Here's the thing: life, work, and futbol practice can't be taken particularly seriously when accompanied by a "Foreigner" power ballad or a "Take That" uptempo number.
--> (chorus) Yes, yes baby! I'm working the cheesy pop.
Conclusion: I'm in little danger of being taken seriously.
--> (repeat chorus)
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
yet another instance where a professor did me the favor of crushing my hopes and dreams
Every word that cascades from Rudy's mind is genius, poignant, necessary, illuminated. His heavy Cuban accent makes 66.6667% of these gems unintelligible. This serves to add to the market value of the semitelligible third. Half of this passably understandable talk (or 16.6667% of the whole) occurs during smoking breaks.
Once, during an attempt to prove the seemingly hopeless point that a gal my size could gracefully exit through the same office window that her buck-ten midget-sized nemesis barely squeezed through, his accent was nearly entirely understandable for successive sentences, absent any nicotine inhalation. Standing in the bushes outside the then occupied-by-me window, unlit cigarette hanging loosely from his chops, Rudy decided to quiz us on the implications of paragraph 19 of random scholar's article in the 1969 Economic Geography, spring publication. Specifically in relation to Sam's brilliant analysis, on an entirely unrelated topic, made during class hours earlier. (Apparently, the relevance of an article he read 35 years previously occurred to him somewhere between pulling the cigarette out of his pocket protector and climbing through the bushes to better witness my failing evacuation.)
"Em, Rudy. Due to this particularly awkward position that I find myself currently occupying, (indeed the untrained eye might say that I am technically stuck in this window,) that particular paragraph of that otherwise memorable article has been driven from the functioning portion of my so-called brain. However, I think that... [begin to draw a preliminary outline of a particularly insightful, albeit straightforward logical interpretation on some topic that probably related to incentives.]"
Interruption.
"No, quite sorry. I don't have a light."
So, you can see how I got it into my head that Rudy looked to me as a bright light in the future of economic analysis and theory.
Imagine my horror, shock, and disappointment that after his two crushing exams nary a comment was made regarding the brilliance of my economic analysis and insight. Adding insult, my chicken-scrawled essays were red-penned with statements like: LOL; amusing; maybe you could write for comedy central; you seem bitter- are you married?; somewhat to very creative, though clearly better suited to an anthropology course.
If I ever get around to writing that suicide note, I'll be sure to thank you Rudy.
Once, during an attempt to prove the seemingly hopeless point that a gal my size could gracefully exit through the same office window that her buck-ten midget-sized nemesis barely squeezed through, his accent was nearly entirely understandable for successive sentences, absent any nicotine inhalation. Standing in the bushes outside the then occupied-by-me window, unlit cigarette hanging loosely from his chops, Rudy decided to quiz us on the implications of paragraph 19 of random scholar's article in the 1969 Economic Geography, spring publication. Specifically in relation to Sam's brilliant analysis, on an entirely unrelated topic, made during class hours earlier. (Apparently, the relevance of an article he read 35 years previously occurred to him somewhere between pulling the cigarette out of his pocket protector and climbing through the bushes to better witness my failing evacuation.)
"Em, Rudy. Due to this particularly awkward position that I find myself currently occupying, (indeed the untrained eye might say that I am technically stuck in this window,) that particular paragraph of that otherwise memorable article has been driven from the functioning portion of my so-called brain. However, I think that... [begin to draw a preliminary outline of a particularly insightful, albeit straightforward logical interpretation on some topic that probably related to incentives.]"
Interruption.
"No, quite sorry. I don't have a light."
So, you can see how I got it into my head that Rudy looked to me as a bright light in the future of economic analysis and theory.
Imagine my horror, shock, and disappointment that after his two crushing exams nary a comment was made regarding the brilliance of my economic analysis and insight. Adding insult, my chicken-scrawled essays were red-penned with statements like: LOL; amusing; maybe you could write for comedy central; you seem bitter- are you married?; somewhat to very creative, though clearly better suited to an anthropology course.
