Today is Valentine's day, a day that is similarly loved and loathed by the masses. Conveniently, yesterday's message in Church was about love. My pastor made an interesting point about Romance-- He cited a young man he knows, who consistently emails my pastor about his romantic endeavors, which are usually along the lines of "I met a girl" or "I'm no longer seeing this girl." My pastor's advice is always the same; "Stay focused on God."
Being a young, single female in 21st century American society isn't always the easiest thing. Societal pressures indicate that everyone should either being seeing someone or sleeping around. The masses don't understand the concept that a woman can be contented in a state of single solidarity.
I decided that this continued state of datingness from shockingly young ages (first boyfriend at age ten, anyone?) is a symptom of a Godless society, and since God is Love, therefore a loveless society.
Basically, people are spending so much of their lives looking for "THE ONE" or just bouncing from relationship to relationship that they take no time for personal spiritual enrichment, which is nigh impossible to find when your only personal value is derived from the attentions of another person, because people are fallible and will not give you the value that you seek.
People do not understand that the significant others which they perpetually have are also looking for someone to imbue them with value, and therefore relationships are entirely taking-based, which is why they tend to burn out quickly.
I am going to spend the next while searching for value in a place where I am assured I can find it, and without such risk for personal damage-- in God.
The urge to be in a relationship is really pointless at this stage in my life, anyway, and would probably just lead to a bummer of a breakup.
I could be wrong, though.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Dear Alarm: Yes, some people want to get up at 4:30.
I love being up early. I really do. The only issue I have with early morning is the waking up part.
See, I enjoy staying up late as much as I enjoy waking up early. If I could have things my way, I would never sleep at all, but instead while away the night hours doing stuff that I want to, whether it be useful to my character or not.
Early rising is a pleasant experience that everyone should try, if not partake of regularly.
I only learned of this joy in early rising when I acquired my job at the coffee shop.
However.
When I set my alarm to go off at 4:30, I mean for it to do so.
I appreciate the thought behind it letting me sleep late, but I am not a fan of testing my prowess at getting up early and speed-dressing against being late for work.
I am not a fan of my dad turning on my light, telling me it's five thirty, and asking when when I'm supposed to be at work (which is five thirty.)
This morning, I had that very experience. I cursed loudly (yes, in front of my daddy,) leaped out of bed, and fumbled around for my clothes.
My getting-ready time this morning, including brushing my teeth, was five minutes.
Daily, my prowess at speed-dressing grows.
Hopefully the pre-Thanksgiving coffee-goers don't notice my extreme case of bed head.
(on another note, I beg of all of you to travel SAFELY over Thanksgiving!)
See, I enjoy staying up late as much as I enjoy waking up early. If I could have things my way, I would never sleep at all, but instead while away the night hours doing stuff that I want to, whether it be useful to my character or not.
Early rising is a pleasant experience that everyone should try, if not partake of regularly.
I only learned of this joy in early rising when I acquired my job at the coffee shop.
However.
When I set my alarm to go off at 4:30, I mean for it to do so.
I appreciate the thought behind it letting me sleep late, but I am not a fan of testing my prowess at getting up early and speed-dressing against being late for work.
I am not a fan of my dad turning on my light, telling me it's five thirty, and asking when when I'm supposed to be at work (which is five thirty.)
This morning, I had that very experience. I cursed loudly (yes, in front of my daddy,) leaped out of bed, and fumbled around for my clothes.
My getting-ready time this morning, including brushing my teeth, was five minutes.
Daily, my prowess at speed-dressing grows.
Hopefully the pre-Thanksgiving coffee-goers don't notice my extreme case of bed head.
(on another note, I beg of all of you to travel SAFELY over Thanksgiving!)
Sunday, November 7, 2010
The Trio
I, as many of you probably already know, am generally a kind and loving person. There are few things that satisfy me more than making other people contented.
That's why I work in a coffee shop.
But that's not the point. The point is there are very few people in the world who I cannot appreciate at some level.
However, I have identified and classified the three sorts of people who I have a very hard time tolerating for any amount of time, and cannot stand any sort of discourse with.
1) The Vapid.
Vapid –adjective
1.
lacking or having lost life, sharpness, or flavor; insipid; flat: vapid tea.
I cannot carry on conversation with people who have nothing to say. Small talk, and I mean small as in small-minded, I am very bad at indeed. The Vapid tend to be long-winded, and rarely let others say anything to direct the conversation to a more edifying topic.
I despise boring conversation when the other participant thinks it isn't boring.
2) The Arrogant.
Arrogant –adjective
1.
making claims or pretensions to superior importance or rights; overbearingly assuming; insolently proud: an arrogant public official.
Arrogance and vapidity go hand-in-hand more often than is right-- and when they do, it's the most unfortunate marriage. Not only does a person have nothing interesting to say, but they think they know more about any topic than you, even if they obviously don't.
The arrogant also tend to be unaware of other people, and how their words may affect others. They often assume that you WANT to hear what they have to say, even if it's about you.
3) The Attention-Addicted.
No definition is required for this category.
Everyone knows at least one attention hog. They're usually the extremely extroverted, living and breathing other people-- however, when other people don't want to be lived and breathed, they get pretty annoying.
Basically, everyone who I have ever known who I haven't gotten along with has fallen into one or more of these categories. I could spend time trying to understand and like people who match the descriptions, but I think I would end up in a straight-jacket somewhere giggling and crying to myself quietly.
That's why I work in a coffee shop.
But that's not the point. The point is there are very few people in the world who I cannot appreciate at some level.
However, I have identified and classified the three sorts of people who I have a very hard time tolerating for any amount of time, and cannot stand any sort of discourse with.
