I read an interesting blog about the writer's adventures in talking to strangers. She used a website called Omegle to talk to ten random strangers and see what sort of conversations she had.
Her ratio of good conversations to shitty ones was 2:8. I was interested to see if this ratio is common, so I repeated the same experiment to compare results. However, I did 15 chats because I wanted a bigger pool to choose from, to have more accurate results. Also, I had a lot of time on my hands. I didn't post good conversations, since that isn't entertaining. Out of fifteen conversations, I ended up with eight good chats (a boring guy from Iran, a nice guy named Johan, a friendly girl named Jenny, an enthusiastic girl gamer who had just gone shopping, a sad person of indeterminate gender who doesn't like people, and talks to their pet bird ("at least the bird likes me."), a sixteen year old who I reassured about being a late bloomer, a 28-year-old from Indonesia named Ifran who had just made a friend in Brazil, and the most ADORABLE little 14-year-old boy from the UK who gave me relationship advice) and seven bad chats. The 'bad' ones follow.
ONE
Connecting to server...
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
You: Hullo!
Stranger: ello
Stranger: are you an idiot?
You: Um, I don't think so.
You: Why, are you?
Stranger: what are your thoughts on transcending the boundaries of our space and time?
You: I think that any transcending of boundaries, especially those presented by such solid obstacles as space and time, should be done with great care and much forethought.
Stranger: do more drugs
Your conversational partner has disconnected.
TWO
Connecting to server...
Looking for someone you can chat with. Hang on.
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
Stranger: Hi. I'm a 19 year old male who looks for a female to have cybersex with! ;)
You have disconnected.
THREE
Connecting to server...
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
You: Hello!
Stranger: hey
Stranger: from?
You: USA. Yourself?
Stranger: denmark
You: Cool, cool.
Stranger: m or f?
You: Female.
Stranger: age?
You: 19.
Stranger: 20
Stranger: do u have msn?
You have disconnected.
FOUR
Connecting to server...
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
Stranger: hi 16 f scotland
You: Greetings!
Stranger: haha
You: 16? Do your parents know you're chatting with strangers?
Stranger: its just chatting
Stranger: and im 16 its not as if im 10
You: I guess. If you were my daughter, I'd probably be worried.
Stranger: why
You: Because sixteen is awfully young. You're very impressionable.
You: There are some really awful people on this site.
Stranger: i no but a can disconnect
You: I guess so, yeah.
Stranger: ok
You: What's your favorite chat you've ever had on Omegle?
Stranger: emm dont realy have one
You: Have you enjoyed any of them?
Stranger: emmm i honestly don tknow
You: If you don't enjoy the chats, why do you still chat?
Stranger: there all the same like - hows you where you from etc
Stranger: stop all teh questions
Your conversational partner has disconnected.
(Shame, I thought that one was really going somewhere.)
FIVE
Connecting to server...
Looking for someone you can chat with. Hang on.
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
Stranger: hi
You: How!
You: What's up?
Your conversational partner has disconnected.
SIX
Connecting to server...
Looking for someone you can chat with. Hang on.
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
Stranger: Hi
You: Greetings!
Stranger: Hey........I am Ricky from australia....you?
You: I'm Ginny, from the USA. C:
Stranger: nice name
You: Thank you!
Stranger: So can we be friends?
You: Um, sure, I guess!
Stranger: Are you student?
You: Yes, I am. What about you?
Stranger: same here
Stranger: are u on facebok?
You: Yup.
Stranger: can I add u?
You: Nope!
Stranger: ok
You: Fbook is for my real life friends, sorry.
Stranger: Just wanted to see ur pic
Stranger: :)
You: Ohh, sneaky!
Stranger: ?
You: You could've asked for a picture, you know.
Stranger: ok I ask
You: And I decline.
Stranger: fuck off
Your conversational partner has disconnected.
SEVEN
Connecting to server...
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
Stranger: Any crossdresser with cam?
You have disconnected.
EIGHT
Connecting to server...
Looking for someone you can chat with. Hang on.
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
You: Greetings, Mortal.
Stranger: sweden
Stranger: haha
Your conversational partner has disconnected.
I am intrigued by the fact that the majority of my chats were good, compared to others' results, which tended towards the majority of results being negative. I think that in order for this experiment to really have solid results, MANY more chats needs to be undertaken. Also, there need to be constants, such as how one greets the other, how one reacts, etc. We also need to define what makes a 'good' conversation versus a 'bad' one. For instance, some might argue that my conversation with the 16-year-old from Scotland wasn't a 'bad' conversation at all - only a short one.
In any case, I'm intrigued not only with the results, but with this site. The concept is incredible. Expect much more to do with Omegle in this blog in the future!
