On Saturday night, I drove to my grandmother's house with an ice cream cake, a card, and some candy to take for my father's birthday celebration. As my 4'7" grandmother slowly opened the heavy wooden door in front of her to let me in, I asked, "How is the new roommate?"
She replied, "Oh, you know. I guess it helps that I know him pretty well."
And she showed me down to the basement, past the cobwebs she has neglected to wipe away and the stairs she hasn't swept in a long time, to where I could put the cake into a freezer full of food not touched since her husband passed away in 2003.
I came back upstairs and sat on the love seat when her roommate came downstairs and sat next to me. "Hey Dad, happy birthday," I said as I handed him the card and some candy that he threw into his mouth in handfuls.
So it turns out I am more of my father's daughter than I thought. On top of loving candy more than any finely-prepared meal, driving too fast and having a passion for the Beatles and Led Zeppelin, we now both live with our mothers.
No birthday present from the Russell family could top his gift from Uncle Sam: a social-security disability check long in coming. Although he's getting his due aid from the government now, he moved in with his mother not for the noble cause of taking care of her in her old age, but because he had been living on unemployment checks for at least the past two years. It seems the recession first hit the older, physically disabled, uneducated laborers first.
But we're in the same proverbial boat now, eliminating every expense we can. And is it really so costly to abandon one's pride in being independent in order to enjoy all the benefits, financial and otherwise, of regaining family life?
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Thanks and Giving
Yesterday evening, I stood in my brother's kitchen with red eyes and an (almost) empty stomach. I had just flown back to Pittsburgh from my extended Thanksgiving break in Wisconsin, and had suffered the consequence of not flying with Midwest airlines: no in-flight cookie.
As my boyfriend pointed out as we drove past billboards with giant chocolate-chip cookies on them, Midwest uses this American symbol of comfort as a major selling-point to fly with them. You can't be called "the Best Care In the Air" without serving your guests cookies.
I shouldn't complain. Some airlines don't give you jack anymore. As I flew with AirTran yesterday for the third time, I refused the offer of a complimentary beverage as I was squirming in my seat like a child waiting for the flight attendants to move the cart out from between myself and the restroom. Why did I have to pound that bottle of Coke right before take-off?
I graciously accepted the offer of a bag of pretzels, but stuffed them in my coat pocket. They're just not up to par with the cookies.
While I stood in the kitchen, still with the pretzels in my pocket, I rooted through what I know to be my brother's junk food drawer for a little something more substantial than the salt in a bag that the airline had given me. My dry, tired eyes lit up when they came across the holy grail of snack food: E.L. Fudge cookies.
"Can I have one?" I asked. They weren't yet opened.
"No," my brother said, "They're for the food bank."
"But don't you want to donate to the Liz Russell charity to help a poor college student?" My stomach growled.
"No. I'll pass on helping a poor college student with frequent flyer miles."
As my boyfriend pointed out as we drove past billboards with giant chocolate-chip cookies on them, Midwest uses this American symbol of comfort as a major selling-point to fly with them. You can't be called "the Best Care In the Air" without serving your guests cookies.
I shouldn't complain. Some airlines don't give you jack anymore. As I flew with AirTran yesterday for the third time, I refused the offer of a complimentary beverage as I was squirming in my seat like a child waiting for the flight attendants to move the cart out from between myself and the restroom. Why did I have to pound that bottle of Coke right before take-off?
I graciously accepted the offer of a bag of pretzels, but stuffed them in my coat pocket. They're just not up to par with the cookies.
While I stood in the kitchen, still with the pretzels in my pocket, I rooted through what I know to be my brother's junk food drawer for a little something more substantial than the salt in a bag that the airline had given me. My dry, tired eyes lit up when they came across the holy grail of snack food: E.L. Fudge cookies.
"Can I have one?" I asked. They weren't yet opened.
"No," my brother said, "They're for the food bank."
"But don't you want to donate to the Liz Russell charity to help a poor college student?" My stomach growled.
"No. I'll pass on helping a poor college student with frequent flyer miles."
Monday, November 16, 2009
It's the Middle of November Already (For the Bold and the Curious)
I am getting too old to drink like I used to.
My mother saved this struggle of a day by bringing home cheese sticks and cookies for me to eat while in awful shape. She was lovely enough to even bring them to my nauseous ass while I was still lying on the couch. I only had to move my arm and my mouth to eat and get on my way toward feeling better. If I would have foreseen that, I wouldn’t have put myself through the trauma of making a frozen pizza while trying not to vomit.
Last night, I felt and acted as if I had been drinking all day from the fountain of youth. I had actually been drinking from the brandy bottle. My friends, family and I were “getting our sauce on,” as my best friend enjoyed putting it. We were gathered together in a high school chorus room putting Croatian costumes on to get ready for our performance as alumni of a junior tamburitzan group here in Pittsburgh. There were three bottles of brandy in the room, and someone poured small shots for everyone. We toasted and relaxed and smiled and got ready to go on stage.
Throughout the show, in shifts, performers would go back to the room for another shot. And we all thought we did really well. Maybe we did, perhaps we didn’t, but we were feeling great about it. After the show, as the tradition goes, we gathered at the group’s Croatian home, where we ate pirohi and sarma and yummy things. After everyone was fed, we moved up one floor to where the band was playing. Oh, and there was a makeshift bar up there.
And we drank. And we danced and we sang out of key (at least I did). I hope you’ll pardon my lack of detail here, but my memory is not as sharp from that part of the evening. But this morning, naturally, I was suffering through my self-induced sickness. I had even drank plenty of water before bed and taken a couple ibuprofen tablets. No dice.
Ginger ale really does make your stomach feel better. I drank it along with the junk food my mother had nurtured me with and used it to wash down the two Aleve tablets my boyfriend advised me to take.
NSAID painkillers like Aleve and ibuprofen can have renal side effects.
I read the other day that an 86-year-old CEO cited never taking any pills as his secret to longevity. Either I call his bluff or he never drank, either.
My mother saved this struggle of a day by bringing home cheese sticks and cookies for me to eat while in awful shape. She was lovely enough to even bring them to my nauseous ass while I was still lying on the couch. I only had to move my arm and my mouth to eat and get on my way toward feeling better. If I would have foreseen that, I wouldn’t have put myself through the trauma of making a frozen pizza while trying not to vomit.
Last night, I felt and acted as if I had been drinking all day from the fountain of youth. I had actually been drinking from the brandy bottle. My friends, family and I were “getting our sauce on,” as my best friend enjoyed putting it. We were gathered together in a high school chorus room putting Croatian costumes on to get ready for our performance as alumni of a junior tamburitzan group here in Pittsburgh. There were three bottles of brandy in the room, and someone poured small shots for everyone. We toasted and relaxed and smiled and got ready to go on stage.
Throughout the show, in shifts, performers would go back to the room for another shot. And we all thought we did really well. Maybe we did, perhaps we didn’t, but we were feeling great about it. After the show, as the tradition goes, we gathered at the group’s Croatian home, where we ate pirohi and sarma and yummy things. After everyone was fed, we moved up one floor to where the band was playing. Oh, and there was a makeshift bar up there.
And we drank. And we danced and we sang out of key (at least I did). I hope you’ll pardon my lack of detail here, but my memory is not as sharp from that part of the evening. But this morning, naturally, I was suffering through my self-induced sickness. I had even drank plenty of water before bed and taken a couple ibuprofen tablets. No dice.
Ginger ale really does make your stomach feel better. I drank it along with the junk food my mother had nurtured me with and used it to wash down the two Aleve tablets my boyfriend advised me to take.
NSAID painkillers like Aleve and ibuprofen can have renal side effects.
I read the other day that an 86-year-old CEO cited never taking any pills as his secret to longevity. Either I call his bluff or he never drank, either.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
It's the Middle of November Already (The Short List)
Today I noticed:
I'm getting too old to drink like I used to.
I'm getting too old to dance like I used to (especially while drunk).
The outcome of the football game really affected my day.
My mother saved this struggle of a day by bringing home cheese sticks and cookies for me to eat while in awful shape. She was lovely enough to even bring them to my nauseous ass while I was still lying on the couch. I only had to move my arm and my mouth to eat and get on my way toward feeling better. If I would have foreseen that, I wouldn’t have put myself through the trauma of making a frozen pizza while trying not to vomit.
Ginger ale really does make your stomach feel better.
It was absolutely beautiful outside today. We’re headed for at least three months of frozen hands and feet and roads and I can’t say that I’m ready for it. Are you?
NSAID painkillers can have renal side effects. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?