1) The Vapid.
Vapid –adjective
1.
lacking or having lost life, sharpness, or flavor; insipid; flat: vapid tea.
I cannot carry on conversation with people who have nothing to say. Small talk, and I mean small as in small-minded, I am very bad at indeed. The Vapid tend to be long-winded, and rarely let others say anything to direct the conversation to a more edifying topic.
I despise boring conversation when the other participant thinks it isn't boring.
2) The Arrogant.
Arrogant –adjective
1.
making claims or pretensions to superior importance or rights; overbearingly assuming; insolently proud: an arrogant public official.
Arrogance and vapidity go hand-in-hand more often than is right-- and when they do, it's the most unfortunate marriage. Not only does a person have nothing interesting to say, but they think they know more about any topic than you, even if they obviously don't.
The arrogant also tend to be unaware of other people, and how their words may affect others. They often assume that you WANT to hear what they have to say, even if it's about you.
3) The Attention-Addicted.
No definition is required for this category.
Everyone knows at least one attention hog. They're usually the extremely extroverted, living and breathing other people-- however, when other people don't want to be lived and breathed, they get pretty annoying.
Basically, everyone who I have ever known who I haven't gotten along with has fallen into one or more of these categories. I could spend time trying to understand and like people who match the descriptions, but I think I would end up in a straight-jacket somewhere giggling and crying to myself quietly.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
The Terror in the Shower
It was a cold, overcast night. I was house-sitting for my best friend's parents at their house out in the wilderness.
Alone except for a labrador retriever who loves everything that moves.
The night before, I'd been on a ghost hunting adventure with my journalistic co-workers. It was severely lacking in the paranormal, but laden with enough creepy stories to get under my skin.
Creepy stories like a murdered prom queen being found in mirror pond, still in her dress. Or a long missing man bobbing up, again in mirror pond, "like a cork."
And baby graves.
Well.
There I was, housesitting alone after a vigorous night of attempted scares.
Nervous about seeing a dead body or spectre in the mist, I first turned on all the lights, then locked all the doors, and finally closed all the blinds and curtains.
I needed to shower for church the next day. I sneaked down the hallway. After confirming that there were indeed no bad guys coming to kill me, I proceeded with my shower with confidence.
What a fool I was.
Halfway through shampooing my hair, I heard it.
A dreadful shrieking sound.
I almost panicked. Adrenaline rushed through my stomach. Shampoo ran into my eyes.
"Calm down, Bethany!" I thought to myself frantically, as the shrieking continued, "You have to think through this LOGICALLY!"
It had continued for all of thirty seconds without alteration.
Without moving, I attempted to identify the source of the sound. My eyes watered from the shampoo.
The water was getting colder and I for an irrational moment I feared I would die before I could rinse the shampoo out of my hair.
I listened around for the squealing sound. It remained unchanged still, after about a minute.
With a rush of knock-kneed relief, I identified where the wailing sound was coming from.
It was the faucet.
I turned off the water, and the sound ceased immediately.
I giggled maniacally with relief and embarrassment. I thought to myself, "Oh dear, I hope no-one finds out about this."
I turned the water back on and finally rinsed the shampoo out of my hair and eyes.
Most intense two minutes of my life.
I opted not to watch Psycho that night.
Alone except for a labrador retriever who loves everything that moves.
The night before, I'd been on a ghost hunting adventure with my journalistic co-workers. It was severely lacking in the paranormal, but laden with enough creepy stories to get under my skin.
Creepy stories like a murdered prom queen being found in mirror pond, still in her dress. Or a long missing man bobbing up, again in mirror pond, "like a cork."
And baby graves.
Well.
There I was, housesitting alone after a vigorous night of attempted scares.
Nervous about seeing a dead body or spectre in the mist, I first turned on all the lights, then locked all the doors, and finally closed all the blinds and curtains.
I needed to shower for church the next day. I sneaked down the hallway. After confirming that there were indeed no bad guys coming to kill me, I proceeded with my shower with confidence.
What a fool I was.
Halfway through shampooing my hair, I heard it.
A dreadful shrieking sound.
I almost panicked. Adrenaline rushed through my stomach. Shampoo ran into my eyes.
"Calm down, Bethany!" I thought to myself frantically, as the shrieking continued, "You have to think through this LOGICALLY!"
It had continued for all of thirty seconds without alteration.
Without moving, I attempted to identify the source of the sound. My eyes watered from the shampoo.
The water was getting colder and I for an irrational moment I feared I would die before I could rinse the shampoo out of my hair.
I listened around for the squealing sound. It remained unchanged still, after about a minute.
With a rush of knock-kneed relief, I identified where the wailing sound was coming from.
It was the faucet.
I turned off the water, and the sound ceased immediately.
I giggled maniacally with relief and embarrassment. I thought to myself, "Oh dear, I hope no-one finds out about this."
I turned the water back on and finally rinsed the shampoo out of my hair and eyes.
Most intense two minutes of my life.
I opted not to watch Psycho that night.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Ramblings of a brand-new barista
So I love my job. I love the owners, my coworkers and the patrons. I even love getting up early (as can be discovered in my previous post.) But, obviously, every once in a while someone will do something that confuses and peeves me.
Case in point:
If you can't see very well, the bottom of the mug is covered in small wood splinters from someone pulverizing their stirring stick.
Why?
Just... Why?
If I could understand the logic, the pleasure, or even the nervous habit behind completely crushing and destroying a small bit of wood, nary a complaint would fall from my lips. I would even be more understanding if the person had just thrown the small slivers away in one of the many conveniently located garbage cans -- I have no issue with destroying bits of wood.