If I ever get around to writing that suicide note, I'll be sure to thank you Rudy.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
my lil' sister kicks ass
Admittedly, she hasn't quite finished her first round in this years nat'l champs of 156 awesome junior chica golferettes. And, admittedly she is facing the hardest (by ranking) hole on the course.
Whatever!
She's tied for 17th... and at one point about an hour ago she was tied for 8th. Which further supports my assertion that she kicks ass.
Like, mine!
Whatever!
She's tied for 17th... and at one point about an hour ago she was tied for 8th. Which further supports my assertion that she kicks ass.
Like, mine!
Friday, July 18, 2008
3 very good reasons to be thankful
- Randomly ran into a friend on a train platform during his walk of shame.
- Softball team winning without my having to get out of bed.
- Other folks undefeated records.
Monday, July 14, 2008
how things coming before are discussed after
"So you see I already had my breakdown.” I sip my black decaffeinated Fair Trade tea, weakened with milk. When in Scotland it is only seemly to do as the Scots even if it means partially ruining a perfectly good cup of tea. “It bloody well wouldn’t do to have another one. Greedy wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m not sure bloody well is the expression you were searching for.” Reaching across the small coffeehouse table he grasped my hand to his. “At any rate, it’s over. You got out.”
I smile. That hand grab was awfully well played. Rather impossible to count the number of times I’d been told “you got out!” As unoriginal as the sentiment was, hearing it roll off a Scottish tongue was a delightful addition.
“Geez gal! Your hands are freezing.” With the slight raise of the eyebrow he asks a silent permission. I smile and shyly look down as he “warms” my cold paws.
“As to that breakdown of yours,” with a squeeze a bit strong for warming purposes “it sounds like a sanity break. And you have my permission to be as greedy as you like… provided it involves me!” He throws me a smile initially teasing. It softens as he casually asks, “When?”
“A bit over a year ago.”
His gaze rests gently on my face as he begins to trace slow circles over my right palm with his index finger. This holding hands business across the table is a bit conspicuous for me. I don’t stop him; supporting the direction things are presently headed. Hopefully we can move away from the clown car of my past life. I had been different. Broken. That weakness is an embarrassment.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” He says in his low, rich, accented tone. “It’s a bit… heroic.”
“It wasn’t my doing. My friends rescued me.”
“Look at me.” He gently commands. “You are stronger than you let yourself believe.”
His hands tighten over mine as I shake my head in silent disagreement. My mind wanders back. Back to those sleepless nights in the rickety apartment on 3rd St, tears stubbornly absent. I would hold the pillow close and will the tears to flow. My involuntary stoicism left me feeling like a failure. That feeling of being empty. As if I had run out of all goodness, kindness, and love.
His continued chatter interjects itself into my consciousness. Shame on me, I hadn’t heard a word of that last bit. Scotsmen talk whether or not their audience pays mind so I hadn’t exactly been rude.
He looks at me waiting for a response. “I’m sorry. I was a wee bit distracted. Could you say that again? As in the last ten minutes.” My tone is serious, my eyes playful. He thinks I’m kidding. (Success!!!)
“Em’, I was saying that this place is shutting up. Would you like to go to the PGC?”
“The what?”
“PostGrad Club. You know I’m on the board.”
“I’m not a member.”
“Despite what you may have told me!?!”
I giggle slightly. “You won’t be forgetting that?”
“It’s rather etched into my mind. Associated as it is with how you looked in that lovely undergarment.” His deliberate gaze shifts down from my eyes for a long second.
“And you claimed to remember something other than my cleavage!” mock indignation fools no one.
He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close as we wait for the light to turn. “Oh, I remember everything,” he says. “Your voice, your face, your smile. Your smile when you said you were a member of the club.” He pauses, smelling my hair. “How you left without saying goodbye. And how your elfish friend flashed me your boobs. Repeatedly.”
“Do you remember the part nine days ago when she didn’t give me time to get my goodnight kiss?”
“You want to lay all of that at her door?” referring ever so gingerly to my propensity for mixed signals.
“No.” I admit with a smile. “I just want you to rectify the situation.”
We silently cross the intersection. As we step onto the far curb I snicker slightly.