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
L-O-V-E
I've decided recently that people have too big a fear of the word 'love' now. No, this isn't going to be a cliche blog about people who can't say 'I Love You' - that's been talked to death. What I mean is, people used to be infatuated with someone and say that they were 'in love'. Now, saying you're 'in love' seems to be equated with saying that you love someone. Ridiculous.
While watching Disney movies, I had a revelation on the matter.
To be in love is to be infatuated, to adore, to want madly, to think about nothing but. It isn't a commitment, it isn't something to be afraid of. Why can't people say "I'm in love" anymore without being labeled melodramatic and overzealous? Being in love is easy, even if loving is hard. I want humanity to be able to say that they are 'in love' and mean it.
This post is shorter than I imagined it being. Just wanted to say that. : P
While watching Disney movies, I had a revelation on the matter.
To be in love is to be infatuated, to adore, to want madly, to think about nothing but. It isn't a commitment, it isn't something to be afraid of. Why can't people say "I'm in love" anymore without being labeled melodramatic and overzealous? Being in love is easy, even if loving is hard. I want humanity to be able to say that they are 'in love' and mean it.
This post is shorter than I imagined it being. Just wanted to say that. : P
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Suits
First things first - I have heard the Mysterious Singingz a few times since my last blog, but unfortunately haven't gotten any closer to solving the mystery. Meanwhile, I shall tell you a story about a guy on campus who Jen and I had dubbed 'suit guy.'
We are so creative.
The reasoning behind that moniker is that he always wears suits. Well, almost always. Most days he's wearing a suit - he has a million - and then once or twice I've seen him in jeans and a T-shirt, and it's always weird when that happens. He has long curly hair in a ponytail and is just all around quite a character.
Well, today when Jen and Shan and I were at breakfast, we were discussing what the reasoning could be behind his suit-wearing tendencies. Jen and I were trying to convince Shan what the merit would be to just asking him. Our reasoning was that it pretty much had to be an exciting answer, like "Suits were on sale and this is all I own," or "God told me to wear suits to prepare for judgment day" or "I go to a funeral or a wedding every single day." We couldn't think of a single boring reason to wear a suit every day.
Finally, I convinced Jen to go and ask him - he was in the dining hall, sitting alone, and Jen is the type who will just go up and sit down and say "So, why do you wear suits all the time?" Here is a transcription of the conversation as Jen described it to us afterwards:
Jen: Hello! I see you around a lot and you're always wearing a suit. I was just wondering why you always wear suits?
Him: When you look this good in a suit, why wear anything else?
Jen: Alright!
Him: I'm Jared.
Jen: I'm Jen!
*a handshaking commences*
See? We knew it would be an interesting response! And what a great answer that was, honestly. I'm still not quite sure it's the real reason he wears suits all the time, but I really liked his answer!
What a character, indeed.
We are so creative.
The reasoning behind that moniker is that he always wears suits. Well, almost always. Most days he's wearing a suit - he has a million - and then once or twice I've seen him in jeans and a T-shirt, and it's always weird when that happens. He has long curly hair in a ponytail and is just all around quite a character.
Well, today when Jen and Shan and I were at breakfast, we were discussing what the reasoning could be behind his suit-wearing tendencies. Jen and I were trying to convince Shan what the merit would be to just asking him. Our reasoning was that it pretty much had to be an exciting answer, like "Suits were on sale and this is all I own," or "God told me to wear suits to prepare for judgment day" or "I go to a funeral or a wedding every single day." We couldn't think of a single boring reason to wear a suit every day.
Finally, I convinced Jen to go and ask him - he was in the dining hall, sitting alone, and Jen is the type who will just go up and sit down and say "So, why do you wear suits all the time?" Here is a transcription of the conversation as Jen described it to us afterwards:
Jen: Hello! I see you around a lot and you're always wearing a suit. I was just wondering why you always wear suits?
Him: When you look this good in a suit, why wear anything else?
Jen: Alright!
Him: I'm Jared.
Jen: I'm Jen!
*a handshaking commences*
See? We knew it would be an interesting response! And what a great answer that was, honestly. I'm still not quite sure it's the real reason he wears suits all the time, but I really liked his answer!
What a character, indeed.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Mysterious Singingz
A disturbing phenomenon has been occurring as of late. As I lie in bed at around midnight-ish, I hear off-key singing from nearby. The first time it happened, about three weeks ago, I dismissed it as someone down the hall, for some reason, crooning to themselves loudly at 12:17 in the morning. Three weeks later, having had countless encounters with the Mysterious Singingz, I'm getting quite irritated. Also, when it's late and dark, tracking down the source of the Mysterious Singingz is quite a frightening prospect. Let's see a progression of my work towards discovering the source of the Mysterious Singingz.