Just...
Putting them in the sticky mug from which you consumed delicious coffee?
I don't like this level of confusion. It would have been so much easier for everyone for the Person to have just swept the splinters into his or her hand and dropped them in the garbage on the way out. Instead, Person swept them into his or her hand and dropped them into a coffee mug; one which, incidentally, had a thin coating of sugar sludge on the bottom.
An much as I love people, I shall never understand people's coffee shop habits.
Never.
Case in point:
If you can't see very well, the bottom of the mug is covered in small wood splinters from someone pulverizing their stirring stick.
Why?
Just... Why?
If I could understand the logic, the pleasure, or even the nervous habit behind completely crushing and destroying a small bit of wood, nary a complaint would fall from my lips. I would even be more understanding if the person had just thrown the small slivers away in one of the many conveniently located garbage cans -- I have no issue with destroying bits of wood.
Just...
Putting them in the sticky mug from which you consumed delicious coffee?
I don't like this level of confusion. It would have been so much easier for everyone for the Person to have just swept the splinters into his or her hand and dropped them in the garbage on the way out. Instead, Person swept them into his or her hand and dropped them into a coffee mug; one which, incidentally, had a thin coating of sugar sludge on the bottom.
An much as I love people, I shall never understand people's coffee shop habits.
Never.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Morning person?
I have always thought I am a night owl. I enjoy staying up late doing productive things like art or just whiling away the hours on the internet.
I have never liked waking up. But I also dislike going to sleep. I just hate the wasted hours necessary to human function.
However, with my recent acquisition of a job at the coolest coffee shop ever, I have been compelled to rethink my sleeping/waking habits.
When one wakes up at 4:30, one wakes up into a cold, dark house, where no-one else is up, there's no hot water, and one must sneak around to avoid waking the others in the house who are dreaming so blissfully.
But when one wakes up at 4:30, one gets to witness the day slowly come to life. One gets an extension on their day. One gets to hang out in a cozy and warm coffee shop that one works in that is actually much warmer than one's house.
I have decided that I dislike sleep in theory, but I do love it in practice-- I'm only human.
I love being awake. I love witnessing a day unfold. But I also love witnessing a day wind down.
I guess I'm just confused.
(Picture from Hyperbole and a Half)
I have never liked waking up. But I also dislike going to sleep. I just hate the wasted hours necessary to human function.
However, with my recent acquisition of a job at the coolest coffee shop ever, I have been compelled to rethink my sleeping/waking habits.
When one wakes up at 4:30, one wakes up into a cold, dark house, where no-one else is up, there's no hot water, and one must sneak around to avoid waking the others in the house who are dreaming so blissfully.
But when one wakes up at 4:30, one gets to witness the day slowly come to life. One gets an extension on their day. One gets to hang out in a cozy and warm coffee shop that one works in that is actually much warmer than one's house.
I have decided that I dislike sleep in theory, but I do love it in practice-- I'm only human.
I love being awake. I love witnessing a day unfold. But I also love witnessing a day wind down.
I guess I'm just confused.
(Picture from Hyperbole and a Half)
Sunday, September 19, 2010
The end of one era; the beginning of another.
Ladies and Gentlemen! I have survived yet another summer. I actually managed to not do anything too stupid. The most suspect of our collective adventures was the ice-blocking incident, wherein we got kicked out of a park and given a warning by a police officer for being in the park it late.
Yeah.
Well, this summer has been amazing. It's probably one of my favorites so far (hurr durr stereotypical summer raves etc.)
Anyhow, school starts up again tomorrow. I'm not exactly sad, but I'm not exactly ecstatic. I'm not exactly sad because-- well, I really am leaning more toward the happy side because I am such a nerd that I'm totally unhappy and depressed when I don't have any direction, even if the direction is as small as the next paper to research and write.
I'm not precisely happy, though. My head is so fuzzy from a month of nothing happening that I'm terrified I'll make my way back into the classroom as green as the newest freshly-graduated high schooler.
Also, I've been so confused about what to do about school. I ended up dropping 7 of the credit hours I registered for this quarter. Normally stoked about a busy schedule, I felt overwhelmed and racked with doubt about my choice of classes. So I dropped them.
I wish I could tell you I completed a novel this summer, or even a short story or two. The farthest I got with a work of fiction was the first draft of the first few chapters, and the farthest I got with an autobiographical narrative was the first few sentences.
I decided they sucked and filed them away with my other failed voluntary writing projects.
The truth is, I have a very hard time getting any serious work done unless I have a deadline hanging over my head. I've tried self-inflicted deadlines, but when my consequences are no worse than that I refuse to buy myself coffee, my motivation is pretty meagre.
Even my blogs are scarce. Go figure.
Yeah.
Well, this summer has been amazing. It's probably one of my favorites so far (hurr durr stereotypical summer raves etc.)
Anyhow, school starts up again tomorrow. I'm not exactly sad, but I'm not exactly ecstatic. I'm not exactly sad because-- well, I really am leaning more toward the happy side because I am such a nerd that I'm totally unhappy and depressed when I don't have any direction, even if the direction is as small as the next paper to research and write.
I'm not precisely happy, though. My head is so fuzzy from a month of nothing happening that I'm terrified I'll make my way back into the classroom as green as the newest freshly-graduated high schooler.
Also, I've been so confused about what to do about school. I ended up dropping 7 of the credit hours I registered for this quarter. Normally stoked about a busy schedule, I felt overwhelmed and racked with doubt about my choice of classes. So I dropped them.
