I'm tired of living in a small town. I went running today, and I felt like everyone I passed just stared until I was out of sight. It's the culture here. If something's happening, you stare at it. People do it with no qualms.
After the run, I met my husband for lunch. The person working the counter is one of the biggest busybodies I've encountered in this town, and I wasn't even slightly in the mood to chitchat with her. My solution was to just not order anything. My avoidance drove her so crazy that she started furiously sweeping right next to where we were sitting. I moved closer to my husband, like we were sharing a really personal, intimate moment, until she eventually moved her sweeping elsewhere. Then I snuck out of the restaurant while he threw out his trash. As he left, she yelled, "Tell your wife I said hi!" She wasn't going to let it slide.
I feel like heart-diseased Barbara Hershey in Beaches: "Just leave me
alone, all right? That's all I want - is to be left fucking alone!"
I just spent a few weeks traveling through Southwestern cities, where people were not the least bit interested in me or my activities. I'm ready to live anonymously in a city again. One year to go in this place - maybe I will be granted the power of invisibility in the meantime.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
A New Year's gift from me to you
Lately, I've been having this experience of people talking at me. I'm a pretty patient listener, and this sometimes prompts people to take me on a conversational ride. I can learn about marriages, divorces, deaths, drinking problems, career histories, and musical tastes without having to say more than a few words. I realized that one person who does this to me on a fairly frequent basis has never even asked me where I'm from.
I recently read an article that had some good advice: when someone is talking endlessly, instead of sitting there passively, saying "uh-huh," and praying for it to end, you should stay involved. Ask questions that direct the conversation: "Oh, you like Jay-Z? What do you think of Alicia Keys? I really like her vocals in 'Empire State of Mind'." Stay on topic, but direct it toward your own interests a bit, and force them to think about what you are thinking about.
More often than not, this tactic will become boring to them (because they are not truly interested in talking to you, they are interested in hearing themselves talk), and they will move on to the next victim.
This works- I've tried it! You can see their eyes start to move frantically around the room, and within minutes, they are making an excuse to get the hell away from you. It's very empowering. "Take that, sucka! I'm as boring to you as you are to me."
Happy New Year, everybody!
I recently read an article that had some good advice: when someone is talking endlessly, instead of sitting there passively, saying "uh-huh," and praying for it to end, you should stay involved. Ask questions that direct the conversation: "Oh, you like Jay-Z? What do you think of Alicia Keys? I really like her vocals in 'Empire State of Mind'." Stay on topic, but direct it toward your own interests a bit, and force them to think about what you are thinking about.
More often than not, this tactic will become boring to them (because they are not truly interested in talking to you, they are interested in hearing themselves talk), and they will move on to the next victim.
This works- I've tried it! You can see their eyes start to move frantically around the room, and within minutes, they are making an excuse to get the hell away from you. It's very empowering. "Take that, sucka! I'm as boring to you as you are to me."
Happy New Year, everybody!
Monday, December 12, 2011
poetry critique
I received the following critique on one of my pieces for the poetry class I took this semester:
"Work on this - its word choice, rhyme, and content."
That piece of advice sums up my level of success in the class pretty nicely.
(This blog post will be my final poem.)
"Work on this - its word choice, rhyme, and content."
That piece of advice sums up my level of success in the class pretty nicely.
(This blog post will be my final poem.)
Sunday, October 9, 2011
death of a job
I had two summer jobs this year, and quit them both after 2 months. The first was at a car rental company, and it involved washing cars with sociopaths in a sweltering hot garage. Quitting was really a no-brainer.
But the second job was something special. You had to know very important people to get this job. It was at a marina, see. A marina overlooking Lake Superior. My most prevalent thought since I moved to this town has been "I should be by the lake right now." Whenever I'm not near it, I feel like I'm wasting my time.
The marina was going to solve all of my problems: lack of funds, and lack of lake time. And it did! It made all of my dreams come true for the second half of the summer. I stood out on a pier in the sun fueling the yachts of the wealthy, pumping the sewage from their septic tanks, looking over the lake, and feeling like the luckiest girl in the world. Sometimes the wealthy would even tip! But then...stinking September rolled around and I started GRAD SCHOOL again.
