The goods:
The 1940s are eating me alive, and I like it. I've been listening to the early years of Frank Sinatra (A Voice in Time [1939-1952]), and I am in love with him. You can listen to him here. I thought Jo Stafford sang the most romantic version of "Embraceable You," but I cannot resist young Sinatra. He reminds me of the mocha cheesecake I baked Wednesday night: rich, creamy, delicious, and mm-mm good. No one can sing "it's not that you're attractive" and make homeliness sound appealing like Frankie.
I am 280 pages into The Count of Monte Cristo. I could be so much farther, and I am ashamed of my lack of motivation to read.
My room is finished! Except that Paul Newman keeps falling off my wall, the painting (and re-painting a lovely Summer Afternoon - smother, Chickery Chick!) is finished, my Gone with the Wind wall is in order (more like my GWTW room is in order - how did I acquire so much Windy paraphernalia? I blame Sarah), and I have only a few odds and ends that still need to be nailed and taped. Paul, stop falling off the wall in the middle of the night. You are loud and getting bent.
The bads:
I have officially applied for six jobs, and I think it's rotten. Starbucks was probably my favorite application. They asked me, "What do you like about coffee?" I like that it smells like roasted winter mornings, that it reminds me of my father, that it complements 8 o'clock lectures so well, that it's the color of warmth and security....Would any of these things make me more eligible for a job brewing and serving and smelling like beans? Then they asked me, "Have you ever been to a Starbucks before?" ...Are you kidding me? Um, no! What are star bucks? How much are they worth in American currency?
Yesterday Mom tricked me by telling me I should apply at Kohler, then dragged me (and I mean dragged me; I have never said "No" so firmly to my mother in all my life) into their showroom where they displayed three floors of toilets, sinks, faucets, and bathtubs. Couples and threesomes of old ladies walked around admiring the lovely painted and marble productions. I couldn't swallow an 8,000-dollar bathtub, even if it did look divinely inspired.
I'm tired of trying to sell myself to places at which I don't even really want to work. If it weren't for workers, they wouldn't have a business at all, so why aren't they the ones trying so hard to get us, instead of the other way around? I'm bitter. If anyone needs a nanny, I'm good with kids, I like apples, and I know a great little place with three floors of bathroom fixtures where we can spend hours....
I'm-a gonna raise a fuss, I'm-a gonna raise a holler
about workin' all summer just to try to earn a dollar....
Sometimes I wonder what I'm-a gonna do
but there ain't no cure for the summertime blues....
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
in the summertime, when the weather is fine
My forearms are speckled with yellow paint. I told Mom I wanted Lemon Curd, but she said it was too bright, so I settled for Chickery Chick. If I had gone with Lemon Curd, I think it would have been like staring into the sun, because as it is, I feel as though I have captured a Pedestrian Crossing street sign and smeared it all over my walls. Mom tells me that it won't be so bad when I put up all my posters, and so I give thanks for Mom, who saved me from Lemon Curd, and for Paul Newman, Frank Sinatra, Aragorn, and Scarlett and Rhett, who will be shielding my sensitive eyes from the brightness of my walls.
My side muscles (I'm sure there is a much more accurate medical term for those, but I think "side muscles" is sufficiently descriptive) are sore. Yesterday Dad and I took a 2-mile hike on the Ice Age Trails, a hilly, rocky, woodland formed from glaciers many moons ago. The sky was contentedly blue and the air was tinted green with leaf-filtered sunlight. Dad made me use a pair of his hiking poles, and at first I hoped against hope that we wouldn't pass anyone on the trails, but after about a half a mile I hoped the guy we saw noticed with what ease I used the helpful sticks, leaping down hills and climbing rocky terrain with speed and efficiency. It was lovely with white flowers off the path bobbing their heads to a 65-degree breeze. I think my poles deserve to be named, after we bonded so mightily in our adventures yesterday. I'll give that some thought.