I wish I could tell you I completed a novel this summer, or even a short story or two. The farthest I got with a work of fiction was the first draft of the first few chapters, and the farthest I got with an autobiographical narrative was the first few sentences.
I decided they sucked and filed them away with my other failed voluntary writing projects.
The truth is, I have a very hard time getting any serious work done unless I have a deadline hanging over my head. I've tried self-inflicted deadlines, but when my consequences are no worse than that I refuse to buy myself coffee, my motivation is pretty meagre.
Even my blogs are scarce. Go figure.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
I think I'm ready for summer to be over.
Today, my summer boredom drove me to a new height.
First I wrote. Then I drew and painted. Finally, I turned to my last resort. I made a stop-motion video.
Let me know what you think. The stickman is named Edd, and needs input for future adventures. Let me know in the comments section.
First I wrote. Then I drew and painted. Finally, I turned to my last resort. I made a stop-motion video.
Let me know what you think. The stickman is named Edd, and needs input for future adventures. Let me know in the comments section.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
I have an addiction! Give me therapy!
So, Ke$ha. Crazy crack-erm nevermind. Well, her song "Your Love is my Drug" made me think about addictions. I have an addiction. An incurable one, that will probably send me to serious therapy eventually.
Please, do not worry yourself over my condition. There are thousands who share the same sorry affliction and are quite functional. In fact, some learn to thrive with it.
My addiction is, of course, writing.
Silly people!
I realized a few moments ago that without writing, well... Who am I? What defines me without writing? I guess I'm addicted to the ideas that pour from my fingertips into the pen or keyboard.
It's strange, really. I can't be content with thoughts floating around in my head-- They never form fully until they're verbalized. I fear that if I didn't write regularly (usually in a notebook) my head would explode from all the half-baked ideas.
I'm addicted to thinking.
I am so addicted to thinking, in fact, that I cannot understand people who let their minds atrophy-- I don't understand to the point that it angers me greatly. A mind is a beautiful thing and one shouldn't let it go to waste!
Ironically enough, I've heard similar arguments for marijuana use.
I don't like to compare my intellectual addiction to drugs, but some comparisons are just too awesome to leave unsaid, like comparing bacon to true love.
Anyway, there's my little revelation for the day.
Let me know what you think in the comments section!
Please, do not worry yourself over my condition. There are thousands who share the same sorry affliction and are quite functional. In fact, some learn to thrive with it.
My addiction is, of course, writing.
Silly people!
I realized a few moments ago that without writing, well... Who am I? What defines me without writing? I guess I'm addicted to the ideas that pour from my fingertips into the pen or keyboard.
It's strange, really. I can't be content with thoughts floating around in my head-- They never form fully until they're verbalized. I fear that if I didn't write regularly (usually in a notebook) my head would explode from all the half-baked ideas.
I'm addicted to thinking.
I am so addicted to thinking, in fact, that I cannot understand people who let their minds atrophy-- I don't understand to the point that it angers me greatly. A mind is a beautiful thing and one shouldn't let it go to waste!
Ironically enough, I've heard similar arguments for marijuana use.
I don't like to compare my intellectual addiction to drugs, but some comparisons are just too awesome to leave unsaid, like comparing bacon to true love.
Anyway, there's my little revelation for the day.
Let me know what you think in the comments section!
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Summertime
Summer always lends itself to marvelous adventures. Everyone wants to take advantage of the oh-so-brief hiatus from school, so everyone is more daring than usual. Therefore, strange adventures such as boar hunting, Disney singing, and beach combing take place with alarmingly awesome regularity.
Please do not think I don't enjoy these adventures-- quite the contrary, I love them very much. However, I am worried that when my life returns to some mundane routine I'll be so bored with everything that I'll fail everything.
Basically that sums up why I'm blogging right now. I have been unfortunately absent from blogging this summer, but it's because I've been having grand adventures, contemplating the future, and composing lame songs about punctuation.
Actually, I shall sum up the bodacity of my summer. First of all, I co-directed the Princess and the Pea with Jeni Campbell-White at Children's Theatre Company this summer. It was a fantastic experience, though stressful. I really hope to get the opportunity to direct more plays.
While that was going on, there were many lake and river-related adventures, as well as a few driving around at night going random places and visiting random people adventures.
After the play was over, I went to Washington to hang out with my aunt, uncle, and cousin. Fortunately, they all had to work most of the time I was there, so I got to hang out with my cousin's girlfriend, which was awesome.
Then I went camping with Hailey and her parents, and did not wrestle a bear.
Now I sit here, at my beautiful still-new computer, and write to you.
I guess the point of this blog is that I don't know what I'm doing this fall. I'm considering quitting school and just kicking it into high gear with my writing, but I'm afraid that without serious motivation (read: cattle prodding) I wouldn't get anything done. If this summer is any indicator, when I have free time I tend to squander it.
However, my mom gave me some wonderful advice. Just do the next thing that makes sense, and trust God to close any doors that He's decided aren't the right one for me to go through. My future is murkily confusing right now, but, like most lives, I suppose I'll do all right.
I guess I just have this irrational fear of making a decision now that affects me for the rest of my life, for I feel I am at a turning point in my career decision-making process. I guess I'm terrified of making a poor decision and regretting it forever.
But I shall continue to wade through the murky swamp that I see ahead of me, hoping I don't trip and fall on my face in the mud.
Hopefully the swamp will give way to clear water, or even better, dry land, within the next few weeks.
Please do not think I don't enjoy these adventures-- quite the contrary, I love them very much. However, I am worried that when my life returns to some mundane routine I'll be so bored with everything that I'll fail everything.
Basically that sums up why I'm blogging right now. I have been unfortunately absent from blogging this summer, but it's because I've been having grand adventures, contemplating the future, and composing lame songs about punctuation.