Encounter I: The First Hearing
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I tossed and turned and tried to sleep, which I couldn't do, even though I was...um, weary...I heard a strange crooning reminiscent of...well, someone singing late at night, really off-key. At first I thought I was hallucinating it. Then, I thought it was just the sound of some electronic device, like the heat, and it just sounded musical. Then I listened more, and I knew that was wrong. Then I thought my roommate Rachel was singing in her sleep. I got up to investigate, and then it stopped. Tired, I went to sleep. I didn't hear it again that night.
Encounter II: Investigation of Co-Habitants
A week or so passed uneventfully - I went to sleep early, and heard no Mysterious Singingz. Then, finally, up late trying to finish my German homework, I heard it again! "Hark!" said I, cupping a hand to my ear in a picturesque and clichéd manner. Then I finally ventured out of my room and into the mini-hallway shared by my dorm-mates and I. I listened at both doors, but the singing had stopped. I was thinking of venturing towards the outer door and seeing if someone down the hall from us was perchance having a midnight concert, but as the singing started again, I realized how very dark it was and fled...er, retreated bravely back to my room.
Encounter III: Extensive Spy-Work
Last night was the fifth or sixth time I've heard the Mysterious Singingz. I had been trying to convince myself that it was unimportant and had done my best to go to sleep despite the creepiness. However, last night was the last straw. I wasn't tired, I was, in fact, quite energetic - what better time to finally get to the bottom of the Mysterious Singingz mystery? When the Singingz started, I froze, listening carefully. They stopped. I glanced at the clock - they stopped and started rather irregularly, but I thought it couldn't hurt to have some quantitative data on the matter, just in case. In four-ish minutes, the singing had begun again. I hurled down the Norton Anthology of English Literature and my collection of brightly colored highlighters and vaulted out of bed in the most ninja-like manner possible. I sped to my door and hurled it open. The Singingz continued. Good. I proceeded to listen shortly at the doors of my roommates. However, the Singingz ceased. Frustrated, I listened about a minute longer to the silence, my mind making me believe I heard the Singingz for brief intervals, but when I listened harder, there was nothing. Finally, annoyed, I proceeded to the front door to exit into the hallway proper and listen more carefully. Making sure I had my key with me (how much would it suck to be locked out at that hour, and with no cell phone, and in a tank top that hides absolutely nothing?) I crept about in the hallway for a few minutes before giving up. I briefly considered grabbing King Lear and chilling in the hallway for a while to see if I heard it again, but at this point I was beginning to grow tired.
All my spy-like exertions, I'm sure.
More information on the Mysterious Singingz as it is revealed to me.
Encounter I: The First Hearing
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I tossed and turned and tried to sleep, which I couldn't do, even though I was...um, weary...I heard a strange crooning reminiscent of...well, someone singing late at night, really off-key. At first I thought I was hallucinating it. Then, I thought it was just the sound of some electronic device, like the heat, and it just sounded musical. Then I listened more, and I knew that was wrong. Then I thought my roommate Rachel was singing in her sleep. I got up to investigate, and then it stopped. Tired, I went to sleep. I didn't hear it again that night.
Encounter II: Investigation of Co-Habitants
A week or so passed uneventfully - I went to sleep early, and heard no Mysterious Singingz. Then, finally, up late trying to finish my German homework, I heard it again! "Hark!" said I, cupping a hand to my ear in a picturesque and clichéd manner. Then I finally ventured out of my room and into the mini-hallway shared by my dorm-mates and I. I listened at both doors, but the singing had stopped. I was thinking of venturing towards the outer door and seeing if someone down the hall from us was perchance having a midnight concert, but as the singing started again, I realized how very dark it was and fled...er, retreated bravely back to my room.
Encounter III: Extensive Spy-Work
Last night was the fifth or sixth time I've heard the Mysterious Singingz. I had been trying to convince myself that it was unimportant and had done my best to go to sleep despite the creepiness. However, last night was the last straw. I wasn't tired, I was, in fact, quite energetic - what better time to finally get to the bottom of the Mysterious Singingz mystery? When the Singingz started, I froze, listening carefully. They stopped. I glanced at the clock - they stopped and started rather irregularly, but I thought it couldn't hurt to have some quantitative data on the matter, just in case. In four-ish minutes, the singing had begun again. I hurled down the Norton Anthology of English Literature and my collection of brightly colored highlighters and vaulted out of bed in the most ninja-like manner possible. I sped to my door and hurled it open. The Singingz continued. Good. I proceeded to listen shortly at the doors of my roommates. However, the Singingz ceased. Frustrated, I listened about a minute longer to the silence, my mind making me believe I heard the Singingz for brief intervals, but when I listened harder, there was nothing. Finally, annoyed, I proceeded to the front door to exit into the hallway proper and listen more carefully. Making sure I had my key with me (how much would it suck to be locked out at that hour, and with no cell phone, and in a tank top that hides absolutely nothing?) I crept about in the hallway for a few minutes before giving up. I briefly considered grabbing King Lear and chilling in the hallway for a while to see if I heard it again, but at this point I was beginning to grow tired.
