So, you know Edgar Allen Poe? Famous American author, sort of crazy dude, wrote "The Raven"?
Well, we read some of his stuff in my American Literature class, and after the flashbacks from junior high speech competitions stopped and I was able to stop saying "nevermore" over and over again, I thought, huh.
So Poe was really big on technique. I had no idea. He actually wrote an essay on literary composition. He had this secret formula for writing great American literature which of course isn't a secret anymore because he totally published it.
Well, I have a theory of my own:
If Poe was alive today and trying to mastermind a formula for winning the 2009 Eurovision Competition, it would probably look something like this:
First, you should be good looking. Really, really good looking.
Second, you should probably have a violin. If you can dance around while you're playing it, so much the better, but a fiddle should be involved.
Third, make sure you've got some strapping lads wearing suspenders. Have them do gymnastics behind you while you're singing. And push ups... in circles!! Yeah, have them do push ups in circles around you!! Perfect.
Fourth, get a couple of nice looking dames. Stick them in some flow-y pink dresses. Have them sing back up. They can dance a little bit, that's cool. Just make sure they're pretty.
Let's see, anything else? Handsome, got that, violin, push ups, what am I missing?
Oh. Fireworks.
Well, there you go. The complete formula for successfully winning a reality show competition. It totally worked for this dude.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Edgar Allen Poe's Secret Theory For Reality Show Success
Friday, May 15, 2009
life imitates life (the answer is not mushrooms)
Paul and I got new callings at church.
My church doesn't have a paid clergy, so everyone kinda takes turns at the various responsibilities. Every once in a while you get a call from the bishop or one of his counselors, and then you hyperventilate while waiting to find out what your new calling is going to be.
Nursery. We got called to be in the Nursery.
Can you say.......
AWESOME???!!!!
Greg looked kinda nervous when he told us. Nursery isn't something everyone gets super jazzed about, you know? I guess it's just that being accosted by eighteen month old kids for two hours every week doesn't appeal to everyone. Go figure.
I think he started to relax when he saw us high-fiving and pulling out our marshmallow gun. I mean, come on! Snacks? Toys? Singing time? Playdough? We get to party for two hours with people who share basically all my eating habits, except for some of them will eat raisins, and I won't.
So, it's been fun. Really, really fun. Here's a sampling of a typical Sunday:
Cute kid A takes a toy from Cute kid B.
Cute kid A: MINE!!!!!!
Cute kid B: MINE!!!!!!
Me: Hey, uh, look at this.....weird plastic spinny thing!! Yeah, check this out! You, uh, push this plastic pushy thing and the spinny thing spins!!!!! Wow, don't you love a plastic spinny and pushy thing? I know I sure do.
Cute kid B: Oooooh. (starts pushing the plastic pushy thing)
Another sampling:
Cute kid A: I blow bubbles?
Me: Oh, uh....no, sweetie. Just grown-ups blow the bubbles.
Cute kid A: I blow bubbles?
Me: Right, so it's actually just grown-ups. I personally think it's ridiculous, you know? I mean, so you're eighteen months. Who cares? Do they know how early you were able to feed yourself pureed sweet potato? I'm just a nursery leader. Powerless, you know? I mean, if it were up to me you could blow bubbles all day. What's it to me? It's Roxy over there, she's the one with the power. So hey, you want to run around in circles really fast?
Well, you get the general idea. I may have embellished slightly for dramatic effect.
I really do love it. I love watching their little brains working, trying to figure out this complex grown-up world where snack time requires you to sit in one place and it is generally frowned upon to dump water all over your snack filled coffee filter.
It's good for me to practice being patient, too, you know? I find it helps me in other segments of my life. Take the other day:
I go to the library to study with some people from my Spanish class. Now, I am normally a solitary studier, but on Monday when Shanika asks if I will join her I think....study group. I could do that. That's a college thing, right? Yeah, study group.....cool.
So we agree to meet at 1:00. I mistakenly think that means 1:00. It actually means 1:30 in college time. My bad. I ask Shanika and Dude Whose Name I Have Forgotten what they'd like to study.
Vocabulary, they say.
Okey dokey. I'll quiz you guys first, I say.
Me: Leche
Shanika: Mushrooms?
