1. Procrastinate
2. Discuss, with one friend, the Pros and Cons of Romantic Relationships, while shopping for her roommate's birthday present
3. Discuss pros and cons of friendships in general over Mini Tacos from Bomber's Burrito Bar
4. Venture to Target to buy tomato sauce, camera batteries and Clorox wipes for the house
5. Play with adorable Dachshund puppy named Jameson and decide to volunteer at animal shelter
6. Go to a meeting
7. Purchase Red Bull
8. Make two pizzas with my freshman roommate
9. Drive her little brother's friend back to UAlbany so he could let his roommate in after a lockout and pick himself up some cheap rum
10. Steal the tootsie rolls that they were going to give to kids on Halloween
11. Ask my roommate to wash my pants because I'm still not home; fail to identify which pants
12. Give Up
13. Have the contents of friend's wastebasket wiped on my sleeve
14. Go home and begin laundry
15. Help pick out a new motorcycle from 250 miles away
16. Lose MP3 player
17. Find MP3 player
18. Shower
19. Move car back and forth obsessively to find a parking spot where it can stay for 4 days
20. Harass professor via AIM in ALL CAPS!!!!!
21. Pack
22. Write this post
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Reese's Links: Rodeo-Style Roundup
So I'm leaving for Texas in about two days. Less than two days. All-expense paid writer/editors conference in Austin over Halloween weekend (Halloween is on a Saturday this year!)= excuse to leave town. And no one can argue with that.
Obviously though, as any good little journalist will tell you, you need to do some research before you head off into these things. So I present to you, Reese's Links: Texas Edition.
First things first: the professional aspect. Here is the reason I (and the other editors) are actually going to Austin to begin with. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the 88th Annual ACP/CMA National College Media Convention.
Top Texas Halloween Festivals gives great insight on exactly what I'm in for, being in a town that shuts down streets (!) to celebrate All Hallows Eve. Although these aren't necessarily happening in Austin, I'm still excited to see how Texans get down.
I love nothing more than a good show, and this is the Live Music Capital of the World we're talking about, so I'm sure I won't be disappointed.
This directory shows the best happy hours in Austin. No ma'am, I certainly will not be disappointed.
And then there's this.
And, of course, I need to eat while I'm there. Tex-Mex or BBQ anyone?
I might be obligated to keep with a family tradition of visiting historical sites in every city across the country.
Really cool website: austinist.com tells me about halloween themed dance parties I might want to visit. Oh heck yeah.
That's it for now. More to come!
Obviously though, as any good little journalist will tell you, you need to do some research before you head off into these things. So I present to you, Reese's Links: Texas Edition.
First things first: the professional aspect. Here is the reason I (and the other editors) are actually going to Austin to begin with. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the 88th Annual ACP/CMA National College Media Convention.
Top Texas Halloween Festivals gives great insight on exactly what I'm in for, being in a town that shuts down streets (!) to celebrate All Hallows Eve. Although these aren't necessarily happening in Austin, I'm still excited to see how Texans get down.
I love nothing more than a good show, and this is the Live Music Capital of the World we're talking about, so I'm sure I won't be disappointed.
This directory shows the best happy hours in Austin. No ma'am, I certainly will not be disappointed.
And then there's this.
And, of course, I need to eat while I'm there. Tex-Mex or BBQ anyone?
I might be obligated to keep with a family tradition of visiting historical sites in every city across the country.
Really cool website: austinist.com tells me about halloween themed dance parties I might want to visit. Oh heck yeah.
That's it for now. More to come!
Sunday, October 25, 2009
"This is What One in a Million Looks Like"
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
It Has Been Thirteen Years Since My Last Holy Confession...
Holy or not, I think it's time for a confession here, in this space. I've had some trouble deciding exactly who I want to be and how I want to present myself to you people (the world), and I doubt I'm alone. So, in the interest of full disclosure, I'll share the letter I wrote to my professor last night, detailing my struggle with this blog.
Dear Professor Nester,
I admit that before this class, blogging was just another word for venting any and all of my feelings (which probably should have been kept to myself) to the entire freaking world via Myspace. Yeah. I had a myspace blog and I knew how to use it. So during my angst-y teenage years, the whole world was exposed to The Volatile and Somewhat Insane Ranting of One More Heartbroken Teenaged Girl, and that’s what blogging meant to me. An open diary of way too much information. Which is ironic because I was always trying to hide that information from my mother (oh well).
Anyway, I admit that it was and is hard for me to draw a line with a professional blog, between TMI in a good way and TMI in a crazy, scary I-will-never-get-a-job way. But it seems like I’ve been getting closer to figuring out how exactly to strike that balance, though I’m still bumbling a little bit. I like the posts I’ve been working on and putting up, even though it’s sort of like flying blind in some cases because I’m not entirely comfortable with this yet, I think I can say I’m heading in the right direction.