All my spy-like exertions, I'm sure.
More information on the Mysterious Singingz as it is revealed to me.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
My Life Goals
1. To play a zombie in a low-budget horror film.
2. To name a dog Achilles and teach it to heel.
3. To write a book that gets banned in schools.
4. To have more life goals.
2. To name a dog Achilles and teach it to heel.
3. To write a book that gets banned in schools.
4. To have more life goals.
Monday, October 12, 2009
A World of Musical Telepathy
Sometimes I dream of a world where when I see someone listening to an iPod, little rotating 3-D text will appear over their head telling me what they're listening to. That way, I can judge them more easily on their taste in music, as the pretentious, judgmental music snob that I am. Sometimes in this dream, other people have this talent, too, like...random cute boys who will be able to tell that the blonde next to me is listening to Lady Gaga while I am listening to the Clash. Then the cute boy will respect me and know that the blonde is a vapid culture-drone who follows whatever MTV says is cool, and he'll start a conversation with me instead of with the blonde girl.
Of course, it's later that I realize that it would suck if cute boys could see what I was listening to all the time, because there are times when I'm not having that little fantasy and I'm proudly parading around the sidewalks of the campus with 'Scales and Arpeggios' from Aristocats playing, trying my best to look like I'm listening to the Ramones or something.
I don't know if I'm the only one who constantly wonders if other people can hear my music. If I'm listening to something cool, I almost want people around me to be able to hear a little of it, so they can think to themselves, "This girl is listening to Garbage! She's cool!" but usually during that train of thought I believe that I listen to my music a lot more quietly than everyone else, and no one can hear it.
It's only when I'm listening to Kirstin Chenoweth's version of 'Glitter and be Gay' from Candide that I scroll the volume down to miniscule amounts so that no one nearby me will accidentally catch a strain of opera. Not because I'm embarrassed to listen to opera...just because I'm embarrassed to be listening to Opera while I walk from class to class in a ripped-up 'censorship is the assassination of an idea' shirt and skinny jeans.
I suppose it's a good thing we can't read each other's iPods telepathically, because then no one would listen to music that they were embarrassed about in case of someone seeing it and thinking they're weird. Also, people would load their iPods with music that's impressive, rather than music they enjoy. So no one should have that power.
Not even me, because now that I think about it, what real good would it do me? It would only satisfy my curiosity a little, and I'd eventually get annoyed by it/become complacent, and what a waste of a magic power that would be.
Apology for the lack of amusing blog entries lately. :C My wit has deserted me temporarily, I'm using it all up on constant flirtatious conversation. My bad.
Of course, it's later that I realize that it would suck if cute boys could see what I was listening to all the time, because there are times when I'm not having that little fantasy and I'm proudly parading around the sidewalks of the campus with 'Scales and Arpeggios' from Aristocats playing, trying my best to look like I'm listening to the Ramones or something.
I don't know if I'm the only one who constantly wonders if other people can hear my music. If I'm listening to something cool, I almost want people around me to be able to hear a little of it, so they can think to themselves, "This girl is listening to Garbage! She's cool!" but usually during that train of thought I believe that I listen to my music a lot more quietly than everyone else, and no one can hear it.
It's only when I'm listening to Kirstin Chenoweth's version of 'Glitter and be Gay' from Candide that I scroll the volume down to miniscule amounts so that no one nearby me will accidentally catch a strain of opera. Not because I'm embarrassed to listen to opera...just because I'm embarrassed to be listening to Opera while I walk from class to class in a ripped-up 'censorship is the assassination of an idea' shirt and skinny jeans.
I suppose it's a good thing we can't read each other's iPods telepathically, because then no one would listen to music that they were embarrassed about in case of someone seeing it and thinking they're weird. Also, people would load their iPods with music that's impressive, rather than music they enjoy. So no one should have that power.
Not even me, because now that I think about it, what real good would it do me? It would only satisfy my curiosity a little, and I'd eventually get annoyed by it/become complacent, and what a waste of a magic power that would be.
Apology for the lack of amusing blog entries lately. :C My wit has deserted me temporarily, I'm using it all up on constant flirtatious conversation. My bad.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Uh-Oh, Intelligent Humor.