At first, it was fine. I'd come to the marina after teaching and taking classes, and it would still feel like summer. It allowed me to be in denial about the fact that school had started. I would think things like, "I can't plan class right now, I have to clean the bathrooms!" or "Oh good, someone needs diesel in their sailboat...guess this 50-page reading on literary theory will have to wait."
But then, it started to catch up with me. There were typos on my assignments and my students seemed unengaged in my half-planned lessons. I still hadn't unpacked boxes in my new apartment (still haven't, come to think of it). I was getting snappy with my boyfriend/husband/roommate (this is all one person). I was cranky with anyone who needed anything at the marina, because they were interrupting my studying...I didn't have any time!
I can see the progression in my journal from loving the marina to hating the marina:
8/27/11: Fun day at work, chatting with co-workers, chatting with boaters about the nice weather.
8/29/11: Worked by myself at the marina from 5:00 on, which was awesome. Beautiful sunset, beautiful weather, love walking around the docks.
9/10/11: Had to work by myself with beer fest going on. A lady made me call the cops because another boat was in her spot. Sucked. Tomorrow should be better.
(It wasn't.)
9/16/11: Marina. Kind of sick of it. Hopefully tomorrow is another nice fucking day so more people can ride around in their fucking boats and need things from me.
9/19/11: Headed to the motherfucking marina. AGAIN.
9/24/11: Don't want to work at the marina again tomorrow. Need a day off. Not getting it. Had to pump 46 gallons of shit out of a sailboat today - 3 tank rinses and no tip. I am. in a world. of shit.
I quit a week later.
My last day was yesterday. Today was my first day off (from teaching, classes, AND marina) since Labor Day. And since I didn't have to spend this morning cleaning bathrooms and pumping septic tanks, I had just enough extra time (between the essays I was grading) to ponder the question: NOW what am I going to do for a job next summer?
But the second job was something special. You had to know very important people to get this job. It was at a marina, see. A marina overlooking Lake Superior. My most prevalent thought since I moved to this town has been "I should be by the lake right now." Whenever I'm not near it, I feel like I'm wasting my time.
The marina was going to solve all of my problems: lack of funds, and lack of lake time. And it did! It made all of my dreams come true for the second half of the summer. I stood out on a pier in the sun fueling the yachts of the wealthy, pumping the sewage from their septic tanks, looking over the lake, and feeling like the luckiest girl in the world. Sometimes the wealthy would even tip! But then...stinking September rolled around and I started GRAD SCHOOL again.
At first, it was fine. I'd come to the marina after teaching and taking classes, and it would still feel like summer. It allowed me to be in denial about the fact that school had started. I would think things like, "I can't plan class right now, I have to clean the bathrooms!" or "Oh good, someone needs diesel in their sailboat...guess this 50-page reading on literary theory will have to wait."
But then, it started to catch up with me. There were typos on my assignments and my students seemed unengaged in my half-planned lessons. I still hadn't unpacked boxes in my new apartment (still haven't, come to think of it). I was getting snappy with my boyfriend/husband/roommate (this is all one person). I was cranky with anyone who needed anything at the marina, because they were interrupting my studying...I didn't have any time!
I can see the progression in my journal from loving the marina to hating the marina:
8/27/11: Fun day at work, chatting with co-workers, chatting with boaters about the nice weather.
8/29/11: Worked by myself at the marina from 5:00 on, which was awesome. Beautiful sunset, beautiful weather, love walking around the docks.
9/10/11: Had to work by myself with beer fest going on. A lady made me call the cops because another boat was in her spot. Sucked. Tomorrow should be better.
(It wasn't.)
9/16/11: Marina. Kind of sick of it. Hopefully tomorrow is another nice fucking day so more people can ride around in their fucking boats and need things from me.
9/19/11: Headed to the motherfucking marina. AGAIN.
9/24/11: Don't want to work at the marina again tomorrow. Need a day off. Not getting it. Had to pump 46 gallons of shit out of a sailboat today - 3 tank rinses and no tip. I am. in a world. of shit.
I quit a week later.
My last day was yesterday. Today was my first day off (from teaching, classes, AND marina) since Labor Day. And since I didn't have to spend this morning cleaning bathrooms and pumping septic tanks, I had just enough extra time (between the essays I was grading) to ponder the question: NOW what am I going to do for a job next summer?