I read the other day that an 86-year-old CEO cited never taking any pills as his secret to longevity.
I'm getting too old to drink like I used to.
I'm getting too old to dance like I used to (especially while drunk).
The outcome of the football game really affected my day.
My mother saved this struggle of a day by bringing home cheese sticks and cookies for me to eat while in awful shape. She was lovely enough to even bring them to my nauseous ass while I was still lying on the couch. I only had to move my arm and my mouth to eat and get on my way toward feeling better. If I would have foreseen that, I wouldn’t have put myself through the trauma of making a frozen pizza while trying not to vomit.
Ginger ale really does make your stomach feel better.
It was absolutely beautiful outside today. We’re headed for at least three months of frozen hands and feet and roads and I can’t say that I’m ready for it. Are you?
NSAID painkillers can have renal side effects. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?
I read the other day that an 86-year-old CEO cited never taking any pills as his secret to longevity.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Dog-Eat-Dog
My dog sleeps next to me at night. She even sleeps next to me throughout most of the evening, as I do homework or just watch TV. Thanks to the loudest snores her 17-pound body can produce, I never feel like I am alone.
My mom bought my dog from me yesterday. When we arrived at the emergency veterinary office, I filled out the paperwork as the animal's registered owner in Westmoreland County. But when it was time to pay the people, we were confused as to who should be filling out the forms. My mother knew she was going to take care of this bill, as my earnings are meager at best. The woman behind the counter, with eyeballs enlarged by her glasses almost to the size of the giant Steeler-emblem earrings she wore, straightened us out by asking, "Well, who's taking financial responsibility today?"
When I got my dog about a year ago, I was ready for the financial responsibility of feeding her, getting her shots and flea medication, and getting her spayed. But now, like many people, I am not in the same financial situation that I was in a year ago.
As my mom signed the papers, she said, "This seems about a fair price. I mean, she is used."
According to the article linked to below, some places in the country are seeing fewer pet adoptions and more pet surrenders due to the recession. So it's not only the people who are suffering. My dog and I were both lucky that my mother didn't have a dog, and that she is generous enough to help me with these unexpected expenses when they come up so that my dog gets to continue spending her evenings snoring next to me.
http://media.www.redandblack.com/media/storage/paper871/news/2009/10/14/News/Recession.Leads.To.Fewer.Pet.Adoptions-3802254.shtml
My mom bought my dog from me yesterday. When we arrived at the emergency veterinary office, I filled out the paperwork as the animal's registered owner in Westmoreland County. But when it was time to pay the people, we were confused as to who should be filling out the forms. My mother knew she was going to take care of this bill, as my earnings are meager at best. The woman behind the counter, with eyeballs enlarged by her glasses almost to the size of the giant Steeler-emblem earrings she wore, straightened us out by asking, "Well, who's taking financial responsibility today?"
When I got my dog about a year ago, I was ready for the financial responsibility of feeding her, getting her shots and flea medication, and getting her spayed. But now, like many people, I am not in the same financial situation that I was in a year ago.
As my mom signed the papers, she said, "This seems about a fair price. I mean, she is used."
According to the article linked to below, some places in the country are seeing fewer pet adoptions and more pet surrenders due to the recession. So it's not only the people who are suffering. My dog and I were both lucky that my mother didn't have a dog, and that she is generous enough to help me with these unexpected expenses when they come up so that my dog gets to continue spending her evenings snoring next to me.
http://media.www.redandblack.com/media/storage/paper871/news/2009/10/14/News/Recession.Leads.To.Fewer.Pet.Adoptions-3802254.shtml
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Re: "Rule of Thumbs: Love in the Age of Texting"
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/09/14/AR2007091401972.html
Dear Natalie Y. Moore,
I understand your sourness toward texting, I think I really do. I had the same opinion of it that you do when my significant other lived with me. But you overlook a key demographic of the texting age: those of us crazy and in love enough to be in a long-distance relationship.
I love technology, because it's allowed me to be in touch with a man I fell in love with while studying abroad in Costa Rica. While we were there, we did everything in person, only talked on the phone once, and sent a few Facebook messages back and forth whenever we needed to make sure that we had understood a class assignment correctly.
It was very personal, we made plans face-to-face, walked to each other's homes and caught cabs and buses together with other friends. And then on St. Patrick's Day, we kissed. And kissed. And pissed the other two people at our table at the bar off. A lot.
We didn't know where our relationship could go, and I remember him saying to me that night, "Why are you from Pennsylvania?" as I wondered why the hell he had to be from Wisconsin.
For about two weeks we continued in this way, making out in cabs, pissing friends off, and sitting in the street until 5 AM when he would walk me to my front door and kiss me goodnight.
When the day arrived that we both had to leave for the U.S, we kissed one last time and that was it, neither of us knowing what would happen to the relationship we had started.
But the internet and texting saved us. Now really, I don't know what would have happened if our story were set in 1976, but technology has made it so easy for us to be in touch. We say frequently, "We are kicking the long distance's ass."
We text all day, whenever we can, to tell the other about our day or just to remind the other that we love them. But we also talk on the phone whenever we both can, to hear one another's voice, and in the case of Skype, to come as close to being face-to-face as possible.
The other night, we were chatting on Skype, solely through text because I was working on homework and he was watching a movie with a friend. I have had this feeling before, but he voiced it very well: "I've realized that this can be good for us. I think it makes us a lot stronger."
And damn right it does. It's not convenient to have to go weeks at a time without seeing the one you love, and it's not always easy. But in relying on forms of communication like texting and phone conversations and internet chatting and video chatting, we have had to become really good at understanding one another. And when we're together (usually for at least a week out of every month) we are flawless. There's not a single nuance we don't pick up on nor any mistaken nuggets of sarcasm.
Like everything, Natalie, it's not that simple. Frequent texting is not terrible; you can't wrap it up into an evil little package and stamp it as such. Of course there are abusers, but any technology is dangerous when in the hands of unintelligent and inconsiderate people.
I love you,
Liz
Dear Natalie Y. Moore,
I understand your sourness toward texting, I think I really do. I had the same opinion of it that you do when my significant other lived with me. But you overlook a key demographic of the texting age: those of us crazy and in love enough to be in a long-distance relationship.
I love technology, because it's allowed me to be in touch with a man I fell in love with while studying abroad in Costa Rica. While we were there, we did everything in person, only talked on the phone once, and sent a few Facebook messages back and forth whenever we needed to make sure that we had understood a class assignment correctly.
It was very personal, we made plans face-to-face, walked to each other's homes and caught cabs and buses together with other friends. And then on St. Patrick's Day, we kissed. And kissed. And pissed the other two people at our table at the bar off. A lot.
We didn't know where our relationship could go, and I remember him saying to me that night, "Why are you from Pennsylvania?" as I wondered why the hell he had to be from Wisconsin.
For about two weeks we continued in this way, making out in cabs, pissing friends off, and sitting in the street until 5 AM when he would walk me to my front door and kiss me goodnight.
When the day arrived that we both had to leave for the U.S, we kissed one last time and that was it, neither of us knowing what would happen to the relationship we had started.
But the internet and texting saved us. Now really, I don't know what would have happened if our story were set in 1976, but technology has made it so easy for us to be in touch. We say frequently, "We are kicking the long distance's ass."
We text all day, whenever we can, to tell the other about our day or just to remind the other that we love them. But we also talk on the phone whenever we both can, to hear one another's voice, and in the case of Skype, to come as close to being face-to-face as possible.
The other night, we were chatting on Skype, solely through text because I was working on homework and he was watching a movie with a friend. I have had this feeling before, but he voiced it very well: "I've realized that this can be good for us. I think it makes us a lot stronger."
And damn right it does. It's not convenient to have to go weeks at a time without seeing the one you love, and it's not always easy. But in relying on forms of communication like texting and phone conversations and internet chatting and video chatting, we have had to become really good at understanding one another. And when we're together (usually for at least a week out of every month) we are flawless. There's not a single nuance we don't pick up on nor any mistaken nuggets of sarcasm.
Like everything, Natalie, it's not that simple. Frequent texting is not terrible; you can't wrap it up into an evil little package and stamp it as such. Of course there are abusers, but any technology is dangerous when in the hands of unintelligent and inconsiderate people.
I love you,
Liz
Monday, November 2, 2009
I Hate You, Hollywood
Last night, as I sat in my bedroom here in my mother's house, I watched the movie I Love You, Man and was transported into the characters' world. For those of you who haven't seen it, no, it is not a fantasy, but it may as well be to me.
