhere up there with my Bachelor's degree in English and graduating magna cum laude. But that's just a guess.
Point is, my life here is very exciting. Maybe a little different from the average adventure my friends seem to be finding themselves on. But this is my adventure, and I shall be proud of it. At the very least, I can put out blog posts at a higher word count per minute.
Oh, and I went kayaking. The end.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Voodoo, or Something Like It
(Note: The other day's post was actually a preface to today's post. So, you might want to read both, but suit yourself.)
A few days after this certain argument with my dad, I went to a bookstore in the Discombobulate's mall to take advantage of the close-out sale. I was determined to come home with books that weren't classics. After perusing the already thoroughly picked-over shelves, I was pretty much convinced that only crap was left. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a book snob. It's a sure-fire way to get into an argument with someone...just hate on their favorite author. Anyway, I stumbled upon an author I discovered a few years ago but hadn't read anything of his since. It was 60% off; so, content that it wasn't stamped with the words, "Hey, I'm snobby and literary," I bought it.
I finished the book this morning, and I'm still left pondering a certain question: "What does his family think about his books?"
You see, all of his stories, or essays rather, are supposedly true. They're embellished a little, most likely. Perhaps some names are changed. But essentially, they're true stories, and a lot of them involve his family and friends. I mean, how could they not? But does he have full permission to write about his friends? Do they care what he says? Have they banished him from family reunions because of what he said about them in his last book?
Then, I start to imagine how my family would react to some of the things I write about them. For instance, my last entry talked about my father. Even though I was careful not to portray him negatively, would his feelings be hurt if he stumbled upon my blog somehow? (He barely knows the blog exists at this point.)
Whenever I meet people, and we discuss things like...what I want to be when I grow up, I always warn them. "Well, I want to write for a living, you know books and stuff. And well, you might end up in some story someday. Please, don't sue me?" I say it very meekly; I'm really rather shy when it comes to what I want to do with my life.
The problem is that most people react to this extremely sincere cautionary statement in one of two ways:
A. Nervous laughter that actually says, "What is this weird thing this stranger just told me? She can't write about me; she doesn't even know me."
OR
B. "Cool! I've never had a story written about me before!" (In my mom's case, "I would be honored if you ever wrote anything about me. You wouldn't be mean about your loving mother!")
They don't quite seem to grasp my dilemma here. First of all, I can write about you even if you're a stranger. It's called imagination, people, and you're probably not going to like it. Sure, I don't always mean for something to come off rude or cruel. But sometimes...well, it just sounds worse on paper. Then again, I've written purposefully horrible stories about certain people who have wronged me. I'm talking, I really rip these people apart. They become the victim in my make-believe revenge. And the worst part about it? They can't say anything in return. I'm like this voodoo kid and they're my dolls/puppets, or minions, if you will. Right now, none of it's published, but if I'm lucky enough someday...I just pray the real person - if they ever read my story - won't recognize those tortured blue eyes as their own.
I imagine the phone ringing and an angry voice on the other line. "Hey, Natalie, I have a bone to pick with you. This guy in your new book. The evil one with the pierced ear. It sounds just like me!"
Me: "What are you talking about?" (Nervous trembles in my voice. I don't get out much anymore) "That guy's definitely based on a kid a knew in elementary school."
Angry Dude: "My lawyer will be in touch with you." *Click*
My worst nightmare! What I'd really like to happen is this...
The phone rings. I answer, and it's a few moments before a soft voice replies. "Natalie, this guy, in your book. If he's me, I am so sorry."
Me: "Well, actually, he's based on somebody else, but I was going to deal with you in my next book. Would you like to postpone your apology until then?"
A few days after this certain argument with my dad, I went to a bookstore in the Discombobulate's mall to take advantage of the close-out sale. I was determined to come home with books that weren't classics. After perusing the already thoroughly picked-over shelves, I was pretty much convinced that only crap was left. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a book snob. It's a sure-fire way to get into an argument with someone...just hate on their favorite author. Anyway, I stumbled upon an author I discovered a few years ago but hadn't read anything of his since. It was 60% off; so, content that it wasn't stamped with the words, "Hey, I'm snobby and literary," I bought it.
I finished the book this morning, and I'm still left pondering a certain question: "What does his family think about his books?"
You see, all of his stories, or essays rather, are supposedly true. They're embellished a little, most likely. Perhaps some names are changed. But essentially, they're true stories, and a lot of them involve his family and friends. I mean, how could they not? But does he have full permission to write about his friends? Do they care what he says? Have they banished him from family reunions because of what he said about them in his last book?
Then, I start to imagine how my family would react to some of the things I write about them. For instance, my last entry talked about my father. Even though I was careful not to portray him negatively, would his feelings be hurt if he stumbled upon my blog somehow? (He barely knows the blog exists at this point.)
Whenever I meet people, and we discuss things like...what I want to be when I grow up, I always warn them. "Well, I want to write for a living, you know books and stuff. And well, you might end up in some story someday. Please, don't sue me?" I say it very meekly; I'm really rather shy when it comes to what I want to do with my life.
The problem is that most people react to this extremely sincere cautionary statement in one of two ways:
A. Nervous laughter that actually says, "What is this weird thing this stranger just told me? She can't write about me; she doesn't even know me."
OR
B. "Cool! I've never had a story written about me before!" (In my mom's case, "I would be honored if you ever wrote anything about me. You wouldn't be mean about your loving mother!")
They don't quite seem to grasp my dilemma here. First of all, I can write about you even if you're a stranger. It's called imagination, people, and you're probably not going to like it. Sure, I don't always mean for something to come off rude or cruel. But sometimes...well, it just sounds worse on paper. Then again, I've written purposefully horrible stories about certain people who have wronged me. I'm talking, I really rip these people apart. They become the victim in my make-believe revenge. And the worst part about it? They can't say anything in return. I'm like this voodoo kid and they're my dolls/puppets, or minions, if you will. Right now, none of it's published, but if I'm lucky enough someday...I just pray the real person - if they ever read my story - won't recognize those tortured blue eyes as their own.
I imagine the phone ringing and an angry voice on the other line. "Hey, Natalie, I have a bone to pick with you. This guy in your new book. The evil one with the pierced ear. It sounds just like me!"
Me: "What are you talking about?" (Nervous trembles in my voice. I don't get out much anymore) "That guy's definitely based on a kid a knew in elementary school."
Angry Dude: "My lawyer will be in touch with you." *Click*
My worst nightmare! What I'd really like to happen is this...
The phone rings. I answer, and it's a few moments before a soft voice replies. "Natalie, this guy, in your book. If he's me, I am so sorry."
Me: "Well, actually, he's based on somebody else, but I was going to deal with you in my next book. Would you like to postpone your apology until then?"
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