“See, ‘rectify the situation’ is subtle for…”
He doesn’t let me finish. I should be expressing mock indignation at this flamboyant interruption with bonus back-dip. Instead I open my mouth, slightly. With a smile.
“What ye be grinning at?”
I arch my eyebrow in that irresistible way. “You really should rectify the situation again.”
“I’m not sure bloody well is the expression you were searching for.” Reaching across the small coffeehouse table he grasped my hand to his. “At any rate, it’s over. You got out.”
I smile. That hand grab was awfully well played. Rather impossible to count the number of times I’d been told “you got out!” As unoriginal as the sentiment was, hearing it roll off a Scottish tongue was a delightful addition.
“Geez gal! Your hands are freezing.” With the slight raise of the eyebrow he asks a silent permission. I smile and shyly look down as he “warms” my cold paws.
“As to that breakdown of yours,” with a squeeze a bit strong for warming purposes “it sounds like a sanity break. And you have my permission to be as greedy as you like… provided it involves me!” He throws me a smile initially teasing. It softens as he casually asks, “When?”
“A bit over a year ago.”
His gaze rests gently on my face as he begins to trace slow circles over my right palm with his index finger. This holding hands business across the table is a bit conspicuous for me. I don’t stop him; supporting the direction things are presently headed. Hopefully we can move away from the clown car of my past life. I had been different. Broken. That weakness is an embarrassment.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” He says in his low, rich, accented tone. “It’s a bit… heroic.”
“It wasn’t my doing. My friends rescued me.”
“Look at me.” He gently commands. “You are stronger than you let yourself believe.”
His hands tighten over mine as I shake my head in silent disagreement. My mind wanders back. Back to those sleepless nights in the rickety apartment on 3rd St, tears stubbornly absent. I would hold the pillow close and will the tears to flow. My involuntary stoicism left me feeling like a failure. That feeling of being empty. As if I had run out of all goodness, kindness, and love.
His continued chatter interjects itself into my consciousness. Shame on me, I hadn’t heard a word of that last bit. Scotsmen talk whether or not their audience pays mind so I hadn’t exactly been rude.
He looks at me waiting for a response. “I’m sorry. I was a wee bit distracted. Could you say that again? As in the last ten minutes.” My tone is serious, my eyes playful. He thinks I’m kidding. (Success!!!)
“Em’, I was saying that this place is shutting up. Would you like to go to the PGC?”
“The what?”
“PostGrad Club. You know I’m on the board.”
“I’m not a member.”
“Despite what you may have told me!?!”
I giggle slightly. “You won’t be forgetting that?”
“It’s rather etched into my mind. Associated as it is with how you looked in that lovely undergarment.” His deliberate gaze shifts down from my eyes for a long second.
“And you claimed to remember something other than my cleavage!” mock indignation fools no one.
He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close as we wait for the light to turn. “Oh, I remember everything,” he says. “Your voice, your face, your smile. Your smile when you said you were a member of the club.” He pauses, smelling my hair. “How you left without saying goodbye. And how your elfish friend flashed me your boobs. Repeatedly.”
“Do you remember the part nine days ago when she didn’t give me time to get my goodnight kiss?”
“You want to lay all of that at her door?” referring ever so gingerly to my propensity for mixed signals.
“No.” I admit with a smile. “I just want you to rectify the situation.”
We silently cross the intersection. As we step onto the far curb I snicker slightly.
“See, ‘rectify the situation’ is subtle for…”
He doesn’t let me finish. I should be expressing mock indignation at this flamboyant interruption with bonus back-dip. Instead I open my mouth, slightly. With a smile.
“What ye be grinning at?”
I arch my eyebrow in that irresistible way. “You really should rectify the situation again.”
Friday, July 11, 2008
anonymous shame is a highly effective instructional resource
Half six in the morning
"It makes quite a statement. This could... this has..." I leave the thought hanging and contemplate uses of the $2500 first prize. With the haze of the unslept fogging my brain, I mercilessly read over the essay again. My inner voice finds the proper tonal pitch to convey the urgency embedded in sentences laboriously composed throughout the last 16hrs. "If I'm being completely honest about this," I say to the cat curled up on the arm of the loveseat, "perfectly honest; well, I've done quite a good job. Not a masterpiece, of course. Not bloody Keats." With a contented chuckle I realize that never having read Keats, presumably it might be on par... or better. With that pleasant thought and a look at the clock I find my way upstairs to bed after an approximately 37 hour absence.