Me: Carne
Dude: Oh......uh.......
Shanika: Mushrooms?
Me: Lechuga
Dude: Uh......um.......
Shanika: Mushrooms?
You get the idea. I didn't have the heart to tell Shanika that "mushrooms" isn't even in the book. She seemed so excited about them.
My church doesn't have a paid clergy, so everyone kinda takes turns at the various responsibilities. Every once in a while you get a call from the bishop or one of his counselors, and then you hyperventilate while waiting to find out what your new calling is going to be.
Nursery. We got called to be in the Nursery.
Can you say.......
AWESOME???!!!!
Greg looked kinda nervous when he told us. Nursery isn't something everyone gets super jazzed about, you know? I guess it's just that being accosted by eighteen month old kids for two hours every week doesn't appeal to everyone. Go figure.
I think he started to relax when he saw us high-fiving and pulling out our marshmallow gun. I mean, come on! Snacks? Toys? Singing time? Playdough? We get to party for two hours with people who share basically all my eating habits, except for some of them will eat raisins, and I won't.
So, it's been fun. Really, really fun. Here's a sampling of a typical Sunday:
Cute kid A takes a toy from Cute kid B.
Cute kid A: MINE!!!!!!
Cute kid B: MINE!!!!!!
Me: Hey, uh, look at this.....weird plastic spinny thing!! Yeah, check this out! You, uh, push this plastic pushy thing and the spinny thing spins!!!!! Wow, don't you love a plastic spinny and pushy thing? I know I sure do.
Cute kid B: Oooooh. (starts pushing the plastic pushy thing)
Another sampling:
Cute kid A: I blow bubbles?
Me: Oh, uh....no, sweetie. Just grown-ups blow the bubbles.
Cute kid A: I blow bubbles?
Me: Right, so it's actually just grown-ups. I personally think it's ridiculous, you know? I mean, so you're eighteen months. Who cares? Do they know how early you were able to feed yourself pureed sweet potato? I'm just a nursery leader. Powerless, you know? I mean, if it were up to me you could blow bubbles all day. What's it to me? It's Roxy over there, she's the one with the power. So hey, you want to run around in circles really fast?
Well, you get the general idea. I may have embellished slightly for dramatic effect.
I really do love it. I love watching their little brains working, trying to figure out this complex grown-up world where snack time requires you to sit in one place and it is generally frowned upon to dump water all over your snack filled coffee filter.
It's good for me to practice being patient, too, you know? I find it helps me in other segments of my life. Take the other day:
I go to the library to study with some people from my Spanish class. Now, I am normally a solitary studier, but on Monday when Shanika asks if I will join her I think....study group. I could do that. That's a college thing, right? Yeah, study group.....cool.
So we agree to meet at 1:00. I mistakenly think that means 1:00. It actually means 1:30 in college time. My bad. I ask Shanika and Dude Whose Name I Have Forgotten what they'd like to study.
Vocabulary, they say.
Okey dokey. I'll quiz you guys first, I say.
Me: Leche
Shanika: Mushrooms?
Me: Carne
Dude: Oh......uh.......
Shanika: Mushrooms?
Me: Lechuga
Dude: Uh......um.......
Shanika: Mushrooms?
You get the idea. I didn't have the heart to tell Shanika that "mushrooms" isn't even in the book. She seemed so excited about them.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
nightmare
I just had a dream that Paul and I had a child.
That part wasn't the nightmare. That part was actually really nice.
We named him Conan. Pretty bad, right?
It gets worse.
We wanted him to be associated with smarts and not with loincloths and California's governor so we decided to call him....
Conan the Librarian.
AAAAAUUUUUGHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!
That part wasn't the nightmare. That part was actually really nice.
We named him Conan. Pretty bad, right?
It gets worse.
We wanted him to be associated with smarts and not with loincloths and California's governor so we decided to call him....
Conan the Librarian.
AAAAAUUUUUGHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!
Thursday, May 7, 2009
lies i told my mother
I am like three years old, and I am hiding in my closet. Naked.
Are you in there, Andrea?
Uh, yeah. I'm in here.
Are you dressed?
Uh, yeah. I'm dressed.