Actually, I shall sum up the bodacity of my summer. First of all, I co-directed the Princess and the Pea with Jeni Campbell-White at Children's Theatre Company this summer. It was a fantastic experience, though stressful. I really hope to get the opportunity to direct more plays.
While that was going on, there were many lake and river-related adventures, as well as a few driving around at night going random places and visiting random people adventures.
After the play was over, I went to Washington to hang out with my aunt, uncle, and cousin. Fortunately, they all had to work most of the time I was there, so I got to hang out with my cousin's girlfriend, which was awesome.
Then I went camping with Hailey and her parents, and did not wrestle a bear.
Now I sit here, at my beautiful still-new computer, and write to you.
I guess the point of this blog is that I don't know what I'm doing this fall. I'm considering quitting school and just kicking it into high gear with my writing, but I'm afraid that without serious motivation (read: cattle prodding) I wouldn't get anything done. If this summer is any indicator, when I have free time I tend to squander it.
However, my mom gave me some wonderful advice. Just do the next thing that makes sense, and trust God to close any doors that He's decided aren't the right one for me to go through. My future is murkily confusing right now, but, like most lives, I suppose I'll do all right.
I guess I just have this irrational fear of making a decision now that affects me for the rest of my life, for I feel I am at a turning point in my career decision-making process. I guess I'm terrified of making a poor decision and regretting it forever.
But I shall continue to wade through the murky swamp that I see ahead of me, hoping I don't trip and fall on my face in the mud.
Hopefully the swamp will give way to clear water, or even better, dry land, within the next few weeks.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Feathered friends or foes?
Well, greetings ladies and gentlemen! Hold onto your hats, because I've got some pretty sensational news!
I, the girl who used to cower in terror at flocks of birds, wince back from caged birds, and refuse to go into aviaries, have adopted a cockatiel.
Please pick yourselves up from your shocked faints.
I have been working up to this point for many a month now. My dear friend is quite in love with those of the avian genus, and frequenting her habitat has gotten me rather used to the feathered creatures.
After visiting a pet store and being charmed by the colors and varieties of birds, I began considering purchasing one of my own and fully conquering one of the mundane things I was terrified of.
Well, Cedar texted me about a week ago (and granted, I was on Vicodin due to wisdom teeth removal so I was more than a little loopy) and told me she had located a cockatiel who needed a home immediately. I had expressed my interest in a bird to her earlier in the week, so I was friendli...ly disposed to the idea of rescuing an abused avian.
So I did.
So far, I have neither been pecked, had my eyes gouged out, nor had my head dive-bombed. None of my worst fears have come true, which is fantastic. Obviously my fears were ridiculously irrational.
I've come a long way since I wrote this post.
I, the girl who used to cower in terror at flocks of birds, wince back from caged birds, and refuse to go into aviaries, have adopted a cockatiel.
Please pick yourselves up from your shocked faints.
I have been working up to this point for many a month now. My dear friend is quite in love with those of the avian genus, and frequenting her habitat has gotten me rather used to the feathered creatures.
After visiting a pet store and being charmed by the colors and varieties of birds, I began considering purchasing one of my own and fully conquering one of the mundane things I was terrified of.
Well, Cedar texted me about a week ago (and granted, I was on Vicodin due to wisdom teeth removal so I was more than a little loopy) and told me she had located a cockatiel who needed a home immediately. I had expressed my interest in a bird to her earlier in the week, so I was friendli...ly disposed to the idea of rescuing an abused avian.
So I did.
So far, I have neither been pecked, had my eyes gouged out, nor had my head dive-bombed. None of my worst fears have come true, which is fantastic. Obviously my fears were ridiculously irrational.
I've come a long way since I wrote this post.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Ode to Cup-Noodles
Oh cup-noodles of soup,
You boon to college-kind,
You never taste like poop,
Even if you’re lime.
Oh cup-noodle of awesome,
What would we eat without thee?
You’re never flavored “possum,”
Even though you should be.
Oh cup-noodle of nourishment,
Your bounties never cease,
Your smell is ever ambient,
You bring me inner peace.
Oh cup noodle of food,
You’re impossible to eat graceful,
Guys look at me and say “Dude,”
But they’re just distasteful.
Oh cup noodle of yum,
You always fill me up,
Making happy my tum,
From your Styrofoam cup,
Oh cup noodle of quick,
You always are timely,
You never make me sick,
Although you aren’t so comely.
Oh cup noodle of procrastination,
You help me write this poem,
I should be in the midst of a literary creation,
I guess this’ll show ‘em.
Oh cup noodle of America,
You are very patriotic,
I doubt you’re sold in Jamaica,
But I don’t find you exotic.
Oh cup noodle of odes,
Although you’re so high brow,
My head is going to explode,
I’m done writing this now.
- Beth
You boon to college-kind,
You never taste like poop,
Even if you’re lime.
Oh cup-noodle of awesome,
What would we eat without thee?
You’re never flavored “possum,”
Even though you should be.
Oh cup-noodle of nourishment,
Your bounties never cease,
Your smell is ever ambient,
You bring me inner peace.
Oh cup noodle of food,
You’re impossible to eat graceful,
Guys look at me and say “Dude,”
But they’re just distasteful.
Oh cup noodle of yum,
You always fill me up,
Making happy my tum,
From your Styrofoam cup,
Oh cup noodle of quick,
You always are timely,
You never make me sick,
Although you aren’t so comely.
Oh cup noodle of procrastination,
You help me write this poem,
I should be in the midst of a literary creation,
I guess this’ll show ‘em.