It's funny, and the characters are intelligent and at least somewhat three-dimensional. It entertained me for an hour or two and took me away from what's going on around me. I was no longer regretting Saturday's hangover or thinking about Monday's homework, but about these characters and whether or not Paul Rudd's character would ever become a man.
I watched the actors drive their brand-new cars and argue in designer kitchens and go to their high-powered-LA real estate jobs.
Of course, I envied them. It's brilliant and wonderful that these sort of comedic films never detail how the characters came into the money and lifestyles that they have. You don't have to know that the person behind the windshield of that Jaguar is still paying off their student loans every month, just like you don't have to know what minimum wage was when they started their job at Subway to appreciate the punchline or the simple silliness that makes you laugh.
Wouldn't it be lovely to be one of those characters? To be born in the mind of a screenwriter and be portrayed by a beautiful actor? To live in the bubble of Hollywood that doesn't understand the concept of a recession just like it doesn't understand what a temperature below 50 degrees is?
Oh wait, that California doesn't exist. Real Californians can't afford their mortgages, just like the rest of us, and in this time of struggle and belt-tightening, they have Mr. Universe himself to turn to.
I guess I really am o.k. to sit in my warm bedroom in Pennsylvania, work on the blanket I am knitting for my boyfriend and escape for a while.
It's funny, and the characters are intelligent and at least somewhat three-dimensional. It entertained me for an hour or two and took me away from what's going on around me. I was no longer regretting Saturday's hangover or thinking about Monday's homework, but about these characters and whether or not Paul Rudd's character would ever become a man.
I watched the actors drive their brand-new cars and argue in designer kitchens and go to their high-powered-LA real estate jobs.
Of course, I envied them. It's brilliant and wonderful that these sort of comedic films never detail how the characters came into the money and lifestyles that they have. You don't have to know that the person behind the windshield of that Jaguar is still paying off their student loans every month, just like you don't have to know what minimum wage was when they started their job at Subway to appreciate the punchline or the simple silliness that makes you laugh.
Wouldn't it be lovely to be one of those characters? To be born in the mind of a screenwriter and be portrayed by a beautiful actor? To live in the bubble of Hollywood that doesn't understand the concept of a recession just like it doesn't understand what a temperature below 50 degrees is?
Oh wait, that California doesn't exist. Real Californians can't afford their mortgages, just like the rest of us, and in this time of struggle and belt-tightening, they have Mr. Universe himself to turn to.
I guess I really am o.k. to sit in my warm bedroom in Pennsylvania, work on the blanket I am knitting for my boyfriend and escape for a while.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Spend Spend Spend (Or Don't)
http://www.newyorker.com/talk/financial/2009/10/12/091012ta_talk_surowiecki?
Read that. It's good.
But if you don't feel like reading it, it basically says that consumer spending is down. Go figure.
It also highlights that the two main areas that have seen decreases in spending are gasoline and cars.
But what else have you cut back on? Clothes? Eating out? Video games? Books? Please don't say books.
Have you cut back on anything?
Personally, I only go grocery shopping a couple times a month. I've taken to eating the canned goods and non-perishables that have been stocked up in my mother's kitchen for years. Fresh produce has unfortunately been cut out of my diet: it's just too expensive and a $2.50 avocado can't keep you full for very long.
And what will this mean for consumer culture? Are we going to become lifelong cheapskates like some of our elderly Depression-survivor relatives? Or will we simply go back to spending as much as we can?
Read that. It's good.
But if you don't feel like reading it, it basically says that consumer spending is down. Go figure.
It also highlights that the two main areas that have seen decreases in spending are gasoline and cars.
But what else have you cut back on? Clothes? Eating out? Video games? Books? Please don't say books.
Have you cut back on anything?
Personally, I only go grocery shopping a couple times a month. I've taken to eating the canned goods and non-perishables that have been stocked up in my mother's kitchen for years. Fresh produce has unfortunately been cut out of my diet: it's just too expensive and a $2.50 avocado can't keep you full for very long.
And what will this mean for consumer culture? Are we going to become lifelong cheapskates like some of our elderly Depression-survivor relatives? Or will we simply go back to spending as much as we can?
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Nothing Is O.k.
My linguistic gripe?
It may sound strange, but o.k. is the winner for me. Maybe I’m a little more impassioned than some people and just can’t stand something being only o.k, or maybe in the small area in which I was raised, even just the home perhaps, o.k. means something along the lines of “if I have to.” If I have to respond somehow, if I have to do what you ask me, if I have to agree with you even though I don’t want to.
Where the hell does o.k. come from? Who decided that those two letters should signify not something great nor something terrible, just something mediocre enough that it doesn’t deserve a full word?
Nothing is o.k. Not the crappy tuna salad sandwich I had for lunch, nor the test that I didn’t study for yesterday. It’s definitely not o.k. to respond to someone’s opinion with o.k. That may be the most insulting way to dismiss someone’s opinions.
Like other common phrases, o.k. means absolutely nothing. Nothing. And to the perpetually curious like me, it tells zero about what the speaker is thinking. What would you say about how you slept if not for those stupid letters? How about peacefully, sufficiently, or shittily? What are we hiding with o.k?
I annoyed my boyfriend a few weeks ago by responding to many of his texts and messages with “Sure.” To him, it seemed like a begrudging answer, and now I see what he means.
O.k. is only o.k. when simply accepting what the other person has just told you. I think Michael used it pretty well last night when I told him I was going to go outside to my car to look for the book I need to study for an exam tomorrow . What else could he say but o.k? Good luck or hope it turns up or put some shoes on, dumbass it’s thirty degrees outside are much better to me. But I was willing to walk away from that computer screen with only his acceptance and the o.k.
Who's with me? When is o.k. just o.k?
It may sound strange, but o.k. is the winner for me. Maybe I’m a little more impassioned than some people and just can’t stand something being only o.k, or maybe in the small area in which I was raised, even just the home perhaps, o.k. means something along the lines of “if I have to.” If I have to respond somehow, if I have to do what you ask me, if I have to agree with you even though I don’t want to.
Where the hell does o.k. come from? Who decided that those two letters should signify not something great nor something terrible, just something mediocre enough that it doesn’t deserve a full word?
Nothing is o.k. Not the crappy tuna salad sandwich I had for lunch, nor the test that I didn’t study for yesterday. It’s definitely not o.k. to respond to someone’s opinion with o.k. That may be the most insulting way to dismiss someone’s opinions.
Like other common phrases, o.k. means absolutely nothing. Nothing. And to the perpetually curious like me, it tells zero about what the speaker is thinking. What would you say about how you slept if not for those stupid letters? How about peacefully, sufficiently, or shittily? What are we hiding with o.k?
I annoyed my boyfriend a few weeks ago by responding to many of his texts and messages with “Sure.” To him, it seemed like a begrudging answer, and now I see what he means.
O.k. is only o.k. when simply accepting what the other person has just told you. I think Michael used it pretty well last night when I told him I was going to go outside to my car to look for the book I need to study for an exam tomorrow . What else could he say but o.k? Good luck or hope it turns up or put some shoes on, dumbass it’s thirty degrees outside are much better to me. But I was willing to walk away from that computer screen with only his acceptance and the o.k.
Who's with me? When is o.k. just o.k?
Friday, October 23, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
What About It?
The warm weather made our cold blood flow easier and made everyone living in my mother's home more productive and alive than we have been in the last couple of cold October weeks. I walked my dog for an hour, all the way to the old fort that sits as a reminder of one of the first settlements west of the Allegheny Mountains. But this settlement is one of very few that didn't turn into anything. It's still surrounded by the forests that have always been there and some large, well-tended fields that are newer to the region.
Maybe it was the Native Americans who burned the fort to nothing that scared new settlers away, or maybe it was the long, cold winters and distance of fresh water sources. Whatever the cause, they left the area to be slowly settled until now, when only about 25 houses can be seen from the higher points in the hills around the fort. The thing that brought the most people to the area was a black deposit found underground around here: the coal that still comes up from the ground and sits in chunks among the rocks and soil in my yard.
That black stuff brought my family here, to live in the house that I grew up in and work 12 hours or more a day in the mines at the bottom of the hill and die of emphysema before the age of 60. And my mother wears a hard hat and steel-toed boots for 8 hours a day. My father played with fire in the steel mills for thirty years.
Every generation gets better: my brother is a teacher and my sister is being trained for management at a finance company. And I get to write about all of this.