There it is. The first lie I remember telling my mom. At the time, I feel pretty justified in telling it, because I just love changing my clothes, and there are just too many options to select only one outfit. How could I anticipate, how could I possibly know mom would give me a three time limit on clothes changing for the day? I'm four! It's what I do! Besides telling myself stories in the bathroom, changing clothes is the primary joy of my life!
So, I lie to my mom. She opens the closet door.
Oops. Didn't so much think that far.
Then I am seven, and it is the night before my birthday. There is an unwrapped birthday present under the front seat of mom's car, and I sneak out after dinner for a peek. It's a box set of Little House on the Prairie books. A tiny thrill courses through my body when I see them.
I walk back inside.
Where were you?
I freeze. Covert ops have never been my strong suit.
Uh....there was a big star.
Let's go see it, shall we?
Geez.
I am eight years old now, and sitting at the dinner table, but dinner has been over for a long, long time. I stare at my bean burrito. I attempt to vaporize it using the power of my mind. Unsuccessful, I review the blueprint of the kitchen, looking for somewhere, anywhere, to dispose of it.
Andrea, if you don't eat the burrito tonight, you have to eat it for breakfast tomorrow.
So really, all I hear is blah blah blah don't eat the burrito tonight which is exactly what I am going for, so I congratulate myself for being on the same page as mom, and go to the bathroom to tell myself a story about this awesome fluffy pink satin bedspread I saw in the Sears catalog, and then I go to bed.
When I wake up, a dim memory steals across the back corner of my mind and I realize...... I have to eat a bean burrito for breakfast.
Siiiiiick! Oh holy awful disgustingness!! What in the name of all that is pure was I thinking?
I sit at the breakfast table, alone. I stare at the cold burrito. The cold bean burrito. Overnight it has, I believe, become evil. The burrito is definitely giving off a cold, evil, bean-y vibe. As I ponder my predicament, the solution becomes immediately and beautifully clear:
I dump the burrito in the garbage.
A sensation of supreme relief washes over me upon the disappearance of the bean filled villain, and later when mom asks me if I ate my burrito, I say yes, but that I didn't like it. I think that makes my story nice and realistic like.
Only this time mom doesn't know that I lied. I get away with it. I carry the burrito guilt around with me for a while. For years, actually. It's always there, in the back of my mind. In throwing away my burrito and lying to my mom, I have knowingly sinned. And I really, really don't want to be having my card scanned at judgement day and have an outstanding un-repented burrito sin on my record.
So, I tell her.
She's not mad. I don't get in trouble. She laughs. This might have something to do with the fact that I am at the time like twenty seven, and living three thousand miles away, and there's only so much discipline that can be employed at that point, but I still appreciate her forgiving manner.
That was really nice, I think.
Why didn't I try that sooner?
Mom, I am naked in the closet because I wanted to change my clothes six times not the three like you said, and I peeked at my birthday present and threw away the burrito that I was supposed to eat for breakfast because I wouldn't eat it for dinner.
Huh. It kinda sounds worse when you put them all together like that.
But really, why? Mom always knows.
I am like fifteen, and smack in the middle of my angst ridden angry at parental authority figures period. I am lying in bed late at night. I am crying. I am afraid, I am sad. I am lonely and my body is riddled with unfamiliar hormones and I want my mom. I really, really want my mom.
She opens my door. I pretend I am asleep. I don't want to be asleep. I want her to sit down on my bed, and hold me close and tell me the nice things moms say, like those pimples don't look like volcanoes at all, and you can still be a successful adult even though you don't have one of those kilts with the huge safety pins like Tiffany in your English class has.
But I pretend I am asleep. I pretend I don't need her. I lie to my mom.
She still knows. Mom always knows. She walks in. She kisses me on the forehead. She whispers she loves me.
Hey, Mom?
Sorry I lied.
Are you in there, Andrea?
Uh, yeah. I'm in here.
Are you dressed?
Uh, yeah. I'm dressed.
There it is. The first lie I remember telling my mom. At the time, I feel pretty justified in telling it, because I just love changing my clothes, and there are just too many options to select only one outfit. How could I anticipate, how could I possibly know mom would give me a three time limit on clothes changing for the day? I'm four! It's what I do! Besides telling myself stories in the bathroom, changing clothes is the primary joy of my life!