We’ve talked about my technical problems and I know I need to pay closer attention to grammar and punctuation, as well as do some work on the overarching style of my writing, but I think that’s developing pretty nicely. I haven’t been as vocal and present in this class as I was last semester in your Creative Nonfiction class, mostly because I’m not as sure of myself in this area as I was in that one. Writing long pieces about things that should embarrass any normal person and putting them out to be judged by a group of people I barely knew was fun for me. None of the people in that class were going to drag out a manuscript in a few years and tell me I can’t have a job because of it. I was comfortable because I had no limits. I could talk about underage drinking and blowing stuff up and my inability to hold onto a roommate, all personal problems of varying degrees of severity, and feel totally comfortable knowing that it wasn’t the sole way I was going to present myself to the world.
And that’s what makes this so difficult to me. The people that read my blog don’t know me in real life. They may very well hold a job over my head someday. And I find it difficult to present to them a legitimate representation of me, as a person and as a writer, because my interests are so scattered. I’m all crazy and zany but I’m professional and serious too, and especially in a place where my personal life meets something professional, that’s hard to reconcile. I don’t want to be uptight and I don’t want to be insane. And I’m still struggling with that.
That said, I think if/when I figure out that balance, it’ll be beautiful. I mean, really, if I can actually legitimize my personal/professional balance online and make a site about me, the definite collection, then that would be dynamite. I could expand on it, show it to people and use it to introduce myself, and maybe I could make it something more than the sum of its parts. A launching pad for a career, instead of something to hide lest it be destroyed. That would be wild. It still seems a long way off, though.
I know I need to do some more building on this project and I know that I need some more guidance to do it, which is why for potentially the first time in my entire academic career (including preschool) I’ll say that I’m hoping for structure as the semester goes on. Not fascism, but an outline, inspiration, guiding light type of thing. Because at this point, left to my own devices, I would probably sit dumbly at the computer screen with my mouth hanging open because I don’t quite have my footing yet. I mean, I wouldn’t sit like that all day; I’d figure it out in a little while. But until I know that I can fire off posts in my sleep, I like the idea of having a little more structure, a template to base things off of so I can keep this going the way it needs to go.
So that's where I stand, the whole story. Thanks for listening.
Sincerely,
Reese
Dear Professor Nester,
I admit that before this class, blogging was just another word for venting any and all of my feelings (which probably should have been kept to myself) to the entire freaking world via Myspace. Yeah. I had a myspace blog and I knew how to use it. So during my angst-y teenage years, the whole world was exposed to The Volatile and Somewhat Insane Ranting of One More Heartbroken Teenaged Girl, and that’s what blogging meant to me. An open diary of way too much information. Which is ironic because I was always trying to hide that information from my mother (oh well).
Anyway, I admit that it was and is hard for me to draw a line with a professional blog, between TMI in a good way and TMI in a crazy, scary I-will-never-get-a-job way. But it seems like I’ve been getting closer to figuring out how exactly to strike that balance, though I’m still bumbling a little bit. I like the posts I’ve been working on and putting up, even though it’s sort of like flying blind in some cases because I’m not entirely comfortable with this yet, I think I can say I’m heading in the right direction.
We’ve talked about my technical problems and I know I need to pay closer attention to grammar and punctuation, as well as do some work on the overarching style of my writing, but I think that’s developing pretty nicely. I haven’t been as vocal and present in this class as I was last semester in your Creative Nonfiction class, mostly because I’m not as sure of myself in this area as I was in that one. Writing long pieces about things that should embarrass any normal person and putting them out to be judged by a group of people I barely knew was fun for me. None of the people in that class were going to drag out a manuscript in a few years and tell me I can’t have a job because of it. I was comfortable because I had no limits. I could talk about underage drinking and blowing stuff up and my inability to hold onto a roommate, all personal problems of varying degrees of severity, and feel totally comfortable knowing that it wasn’t the sole way I was going to present myself to the world.
And that’s what makes this so difficult to me. The people that read my blog don’t know me in real life. They may very well hold a job over my head someday. And I find it difficult to present to them a legitimate representation of me, as a person and as a writer, because my interests are so scattered. I’m all crazy and zany but I’m professional and serious too, and especially in a place where my personal life meets something professional, that’s hard to reconcile. I don’t want to be uptight and I don’t want to be insane. And I’m still struggling with that.
That said, I think if/when I figure out that balance, it’ll be beautiful. I mean, really, if I can actually legitimize my personal/professional balance online and make a site about me, the definite collection, then that would be dynamite. I could expand on it, show it to people and use it to introduce myself, and maybe I could make it something more than the sum of its parts. A launching pad for a career, instead of something to hide lest it be destroyed. That would be wild. It still seems a long way off, though.
I know I need to do some more building on this project and I know that I need some more guidance to do it, which is why for potentially the first time in my entire academic career (including preschool) I’ll say that I’m hoping for structure as the semester goes on. Not fascism, but an outline, inspiration, guiding light type of thing. Because at this point, left to my own devices, I would probably sit dumbly at the computer screen with my mouth hanging open because I don’t quite have my footing yet. I mean, I wouldn’t sit like that all day; I’d figure it out in a little while. But until I know that I can fire off posts in my sleep, I like the idea of having a little more structure, a template to base things off of so I can keep this going the way it needs to go.