Well, I do try. Today's topic is allegorical writings of the early Renaissance. No, wait! Don't leave! I promise, it'll be interesting. For my Survey of British Literature class, I recently read Chaucer's 'Canterbury Tales' (well, the Prologue and the Miller's, Reeve's and Wife of Bath's Tale), 'The Second Shepherd's Play,' 'Everyman,' and the first four Cantos of Spenser's 'The Faerie Queene.' Despite my brain melting into a puddle of goo with reading so much Middle English all at once (a minor problem, I assure you), I really do enjoy these stories. Most of them are quite funny, and the one that isn't meant to be comedic is inadvertently humorous.
For instance, 'The Miller's Tale' features a man who wants to sleep with a married woman. She fears her jealous husband's wrath and tells him she won't sleep with him unless he has a foolproof plan so that her husband won't find out. (This is common in popular literature of the century - lots of sex and ribald humor. Ever listened to any Madrigal music? They're all about sex. I mean, 'I'd Enter Your Garden?' Please.)
The foolproof plan ends up being that he convinces her husband that God is sending a second flood. While her husbands sits upstairs in a bathtub waiting for the flood, the main character makes time with his wife.
Let me just say, hearing our seventy-something year old professor (he encourages us to call him 'Stuart') talk and laugh about sex at the front of our small classroom is a rare joy in my life. He has that old person voice, the kind that's a bit creaky and wavers and doesn't stay on the same pitch, you know? He also uses a million adjectives. At least two adjectives for every noun.
"Chaucer's...Chaucer's 'Prologue' introduces us to more than just the...the characters, right? Erm, ahem, er, the Knight is a sort of an...upstanding, chivalrous fellow. He's a good, righteous kind of man. As opposed to, say, the Miller, who is described as a lecherous, greedy, obese man with a drinking problem."
(-insert wheezy old man laugh-)
"When you read the, the, the Miller's Tale, you'll see...well, it's a...a very bawdy, sexual tale. It's, it's, uh, well, it's like those terrible, flowery romance books that your mother reads." (-pause-) "Well, at least, my mother read them."
Despite his monotonous put-you-to-sleep voice and the fact that his old-man-repeat-words-syndrome (a common disease amongst the elderly, amiright?) means every sentence takes twice as long to say, I love that class. Stuart is really a wildcard, I must say.
The Second Shepherd's Play, though, amused me even more greatly than the Miller's Tale. When reading the Middle English, I tend to read it three or four times to get the meaning straight, and then often if it's too complex I'll write out a rough modern 'translation' in the margin for later reference. For instance. This passage, from The Second Shepherd's Play:
DAW: Such servants as I,
That sweats and swinks,
Eats our bread full dry,
And that me forthinks.
We are oft wet and weary
WHen master-men winks,
Yet comes full lately
Bother dinners and drinks.
But nately
Both our dame and our sire
When we have run in the mire
They can nip at our hire
And pay us full lately.
I read this passage a few times, got the meaning, and then translated quite professionally into the margin: "Daw bitches about how they don't pay him enough."
I think I may have a future in this.
Another example: The first six pages I have translated to:
Coll: -bitches about being cold and overtaxed-
Gib: -bitches about the cold and his unhappy marriage and nagging wife-
Daw: -bitches about the weather and makes melodramatic connections to Noah's flood-
See, I'm a very efficient reader. Anyway, the story of the Second Shepherd's Play is that a group of shepherds are chilling in the hills with their sheep and lamenting about hard economic times. This guy they know, named Mak, comes to talk to them. They all rush to gather their belongings so that he won't steal them, so we know what sort of man Mak is. Anyway, Mak assures them that he's not up to anything, takes a moment to bitch about his wife for a bit ("She drinks well, too...and every year that comes to man / She brings forth a bairn - and some years two."), and they all sing and then go to sleep.
Once everyone is asleep, Mak casts a spell over them to keep them asleep (See, see the discord between the Pagan bits like this in a mainly Christian piece? It ends with them visiting baby Jesus...but Mak casts a spell. EEENTERESTING.) and runs off to steal a sheep. He snatches a ram (apparently their only ram) and brings it back to his house.
There he and his wife, Gill, have a little argument that reminds me of Miracle Max and his wife in 'Princess Bride.' ("Back, witch!" "I'm not a witch, I'm your wife!") and they decide to swaddle the ram and put it in the cradle, so that when the shepherds came to blame Mak for the theft, they wouldn't find any suspiciously familiar looking rams hanging around.
So Mak goes back to the shepherds, removes the spell, and pretends to sleep. They all wake up, bitch a bit more about the weather, and then Mak heads on home to his wife. When he's gone, the shepherds count their sheep, and - lo! Their ram is missing! Whodunit? They all immediately assume Mak, and go stomping to his house to punch him in the jeans (Or something.)