So, I lie to my mom. She opens the closet door.
Oops. Didn't so much think that far.
Then I am seven, and it is the night before my birthday. There is an unwrapped birthday present under the front seat of mom's car, and I sneak out after dinner for a peek. It's a box set of Little House on the Prairie books. A tiny thrill courses through my body when I see them.
I walk back inside.
Where were you?
I freeze. Covert ops have never been my strong suit.
Uh....there was a big star.
Let's go see it, shall we?
Geez.
I am eight years old now, and sitting at the dinner table, but dinner has been over for a long, long time. I stare at my bean burrito. I attempt to vaporize it using the power of my mind. Unsuccessful, I review the blueprint of the kitchen, looking for somewhere, anywhere, to dispose of it.
Andrea, if you don't eat the burrito tonight, you have to eat it for breakfast tomorrow.
So really, all I hear is blah blah blah don't eat the burrito tonight which is exactly what I am going for, so I congratulate myself for being on the same page as mom, and go to the bathroom to tell myself a story about this awesome fluffy pink satin bedspread I saw in the Sears catalog, and then I go to bed.
When I wake up, a dim memory steals across the back corner of my mind and I realize...... I have to eat a bean burrito for breakfast.
Siiiiiick! Oh holy awful disgustingness!! What in the name of all that is pure was I thinking?
I sit at the breakfast table, alone. I stare at the cold burrito. The cold bean burrito. Overnight it has, I believe, become evil. The burrito is definitely giving off a cold, evil, bean-y vibe. As I ponder my predicament, the solution becomes immediately and beautifully clear:
I dump the burrito in the garbage.
A sensation of supreme relief washes over me upon the disappearance of the bean filled villain, and later when mom asks me if I ate my burrito, I say yes, but that I didn't like it. I think that makes my story nice and realistic like.
Only this time mom doesn't know that I lied. I get away with it. I carry the burrito guilt around with me for a while. For years, actually. It's always there, in the back of my mind. In throwing away my burrito and lying to my mom, I have knowingly sinned. And I really, really don't want to be having my card scanned at judgement day and have an outstanding un-repented burrito sin on my record.
So, I tell her.
She's not mad. I don't get in trouble. She laughs. This might have something to do with the fact that I am at the time like twenty seven, and living three thousand miles away, and there's only so much discipline that can be employed at that point, but I still appreciate her forgiving manner.
That was really nice, I think.
Why didn't I try that sooner?
Mom, I am naked in the closet because I wanted to change my clothes six times not the three like you said, and I peeked at my birthday present and threw away the burrito that I was supposed to eat for breakfast because I wouldn't eat it for dinner.
Huh. It kinda sounds worse when you put them all together like that.
But really, why? Mom always knows.
I am like fifteen, and smack in the middle of my angst ridden angry at parental authority figures period. I am lying in bed late at night. I am crying. I am afraid, I am sad. I am lonely and my body is riddled with unfamiliar hormones and I want my mom. I really, really want my mom.
She opens my door. I pretend I am asleep. I don't want to be asleep. I want her to sit down on my bed, and hold me close and tell me the nice things moms say, like those pimples don't look like volcanoes at all, and you can still be a successful adult even though you don't have one of those kilts with the huge safety pins like Tiffany in your English class has.
But I pretend I am asleep. I pretend I don't need her. I lie to my mom.
She still knows. Mom always knows. She walks in. She kisses me on the forehead. She whispers she loves me.
Hey, Mom?
Sorry I lied.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
to paul on our anniversary
Dear Paul,
It's been a good eight years. I would even go so far as to say it's been a really, really good eight years. Good just isn't a good enough word, though. And the words that seem right also seem really, really....gooey.
Yesterday I came home from school and you didn't open the door right away. Sometimes that can be a sign that some illegal dealings are afoot (if you watch a lot of Lifetime television for women), but in this case it was just because you were putting the finishing touches on the Cinco De Mayo themed anniversary decorations you were putting up in our apartment.
They're pretty great decorations, too. I especially love the giant guitar holding mariachi guys who are now flanking the pictures on our big wall, and who look strangely like our friend Doug. I love that you stood in a party store and knew that I would love giant mariachi guitar guys who look like our friend Doug.