After I walked home from the fort, having pissed off enough drivers for the day (who doesn't hate having to swerve for pedestrians on a rural road?), I retreated to my room and heard the sounds of my mother and sister taking advantage of the warmth to prepare our home for the winter we know is coming. They repotted plants to move inside, swept up leaves, and did whatever else I wasn't willing to help them with.
So they put me to work inside, where my mother told me to make dinner for everyone.
"Use that chicken before it goes bad."
So in this old house, I cooked chicken that was raised who knows where, stuffed with a French cheese and baked until delicious (and only slightly pink). And my sister, Josh and I sat at the kitchen table and talked money and work.
I've worked a few different jobs and certainly put my time in doing schoolwork and housework, hell I've even read Philip Levine's What Work Is, but I don't know if I'll ever understand the relationship between how I feel about work and the reality of it. I'm familiar with the cliche "Work to live; don't live to work," and I am tempted to say I can sum up my thoughts with it.
Meanwhile, I know that my ancestors and the early settlers of Hannastown alike would be asking me, "What is there to think about? You don't feel anything about work. You just need to eat."
Maybe it was the Native Americans who burned the fort to nothing that scared new settlers away, or maybe it was the long, cold winters and distance of fresh water sources. Whatever the cause, they left the area to be slowly settled until now, when only about 25 houses can be seen from the higher points in the hills around the fort. The thing that brought the most people to the area was a black deposit found underground around here: the coal that still comes up from the ground and sits in chunks among the rocks and soil in my yard.
That black stuff brought my family here, to live in the house that I grew up in and work 12 hours or more a day in the mines at the bottom of the hill and die of emphysema before the age of 60. And my mother wears a hard hat and steel-toed boots for 8 hours a day. My father played with fire in the steel mills for thirty years.
Every generation gets better: my brother is a teacher and my sister is being trained for management at a finance company. And I get to write about all of this.
After I walked home from the fort, having pissed off enough drivers for the day (who doesn't hate having to swerve for pedestrians on a rural road?), I retreated to my room and heard the sounds of my mother and sister taking advantage of the warmth to prepare our home for the winter we know is coming. They repotted plants to move inside, swept up leaves, and did whatever else I wasn't willing to help them with.
So they put me to work inside, where my mother told me to make dinner for everyone.
"Use that chicken before it goes bad."
So in this old house, I cooked chicken that was raised who knows where, stuffed with a French cheese and baked until delicious (and only slightly pink). And my sister, Josh and I sat at the kitchen table and talked money and work.
I've worked a few different jobs and certainly put my time in doing schoolwork and housework, hell I've even read Philip Levine's What Work Is, but I don't know if I'll ever understand the relationship between how I feel about work and the reality of it. I'm familiar with the cliche "Work to live; don't live to work," and I am tempted to say I can sum up my thoughts with it.
Meanwhile, I know that my ancestors and the early settlers of Hannastown alike would be asking me, "What is there to think about? You don't feel anything about work. You just need to eat."
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Who Knew?
At the risk of embarassing myself, I'm going to tell you another secret.
Today when I got home from class, I microwaved what was probably my 286th bag of popcorn. It was a mini-bag, just for me, of Pop Secret brand kettle corn. As I was crunching away in front of the computer, I examined the bag and the instructions on it, giggling thinking of someone learning how to make microwave popcorn for the first time.
I would consider myself an expert- I've got the timing down just right so that I don't burn it but there are seldom more than 5 unpopped kernels remaining in the bottom of the bag. I get the most out of that thing. But my eyes lingered on the brand name, Pop Secret. What exactly is so secret about this popcorn? Are the manufacturers claiming that they know something about popcorn that I don't?
And then it hit me, like the last pop of a kernel in the microwave- the brand is a play on the phrase "top secret!" And for just a moment I felt so proud of myself for deciphering this tricky, secretive name that I had heard for most of my life but never gave any real thought to.
And following was the realization that I may have just cognitively caught up with 5th graders.
So what I really want to know is, who among you readers always knew why it was called Pop Secret? And don't play with me here, let's be honest.
There's no shame in acknowledging that you're still figuring things out, even if it is just a bag of microwave popcorn.
Today when I got home from class, I microwaved what was probably my 286th bag of popcorn. It was a mini-bag, just for me, of Pop Secret brand kettle corn. As I was crunching away in front of the computer, I examined the bag and the instructions on it, giggling thinking of someone learning how to make microwave popcorn for the first time.
I would consider myself an expert- I've got the timing down just right so that I don't burn it but there are seldom more than 5 unpopped kernels remaining in the bottom of the bag. I get the most out of that thing. But my eyes lingered on the brand name, Pop Secret. What exactly is so secret about this popcorn? Are the manufacturers claiming that they know something about popcorn that I don't?
And then it hit me, like the last pop of a kernel in the microwave- the brand is a play on the phrase "top secret!" And for just a moment I felt so proud of myself for deciphering this tricky, secretive name that I had heard for most of my life but never gave any real thought to.
And following was the realization that I may have just cognitively caught up with 5th graders.
So what I really want to know is, who among you readers always knew why it was called Pop Secret? And don't play with me here, let's be honest.
There's no shame in acknowledging that you're still figuring things out, even if it is just a bag of microwave popcorn.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Golden Car
Today, as I walked to class, shivering as the wind brought what felt like ice to the skin on my legs by blowing around the hem of my skirt, I noticed a car driving past me that was covered in gold leaves. The blue car looked like it belonged in the woods, and it had probably spent quite a few hours under the trees there on campus. It was one of Chevy's cheap model sedans from a few years ago, the kind of car that a lot of students drive around campus because they can afford them. But as the car almost hit me, I got a clear look at the driver and realized it was one of the most respected faculty members on campus. I wondered if he had to drive a car like that, or if he was just an old-fashioned stingy guy who drove a mediocre car and lived in a mediocre house and had a million dollars in his bank account.
But really, how many people live like that? It is the American way to pour all the money you possibly can into your material possessions, especially into the status symbol of the automobile. And while this man may be different, I at least know he is American.
So what the hell is he doing in Greensburg, PA? Did he grow up here and never lose his attachment to the area, subsequently taking a job to do something he loved in a place he loved even more? Is the car an example of the sacrifices he's made to do what he really wanted? To attain or maintain the peace of mind that he thrives on?
Or did he give up on a world that gave up on him? Did he put himself and his genius out there and not attain what he had been led to believe he could?
The car scared me, and not just because it almost knocked me right off my high heels on this cool October day. It scared me because I assumed that anyone as smart as that driver ought to have every luxury money can buy. What scares me even more, though, is that I was so deeply thrown into thoughts and fears about material accomplishments while severely underrating what that man who I don't know at all has accomplished outside the world of money.
But really, how many people live like that? It is the American way to pour all the money you possibly can into your material possessions, especially into the status symbol of the automobile. And while this man may be different, I at least know he is American.
So what the hell is he doing in Greensburg, PA? Did he grow up here and never lose his attachment to the area, subsequently taking a job to do something he loved in a place he loved even more? Is the car an example of the sacrifices he's made to do what he really wanted? To attain or maintain the peace of mind that he thrives on?
Or did he give up on a world that gave up on him? Did he put himself and his genius out there and not attain what he had been led to believe he could?
The car scared me, and not just because it almost knocked me right off my high heels on this cool October day. It scared me because I assumed that anyone as smart as that driver ought to have every luxury money can buy. What scares me even more, though, is that I was so deeply thrown into thoughts and fears about material accomplishments while severely underrating what that man who I don't know at all has accomplished outside the world of money.
Always Look On the Bright Side of Life
There are more positive aspects of unemployment than having the leisure time to watch Monty Python's entire body of work. And I don't mean quality, just quantity. Here are ten that I have enjoyed:
1. It's a great excuse to quit smoking. (I understand that cigarettes will not likely be the first expense to be eliminated, but try to wait a couple days after you run out next time and you'll get so attached to that extra 5 dollars that you won't be able to part with it.)
2. It's a great excuse to slow down, i.e. drink less.
3. If you don't want to go out less, it's a great excuse to make new friends so that they can buy you drinks. Since your old friends will likely be sick of buying you drinks...
4. If no one will buy you drinks, you'll still make new friends because you're everybody's new favorite D.D.
5. It's a great reason to learn how to cook, since you can't afford to eat out anymore. Not even McDonald's.
6. Your pets will be happier. The dog will get more walks, not to mention the table scraps of botched meals at home...
7. You'll have time to renovate... get out the gas mask and dive under that bed. Who knows, maybe you'll find an old resume you can work on tucked in there.