Oh cup noodle of America,
You are very patriotic,
I doubt you’re sold in Jamaica,
But I don’t find you exotic.
Oh cup noodle of odes,
Although you’re so high brow,
My head is going to explode,
I’m done writing this now.
- Beth
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Ron's Brilliant Theory.
Anyone who lives with a guitar player knows: you WILL find guitar picks in your laundry. It's just a fact of life. Just as socks will disappear in your laundry, so guitar picks will appear.
Mr. Ron Lange, a very cool man, has a brilliant theory.
I always assumed the missing socks were due to gremlins, or the washing machine eating them. The picks simply were left in pockets.
Absolutely not.
Due to the heat, pressure, and chemical compounds introduced by the laundry detergent, some socks randomly undergo a fascinating transformation, no doubt similar to that taken by carbon when pressed into a diamond.
Doubtless scientists will get wind of this and study it soon.
The socks are not eaten by the washing machine, nor are the picks randomly generated by it.
The picks ARE the socks.
After having undergone a marvelous change, the former socks make their way into your laundry under the new identity of a guitar pick.
This explains so much.
Mr. Ron Lange, a very cool man, has a brilliant theory.
I always assumed the missing socks were due to gremlins, or the washing machine eating them. The picks simply were left in pockets.
Absolutely not.
Due to the heat, pressure, and chemical compounds introduced by the laundry detergent, some socks randomly undergo a fascinating transformation, no doubt similar to that taken by carbon when pressed into a diamond.
Doubtless scientists will get wind of this and study it soon.
The socks are not eaten by the washing machine, nor are the picks randomly generated by it.
The picks ARE the socks.
After having undergone a marvelous change, the former socks make their way into your laundry under the new identity of a guitar pick.
This explains so much.
Hide the teeth! Hide them!
Query of the night: No-teeth smilers.
These people, no matter how pretty a smile they have, or how often they use it in the real world, always snap their lips shut at first sight of a camera.
Why? I don't understand that level of self-consciousness.
Perhaps this is just a function of my relatively low level of empathetic abilities, but I have never been so conscious of my smile (even when I had ugly teeth or braces) that I would hide them... Especially not from the camera. (Anyone who knew me in middle school will testify to the extreme cheesiness of my grin.)
So, people who are no-teeth picture smilers, please enlighten me! I am honestly curious about this practice.
These people, no matter how pretty a smile they have, or how often they use it in the real world, always snap their lips shut at first sight of a camera.
Why? I don't understand that level of self-consciousness.
Perhaps this is just a function of my relatively low level of empathetic abilities, but I have never been so conscious of my smile (even when I had ugly teeth or braces) that I would hide them... Especially not from the camera. (Anyone who knew me in middle school will testify to the extreme cheesiness of my grin.)
So, people who are no-teeth picture smilers, please enlighten me! I am honestly curious about this practice.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
I'm screwed up, and I blame society.
Will someone please explain to me why I have overwhelming feelings of apathy? Why, even though I know it's bad for me, I persist to dance on injured knees? Why I am so discontented with my body image?
Society.
Society has been telling me (even though I have always been relatively protected) that I must be skinnier, prettier, smarter, more athletic, and be exceptional in some way. Society's a bitch.
Can't I just be good at a variety of things, instead of specializing in one field? Reality tells me no, but I'm having a hard time accepting reality. Can't I be a writer, dancer, website designer, actress, and musician?
Society says no. It says you're not talented enough to write, you're never skinny enough to dance, you're not slutty enough to act, and well you're not talented enough to be a musician. Bull.
Writing requires no talent. That's a lie of society. While weight is a factor, I know dozens of talented, non-emaciated dancers. Society is why most actresses have to be sluts to get a start. Music simply requires willingness to expand and learn.
Is society telling me these things, or am I?
Society.
Society has been telling me (even though I have always been relatively protected) that I must be skinnier, prettier, smarter, more athletic, and be exceptional in some way. Society's a bitch.
Can't I just be good at a variety of things, instead of specializing in one field? Reality tells me no, but I'm having a hard time accepting reality. Can't I be a writer, dancer, website designer, actress, and musician?
Society says no. It says you're not talented enough to write, you're never skinny enough to dance, you're not slutty enough to act, and well you're not talented enough to be a musician. Bull.
Writing requires no talent. That's a lie of society. While weight is a factor, I know dozens of talented, non-emaciated dancers. Society is why most actresses have to be sluts to get a start. Music simply requires willingness to expand and learn.
Is society telling me these things, or am I?
Monday, April 12, 2010
Son of the Mud Puddle
Once upon a Time, I lived in pleasant peace, not bothered in any way by a monster. I had previously had one harrowing experience with the beast, but it was in the past, happily distant.
Until that night.
I drove home from my unfortunately discouraging ballet class, happily unaware of the monster that was inhabiting my driveway. As I drove down my street, revving through an innocent puddle, I realized with a shock that The Mud Puddle, which had tried to claim my life once before, had appeared in just this kind of weather. I shuddered slightly, and told myself that the puddle would not be back. It had slunk off before, and could not have possible survived the dryness since. I had not considered the water cycle.
As I pulled into my muddy driveway, I heard an ominous splash. I braked abruptly, turned off the radio, and accelerated slowly. I had not been mistaken-- my tires had splashed. The Mud Puddle had returned.
I pulled forward into my parking spot and turned off the car. I had to get to the house or risk being killed in the car. I prayed the monster wasn't yet aware of my presence. I opened the door slowly. The monster was still sloshing around my tires, identifying the object that was embedded in it. I couldn't see where the bounds of the puddle ended. I was as good as trapped. If I leaped out of the car and didn't make it far enough, the mud puddle would instantly consume me. If I overshot the puddle, I would hit the fence, and inevitably lose my balance and fall into my wet, muddy doom.