Yesterday I baked a banana cake for Dad's 59th birthday. Grandma Krauss made the best banana cakes, and its her recipe. I have a picture of us frosting a banana cake, me wearing a pink skirt and matching pink shirt that used to be white until Mom washed it with the reds. I've made banana cakes at least three times before, but this time we didn't have buttermilk. I knew, somehow I just knew deep down, as though the Holy Spirit was whispering to my heart, how important that buttermilk was. But Mom said to try regular milk. Oh, why did I listen? Why didn't I forgo the project or run next door to ask a neighbor? Who couldn't spare 2/3 cup buttermilk? And we all know how friendly Peggy and Phil are, after I "locked" myself out of the house over Thanksgiving break. But I didn't listen to the Holy Spirit, if it really was Him caring about my buttermilk. I used 1% milk. And it's probably the most pitiful cake I've ever made. It broke apart like I imagine those glaciers did that formed the Ice Age Trail. It all sort of sunk in in the middle, slumped like a tired soldier's shoulders at the end of the day. So pitiful! The frosting didn't even make it all the way around the cake. Dad says it still tastes good, but I feel as though my child graduated college with a bachelor's degree in biology and hopes of medical school, but then lives in my basement eating chocolate covered peanuts and watching MythBusters. It was capable of so much more.
I have three major books on my "To-Read" list, and I am counting on you to keep me accountable. This summer, I want to complete Robinson Crusoe, The Count of Monte Cristo, and at least one Jules Verne novel (I have about four to choose from). After those, I have some books I want to re-read, like To Kill a Mockingbird (only for the 4th time) and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I wonder how much of this I will accomplish this summer. I wonder when my parents are going to realize I haven't applied for any jobs yet. I wonder if my retinas will slowly sizzle every time I open my eyes in my newly painted room.
The past two nights have proved an interesting - and I hope not a habitual - experience. Around seven or eight in the evening, a wind blows in from somewhere and blows harder and longer than I have ever felt or seen wind blow. The temperature drops and suddenly the smell of cow manure fills the air. I understand Wisconsin is America's Dairyland (or so say our license plates), but this haunting wind of invisible death makes me want to shove towels in the cracks of the doors and light cinnamon candles until winter comes. I'll be sure to mark "day 3" in my journal of fertilizing habits if it happens again tonight, and if you don't hear from me again, the cold fingers of odorous farm winds have choked me to death. Think of me when next you enjoy a bowl of ice cream or a glass of milk. Your dairy products were the cause of my demise.
My side muscles (I'm sure there is a much more accurate medical term for those, but I think "side muscles" is sufficiently descriptive) are sore. Yesterday Dad and I took a 2-mile hike on the Ice Age Trails, a hilly, rocky, woodland formed from glaciers many moons ago. The sky was contentedly blue and the air was tinted green with leaf-filtered sunlight. Dad made me use a pair of his hiking poles, and at first I hoped against hope that we wouldn't pass anyone on the trails, but after about a half a mile I hoped the guy we saw noticed with what ease I used the helpful sticks, leaping down hills and climbing rocky terrain with speed and efficiency. It was lovely with white flowers off the path bobbing their heads to a 65-degree breeze. I think my poles deserve to be named, after we bonded so mightily in our adventures yesterday. I'll give that some thought.
Yesterday I baked a banana cake for Dad's 59th birthday. Grandma Krauss made the best banana cakes, and its her recipe. I have a picture of us frosting a banana cake, me wearing a pink skirt and matching pink shirt that used to be white until Mom washed it with the reds. I've made banana cakes at least three times before, but this time we didn't have buttermilk. I knew, somehow I just knew deep down, as though the Holy Spirit was whispering to my heart, how important that buttermilk was. But Mom said to try regular milk. Oh, why did I listen? Why didn't I forgo the project or run next door to ask a neighbor? Who couldn't spare 2/3 cup buttermilk? And we all know how friendly Peggy and Phil are, after I "locked" myself out of the house over Thanksgiving break. But I didn't listen to the Holy Spirit, if it really was Him caring about my buttermilk. I used 1% milk. And it's probably the most pitiful cake I've ever made. It broke apart like I imagine those glaciers did that formed the Ice Age Trail. It all sort of sunk in in the middle, slumped like a tired soldier's shoulders at the end of the day. So pitiful! The frosting didn't even make it all the way around the cake. Dad says it still tastes good, but I feel as though my child graduated college with a bachelor's degree in biology and hopes of medical school, but then lives in my basement eating chocolate covered peanuts and watching MythBusters. It was capable of so much more.