So that's where I stand, the whole story. Thanks for listening.
Sincerely,
Reese
Monday, October 19, 2009
Reese's Links: Things That Made Me Laugh This Week
I've been sick and stressed out for approaching two weeks now. After suffering a minor nervous breakdown the other day, I decided I should do something to lighten my mood--like Chicken Soup for the Insane. So I scoured the internet for things I find hilarious and I am now sharing them with all you good people.
WARNING: They are probably considered "rude," "mean" and "politically incorrect." It is what it is.
"For the fisherman or cook in your life": The WunderBoner. Definitely not for the faint-of-stomach, as it involves some gut-turning dead fish action, but undeniably hilarious.
The best thing on this list is a graphic list called "caring for baby". Don't be alarmed. It's not gruesome or sick. Just funny.
Thank God, the creepy Burger King "King" mascot is on his way out. Yes, hovering over people's beds in a huge plastic mask and grabbing their genitals during football-themed commercials DOES qualify you as a sexual predator.
I received this in an email attachment. It's a hoax, but it's hilarious. Scroll down.
Watching people I know prank people I don't really know is always a good time.
Zombieland was actually funny; I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, slightly less so, but Tucker Max's website is wildly inappropriate and therefore entertaining.
I saw The Hangover this summer, but watching it again makes me feel less like shit.
This man was duct-taped to a flagpole outside a VFW in Rensselaer county a few weeks ago. He burned a flag outside of the post and was subsequently tied to the pole for public ridicule while a youth soccer picnic commenced across the street.
Men have finally come up with an equivalent to the push-up bra with Calvin Klein Padded Crotch Jeans. Now they can deceive us as easily as we deceive them! Hooray!
Admittedly mean, but hilarious enough to make up for it: ladies and gentlemen, I give you The People of WalMart. I heard it's going around via email now. Can't wait to find THAT in my inbox.
Talk about disrespect: you can now prank call people using Michael Jackson's voice. There's a list on the main page of all the OTHER famous people you can fraudulently impersonate, too.
The best thing you can do with the American dollar besides spend it.
WARNING: They are probably considered "rude," "mean" and "politically incorrect." It is what it is.
"For the fisherman or cook in your life": The WunderBoner. Definitely not for the faint-of-stomach, as it involves some gut-turning dead fish action, but undeniably hilarious.
The best thing on this list is a graphic list called "caring for baby". Don't be alarmed. It's not gruesome or sick. Just funny.
Thank God, the creepy Burger King "King" mascot is on his way out. Yes, hovering over people's beds in a huge plastic mask and grabbing their genitals during football-themed commercials DOES qualify you as a sexual predator.
I received this in an email attachment. It's a hoax, but it's hilarious. Scroll down.
Watching people I know prank people I don't really know is always a good time.
Zombieland was actually funny; I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, slightly less so, but Tucker Max's website is wildly inappropriate and therefore entertaining.
I saw The Hangover this summer, but watching it again makes me feel less like shit.
This man was duct-taped to a flagpole outside a VFW in Rensselaer county a few weeks ago. He burned a flag outside of the post and was subsequently tied to the pole for public ridicule while a youth soccer picnic commenced across the street.
Men have finally come up with an equivalent to the push-up bra with Calvin Klein Padded Crotch Jeans. Now they can deceive us as easily as we deceive them! Hooray!
Admittedly mean, but hilarious enough to make up for it: ladies and gentlemen, I give you The People of WalMart. I heard it's going around via email now. Can't wait to find THAT in my inbox.
Talk about disrespect: you can now prank call people using Michael Jackson's voice. There's a list on the main page of all the OTHER famous people you can fraudulently impersonate, too.
The best thing you can do with the American dollar besides spend it.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
An Open Letter to the Hobos, Creepers and Freaks Who Make My Life Hell
I recently ended a year-long employment with a grocery store in the ghetto of Albany, New York. So my hands (and tongue) are no longer tied by obligation to keep my seven-dollar-an-hour job.
And I have something to say.
Dear Homeless Bums, Sexual Predators, and Asylum Escapees of the Greater Albany Area:
Leave me the hell alone.
Now, I will give you this: you will make great characters for my books, as I try to tell myself whenever your slurred comments make me want to jump across the moving grocery belt and slap you with the large frozen halibut you just purchased.
But please, spare me your bullshit.
Spare me your smells, that certain combination of stale cigarettes, old beer, urine, dirt and unwashed body. They flash me back and I don't like it. Spare me your drug-addled rants about the price of bacon-- spare me your heated diatribes over the quality of American brown bread vs. German. Wipe your nose and stop trying to steal the M&Ms. I can see you. And even if I couldn't, you smell worse than 99% of the other hobos in here. Like skunks, your stench precedes you, and refuses to wane even after you are gone.
And the abuse doesn't end at work; you must follow me home too. Spare me your attempts to break into my house on a bi-monthly basis, searching for empty cans. Do you want to buy me all that beer? Then fine, take the cans. If not, move it along. Next time I'm calling the cops. I don't care that the people who lived here before me let you in at your own leisure. You're not welcome.