I breathed deeply. My lack of a working passenger side door limited my options severely.
I leaped.
My foot squished into the muddy edge of the puddle. The Mud Puddle reared up, grabbing at my heels, but I had already slammed my door and taken off running. The splashes behind me on the walkway were chilling to hear, and I screamed as I sprinted to the house. I burst inside and slammed the door just in time. The puddle burst against the door with a huge splash. I sunk down on the floor, panting.
Dodging death is serious business.
Until that night.
I drove home from my unfortunately discouraging ballet class, happily unaware of the monster that was inhabiting my driveway. As I drove down my street, revving through an innocent puddle, I realized with a shock that The Mud Puddle, which had tried to claim my life once before, had appeared in just this kind of weather. I shuddered slightly, and told myself that the puddle would not be back. It had slunk off before, and could not have possible survived the dryness since. I had not considered the water cycle.
As I pulled into my muddy driveway, I heard an ominous splash. I braked abruptly, turned off the radio, and accelerated slowly. I had not been mistaken-- my tires had splashed. The Mud Puddle had returned.
I pulled forward into my parking spot and turned off the car. I had to get to the house or risk being killed in the car. I prayed the monster wasn't yet aware of my presence. I opened the door slowly. The monster was still sloshing around my tires, identifying the object that was embedded in it. I couldn't see where the bounds of the puddle ended. I was as good as trapped. If I leaped out of the car and didn't make it far enough, the mud puddle would instantly consume me. If I overshot the puddle, I would hit the fence, and inevitably lose my balance and fall into my wet, muddy doom.
I breathed deeply. My lack of a working passenger side door limited my options severely.
I leaped.
My foot squished into the muddy edge of the puddle. The Mud Puddle reared up, grabbing at my heels, but I had already slammed my door and taken off running. The splashes behind me on the walkway were chilling to hear, and I screamed as I sprinted to the house. I burst inside and slammed the door just in time. The puddle burst against the door with a huge splash. I sunk down on the floor, panting.
Dodging death is serious business.
Bethany's peculiar take on Hamlet.
Hamlet, by the legendary William Shakespeare, does not beat around the bush—the first scene is soldiers on the watch discussing a ghost that several of them had witnessed. The soldiers try to elicit a reaction from the ghost and fail, but recognize it as the recently deceased Dane, the king of Denmark. They alert Hamlet, the deceased King’s son, nephew of the current king. The Ghost reveals to his son that he was murdered and his wife, now wife of his brother, was complicit in the deed. Hamlet compels his men to hide all that they’ve seen there, and connives a plan to trap his uncle-father and aunt-mother in the horror of their sin.
Hamlets first tactic is to feign madness. Although he states in the dialogue of the play that his madness is indeed feigned (“Essentially I am not in madness/But mad in craft” 3.4.202-3), whether or not he truly went mad has been the source of great debate. Hamlet’s rash, accidental murder of Polonius, Lord Chamberlain, lays doubt as to whether Hamlet was so deep in the lie that it became truth.
The Prince tries several different tactics to trap his Uncle, including a play (“The play’s the thing/Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King” 2.2.570) but Hamlet’s motives throughout seem very fuzzy, at best. His character is conflicted, nearly driven to genuine madness by his mother’s incest, his fiancé’s suicide, and father’s murder, but struggling to maintain reason although his world has gone to hell.
The theme is best summed up in the words of Horatio, after the Queen is poisoned to death, the King slain, and the Prince both poisoned and fatally wounded from a duel. While mourning the deaths of the royal family, Horatio declares, “Give order that these bodies/ High on a stage be placed to the view/ And let me speak to [th’] unknowing world/ How these things came about. So you shall hear/ Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts/ Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters/ Of deaths put on by cunning and [forc’d] cause/ And in this upshot, purposes mistook/ Fall’n on th’ inventor’s heads: all this can I/ Truly deliver.” 5.2.379-88 Summed up, the theme is that one must pay the price for sin and corruption in one’s life, at whatever cost to one’s self or family.
The plot is intertwined and complex—so much so that most film adaptations fail to capture the underlying notes that the story can hold. Many productions minimize Ophelia’s importance, which is a massive mistake. Ophelia alone is onstage when Hamlet delivers his famous soliloquy. The Queen, King, and courtiers all blame Ophelia’s scorn of Hamlet’s love for his madness. She is Polonius’ daughter (scorning Hamlet on his command), Laerte’s sister, and is Hamlet’s sole love interest. Ophelia may have had the power to save Hamlet from his fate, but her suicide after Hamlet’s slaying of her father is just another aspect to why Hamlet may be mad, indeed.
Hamlets first tactic is to feign madness. Although he states in the dialogue of the play that his madness is indeed feigned (“Essentially I am not in madness/But mad in craft” 3.4.202-3), whether or not he truly went mad has been the source of great debate. Hamlet’s rash, accidental murder of Polonius, Lord Chamberlain, lays doubt as to whether Hamlet was so deep in the lie that it became truth.
The Prince tries several different tactics to trap his Uncle, including a play (“The play’s the thing/Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King” 2.2.570) but Hamlet’s motives throughout seem very fuzzy, at best. His character is conflicted, nearly driven to genuine madness by his mother’s incest, his fiancé’s suicide, and father’s murder, but struggling to maintain reason although his world has gone to hell.