8. You'll rediscover the thrill of bargain shopping.
9. You can spend hours on Wikipedia. And when you get to an interview, you can blow your future boss away with everything you know about German Short-Haired Pointers.
10. You'll have an excuse to de-clutter. You can tell everyone that's why you're having the yard sale, and use the profits to buy one last pack of cigarettes...
1. It's a great excuse to quit smoking. (I understand that cigarettes will not likely be the first expense to be eliminated, but try to wait a couple days after you run out next time and you'll get so attached to that extra 5 dollars that you won't be able to part with it.)
2. It's a great excuse to slow down, i.e. drink less.
3. If you don't want to go out less, it's a great excuse to make new friends so that they can buy you drinks. Since your old friends will likely be sick of buying you drinks...
4. If no one will buy you drinks, you'll still make new friends because you're everybody's new favorite D.D.
5. It's a great reason to learn how to cook, since you can't afford to eat out anymore. Not even McDonald's.
6. Your pets will be happier. The dog will get more walks, not to mention the table scraps of botched meals at home...
7. You'll have time to renovate... get out the gas mask and dive under that bed. Who knows, maybe you'll find an old resume you can work on tucked in there.
8. You'll rediscover the thrill of bargain shopping.
9. You can spend hours on Wikipedia. And when you get to an interview, you can blow your future boss away with everything you know about German Short-Haired Pointers.
10. You'll have an excuse to de-clutter. You can tell everyone that's why you're having the yard sale, and use the profits to buy one last pack of cigarettes...
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Party Like You're 22
When I got home from the airport tonight, there was a black gift bag on the kitchen table that said, "Party like a rock star," and had shiny ribbons and a greeting card with my name on it sticking out of the top. I was excited, and feeling strangely welcomed back to my mother's home with this gift that had to be from my sister. I hoped that she was still awake, as I would have felt bad opening it without her being there. But I would have opened it anyway.
She was laying on the couch with a blanket over her and my dog sleeping across her lap. She didn't say "Hi," just made a shh noise and pointed to the little animal. I said "Hey," not caring about the dog, and immediately asked her if I could open the gift.
She said, "Sure, but don't get too excited."
How could I not get excited? The woman knows how to wrap a present. It was everything you could hope for-- shiny, stylish, and most importantly, heavy. I lugged the bag into the living room, not really caring what was inside or how much it cost, and tore into the card first. While I wanted to throw the tissue paper into the air like Animal from the Muppets and see what was inside, I figured it would be rude to disregard the card. You can't disregard the card. It's a preface to the gift; it tells you what's to come and how the giver really feels about you. (Even if they don't tell you, their handwriting does. Another blog, another topic.)
Inside was written a command to enjoy being 22 and an affirmation of my sister's love for me... and then "Here's some goodies to enjoy!"
How could anyone not enjoy goodies? So I knew the gift would be things with expiration dates on them. And the card was accompanied by a Wal-Mart gift card, meaning don't expect too much more from the bag. This is your real gift.
And in the bag was a few of my favorite items to eat that my sister buys from Wal-Mart. It's really thoughtful, if you think about it. I mean, I must really be dying for Sun Chips and Cranberry Juice if I would go so far as to eat them when they're not mine.
That's one thing about living back with the family when you're an adult-- there's no sharing anymore. Around here, sharing only goes as far as the television, the germs, the heat, and the roof. We keep to ourselves maybe because we're adults, and we buy our own groceries and we go to our jobs or schools or social events on our own and we live our lives as though we were independent.
And that's the beauty of the American spirit, isn't it? Every man for himself?
Now excuse me, it's now after midnight on my 22nd birthday and I'm going to take my Sun Chips and Cranberry Juice and party like a rock star.
She was laying on the couch with a blanket over her and my dog sleeping across her lap. She didn't say "Hi," just made a shh noise and pointed to the little animal. I said "Hey," not caring about the dog, and immediately asked her if I could open the gift.
She said, "Sure, but don't get too excited."
How could I not get excited? The woman knows how to wrap a present. It was everything you could hope for-- shiny, stylish, and most importantly, heavy. I lugged the bag into the living room, not really caring what was inside or how much it cost, and tore into the card first. While I wanted to throw the tissue paper into the air like Animal from the Muppets and see what was inside, I figured it would be rude to disregard the card. You can't disregard the card. It's a preface to the gift; it tells you what's to come and how the giver really feels about you. (Even if they don't tell you, their handwriting does. Another blog, another topic.)
Inside was written a command to enjoy being 22 and an affirmation of my sister's love for me... and then "Here's some goodies to enjoy!"
How could anyone not enjoy goodies? So I knew the gift would be things with expiration dates on them. And the card was accompanied by a Wal-Mart gift card, meaning don't expect too much more from the bag. This is your real gift.
And in the bag was a few of my favorite items to eat that my sister buys from Wal-Mart. It's really thoughtful, if you think about it. I mean, I must really be dying for Sun Chips and Cranberry Juice if I would go so far as to eat them when they're not mine.
That's one thing about living back with the family when you're an adult-- there's no sharing anymore. Around here, sharing only goes as far as the television, the germs, the heat, and the roof. We keep to ourselves maybe because we're adults, and we buy our own groceries and we go to our jobs or schools or social events on our own and we live our lives as though we were independent.
And that's the beauty of the American spirit, isn't it? Every man for himself?
Now excuse me, it's now after midnight on my 22nd birthday and I'm going to take my Sun Chips and Cranberry Juice and party like a rock star.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Giving Trumps Taking
My sister and Josh came home from the beach just a couple days ago, and we're all getting along much better than we did when I first moved home from Costa Rica. Back then, they had accused me, not directly, but via friends of the family, of "interrupting their routine." Maybe they didn't fully believe that I would be moving my stuff out of my ex's house, that I would just fall back into my old life as if I had never left. Or maybe it was that I was home all the time, eating their food and drinking my sister's pop every day with no source of income and nothing to contribute.
A few days after my mother had new windows that she can't afford installed in this old old house, my sister was painting the trim around the windows in the kitchen to match the new white of the fiberglass frames. She didn't look up when I walked past, a bag of her pretzels in my hand on my way to living room. She remained croutching with her fragile hands holding the paintbrush as steady as she could. When I walked back into the kitchen, I saw her talking to Josh, her face looking like it was ripe with tears. And they both got silent when I entered the room. How inconspicuous.
I asked Mel what was wrong, preparing myself for some sort of attack. She told me through tears, "You drank all of my rum."
I will admit, while she was on a bit of a drinking hiatus, I drank perhaps half of her bottle of rum over the course of a weekend or two. Every time I made a drink with it, of course, I thought, "She's never going to notice one more shot is gone." Until the plastic bottle of cheap rum became much lighter.
And then I stopped; I had realized I had taken advantage of my sister's finances a little too much then. But did I concede and beg her forgiveness? Hell no. Yes, we are family, but we are still women. And we absolutely have it out for each other most of the time. So I argued, my main point being that "It's not like there's a rum shortage in the world."
No, she didn't like that, but took the argument instead in the direction of principle. She makes the money to buy those things, she is not my mother and is not sharing shit with me, she wanted to start this particular weekend with a full bottle of rum.
"As soon as I start getting paid in a couple weeks I'll buy you like four handles of rum." She didn't like that, either, as I'm sure she didn't like me very much during the entire 4-month period between when I got home from Costa Rica and when I started school and tutoring again.
Tonight, as she sat on the other side of the sectional couch and sustained control of the remote despite my pleas, she pointed to the end table on my end of the sofa. "That's for you."
And there, neatly folded and with the tag still on, lied a white t-shirt that said in big, angular black letters "OBX."
I didn't mean to seem like a bitch, I really didn't, but I casually looked the shirt over and set it right back on the table. "Thank you," was all I said before we went back to fighting over what to watch on TV.
A few days after my mother had new windows that she can't afford installed in this old old house, my sister was painting the trim around the windows in the kitchen to match the new white of the fiberglass frames. She didn't look up when I walked past, a bag of her pretzels in my hand on my way to living room. She remained croutching with her fragile hands holding the paintbrush as steady as she could. When I walked back into the kitchen, I saw her talking to Josh, her face looking like it was ripe with tears. And they both got silent when I entered the room. How inconspicuous.
I asked Mel what was wrong, preparing myself for some sort of attack. She told me through tears, "You drank all of my rum."
I will admit, while she was on a bit of a drinking hiatus, I drank perhaps half of her bottle of rum over the course of a weekend or two. Every time I made a drink with it, of course, I thought, "She's never going to notice one more shot is gone." Until the plastic bottle of cheap rum became much lighter.