Mak answers the door by asking them to be quiet, as his wife has a headache and is very tired from giving birth the previous night. Gill compliments this story by bitching loudly about how their footsteps 'go through her head.' After a bunch of back-and-forth against a backdrop of Gill moaning about how uncomfortable she is, the shepherds apologize for suspecting him and leave.
Wow! For once, the cheater /is/ going to prosper! Oh, wait - nope. Feeling bad for having been so rude to Mak and Gill, the shepherds decide to go back and give the new baby a sixpence as a gift. Mak and Gill immediately protest. "Nay, do way! He sleeps!" "When he wakens he weeps. I pray you go hence." (Translation: GTFO.)
The Shepherds insist they only want to give him a kiss on the head, to give him their blessing. They raise the cover and...my, grandma. What a long nose you have! Mak and Gill scramble to explain. Mak swears up and down that he's the father and Gill is the mother. Gill describes the child as a "pretty child", a "darling, by God". They grow more desperate. Mak says that the child's nose is broken, and that's why it looks like a sheep (...what?) and Gill says that the Faerie's took him and he's a changeling.
Wow. Kind of stretching it, aren't we?
Of course, the shepherds see right through him, but they spare his life, and because of their kindness, they get to go visit baby Jesus. That's probably actually the most important part of the play (that second half that I just summarized in one sentence), but that part bores me.
Sparknotes tells me that if anyone can't see the meaningful connection between the swaddled ram and the newborn baby Jesus, they must be an idiot. That came as news to me, as I came out of this story wondering at how much they sing (In a margin: "It's like a musical!!") and wondering whether or not 'Gill' should be pronounced 'Jill.'
...and I'm an English major. Yikes.
Okay, I'm gonna wrap this up, since I'm always a bit more long-winded than I mean to be, and this isn't so much laugh-out-loud funny as it is...well, a bit too educational. But I had the stories on my mind. Last thing: Everyman.
Everyman is one of the most famous 'Morality Plays' that were performed in the early Renaissance at festivals and such. These plays, while having small amounts of comedy to keep the audience interested, were basically meant to convey the ever-popular idea of "LISTEN TO GOD OR HE'LL SMITE YOU." Really what everyone wants to hear when they're chilling at a city-wide celebration, drinking wine and flirting with girls in corsets.
Anyway. Let me define the word 'allegory' to make this a bit more clear. An allegory is where a writer takes an idea - like an emotion, a virtue, etc. - and personifies it. For instance, the Grim Reaper is the idea of death. George Orwell's 'Animal Farm' is allegorical. Dante's 'Inferno' is allegorical. Hell, Peter S. Beagle's 'The Last Unicorn' is allegorical.
Allegories confuse people sometimes. In fact, until I read 'Everyman', they confused me, too. If you don't understand what an allegory is, read even just a portion of 'Everyman' and it'll all make sense. Everyman is what I can only describe as the least. subtle. allegory. EVER. The main character, Everyman (Get it? Get it? Every...man! Everyone!) has a best friend named 'Fellowship.' Not kidding. His relations are named 'Kindred' and 'Cousin.'
The story goes that God is annoyed that men aren't paying enough attention to him (well, that sounds much more petty when I put it that way) and demands that Death (HEY WONDER WHAT THAT CHARACTER REPRESENTS 8D) go fetch Everyman and bring him for his final reckoning. Apparently the solution, when someone misbehaves, is to send your minions to fetch him, teach him his lesson, and then...kill him. Wow. Fat lot of good it does teaching him a lesson that only mattered on Earth. Once you're in heaven or hell, doesn't it really just...not matter what you do?
Anyway, Death is like "Hey, Everyman! Tomorrow you have to go see God! And you can never come back!" and Everyman's like "Shit! D: Wait! No! I need to get my affairs in order. Just give me...um, twelve years." And Death is like "Hellno. You are going tomorrow. You can bring a friend." And then he disappears. So Everyman is like "I love my friends and family, so I'm going to try and get them killed, too." Unfortunately for him, his family and friends get a lot less loyal when they find out what he has planned for them. Fellowship, Kindred and Cousin all abandon him. Aww, sadface. Everyman gets all emo. Then, he has a great idea! He'll call his friend Goods! (Yes. Yes, that is his name.) 'Goods' is a SOOPAR CLEVAHR ALLEGORICAL REPRESENTATION of money/wealth/riches. How subtle. Of course, when Everyman asks Goods to come with him to his reckoning, Goods pretty much laughs in his face. Well, you know what they say...you can't take it with you.