The theme is best summed up in the words of Horatio, after the Queen is poisoned to death, the King slain, and the Prince both poisoned and fatally wounded from a duel. While mourning the deaths of the royal family, Horatio declares, “Give order that these bodies/ High on a stage be placed to the view/ And let me speak to [th’] unknowing world/ How these things came about. So you shall hear/ Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts/ Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters/ Of deaths put on by cunning and [forc’d] cause/ And in this upshot, purposes mistook/ Fall’n on th’ inventor’s heads: all this can I/ Truly deliver.” 5.2.379-88 Summed up, the theme is that one must pay the price for sin and corruption in one’s life, at whatever cost to one’s self or family.
The plot is intertwined and complex—so much so that most film adaptations fail to capture the underlying notes that the story can hold. Many productions minimize Ophelia’s importance, which is a massive mistake. Ophelia alone is onstage when Hamlet delivers his famous soliloquy. The Queen, King, and courtiers all blame Ophelia’s scorn of Hamlet’s love for his madness. She is Polonius’ daughter (scorning Hamlet on his command), Laerte’s sister, and is Hamlet’s sole love interest. Ophelia may have had the power to save Hamlet from his fate, but her suicide after Hamlet’s slaying of her father is just another aspect to why Hamlet may be mad, indeed.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
It's the grammatically incorrect part that got to me.
So tonight I was accused of being loquacious. I would not mind if the word didn't have such negative connotations and the woman in question hadn't been so damnably condescending about it. The condescension gets me the most. I was talking about the topic at dinner, not swaying from it, and had some rather interesting things to say, when the woman interrupts me. "Do you know what loquacious means?" she asked. I'm a writer, damn it. I don't have the vocabulary of a third grader. "Yes," I answered, to which she requested I define it. I don't memorize definitions word for word because I have much better things to do than read the dictionary for the sake of knowledge (which is what I suspect the woman of doing) but I was able to define it well enough. Then she used the word, incorrectly I might add, saying I was a "loquacious talker." Really, lady? Really? I've been told, so I have reason to believe, that I'm rather eloquent. However, the woman is ridiculously self-centered and couldn't stand that I'd been talking for a few minutes. I, being descended from the woman and most annoyed, looked pointedly at her, and said, "Wow, I wonder where I get that from? Your side of the family, certainly!" I really do hope she got my point and was sufficiently offended, because she made me seriously angry, completely spoiling my appetite for what I suspect was excellent food. The thing was that her attack blindsided me. Grandmothers are supposed to be the last person in the world to attack one. However, this one seems to have a most peculiar predisposition toward destructive emotional attack. The woman is forever telling boring anecdotes about how much people love her. I'm glad for her. If the general public is so adoring of the woman, I see no reason why I should have to be around a person who waits until I'm wholly unsuspecting to insult me in a rude and grammatically incorrect way.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Horrible. Incredible.
I realized two things about myself as I was driving to school today (or yesterday, I can't remember which, or maybe it was a dream,) but I now cannot remember what they are. I think they had something to do with memory. My ability to remember things shocks me sometimes, and my tendency to forget surprises me even more. For example, I can remember almost word for word every single scene and monologue I have performed for my acting classes this year, and yet I cannot remember when I had a brilliant blog idea nor what the idea was. My brain astounds me at times like this. I know I had the thought, I even know what section of road I was on at the time I thought, "Oh that's a good idea, I should blog about that," but I cannot remember what the idea was. I don't suppose it matters, really, because here I am blogging anyway. Typing my useless thoughts to the interwebsphere. I just made that word up, by the way. It's catchy, maybe if I'm awesome enough it'll take off.
Anyway, it's dead week. I've been working on several projects, not least of which is web work for the student newspaper. Yep, I've been upgraded from bottom-of-the-totem-pole reporter to slightly-higher-on-the-totem-pole internet person. I'm not quite sure what my job title and whatnot is yet, but I'm real stoked anyway. I've also been doing a lot of work for the music school. Real excited about that as well. Some things are taking off that need to and other things are falling into place. Almost spring break. Hanging in there. I recommend you do the same.
Anyway, it's dead week. I've been working on several projects, not least of which is web work for the student newspaper. Yep, I've been upgraded from bottom-of-the-totem-pole reporter to slightly-higher-on-the-totem-pole internet person. I'm not quite sure what my job title and whatnot is yet, but I'm real stoked anyway. I've also been doing a lot of work for the music school. Real excited about that as well. Some things are taking off that need to and other things are falling into place. Almost spring break. Hanging in there. I recommend you do the same.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Time
The fourth dimension, time, has probably been written and sung about more than is fair. Certainly more than any of the other three tangible dimensions. Although time is limited, and our time in this reality is limited, there is always more time than we think. For example, when I started school this term I didn't think I would have time to do anything. I have, however, added two jobs (both admittedly small) and still found time to do things I love. For example, last Saturday I went rock climbing at Smith Rock. It was a lot of fun. It fueled my latest unreasonable passion. I cannot even begin to compute what made this happen, but all I want to do anymore is climb on rocks. Time has seemed to expand to accommodate my schedule and needs. I still have time to hang out with my buddies. I have been completing all my homework, mostly on time. We spent our time in reporting class today... Blogging. I thought it was funny, honestly, because I already blog almost religiously. We created Gmail accounts, created a blog with said account, wrote a quick bio, copy-pasted our articles into it, and embedded a few images. No problem. I said so, and was thus given a slightly more difficult task than embedding a video. I get to add a timeline widget. I'm real stoked. Blogging is just what I do. I'm a writer at heart, not a reporter or journalist. I can see the appeal of the career, but I don't think it's for me in the future. It's a great way to get published initially, and I certainly might like to write for a magazine, but news? Eh, I can do without it.
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