And then I stopped; I had realized I had taken advantage of my sister's finances a little too much then. But did I concede and beg her forgiveness? Hell no. Yes, we are family, but we are still women. And we absolutely have it out for each other most of the time. So I argued, my main point being that "It's not like there's a rum shortage in the world."
No, she didn't like that, but took the argument instead in the direction of principle. She makes the money to buy those things, she is not my mother and is not sharing shit with me, she wanted to start this particular weekend with a full bottle of rum.
"As soon as I start getting paid in a couple weeks I'll buy you like four handles of rum." She didn't like that, either, as I'm sure she didn't like me very much during the entire 4-month period between when I got home from Costa Rica and when I started school and tutoring again.
Tonight, as she sat on the other side of the sectional couch and sustained control of the remote despite my pleas, she pointed to the end table on my end of the sofa. "That's for you."
And there, neatly folded and with the tag still on, lied a white t-shirt that said in big, angular black letters "OBX."
I didn't mean to seem like a bitch, I really didn't, but I casually looked the shirt over and set it right back on the table. "Thank you," was all I said before we went back to fighting over what to watch on TV.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
A Mutual Break-Up (It's not you; it's me, labor force...)
While laying in bed today, enjoying not having to be at school, I read an article in the San Francisco Chronicle that focused on September's rise in unemployment. (http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/10/02/MNE91A0AHE.DTL&type=business) Yes, shockingly, the rate rose from 9.7% to 9.8%. So .1% more of the United States' labor force has ended September and begun autumn with no job. How many people is that, exactly? How can we humanize that?
To break it down for you, the government's census bureau selects about 60,000 households from across the country that they believe will represent the ginormous population of the entire United States. And they ask them questions about their employment once a month. They usually do this around the 12th of the month, and BAM! By the end of the month, the results are in and the entire nation gets to panic together about how terribly we are doing.
So, the government estimates that the United States' labor force is about 153.1 million workers strong, including the unemployed. If the statistics are accurate, (and the government insists that the chances are 90% that they are within 290,000 people of the actual numbers) then roughly 15 million Americans are without jobs right now. September's .1% rise in unemployment means, then, that approximately153,000 more Americans lost their jobs last month.
But what struck me most about what I read in the Chronicle was that now about 600,000 Americans have given up on finding employment. They've given up on working and are no longer part of the labor force. That's more than the entire population of a forward-thinking and -moving city like Seattle, just giving up on finding work.
I would assume, although it is just an awful thing to do, that these labor force dropouts have done so because they can. Maybe these people are the 16-year-olds across the nation that just feel bad for taking McJobs away from older people that have been laid off and booted from their cubicle with no means to feed their 14-year-olds. Or maybe they're wives or husbands with young children at home who would love to take the opportunity to get to know their families more.
While knowing that I had a very part-time job to come back to once school was back in session made me feel a little less pressure to find a job over the summer, I also knew that my competition was stronger and had much more experience than I have in the work force. I've never had to compete with people in my parents' generation for jobs. And should they have to compete with teenagers that don't need to be home at a certain time to pick their children up from day care? In this land of plenty?
P.S.- big ups to the government for making information about their data-gathering methods available to anyone with an internet connection. Or a blog to write. Check it out for yourselves. http://www.bls.gov/cps/cps_htgm.pdf
To break it down for you, the government's census bureau selects about 60,000 households from across the country that they believe will represent the ginormous population of the entire United States. And they ask them questions about their employment once a month. They usually do this around the 12th of the month, and BAM! By the end of the month, the results are in and the entire nation gets to panic together about how terribly we are doing.
So, the government estimates that the United States' labor force is about 153.1 million workers strong, including the unemployed. If the statistics are accurate, (and the government insists that the chances are 90% that they are within 290,000 people of the actual numbers) then roughly 15 million Americans are without jobs right now. September's .1% rise in unemployment means, then, that approximately153,000 more Americans lost their jobs last month.
But what struck me most about what I read in the Chronicle was that now about 600,000 Americans have given up on finding employment. They've given up on working and are no longer part of the labor force. That's more than the entire population of a forward-thinking and -moving city like Seattle, just giving up on finding work.
I would assume, although it is just an awful thing to do, that these labor force dropouts have done so because they can. Maybe these people are the 16-year-olds across the nation that just feel bad for taking McJobs away from older people that have been laid off and booted from their cubicle with no means to feed their 14-year-olds. Or maybe they're wives or husbands with young children at home who would love to take the opportunity to get to know their families more.
While knowing that I had a very part-time job to come back to once school was back in session made me feel a little less pressure to find a job over the summer, I also knew that my competition was stronger and had much more experience than I have in the work force. I've never had to compete with people in my parents' generation for jobs. And should they have to compete with teenagers that don't need to be home at a certain time to pick their children up from day care? In this land of plenty?
P.S.- big ups to the government for making information about their data-gathering methods available to anyone with an internet connection. Or a blog to write. Check it out for yourselves. http://www.bls.gov/cps/cps_htgm.pdf
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Where's the Shame?
I sat across the table from her, a friend that I don't talk to very much. One of those. I wondered why she had invited me to dinner- I'm not that much fun when I eat, really. I'm an intense eater: I focus on my food, chew everything until it's mush, and take forever to finish. It took me about an hour to finish eating a salad and a small plate of something Chartwell's, the food provider at the school's cafeteria, dreamed up that resembled nothing edible I had seen before. It looked like vegetable confetti sprinkled with chicken. Tasted like confetti, too. And I paid seven dollars for that.
We talked about shallow things, which usually makes me uncomfortable. It's not that I am so deep and brooding that the pressing issues of the world just can't go undiscussed, but I like to let conversation flow freely with as little censorship as possible. But I didn't know two of the girls there tonight very well. So I kept it simple and stuck to making stupid comments about even sillier things. For example, everyone laughed to my reaction to a friend saying, "I just swallowed a bean whole." Riveting.
Things got deepest and most personal when my friend asked me where I was living now. Of course I would have loved to say, "In this cozy little one-bedroom tucked back in the woods with a fabulous kitchen and great big windows that let all the sunshine in," but as a compulsive purveyor of the truth, good or bad, I said, "With my mother."
Even from across that great, round table, I could see the cringe in her face. "Ooh."
She didn't have to say more, but what I didn't have to say was, "At least I'm allowed to drink in my 'housing' and my bathroom is all my own."
And I'm glad I didn't. Is there really anything better about either living on campus or with your parents? It seems to me that the two are just about equal-- you have to follow rules (or at least some guidelines).
But the more I think the more I don't mind living back at home, at least not for now. I'm not throwing money I don't have away to live in a shitty apartment. I get to throw my scarce money away on nights out and plane tickets And I'm definitely not giving any more of it to Chartwell's for a seven-dollar salad I put together myself.
We talked about shallow things, which usually makes me uncomfortable. It's not that I am so deep and brooding that the pressing issues of the world just can't go undiscussed, but I like to let conversation flow freely with as little censorship as possible. But I didn't know two of the girls there tonight very well. So I kept it simple and stuck to making stupid comments about even sillier things. For example, everyone laughed to my reaction to a friend saying, "I just swallowed a bean whole." Riveting.
Things got deepest and most personal when my friend asked me where I was living now. Of course I would have loved to say, "In this cozy little one-bedroom tucked back in the woods with a fabulous kitchen and great big windows that let all the sunshine in," but as a compulsive purveyor of the truth, good or bad, I said, "With my mother."
Even from across that great, round table, I could see the cringe in her face. "Ooh."
She didn't have to say more, but what I didn't have to say was, "At least I'm allowed to drink in my 'housing' and my bathroom is all my own."
And I'm glad I didn't. Is there really anything better about either living on campus or with your parents? It seems to me that the two are just about equal-- you have to follow rules (or at least some guidelines).
But the more I think the more I don't mind living back at home, at least not for now. I'm not throwing money I don't have away to live in a shitty apartment. I get to throw my scarce money away on nights out and plane tickets And I'm definitely not giving any more of it to Chartwell's for a seven-dollar salad I put together myself.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Autumn Limbo
Hearing the hum and puff of the furnace in my mom's house for the first time in about a year has finally made it solidly clear to me that I am home. My mother said to me as she showed my her new back-up kerosene heater, "It's a hard life we live."
I am no longer on the run in the tropics nor any other part of the world than western Pennsylvania; I am a captive now of the rain and the chill that has sunk into the little bones of my feet and hands and into the cartilage of my nose and ears.