I have three major books on my "To-Read" list, and I am counting on you to keep me accountable. This summer, I want to complete Robinson Crusoe, The Count of Monte Cristo, and at least one Jules Verne novel (I have about four to choose from). After those, I have some books I want to re-read, like To Kill a Mockingbird (only for the 4th time) and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I wonder how much of this I will accomplish this summer. I wonder when my parents are going to realize I haven't applied for any jobs yet. I wonder if my retinas will slowly sizzle every time I open my eyes in my newly painted room.
The past two nights have proved an interesting - and I hope not a habitual - experience. Around seven or eight in the evening, a wind blows in from somewhere and blows harder and longer than I have ever felt or seen wind blow. The temperature drops and suddenly the smell of cow manure fills the air. I understand Wisconsin is America's Dairyland (or so say our license plates), but this haunting wind of invisible death makes me want to shove towels in the cracks of the doors and light cinnamon candles until winter comes. I'll be sure to mark "day 3" in my journal of fertilizing habits if it happens again tonight, and if you don't hear from me again, the cold fingers of odorous farm winds have choked me to death. Think of me when next you enjoy a bowl of ice cream or a glass of milk. Your dairy products were the cause of my demise.
Monday, May 19, 2008
so say goodbye
"You leave town for a couple of decades and they change everything." Or so says Phoebus from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. And I must say I agree with him. I don't know about you, but I have no idea how I lived in Marietta for 11 years without a Bar-b-Cutie. And what with the new Wendy's, I'm tempted to return to high school simply for the easy access. Except I think I'd rather eat fish out of the Ohio River than return to high school for anything. Who's up for an evening service at the new Nazarene church on Front Street? Afterwards we can eat Putnam chocolates and stare into the vacant windows of Brownies.
Isn't it silly the way time passes? Audrey's married and Gretchen's getting married and Erin's getting engaged and Annie's living on her own and Tanya's moving to Florida and Sarah's moving to Utah and I...I just sit back and watch all my friends disperse, write them letters in my head, wish they were sitting back with me around a campfire smelling summer like so many youth groups so many years ago. Playing football in the mud and sledding in the snow and chicken fights in the pool, sticking leaves in our hair while hiding from flashlights and illegally spraying our tents with bug spray, volleyball and frisbee golf and eating Tootsie Pops and playing Mac computer games....
And now what? How do so many years of being teenagers fade into adulthood? How do so many careless, barefooted romps through the grass turn into responsibly accepting your diploma into life?
I heave a huge sigh and sit back and watch. I'm always up for a campfire.
Isn't it silly the way time passes? Audrey's married and Gretchen's getting married and Erin's getting engaged and Annie's living on her own and Tanya's moving to Florida and Sarah's moving to Utah and I...I just sit back and watch all my friends disperse, write them letters in my head, wish they were sitting back with me around a campfire smelling summer like so many youth groups so many years ago. Playing football in the mud and sledding in the snow and chicken fights in the pool, sticking leaves in our hair while hiding from flashlights and illegally spraying our tents with bug spray, volleyball and frisbee golf and eating Tootsie Pops and playing Mac computer games....
And now what? How do so many years of being teenagers fade into adulthood? How do so many careless, barefooted romps through the grass turn into responsibly accepting your diploma into life?