I understand that this may seem harsh. On paper, people will laugh at your antics. But in real life, you are scary. You are dangerous. You are like a wild animal: no matter how "cute" and "cuddly" you might look when you are chatting up my roommate on the way to her car, calling her "ma'am" and all this other bullshit, or trying to inform us that you run a business that collects recyclables: you are dangerous, can't be trusted, and may bite at any time.
You run a business? Then why are you wearing the same shirt you were wearing two weeks ago when you should up pounding on my door? There is already a business for can recycling. It's called the Bottle Return Area of your Friendly Neighborhood Price Chopper.
Give me a freaking break.
But especially and most importantly, spare me your unwanted and unsolicited sexual attentions.
This one's for you, Lazy-eyed, Mentally-Ill Truck Driver, for all those times you stalked me at the music store I used to hang out at until the male staff members started taking turns escorting me out the back door lest you rape me in the parking lot.
And you, Helmet Guy, as you give me possessed-looking full-body stares after I let you use coupons for all eight of your boxes of Cheerios at Price Chopper. You are insane; it's obvious that you, your wife and two children did not arrive here on a motorcycle, yet you stand holding the helmet under your arm with a manic look on your face as though you did.
And you, Butterscotch Pudding Man, for the special way you use your FoodStamp card to purchase copious amounts of said dessert while you make lame and scary sexual innuendos and inform me (or are you speaking to my boobs? I can't tell)that you are going to drive to California because all the girls there are prettier than the ones here--except for me, of course.
The list goes on and on, but the point is the same.
I will not join you in your life of can-grubbing and drunken and showerless forays into Price Chopper to buy more Natty Ice. Please stop staring at me like you would like to take me home to your cardboard box or padded cell and do dirty, horror-movie-esque things to me.
I'm not going anywhere with you, and certainly not to California.
Those who are unfamiliar with the realities of your kind are likely to misunderstand. There's a public image, definitely, of you people. That you get a bad rap. That you have just "fallen on hard times". That you are really very nice people and it's not your fault that your life has fallen apart like this.
They obviously have never spent any amount of time working face-to-face with you. They have not witnessed you buying only twinkies and cupcakes with your FoodStamp card and using your bottle returns to buy more beer. You're not that innocent, and I'm not sympathetic.
I challenge anyone who disagrees to go apply for my old job. Then we can talk.
People like you are the reason I carry pepper spray. The reason I'm terrified to walk three blocks at night in Albany and the reason I wear rings on my left hand, even though I don't believe in marriage. The reason I approach most strangers, upon meeting, with wary aloofness. I don't know when or from where the next one of your kind will approach. You might be an old man, you might be a fifteen year old boy who shows bizarre flares of temper at random times, reminiscent of a psychopathic episode.
It doesn't matter. You're all the same, and you all keep on coming.
So next time I let you buy your cheerios with coupons or patiently wait to ring you out until you finish your rant because it's my job, do me a favor and spare me the weird, awkward sexual advances.
I'm sure there's a nice girl waiting in her own ramshackle cardboard box for you. Well, probably not. But good luck finding her.
And even if you don't, don't come back looking for me.
Ever.
Sincerely,
Reese
And I have something to say.
Dear Homeless Bums, Sexual Predators, and Asylum Escapees of the Greater Albany Area:
Leave me the hell alone.
Now, I will give you this: you will make great characters for my books, as I try to tell myself whenever your slurred comments make me want to jump across the moving grocery belt and slap you with the large frozen halibut you just purchased.
But please, spare me your bullshit.
Spare me your smells, that certain combination of stale cigarettes, old beer, urine, dirt and unwashed body. They flash me back and I don't like it. Spare me your drug-addled rants about the price of bacon-- spare me your heated diatribes over the quality of American brown bread vs. German. Wipe your nose and stop trying to steal the M&Ms. I can see you. And even if I couldn't, you smell worse than 99% of the other hobos in here. Like skunks, your stench precedes you, and refuses to wane even after you are gone.
And the abuse doesn't end at work; you must follow me home too. Spare me your attempts to break into my house on a bi-monthly basis, searching for empty cans. Do you want to buy me all that beer? Then fine, take the cans. If not, move it along. Next time I'm calling the cops. I don't care that the people who lived here before me let you in at your own leisure. You're not welcome.
I understand that this may seem harsh. On paper, people will laugh at your antics. But in real life, you are scary. You are dangerous. You are like a wild animal: no matter how "cute" and "cuddly" you might look when you are chatting up my roommate on the way to her car, calling her "ma'am" and all this other bullshit, or trying to inform us that you run a business that collects recyclables: you are dangerous, can't be trusted, and may bite at any time.
You run a business? Then why are you wearing the same shirt you were wearing two weeks ago when you should up pounding on my door? There is already a business for can recycling. It's called the Bottle Return Area of your Friendly Neighborhood Price Chopper.
Give me a freaking break.
But especially and most importantly, spare me your unwanted and unsolicited sexual attentions.
This one's for you, Lazy-eyed, Mentally-Ill Truck Driver, for all those times you stalked me at the music store I used to hang out at until the male staff members started taking turns escorting me out the back door lest you rape me in the parking lot.