A trip I've planned to Wisconsin in two weeks isn't going to help too much in that department, I don't think. It will be most excellent to get away for a long weekend, especially for my birthday and especially into the warm, solid arms of the man I love who unfortunately lives out there.
In the meantime, I've got about ten days of peace here in my mother's home while my sister and her boyfriend are vacationing for a wedding in North Carolina. My sister sent me a picture message of a sand dune they drove past, and I was instantly envious of the blue sky that was shamelessly illuminated by a bright sun that seems to have forsaken us Pennsylvanians, at least for now. About eight months ago, I was the one sending pictures of sunshine and sand and my minimally clothed, tanned body home to my family while they were staying up all night to keep a fire going in the wood burning stove that my dad had gotten for the house the winter before Y2K.
In case you have forgotten, or have pushed that particular winter out of your mind, our society which takes pride in being sophisticated and logical and scientific went all but crazy thinking that some grand computer-driven catastrophe would hit us and knock the world back into the 1890s. Yes, my father was among those that simply wanted to be "prepared." He got the wood burning stove in a similar manner to how he got almost anything he brought into the house: "A buddy of mine hooked me up."
It was an army-issue stove, complete with serial numbers whose meaning I had no knowledge of, rust, harsh angles and a creaking little door on the bottom half that we used to stuff paper and cardboard in and play with the flames when Dad wasn't looking.
When he moved out only a year or two later, the stove remained. No longer on the lovely cinder blocks in the middle of our otherwise cozy living room, it sat in the basement where my mother kept its fires fed to keep the heating bills as low as she possibly could. While I was away, probably on a beach somewhere in Costa Rica or Nicaragua, my family ran out of oil to run the furnace. It's expensive, and my mom got caught up in paying the rest of her bills when she had bought the oil for the entire winter and spent as little as possible while oil was well over $100/ barrel.
I called home to see how everything was, or to tell them how I was, and I led off with, "I am so burnt it hurts to just lay in the hammock on my balcony between classes."
My sister told me, "It's under 10 degrees here and the furnace isn't working."
What an asshole. What was I supposed to say then? "Nevermind, it sucks here?"
This winter I am going to spend between Pennsylvania and its even more frigid counterpart, Wisconsin. And I am going to look at my photos from last winter and dream of escaping to Costa Rica with the man I met there.
But I will be sleeping in the bed next to my mother's room, trying to make a little money tutoring and to get my ass out of college so that I can get a job. A real one that will heat my home and make that furnace hum.
I am no longer on the run in the tropics nor any other part of the world than western Pennsylvania; I am a captive now of the rain and the chill that has sunk into the little bones of my feet and hands and into the cartilage of my nose and ears.
A trip I've planned to Wisconsin in two weeks isn't going to help too much in that department, I don't think. It will be most excellent to get away for a long weekend, especially for my birthday and especially into the warm, solid arms of the man I love who unfortunately lives out there.
In the meantime, I've got about ten days of peace here in my mother's home while my sister and her boyfriend are vacationing for a wedding in North Carolina. My sister sent me a picture message of a sand dune they drove past, and I was instantly envious of the blue sky that was shamelessly illuminated by a bright sun that seems to have forsaken us Pennsylvanians, at least for now. About eight months ago, I was the one sending pictures of sunshine and sand and my minimally clothed, tanned body home to my family while they were staying up all night to keep a fire going in the wood burning stove that my dad had gotten for the house the winter before Y2K.
In case you have forgotten, or have pushed that particular winter out of your mind, our society which takes pride in being sophisticated and logical and scientific went all but crazy thinking that some grand computer-driven catastrophe would hit us and knock the world back into the 1890s. Yes, my father was among those that simply wanted to be "prepared." He got the wood burning stove in a similar manner to how he got almost anything he brought into the house: "A buddy of mine hooked me up."
It was an army-issue stove, complete with serial numbers whose meaning I had no knowledge of, rust, harsh angles and a creaking little door on the bottom half that we used to stuff paper and cardboard in and play with the flames when Dad wasn't looking.
When he moved out only a year or two later, the stove remained. No longer on the lovely cinder blocks in the middle of our otherwise cozy living room, it sat in the basement where my mother kept its fires fed to keep the heating bills as low as she possibly could. While I was away, probably on a beach somewhere in Costa Rica or Nicaragua, my family ran out of oil to run the furnace. It's expensive, and my mom got caught up in paying the rest of her bills when she had bought the oil for the entire winter and spent as little as possible while oil was well over $100/ barrel.
I called home to see how everything was, or to tell them how I was, and I led off with, "I am so burnt it hurts to just lay in the hammock on my balcony between classes."
My sister told me, "It's under 10 degrees here and the furnace isn't working."
What an asshole. What was I supposed to say then? "Nevermind, it sucks here?"
This winter I am going to spend between Pennsylvania and its even more frigid counterpart, Wisconsin. And I am going to look at my photos from last winter and dream of escaping to Costa Rica with the man I met there.
But I will be sleeping in the bed next to my mother's room, trying to make a little money tutoring and to get my ass out of college so that I can get a job. A real one that will heat my home and make that furnace hum.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Listen... Do You Want to Know a Secret?
..."Let me whisper in your ear... Closer... "
This will be the first of secrets I choose to divulge or not via the interweb. This is not my first foray into the world of blogging. I was 16, I believe, and blissfully wrapped up in the tangles of my high school life before ever being employed. My friend Buck, who eventually became my boyfriend and then my fiance and now my ex-fiance, had a little experience with blogs and was very much into anything having to do with computers or the internet. He was rarely not in front of a computer screen or a TV, although from his skinny frame you could never tell.
He knew I liked to write, and he respected me, maybe even liked me and wanted to know me better (I'd guess). So he approached me in Latin class in 10th grade and asked if I wanted to be a 'contributor' on his new web page. I was flattered, and saw it as a chance to get 'in' with a few of the artistic kids that I knew from afar. I thought this was it. I was going to be a writer and everyone would love me.
Do you think that's what happened?
Me neither. I felt overshadowed by the weighty presence of kids that were writing about their experiences with drugs and sex and booze and jobs and I had zero experience in any of those areas. All I had was a crush. And maybe a few cigarettes snuck in the woods near my house. So I wrote probably four or five blogs total, all about this crush of mine; and in the style of a 16-year-old girl, never ventured outside of that theme. The website quickly folded and now, thank god, no longer exists.
So I took my bow from blogs and believed I would never start one again. Until I became the broke-ass writing major that you're getting to know here. But don't worry, this time I've got drugs and sex and booze and jobs... well, maybe not that last one.
This will be the first of secrets I choose to divulge or not via the interweb. This is not my first foray into the world of blogging. I was 16, I believe, and blissfully wrapped up in the tangles of my high school life before ever being employed. My friend Buck, who eventually became my boyfriend and then my fiance and now my ex-fiance, had a little experience with blogs and was very much into anything having to do with computers or the internet. He was rarely not in front of a computer screen or a TV, although from his skinny frame you could never tell.
He knew I liked to write, and he respected me, maybe even liked me and wanted to know me better (I'd guess). So he approached me in Latin class in 10th grade and asked if I wanted to be a 'contributor' on his new web page. I was flattered, and saw it as a chance to get 'in' with a few of the artistic kids that I knew from afar. I thought this was it. I was going to be a writer and everyone would love me.
Do you think that's what happened?
Me neither. I felt overshadowed by the weighty presence of kids that were writing about their experiences with drugs and sex and booze and jobs and I had zero experience in any of those areas. All I had was a crush. And maybe a few cigarettes snuck in the woods near my house. So I wrote probably four or five blogs total, all about this crush of mine; and in the style of a 16-year-old girl, never ventured outside of that theme. The website quickly folded and now, thank god, no longer exists.
So I took my bow from blogs and believed I would never start one again. Until I became the broke-ass writing major that you're getting to know here. But don't worry, this time I've got drugs and sex and booze and jobs... well, maybe not that last one.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Sharing
One thing that's fun about living with three other people is germs. Maybe they got into the house by way of the Westmoreland County Community College. Or maybe UPS. But Josh, my sister's boyfriend, was the carrier for what I've now got.
He had the runniest nose I've heard since elementary school; sniffles, sneezes and hawks filled the air in this four-bedroom ex-duplex day and night. He used the family's computer, his hand all over the mouse, throughout the kitchen, on the remote that I use...