I heave a huge sigh and sit back and watch. I'm always up for a campfire.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
road trip
I hate
how clever detours think they are
people who have passionate love affairs with my bumper
gas, and the way it is required to drive one's car
I love
Steak and Shake
Steak and Shake (oops, did I already mention that one?)
the street I passed in either Ohio or Indiana called "Needmore Road"
the sign in Illinoise welcoming you to the tollway. As if we chose to pay to drive on a slab of concrete. "If you drive a car car, I'll tax the street." George Harrison knew what he was saying. I bet it was a tollbooth worker who snuck into his house and stabbed him.
Steak and Shake
how clever detours think they are
people who have passionate love affairs with my bumper
gas, and the way it is required to drive one's car
I love
Steak and Shake
Steak and Shake (oops, did I already mention that one?)
the street I passed in either Ohio or Indiana called "Needmore Road"
the sign in Illinoise welcoming you to the tollway. As if we chose to pay to drive on a slab of concrete. "If you drive a car car, I'll tax the street." George Harrison knew what he was saying. I bet it was a tollbooth worker who snuck into his house and stabbed him.
Steak and Shake
Monday, May 12, 2008
William Wallace
I am done.
What does that feel like? It feels like driving 2 1/2 hours in the pouring rain and dark (the dark was pouring, too) to Annie's apartment in Dayton, where she fed me chocolate covered soy beans (what the heck?) and let me sleep on her floor. It feels like curling up on the couch with a blanket smelling of clean laundry, the rainy air coming in through the open window and pink apple blossoms quivering in the breeze. It feels like waking up in the morning and just lying there...just lying there...just lying there. It feels like walking to Rita's with Sarah through green suburban neighborhoods with fields of dandelions and eating a mango Italian Ice, and taking a nap on Sarah's couch even after 9 full hours of sleep.
Asbury College can take our lives, but they can never take our freedom.
Isabel says (or, rather, sings) in Scrooge that "happiness is whatever you want it to be." I think summer suits me pretty well right now as my definition of happiness. Though I have yet to be home since classes ended almost a week ago, I am muchly contended with friend-visiting while I have the chance. Chris in the movie Into the Wild said something about joy not only being found in human relationships, but in the creation God has placed around us. That's true, to a great extent...but I think I would prefer my human relationships over my relationships with trees. Somehow having my plant strapped into the passenger side of my car as I journey around the Midwest is not as fulfilling as, say, a friend.
I am rambling, because a.) Annie is gone and I'm lonely (the tree is not talking back), b.) cigarette smoke is filtering in through her walls and I feel like lung cancer, and c.) somehow my body thought it was funny to tease me with the prospect of a nap and then get excited about being awake. To you, body, I say: Poo.
What does that feel like? It feels like driving 2 1/2 hours in the pouring rain and dark (the dark was pouring, too) to Annie's apartment in Dayton, where she fed me chocolate covered soy beans (what the heck?) and let me sleep on her floor. It feels like curling up on the couch with a blanket smelling of clean laundry, the rainy air coming in through the open window and pink apple blossoms quivering in the breeze. It feels like waking up in the morning and just lying there...just lying there...just lying there. It feels like walking to Rita's with Sarah through green suburban neighborhoods with fields of dandelions and eating a mango Italian Ice, and taking a nap on Sarah's couch even after 9 full hours of sleep.
Asbury College can take our lives, but they can never take our freedom.
Isabel says (or, rather, sings) in Scrooge that "happiness is whatever you want it to be." I think summer suits me pretty well right now as my definition of happiness. Though I have yet to be home since classes ended almost a week ago, I am muchly contended with friend-visiting while I have the chance. Chris in the movie Into the Wild said something about joy not only being found in human relationships, but in the creation God has placed around us. That's true, to a great extent...but I think I would prefer my human relationships over my relationships with trees. Somehow having my plant strapped into the passenger side of my car as I journey around the Midwest is not as fulfilling as, say, a friend.
I am rambling, because a.) Annie is gone and I'm lonely (the tree is not talking back), b.) cigarette smoke is filtering in through her walls and I feel like lung cancer, and c.) somehow my body thought it was funny to tease me with the prospect of a nap and then get excited about being awake. To you, body, I say: Poo.
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