"Not bad -- no masterpiece -- impressive really." I mumble this repeatedly until passing out.
Waiting patiently in my inbox following afternoon
"Bad," she writes. "Not good. Takes the reader three pages to figure out your point. By then not enough time to develop point. Structure all wrong. Advise to start again."
I'm shocked. She's wrong. As a compromise, a few aesthetic changes are made. Recommended alterations ignored. Moment of hesitancy before pressing SUBMIT NOW button.
Conversation months later where, mistakenly, I believe that I'll be haven' the last laugh
"Admittedly, you did have a point. Still, it wasn't that bad. It got an honorable mention and a few hundred bucks."
She smiles. "No, I was wrong." A sideways glance and a very pregnant pause. "My comments were much too kind. Much less deserving than I noticed on first read."
Confusion passes over my face. First read? She read that slapt-together paper more than once?
Her smile widens to its distinctive fearsome width. "Oh, yes. I removed your name, of course. By mid-term we had all edited it numerous times. It was less coherent under the hood than it first appeared. Excellent sample of what an academic paper should not look like. "
"And by we all...?"
By "we all" she means the required upper-division GE econ writing class of 40+ students.
"It makes quite a statement. This could... this has..." I leave the thought hanging and contemplate uses of the $2500 first prize. With the haze of the unslept fogging my brain, I mercilessly read over the essay again. My inner voice finds the proper tonal pitch to convey the urgency embedded in sentences laboriously composed throughout the last 16hrs. "If I'm being completely honest about this," I say to the cat curled up on the arm of the loveseat, "perfectly honest; well, I've done quite a good job. Not a masterpiece, of course. Not bloody Keats." With a contented chuckle I realize that never having read Keats, presumably it might be on par... or better. With that pleasant thought and a look at the clock I find my way upstairs to bed after an approximately 37 hour absence.
"Not bad -- no masterpiece -- impressive really." I mumble this repeatedly until passing out.
Waiting patiently in my inbox following afternoon
"Bad," she writes. "Not good. Takes the reader three pages to figure out your point. By then not enough time to develop point. Structure all wrong. Advise to start again."
I'm shocked. She's wrong. As a compromise, a few aesthetic changes are made. Recommended alterations ignored. Moment of hesitancy before pressing SUBMIT NOW button.
Conversation months later where, mistakenly, I believe that I'll be haven' the last laugh
"Admittedly, you did have a point. Still, it wasn't that bad. It got an honorable mention and a few hundred bucks."
She smiles. "No, I was wrong." A sideways glance and a very pregnant pause. "My comments were much too kind. Much less deserving than I noticed on first read."
Confusion passes over my face. First read? She read that slapt-together paper more than once?
Her smile widens to its distinctive fearsome width. "Oh, yes. I removed your name, of course. By mid-term we had all edited it numerous times. It was less coherent under the hood than it first appeared. Excellent sample of what an academic paper should not look like. "
"And by we all...?"
By "we all" she means the required upper-division GE econ writing class of 40+ students.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
a kiss through the bars of Orion
A friend sent me an email today that left my heart glad. In it she included a few candid photos taken over past months. They served to remind me of her beauty, passion, and soul. Perhaps I lovingly misplace these truths in her smile. She walked me through what was to be seen and I believe now to know her. Knowing her, how can I see anything less than this quiet wisdom; the capacity to listen, love, lose, and find the worthwhile in life?
My dear, I miss you too.
My dear, I miss you too.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
the ride
I keep a spoon in the freezer, eat lemon curd to get high, forget names that might be better unforgotten, cry till laughter chokes up the tears, and pound keys on a piano poorly. And sometimes, I recall what sensai O'Shea taught me ages ago... ^#*@, it doesn't matter.
He was so right.
He was so right.
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