And you, Helmet Guy, as you give me possessed-looking full-body stares after I let you use coupons for all eight of your boxes of Cheerios at Price Chopper. You are insane; it's obvious that you, your wife and two children did not arrive here on a motorcycle, yet you stand holding the helmet under your arm with a manic look on your face as though you did.
And you, Butterscotch Pudding Man, for the special way you use your FoodStamp card to purchase copious amounts of said dessert while you make lame and scary sexual innuendos and inform me (or are you speaking to my boobs? I can't tell)that you are going to drive to California because all the girls there are prettier than the ones here--except for me, of course.
The list goes on and on, but the point is the same.
I will not join you in your life of can-grubbing and drunken and showerless forays into Price Chopper to buy more Natty Ice. Please stop staring at me like you would like to take me home to your cardboard box or padded cell and do dirty, horror-movie-esque things to me.
I'm not going anywhere with you, and certainly not to California.
Those who are unfamiliar with the realities of your kind are likely to misunderstand. There's a public image, definitely, of you people. That you get a bad rap. That you have just "fallen on hard times". That you are really very nice people and it's not your fault that your life has fallen apart like this.
They obviously have never spent any amount of time working face-to-face with you. They have not witnessed you buying only twinkies and cupcakes with your FoodStamp card and using your bottle returns to buy more beer. You're not that innocent, and I'm not sympathetic.
I challenge anyone who disagrees to go apply for my old job. Then we can talk.
People like you are the reason I carry pepper spray. The reason I'm terrified to walk three blocks at night in Albany and the reason I wear rings on my left hand, even though I don't believe in marriage. The reason I approach most strangers, upon meeting, with wary aloofness. I don't know when or from where the next one of your kind will approach. You might be an old man, you might be a fifteen year old boy who shows bizarre flares of temper at random times, reminiscent of a psychopathic episode.
It doesn't matter. You're all the same, and you all keep on coming.
So next time I let you buy your cheerios with coupons or patiently wait to ring you out until you finish your rant because it's my job, do me a favor and spare me the weird, awkward sexual advances.
I'm sure there's a nice girl waiting in her own ramshackle cardboard box for you. Well, probably not. But good luck finding her.
And even if you don't, don't come back looking for me.
Ever.
Sincerely,
Reese
Monday, October 12, 2009
Excerpt From As-Yet-Untitled-Memoir: The Nun Incident
So, as a writer and a person who seems to run into endless upsetting encounters with people and situations that seem flat-out ridiculous, I'm writing a book.
It's politically incorrect, and sure to offend people of most sensibilities, which to me is what makes it worth reading. But few people are willing to sit down and read excerpts that paint pictures so embarrassing of things in my life (religion, part-time employment, various aspects of my heritage, irrational fears of pregnancy, underage drinking) in front of me. Which is okay, but not helpful.
So as I finish chunks of this ill-conceived masterpiece, I'll submit them here, for public approval or berating, whichever one seems more appropriate at the time.
Episode One: The Nun Incident
Like any good Catholic girl, I went to Religious Education classes every Sunday after mass and sat in my straight-backed chair in the cold classroom of the building adjoining the Church while I tried to keep from falling asleep during the lectures about the Ten Commandments, one of which I was sure had something to do with Paying Attention to your Religious Ed Teacher unless you want your immortal soul to burn in hell for all eternity.
It was then that I met The Nun.
If you google "nun", you come up with mostly pornographic and drug-abusing nuns. This nun was not such. She was old, squat, and severe, like most nuns. I was seven the first time we crossed paths and deep in the throes of religious paranoia. My normal Religious Ed teacher was absent, and the Nun took over for the day.
“How many times do you think you have to go to mass in a week for God to let you into Heaven?” she quizzed, pacing back and forth before the room.
Every child was frozen to their seat in terror as she began the long and heinously disturbing process of explaining that even those of us that attended mass for the requisite one hour per week were damned, as were any of us that were ever intending to have children, as the devil apparently follows pregnant women and waits to strike them down.
It took me days to digest this information fully, and no matter how much my mother counseled me, I couldn’t let it go. My seven-year-old psyche was permanently and irreversibly damaged.
I was subsequently removed from Religious Education classes at Our Lady of the Rosary on the grounds that they were making me so paranoid and distraught that I could barely take two steps without becoming convinced that Satan was on my tail.
When I arrived four years later to my sixth grade confirmation class and found that Mr. Nunno (an ironic name for a religious teacher, and appropriate—he brought us pizza and made the Beatitudes into a game show) was gone and the Nun was his replacement, I began experiencing what I now understand is a panic attack.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I stammered, unable to breathe. My knees were weak and my heart was pounding. Nausea overcame me. I could feel cold sweat beginning to drip down my neck and bead up on my forehead. Full-body, all-consuming, abject terror, the likes of which I have rarely felt before or since.
If I didn’t get out, I was going to die. That I knew for certain.