I don't know how to say all the things I am thinking. I don't know how to put eight years, eight years that have moved and lifted and challenged and blessed into a paragraph. I think when people do it usually ends up in a card that plays music when you push a button, and I'm just not sure that's what I'm going for here.
Maybe it is, though. I mean, if you can't say gooey words and throw pink marshmallow hearts around and stuff on an anniversary, then when can you?
So, I'm just going to go for broke here. I'm just going to lay my gooey cards out on the table. I think you're awesome. More than that. I think you're awesome times like fifty. I think you are sweet and silly and unexpected in the best possible way and the only person I ever want to throw pink marshmallow hearts at.
Also remember last night when I made you watch Spice World because I just wanted to see if it really was the worst movie ever made (and it was) and you only asked twice if we had to keep watching? Well, I just think that was really decent of you.
It's been a good eight years.
It's been a good eight years. I would even go so far as to say it's been a really, really good eight years. Good just isn't a good enough word, though. And the words that seem right also seem really, really....gooey.
Yesterday I came home from school and you didn't open the door right away. Sometimes that can be a sign that some illegal dealings are afoot (if you watch a lot of Lifetime television for women), but in this case it was just because you were putting the finishing touches on the Cinco De Mayo themed anniversary decorations you were putting up in our apartment.
They're pretty great decorations, too. I especially love the giant guitar holding mariachi guys who are now flanking the pictures on our big wall, and who look strangely like our friend Doug. I love that you stood in a party store and knew that I would love giant mariachi guitar guys who look like our friend Doug.
I don't know how to say all the things I am thinking. I don't know how to put eight years, eight years that have moved and lifted and challenged and blessed into a paragraph. I think when people do it usually ends up in a card that plays music when you push a button, and I'm just not sure that's what I'm going for here.
Maybe it is, though. I mean, if you can't say gooey words and throw pink marshmallow hearts around and stuff on an anniversary, then when can you?
So, I'm just going to go for broke here. I'm just going to lay my gooey cards out on the table. I think you're awesome. More than that. I think you're awesome times like fifty. I think you are sweet and silly and unexpected in the best possible way and the only person I ever want to throw pink marshmallow hearts at.
Also remember last night when I made you watch Spice World because I just wanted to see if it really was the worst movie ever made (and it was) and you only asked twice if we had to keep watching? Well, I just think that was really decent of you.
It's been a good eight years.
Friday, May 1, 2009
i travel back in time sixty years
Andrea: Hey Paul, would you go downstairs and get the laundry?
Paul: What? No! I'm tired!
Andrea: Me too. So hey, could you go get it?
Paul: But you started the laundry. Shouldn't you finish it?
Andrea: Hey, if you get it, I'll fold it. Collaborative effort. Good for marriage.
Paul: Are you serious? I just worked for thirteen hours! I saved lives! I SAVED LIVES FOR THIRTEEN HOURS! I SAVED LIVES FOR THIRTEEN HOURS SO YOU COULD STAY HOME AND DO LAUNDRY!
Andrea: Let's talk about the last half of that statement. After you get the laundry.
Paul: What? No! I'm tired!
Andrea: Me too. So hey, could you go get it?
Paul: But you started the laundry. Shouldn't you finish it?
Andrea: Hey, if you get it, I'll fold it. Collaborative effort. Good for marriage.
Paul: Are you serious? I just worked for thirteen hours! I saved lives! I SAVED LIVES FOR THIRTEEN HOURS! I SAVED LIVES FOR THIRTEEN HOURS SO YOU COULD STAY HOME AND DO LAUNDRY!
Andrea: Let's talk about the last half of that statement. After you get the laundry.
Kittens, inspired by Kittens!
Okay, so I would like to issue an urgent plea to all within the sound of my voice. Or who are posessed of psychic powers and know what I'm thinking just automatically. Or who happen to reading my blog right now. Please, PLEASE watch this. Watch this and then feed your kids a bunch of sugar and see if you can get them to do the same thing. Because that is TOTALLY what I would do if I had a kid. Hey, maybe I'll just feed MYSELF a lot of sugar and see if I do the same thing.
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