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Good News: Part 3 (updated!)
But these frantic weekend trips home were a cakewalk compared to what was coming. Exactly two months into my semester, on the way back to Michigan after seeing a losing Twins playoff game, my car made a thudding sound in Ashland, Wisconsin. The inside of it started to stink like some sort of substance that should probably have stayed in the engine. I pulled over and called Frank, who told me to keep driving as far as it would go. Ashland was the exact halfway point on the trip.
I drove and I drove, smelling that smell, noticing that the brakes seemed to be depressing a little too far when I'd slow down. But they were still *kinda* working. As I drove, I would get to feeling like everything was normal, but then I'd get a whiff of that motor smell and remember my situation, and a low level panic would set in.
I drove and I drove, not stopping to do anything, because I didn't know if the car would start again. I was surviving on rations, my friends...the trail mix was running low. Once I crossed the border back into Michigan, I could no longer ignore the fact that I had to pee. It was dusk by this point.
I pulled into the rest area and decided that I'd leave the car running. I slowed down as I came upon a dip in the road leading to the rest stop. At this point, the car made a thunking noise and seemed to sink about a foot to the ground. I got out and checked out the back of the car. Everything looked okay until I walked around to the rear passenger wheel. A thick black liquid was oozing from the wheel well onto the tire and pooling on the ground.
I flipped open my phone - who could I call? Was the car safe to drive? No reception. I was alone in the freaking wilderness at dusk with a bleeding car and no way to contact anyone. I ran into the bathroom, peed at record speed, and got back inside my little dying car. It still drove for me. It made a couple more thuds on the way out to the highway, and after that, it drove somewhat normally. The brakes were even softer now, but we just kept on going.
And then...Marquette. I quickly realized that I had to give myself about twice the normal braking distance: at the first stoplight in town, next to WalMart, I got dangerously close to the back of a semi truck, but stopped rolling just in time. Many thoughts of, "is this safe?" "am I going to kill myself or someone else?" but the car made it all the way to Joe's Garage, where my roommate picked me up.
The next afternoon, I came back to clean it out and sign the title over to a junkyard.
I drove and I drove, smelling that smell, noticing that the brakes seemed to be depressing a little too far when I'd slow down. But they were still *kinda* working. As I drove, I would get to feeling like everything was normal, but then I'd get a whiff of that motor smell and remember my situation, and a low level panic would set in.
I drove and I drove, not stopping to do anything, because I didn't know if the car would start again. I was surviving on rations, my friends...the trail mix was running low. Once I crossed the border back into Michigan, I could no longer ignore the fact that I had to pee. It was dusk by this point.
I pulled into the rest area and decided that I'd leave the car running. I slowed down as I came upon a dip in the road leading to the rest stop. At this point, the car made a thunking noise and seemed to sink about a foot to the ground. I got out and checked out the back of the car. Everything looked okay until I walked around to the rear passenger wheel. A thick black liquid was oozing from the wheel well onto the tire and pooling on the ground.
I flipped open my phone - who could I call? Was the car safe to drive? No reception. I was alone in the freaking wilderness at dusk with a bleeding car and no way to contact anyone. I ran into the bathroom, peed at record speed, and got back inside my little dying car. It still drove for me. It made a couple more thuds on the way out to the highway, and after that, it drove somewhat normally. The brakes were even softer now, but we just kept on going.
And then...Marquette. I quickly realized that I had to give myself about twice the normal braking distance: at the first stoplight in town, next to WalMart, I got dangerously close to the back of a semi truck, but stopped rolling just in time. Many thoughts of, "is this safe?" "am I going to kill myself or someone else?" but the car made it all the way to Joe's Garage, where my roommate picked me up.
The next afternoon, I came back to clean it out and sign the title over to a junkyard.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Good News: Part 2
They didn't clean the apartment by the time he moved in at the end of August, by the way. And there was also a stack of paint cans in the pantry courtesy of the maintenance man. The first time I came to visit in September, I was driven crazy by the slow-draining bathroom drain (which the maintenance man had yet to fix), and I started digging in there with a coat hanger to see if I could dislodge anything. Well, I came up with a seashell. And then another one. And then another one. The pipe was lousy with them. I also got a toothpaste cap.
And that's just the tip of the iceberg, my friends.