The Nun sized me up and let me go, with a warning that I should be back in two minutes or she would come to find me. I tried to walk calmly to the door-less room at the end of the hall but I was nearing hysteria, so afraid was I of this she-beast. I felt the feelings that I can only imagine one must feel when kidnapped: the panic, the fear, the adrenaline, the desperate, rabid need to escape. I knew I had only precious seconds before the Nun would come to retrieve me.
I must act quickly.
The “bathroom” was in fact a storage room, with two bathroom stalls and a sink placed in one corner and a jumble of books, religious statues and other paraphernalia in the other. I picked past a small sculpture of a holy figure—the Virgin, perhaps? One can only hope; I needed her at this time!—and found my own personal Savior: a telephone.
I picked up the receiver and punched in my home phone number, only to hear scratchy air on the other end of the line. Hung up, tried again. Tears were in my eyes by this point; I was nearly paralyzed with fear. The only thing that kept me from collapsing inside the makeshift stall was the knowledge that she would find me. Escape was my only hope. I could not give up now.
Then I heard the footsteps. Slowly, like each footfall was suspended in time. I could see her shadow coming before she got there. Finally, mercifully, the phone connected.
“Hello?” my dad answered, but she was too close; if I raised my voice to full volume she would hear me. So I whispered, panicked, crying: “It’sTeresapleasecomegetmethenun’shereandi’mscaredandiwanttocomehome!”
“Who is this?” My father demanded loudly into the receiver. I tried again “Teresa! Come get me! The nun!”, but it was hopeless. My voice was far too soft and far too muddled with panic to be recognizable. “Who?” he asked again.
And then I heard the voice of the Nun, coming clearly down the hall. “I know you’re in here,” she said, and I slammed the phone down just as she appeared, glowering, in the doorway. “You come with me,” she said.
And I had no choice but to follow.
It's politically incorrect, and sure to offend people of most sensibilities, which to me is what makes it worth reading. But few people are willing to sit down and read excerpts that paint pictures so embarrassing of things in my life (religion, part-time employment, various aspects of my heritage, irrational fears of pregnancy, underage drinking) in front of me. Which is okay, but not helpful.
So as I finish chunks of this ill-conceived masterpiece, I'll submit them here, for public approval or berating, whichever one seems more appropriate at the time.
Episode One: The Nun Incident
Like any good Catholic girl, I went to Religious Education classes every Sunday after mass and sat in my straight-backed chair in the cold classroom of the building adjoining the Church while I tried to keep from falling asleep during the lectures about the Ten Commandments, one of which I was sure had something to do with Paying Attention to your Religious Ed Teacher unless you want your immortal soul to burn in hell for all eternity.
It was then that I met The Nun.
If you google "nun", you come up with mostly pornographic and drug-abusing nuns. This nun was not such. She was old, squat, and severe, like most nuns. I was seven the first time we crossed paths and deep in the throes of religious paranoia. My normal Religious Ed teacher was absent, and the Nun took over for the day.
“How many times do you think you have to go to mass in a week for God to let you into Heaven?” she quizzed, pacing back and forth before the room.
Every child was frozen to their seat in terror as she began the long and heinously disturbing process of explaining that even those of us that attended mass for the requisite one hour per week were damned, as were any of us that were ever intending to have children, as the devil apparently follows pregnant women and waits to strike them down.
It took me days to digest this information fully, and no matter how much my mother counseled me, I couldn’t let it go. My seven-year-old psyche was permanently and irreversibly damaged.
I was subsequently removed from Religious Education classes at Our Lady of the Rosary on the grounds that they were making me so paranoid and distraught that I could barely take two steps without becoming convinced that Satan was on my tail.
When I arrived four years later to my sixth grade confirmation class and found that Mr. Nunno (an ironic name for a religious teacher, and appropriate—he brought us pizza and made the Beatitudes into a game show) was gone and the Nun was his replacement, I began experiencing what I now understand is a panic attack.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I stammered, unable to breathe. My knees were weak and my heart was pounding. Nausea overcame me. I could feel cold sweat beginning to drip down my neck and bead up on my forehead. Full-body, all-consuming, abject terror, the likes of which I have rarely felt before or since.
If I didn’t get out, I was going to die. That I knew for certain.
The Nun sized me up and let me go, with a warning that I should be back in two minutes or she would come to find me. I tried to walk calmly to the door-less room at the end of the hall but I was nearing hysteria, so afraid was I of this she-beast. I felt the feelings that I can only imagine one must feel when kidnapped: the panic, the fear, the adrenaline, the desperate, rabid need to escape. I knew I had only precious seconds before the Nun would come to retrieve me.
I must act quickly.
The “bathroom” was in fact a storage room, with two bathroom stalls and a sink placed in one corner and a jumble of books, religious statues and other paraphernalia in the other. I picked past a small sculpture of a holy figure—the Virgin, perhaps? One can only hope; I needed her at this time!—and found my own personal Savior: a telephone.
I picked up the receiver and punched in my home phone number, only to hear scratchy air on the other end of the line. Hung up, tried again. Tears were in my eyes by this point; I was nearly paralyzed with fear. The only thing that kept me from collapsing inside the makeshift stall was the knowledge that she would find me. Escape was my only hope. I could not give up now.