I thought I was safe because I'm not the one in the house that kisses him. In fact, I haven't hugged him since I came home from Wisconsin at the end of July, which was awkward enough to begin with. I had a feeling that he wasn't too excited to see me back after five weeks away, and I was sitting at said family computer when he came into the room and asked me how I was doing, how my trip was. I began to answer, safely seated in the wheely chair, and he spread his arms out for a hug. So I stood up and gave him a short, loose hug and sat back down. Surely these germs weren't lying dormant in his system then.
But it occured to me a couple nights ago when I heard my sister sniffling that this thing was going to get around. Hell, we share furniture, appliances, cups, silverware, the telephone... surely we would be sharing our viruses soon too.
So here I sit, hoping to squeeze in a nap somewhere between classes and praying that my family has enough Sudafed to share among the three of us, stocked up to get me through the rest of this week. My mom, naturally the oldest among us, is the only one who never gets sick. Maybe it's because she eats microwaved dinners from sterilized plastic trays and never uses this damn computer...
He had the runniest nose I've heard since elementary school; sniffles, sneezes and hawks filled the air in this four-bedroom ex-duplex day and night. He used the family's computer, his hand all over the mouse, throughout the kitchen, on the remote that I use...
I thought I was safe because I'm not the one in the house that kisses him. In fact, I haven't hugged him since I came home from Wisconsin at the end of July, which was awkward enough to begin with. I had a feeling that he wasn't too excited to see me back after five weeks away, and I was sitting at said family computer when he came into the room and asked me how I was doing, how my trip was. I began to answer, safely seated in the wheely chair, and he spread his arms out for a hug. So I stood up and gave him a short, loose hug and sat back down. Surely these germs weren't lying dormant in his system then.
But it occured to me a couple nights ago when I heard my sister sniffling that this thing was going to get around. Hell, we share furniture, appliances, cups, silverware, the telephone... surely we would be sharing our viruses soon too.
So here I sit, hoping to squeeze in a nap somewhere between classes and praying that my family has enough Sudafed to share among the three of us, stocked up to get me through the rest of this week. My mom, naturally the oldest among us, is the only one who never gets sick. Maybe it's because she eats microwaved dinners from sterilized plastic trays and never uses this damn computer...
Monday, September 14, 2009
I've Got It
The most far-reaching and all-applicable theme of my life at the moment has been chosen as the subject of this blog, and I can only believe that it was fated. After all, "Gainful Funemployment," my title, as you can well see, was only the first phrase that popped into my mind when Google politely prompted me to create a title for the beast.
I had been using the phrase all week to make people giggle or even just smile at the fact that I hadn't worked all summer. Giggles and smiles are definitely better than envy and judgment about being so lucky.
But I wouldn't call it luck. I wanted to get a job, trust me I did, but it just didn't happen for me after I came home from three months abroad in Costa Rica. In addition to readjusting to life in the US of A I had to readjust to living back home with Mom. And my sister. And her thirty-year-old boyfriend. It took me just a few days to move the bulk of my belongings from my ex-fiance's house to my mother's, but I had to change the bedroom I hadn't slept in since I was eighteen and I just kept forgetting little things that I had left at my old house.
So I moved, I was in and I was settled, but I was not readjusted. Getting daily reminders of things I had to take care of was ok when Mom lived fifteen miles away, but when she's in the bedroom next to mine it's different.
And I had to wait until my new love came to visit me from Wisconsin to really seriously look for a job. So I did, and suddenly I had been home for almost two months with no income. My checking account was getting frighteningly low and Mom's pockets have always been shallow, so I searched and I looked and I applied. All over Greensburg. And nothing. So then I bought a plane ticket to Wisconsin and I was gone again.
How does any of this make sense? I'm still working on that. Until then, maybe I should change the title to "Gainful Employment" but I don't think being a tutor for gas money can really be described as 'gainful.'
I had been using the phrase all week to make people giggle or even just smile at the fact that I hadn't worked all summer. Giggles and smiles are definitely better than envy and judgment about being so lucky.
But I wouldn't call it luck. I wanted to get a job, trust me I did, but it just didn't happen for me after I came home from three months abroad in Costa Rica. In addition to readjusting to life in the US of A I had to readjust to living back home with Mom. And my sister. And her thirty-year-old boyfriend. It took me just a few days to move the bulk of my belongings from my ex-fiance's house to my mother's, but I had to change the bedroom I hadn't slept in since I was eighteen and I just kept forgetting little things that I had left at my old house.
So I moved, I was in and I was settled, but I was not readjusted. Getting daily reminders of things I had to take care of was ok when Mom lived fifteen miles away, but when she's in the bedroom next to mine it's different.
And I had to wait until my new love came to visit me from Wisconsin to really seriously look for a job. So I did, and suddenly I had been home for almost two months with no income. My checking account was getting frighteningly low and Mom's pockets have always been shallow, so I searched and I looked and I applied. All over Greensburg. And nothing. So then I bought a plane ticket to Wisconsin and I was gone again.
How does any of this make sense? I'm still working on that. Until then, maybe I should change the title to "Gainful Employment" but I don't think being a tutor for gas money can really be described as 'gainful.'
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
And Now For Some New Ideas
I may not want to blog about scarves, in fact I'm pretty sure I don't want to.
Here are five other things I could blog about:
1. My dog
2. Cooking/Food
3. Tamburitzans/ Folk Music
4. Yoga
5. Living with Family During the Recession/Economic Hardship
Here are five other things I could blog about:
1. My dog
2. Cooking/Food
3. Tamburitzans/ Folk Music
4. Yoga
5. Living with Family During the Recession/Economic Hardship
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
What the Hell Do I Love?
I love scarves. I have a collection that is entirely too large housed in a free-standing closet that is entirely too small. I couldn't say I ever really discovered this love so much as it was imprinted upon me by a scarf from Northern Ireland that hung in my childhood bedroom. I decided when I was about to make my first trip outside the U.S. that I wanted to start an international scarf collection, but only got as far as Iceland. I forgot, during 16 days in Croatia, to buy a scarf. I was in Iceland for probably an hour or two and I purchased a very nice, thick wool scarf that I have never worn since. It hangs next to the scarf from Northern Ireland.
I have not bought scarves anywhere except the U.S. since. I have instead moved on to making my own. I don't know how to crochet, even though it is easier and faster than knitting, and I don't truly know how to follow a knitting pattern so all I can make are lovely rectangles that turn into either scarves and blankets, depending on how commited I am to the project.
Everyone in my family has recieved at least one scarf from me for Christmas and none of them wear them. I like to think of them as experimental, and a hobby that keeps me from scratching my eczematic skin and biting my nails. My ex-fiance has a scarf (or may have since I broke up with him; it's entirely possible that the scarf made its way through the Westmoreland County Waste Management system long ago) that was striped, beautiful black and gray together to make it as manly as a scarf can be, and in wonderful condition due to never being worn.
Right now I'm in the process of knitting a scarf for which I have to follow a pattern. It's my first time following instructions and it took me in excess of five times to actually get the thing started. And it's taking me longer than I ever imagined to make. It was going to be a scarf for myself, since I do love them so much and I do wear all of the ones that were purchased within the continental United States, but my boyfriend from Wisconsin likes it and I figure he may need it more than I will this winter. Although self-evaluated as 'not a scarf man' I can see him rocking it. Just over his black zip-up sweater and below his handsome jawline will rest a beautiful piece of hand-made wool art. There's just definitely no room for the damn thing in my closet.
I have not bought scarves anywhere except the U.S. since. I have instead moved on to making my own. I don't know how to crochet, even though it is easier and faster than knitting, and I don't truly know how to follow a knitting pattern so all I can make are lovely rectangles that turn into either scarves and blankets, depending on how commited I am to the project.
Everyone in my family has recieved at least one scarf from me for Christmas and none of them wear them. I like to think of them as experimental, and a hobby that keeps me from scratching my eczematic skin and biting my nails. My ex-fiance has a scarf (or may have since I broke up with him; it's entirely possible that the scarf made its way through the Westmoreland County Waste Management system long ago) that was striped, beautiful black and gray together to make it as manly as a scarf can be, and in wonderful condition due to never being worn.
Right now I'm in the process of knitting a scarf for which I have to follow a pattern. It's my first time following instructions and it took me in excess of five times to actually get the thing started. And it's taking me longer than I ever imagined to make. It was going to be a scarf for myself, since I do love them so much and I do wear all of the ones that were purchased within the continental United States, but my boyfriend from Wisconsin likes it and I figure he may need it more than I will this winter. Although self-evaluated as 'not a scarf man' I can see him rocking it. Just over his black zip-up sweater and below his handsome jawline will rest a beautiful piece of hand-made wool art. There's just definitely no room for the damn thing in my closet.
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