Everyman decides it would be a good idea to call on his other friend, Good Deeds. Unfortunately, he hasn't been a very good friend to Good Deeds. In fact, Good Deeds appears to be squished under a rock at the moment, so weak that she is unable to move. Despite this terrible treatment (See, not stop complaining that your friends never give you gas money. At least they don't squish you under giant allegorical rocks.) Good Deeds wants to help Everyman. But alas, she is too weak! Good Deeds calls upon her sister, Knowledge, to help Everyman. Then he grabs some more friends - Beauty, Strength, Discretion, and of course, his Five-Wits ("You must have them ready at all hours."). He also goes to see this guy named 'Confession' and Confession gives him a gift - it's a Penance! I'm trying to picture Penance in a gift bag. After he confesses, Good Deeds miraculously recovers. The whole motley crew skips and sings and follows the yellow brick road to go see God.
To go to his reckoning, Everyman has to jump into a grave. (O, subtlety!) Suddenly, everyone chickens out. Beauty, Strength and Five-Wits hi-tail it out of there. Discretion says something about not being able to stick around without Strength and follows suit. Knowledge sticks around, but only because she wants to watch (that sick, sick creature.)
Everyman and Good Deeds are the only remaining people. They say some shit in Latin and descend into the grave.
Can anyone guess what the moral is? Is it that...my goodness...God doesn't care if you're pretty? :0 WHAT? God doesn't love Brad Pitt more? Is it that all that matters on the day of reckoning are the Good Deeds you've done?
Okay, I'm running low on heavy sarcasm here. Basically, you'd have to be dumb as a ROCK to not get the idea here, but the play is STILL capped on either side by the Messenger and the Doctor explaining the moral of the story. I would be insulted to be an audience-member of this play.
I would probably throw rotten fruit.
Well, class, that completes your unwanted British Lit lecture for the day. I hope you found it amusing, or that it at least distracted you from homework long enough to be worth it. Also, if you're taking Survey of British Lit with good old Stuart next semester or something, now you're covered on at least three pieces of literature.
GINNY > SPARKNOTES
For instance, 'The Miller's Tale' features a man who wants to sleep with a married woman. She fears her jealous husband's wrath and tells him she won't sleep with him unless he has a foolproof plan so that her husband won't find out. (This is common in popular literature of the century - lots of sex and ribald humor. Ever listened to any Madrigal music? They're all about sex. I mean, 'I'd Enter Your Garden?' Please.)
The foolproof plan ends up being that he convinces her husband that God is sending a second flood. While her husbands sits upstairs in a bathtub waiting for the flood, the main character makes time with his wife.
Let me just say, hearing our seventy-something year old professor (he encourages us to call him 'Stuart') talk and laugh about sex at the front of our small classroom is a rare joy in my life. He has that old person voice, the kind that's a bit creaky and wavers and doesn't stay on the same pitch, you know? He also uses a million adjectives. At least two adjectives for every noun.
"Chaucer's...Chaucer's 'Prologue' introduces us to more than just the...the characters, right? Erm, ahem, er, the Knight is a sort of an...upstanding, chivalrous fellow. He's a good, righteous kind of man. As opposed to, say, the Miller, who is described as a lecherous, greedy, obese man with a drinking problem."
(-insert wheezy old man laugh-)
"When you read the, the, the Miller's Tale, you'll see...well, it's a...a very bawdy, sexual tale. It's, it's, uh, well, it's like those terrible, flowery romance books that your mother reads." (-pause-) "Well, at least, my mother read them."
Despite his monotonous put-you-to-sleep voice and the fact that his old-man-repeat-words-syndrome (a common disease amongst the elderly, amiright?) means every sentence takes twice as long to say, I love that class. Stuart is really a wildcard, I must say.
The Second Shepherd's Play, though, amused me even more greatly than the Miller's Tale. When reading the Middle English, I tend to read it three or four times to get the meaning straight, and then often if it's too complex I'll write out a rough modern 'translation' in the margin for later reference. For instance. This passage, from The Second Shepherd's Play:
DAW: Such servants as I,
That sweats and swinks,
Eats our bread full dry,
And that me forthinks.
We are oft wet and weary
WHen master-men winks,
Yet comes full lately
Bother dinners and drinks.
But nately
Both our dame and our sire
When we have run in the mire
They can nip at our hire
And pay us full lately.
I read this passage a few times, got the meaning, and then translated quite professionally into the margin: "Daw bitches about how they don't pay him enough."
I think I may have a future in this.
Another example: The first six pages I have translated to:
Coll: -bitches about being cold and overtaxed-
Gib: -bitches about the cold and his unhappy marriage and nagging wife-
Daw: -bitches about the weather and makes melodramatic connections to Noah's flood-
See, I'm a very efficient reader. Anyway, the story of the Second Shepherd's Play is that a group of shepherds are chilling in the hills with their sheep and lamenting about hard economic times. This guy they know, named Mak, comes to talk to them. They all rush to gather their belongings so that he won't steal them, so we know what sort of man Mak is. Anyway, Mak assures them that he's not up to anything, takes a moment to bitch about his wife for a bit ("She drinks well, too...and every year that comes to man / She brings forth a bairn - and some years two."), and they all sing and then go to sleep.