Then I heard the footsteps. Slowly, like each footfall was suspended in time. I could see her shadow coming before she got there. Finally, mercifully, the phone connected.
“Hello?” my dad answered, but she was too close; if I raised my voice to full volume she would hear me. So I whispered, panicked, crying: “It’sTeresapleasecomegetmethenun’shereandi’mscaredandiwanttocomehome!”
“Who is this?” My father demanded loudly into the receiver. I tried again “Teresa! Come get me! The nun!”, but it was hopeless. My voice was far too soft and far too muddled with panic to be recognizable. “Who?” he asked again.
And then I heard the voice of the Nun, coming clearly down the hall. “I know you’re in here,” she said, and I slammed the phone down just as she appeared, glowering, in the doorway. “You come with me,” she said.
And I had no choice but to follow.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Thanks, Columbus
After an exhausting 6 weeks of school, during which time both of my roommates got sick and I went underground like a fugitive to avoid catching it, drowned myself in work, and spent an obscene amount of time hobo-proofing my home, there seems to be no energy left for writing.
Thank you, Columbus. I need this break.
Thank you, Columbus. I need this break.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Reese's Travel Updates-- March Thru October '09
Who says college kids can't go on vacation? It's just about how you coordinate. In the past year, for instance, I've been to:
Boston-- 7 months ago, spring break, March. Stayed for three days and saw the entire city, including the Boston Aquarium, Hard Rock Cafe, Quincy Market, Boston Commons and North End. Success.
Florida-- 6 months ago, April. Flew down during my sisters' spring break, when my family was at Disney world for the Last Family Vacation. Coordinated to miss only two days of classes and stay for five. Did Disney World, Daytona Beach and the entire two-day ride home.
Montana-- 4 months ago, June-July. Stayed with my aunt, went with my other aunt and cousin, and did the entire experience: three hikes, Yellowstone, two cliff jumps, a rodeo, homemade fireworks, tour of Montana State University, and the lifelong companionship of one very special chocolate lab.
Summer was split between the Adirondacks, Thousand Islands, and other remote camp locations throughout Upstate New York-- fishing, campfires, boat tours, kayak trips, and even a rescue from an island via rowboat (awesome).
Upcoming: Connecticut with my roommate, for the ocean, hot tub, kayaks and downtown club life! This weekend.
TEXAS! Halloween Weekend-- editor's conference in Austin for Saint Rose Chronicle, four days and three nights, totally paid for, in a town that shuts down for the Halloween party. Awesome.
Boston-- 7 months ago, spring break, March. Stayed for three days and saw the entire city, including the Boston Aquarium, Hard Rock Cafe, Quincy Market, Boston Commons and North End. Success.
Florida-- 6 months ago, April. Flew down during my sisters' spring break, when my family was at Disney world for the Last Family Vacation. Coordinated to miss only two days of classes and stay for five. Did Disney World, Daytona Beach and the entire two-day ride home.
Montana-- 4 months ago, June-July. Stayed with my aunt, went with my other aunt and cousin, and did the entire experience: three hikes, Yellowstone, two cliff jumps, a rodeo, homemade fireworks, tour of Montana State University, and the lifelong companionship of one very special chocolate lab.
Summer was split between the Adirondacks, Thousand Islands, and other remote camp locations throughout Upstate New York-- fishing, campfires, boat tours, kayak trips, and even a rescue from an island via rowboat (awesome).
Upcoming: Connecticut with my roommate, for the ocean, hot tub, kayaks and downtown club life! This weekend.
TEXAS! Halloween Weekend-- editor's conference in Austin for Saint Rose Chronicle, four days and three nights, totally paid for, in a town that shuts down for the Halloween party. Awesome.
Meet Me In Montana
So today I got a long-awaited package in the mail. A video, from my aunt in Montana, of my week-long trip last June. I was thrilled. Seven days, four planes, three mountains, one rodeo, and 360 degrees of fireworks later, this is what I have to show for it:
(All photos copyright Teresa Farrell 2009)
(All photos copyright Teresa Farrell 2009)
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Book Review: The Secret
So I was searching through some quote sites looking for a fast route to the teachings of Buddha, and this is what I found:
All that we are is the result of what we have thought. If a man speaks or acts with an evil thought, pain follows him. If a man speaks or acts with a pure thought, happiness follows him, like a shadow that never leaves him. -Buddha
This is the exact same message as the bestselling book The Secret teaches.
The Secret is at the center of some controversy. Some people think it’s a hoax, and others treat it like the Bible. The book centers on the Law of Attraction, which is basically the belief that like attracts like: good thoughts will bring good to your life and bad will bring bad.
The author, Rhonda Byrne, went though some rough times before she learned this “secret”, turned her life around and decided to share it with the world via book and DVD. She claims it’s the most powerful law in the universe and the book is full of testimonials by people who claim the Secret turned their lives around, too: not just no-name crazies, but millionaires like Jack Canfield—who came up with the bestselling Chicken Soup for the Soul series.
Legit? Sure. Or maybe Jack Canfield is just a closet LSD freak. Who knows?