But enough for now about Frank's apartment. Let's talk about me. I was in Michigan. I was teaching a composition class at noon, and then going to an evening class at six. When I wasn't teaching or taking classes, I was freaking the fuck out about planning lessons and completing homework. It was really hot, so I was doing a lot of sweating. My hair was at an awkward length, so it was doing a lot of frizzing. I was calling Frank a lot, planning trips home every couple of weeks.
Before those weekend trips home, I would try to work ahead on my homework and class planning, because the round trip to Minnesota took up fourteen hours of valuable working time, in addition to the time I spent hanging out with Frank and my friends from home. I could never fully enjoy myself when I was there because I would feel guilty whenever I was doing something besides work for more than a couple of hours. So, before each successive weekend trip, I would try to work ahead even further, but I never seemed to get as much done as I wanted to.
And that's just the tip of the iceberg, my friends.
But enough for now about Frank's apartment. Let's talk about me. I was in Michigan. I was teaching a composition class at noon, and then going to an evening class at six. When I wasn't teaching or taking classes, I was freaking the fuck out about planning lessons and completing homework. It was really hot, so I was doing a lot of sweating. My hair was at an awkward length, so it was doing a lot of frizzing. I was calling Frank a lot, planning trips home every couple of weeks.
Before those weekend trips home, I would try to work ahead on my homework and class planning, because the round trip to Minnesota took up fourteen hours of valuable working time, in addition to the time I spent hanging out with Frank and my friends from home. I could never fully enjoy myself when I was there because I would feel guilty whenever I was doing something besides work for more than a couple of hours. So, before each successive weekend trip, I would try to work ahead even further, but I never seemed to get as much done as I wanted to.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Good news, everyone: My husband is annoying me again! Part 1
So, it's been a while since I posted. A year and a half, perhaps? I did wind up moving to Michigan, but I should specify that it's the U.P., which is more like a shriveled appendage of Wisconsin than a part of Michigan. No offense! It's a super-bumblefuck area (no offense!), which meant that Frank wasn't able to move here until March, and even then, it was really lucky, because he got one of the six jobs available in the town.
The point I'm trying to make here is that we lived apart for a lot of months. Seven. And we got to missing each other. A lot.
He helped me move here last August, the weekend before my teacher training began. When he left that Monday, it involved many tears on my part, but he reminded me that I'd be coming back home in four days. (The upcoming weekend was our anniversary, and we had Twins tickets.) So, after that first week of training, within minutes of being dismissed, I drove my little white Volvo the seven hours to Minnesota. I pulled into Saint Paul late that night, and fell asleep in my old bed in my old apartment with my old man and things still seemed relatively okay.
The Twins won the game and the weekend was normalish, except for me agonizing over making a syllabus for a large percentage of it, and us spending my last morning in town looking at a somewhat crummy (but more affordable) apartment closer to Frank's job in the suburbs. He started the proceedings to sign a yearlong lease, which should have terrified me, since I had just moved to Michigan to start a 3-year school program, but I was in such a daze about everything that it all seemed reasonable. He'd looked for jobs in Michigan, and there was nothing. What else could we do? And surely they'd at least clean the apartment before he moved in. Everything would be fine!
The point I'm trying to make here is that we lived apart for a lot of months. Seven. And we got to missing each other. A lot.
He helped me move here last August, the weekend before my teacher training began. When he left that Monday, it involved many tears on my part, but he reminded me that I'd be coming back home in four days. (The upcoming weekend was our anniversary, and we had Twins tickets.) So, after that first week of training, within minutes of being dismissed, I drove my little white Volvo the seven hours to Minnesota. I pulled into Saint Paul late that night, and fell asleep in my old bed in my old apartment with my old man and things still seemed relatively okay.
The Twins won the game and the weekend was normalish, except for me agonizing over making a syllabus for a large percentage of it, and us spending my last morning in town looking at a somewhat crummy (but more affordable) apartment closer to Frank's job in the suburbs. He started the proceedings to sign a yearlong lease, which should have terrified me, since I had just moved to Michigan to start a 3-year school program, but I was in such a daze about everything that it all seemed reasonable. He'd looked for jobs in Michigan, and there was nothing. What else could we do? And surely they'd at least clean the apartment before he moved in. Everything would be fine!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