My sister gave me The Secret for my birthday this year. She told me (as nicely as she could)that she thought it would help me, no doubt because I’d been so upset with my own life for the preceding year that it was starting to become obvious to my family and friends that this was not a passing mood. I read it in a day and proceeded to go into obsessive-compulsive freak-out mode. I reeled back and forth between believing the book and thinking it was the biggest crock I’d ever come across.
Based on the Law of Attraction, though, I suppose that would be why it didn’t appear to work for me.
Still: if it was true, it would hold that I was headed for car wrecks, disease, and more freak accidents than I could imagine. And that scared the crap out of me. So I chose not to believe in the Secret. But now that might all change, given this new venture, so I thought it was worth a second look.
The book is not bad overall. Oprah likes it, so how bad can it be? My only problems come from out “out there” it gets at points. Ever the pessimist, I find it hard to imagine that the secret to life has been sitting in front of humanity since the dawn of time and no one has thought to expose it to the world until now. A little unrealistic, to say the least.
But that aside, the core of the message is good. The idea that good things bring more good things and bad bring bad holds up, even if for slightly different reasons than the book puts forth. As Charles Swindoll said in his poem, aptly titled Attitude, your mental state does affect your experience:
The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness, or skill. It will make or break a company, a church, a home.
The remarkable thing is we have a choice everyday regarding the attitude we embrace for that day. We cannot change our past we cannot change the fact that people act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one thing we have, and that is our attitude.
I am convinced that life is 10% of what happens to me and 90% of how I react to it.
And so it is with you; we are in charge of our attitudes.
So it stands to reason that the Secret has some roots in reality, at the very least. And it’s an interesting theory to test out—I’ve had a few happy results, even though I usually don’t have enough patience or faith to let it go to the “full extent of its power” (hopefully that will change with this "new attitude", as I pay more attention to such things as vibes and thought frequencies). But 4 million copies sold is a little bit intriguing, at least.
FINAL VERDICT: A worthwhile read, if just to expand your mind and give other ways of thinking a try. I give it 4 stars, and thanks to my sister for opening me up to it.
All that we are is the result of what we have thought. If a man speaks or acts with an evil thought, pain follows him. If a man speaks or acts with a pure thought, happiness follows him, like a shadow that never leaves him. -Buddha
This is the exact same message as the bestselling book The Secret teaches.
The Secret is at the center of some controversy. Some people think it’s a hoax, and others treat it like the Bible. The book centers on the Law of Attraction, which is basically the belief that like attracts like: good thoughts will bring good to your life and bad will bring bad.
The author, Rhonda Byrne, went though some rough times before she learned this “secret”, turned her life around and decided to share it with the world via book and DVD. She claims it’s the most powerful law in the universe and the book is full of testimonials by people who claim the Secret turned their lives around, too: not just no-name crazies, but millionaires like Jack Canfield—who came up with the bestselling Chicken Soup for the Soul series.
Legit? Sure. Or maybe Jack Canfield is just a closet LSD freak. Who knows?
My sister gave me The Secret for my birthday this year. She told me (as nicely as she could)that she thought it would help me, no doubt because I’d been so upset with my own life for the preceding year that it was starting to become obvious to my family and friends that this was not a passing mood. I read it in a day and proceeded to go into obsessive-compulsive freak-out mode. I reeled back and forth between believing the book and thinking it was the biggest crock I’d ever come across.
Based on the Law of Attraction, though, I suppose that would be why it didn’t appear to work for me.
Still: if it was true, it would hold that I was headed for car wrecks, disease, and more freak accidents than I could imagine. And that scared the crap out of me. So I chose not to believe in the Secret. But now that might all change, given this new venture, so I thought it was worth a second look.
The book is not bad overall. Oprah likes it, so how bad can it be? My only problems come from out “out there” it gets at points. Ever the pessimist, I find it hard to imagine that the secret to life has been sitting in front of humanity since the dawn of time and no one has thought to expose it to the world until now. A little unrealistic, to say the least.
But that aside, the core of the message is good. The idea that good things bring more good things and bad bring bad holds up, even if for slightly different reasons than the book puts forth. As Charles Swindoll said in his poem, aptly titled Attitude, your mental state does affect your experience:
The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness, or skill. It will make or break a company, a church, a home.
The remarkable thing is we have a choice everyday regarding the attitude we embrace for that day. We cannot change our past we cannot change the fact that people act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one thing we have, and that is our attitude.
I am convinced that life is 10% of what happens to me and 90% of how I react to it.
And so it is with you; we are in charge of our attitudes.
So it stands to reason that the Secret has some roots in reality, at the very least. And it’s an interesting theory to test out—I’ve had a few happy results, even though I usually don’t have enough patience or faith to let it go to the “full extent of its power” (hopefully that will change with this "new attitude", as I pay more attention to such things as vibes and thought frequencies). But 4 million copies sold is a little bit intriguing, at least.
FINAL VERDICT: A worthwhile read, if just to expand your mind and give other ways of thinking a try. I give it 4 stars, and thanks to my sister for opening me up to it.
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