Once everyone is asleep, Mak casts a spell over them to keep them asleep (See, see the discord between the Pagan bits like this in a mainly Christian piece? It ends with them visiting baby Jesus...but Mak casts a spell. EEENTERESTING.) and runs off to steal a sheep. He snatches a ram (apparently their only ram) and brings it back to his house.
There he and his wife, Gill, have a little argument that reminds me of Miracle Max and his wife in 'Princess Bride.' ("Back, witch!" "I'm not a witch, I'm your wife!") and they decide to swaddle the ram and put it in the cradle, so that when the shepherds came to blame Mak for the theft, they wouldn't find any suspiciously familiar looking rams hanging around.
So Mak goes back to the shepherds, removes the spell, and pretends to sleep. They all wake up, bitch a bit more about the weather, and then Mak heads on home to his wife. When he's gone, the shepherds count their sheep, and - lo! Their ram is missing! Whodunit? They all immediately assume Mak, and go stomping to his house to punch him in the jeans (Or something.)
Mak answers the door by asking them to be quiet, as his wife has a headache and is very tired from giving birth the previous night. Gill compliments this story by bitching loudly about how their footsteps 'go through her head.' After a bunch of back-and-forth against a backdrop of Gill moaning about how uncomfortable she is, the shepherds apologize for suspecting him and leave.
Wow! For once, the cheater /is/ going to prosper! Oh, wait - nope. Feeling bad for having been so rude to Mak and Gill, the shepherds decide to go back and give the new baby a sixpence as a gift. Mak and Gill immediately protest. "Nay, do way! He sleeps!" "When he wakens he weeps. I pray you go hence." (Translation: GTFO.)
The Shepherds insist they only want to give him a kiss on the head, to give him their blessing. They raise the cover and...my, grandma. What a long nose you have! Mak and Gill scramble to explain. Mak swears up and down that he's the father and Gill is the mother. Gill describes the child as a "pretty child", a "darling, by God". They grow more desperate. Mak says that the child's nose is broken, and that's why it looks like a sheep (...what?) and Gill says that the Faerie's took him and he's a changeling.
Wow. Kind of stretching it, aren't we?
Of course, the shepherds see right through him, but they spare his life, and because of their kindness, they get to go visit baby Jesus. That's probably actually the most important part of the play (that second half that I just summarized in one sentence), but that part bores me.
Sparknotes tells me that if anyone can't see the meaningful connection between the swaddled ram and the newborn baby Jesus, they must be an idiot. That came as news to me, as I came out of this story wondering at how much they sing (In a margin: "It's like a musical!!") and wondering whether or not 'Gill' should be pronounced 'Jill.'
...and I'm an English major. Yikes.
Okay, I'm gonna wrap this up, since I'm always a bit more long-winded than I mean to be, and this isn't so much laugh-out-loud funny as it is...well, a bit too educational. But I had the stories on my mind. Last thing: Everyman.
Everyman is one of the most famous 'Morality Plays' that were performed in the early Renaissance at festivals and such. These plays, while having small amounts of comedy to keep the audience interested, were basically meant to convey the ever-popular idea of "LISTEN TO GOD OR HE'LL SMITE YOU." Really what everyone wants to hear when they're chilling at a city-wide celebration, drinking wine and flirting with girls in corsets.
Anyway. Let me define the word 'allegory' to make this a bit more clear. An allegory is where a writer takes an idea - like an emotion, a virtue, etc. - and personifies it. For instance, the Grim Reaper is the idea of death. George Orwell's 'Animal Farm' is allegorical. Dante's 'Inferno' is allegorical. Hell, Peter S. Beagle's 'The Last Unicorn' is allegorical.
Allegories confuse people sometimes. In fact, until I read 'Everyman', they confused me, too. If you don't understand what an allegory is, read even just a portion of 'Everyman' and it'll all make sense. Everyman is what I can only describe as the least. subtle. allegory. EVER. The main character, Everyman (Get it? Get it? Every...man! Everyone!) has a best friend named 'Fellowship.' Not kidding. His relations are named 'Kindred' and 'Cousin.'
The story goes that God is annoyed that men aren't paying enough attention to him (well, that sounds much more petty when I put it that way) and demands that Death (HEY WONDER WHAT THAT CHARACTER REPRESENTS 8D) go fetch Everyman and bring him for his final reckoning. Apparently the solution, when someone misbehaves, is to send your minions to fetch him, teach him his lesson, and then...kill him. Wow. Fat lot of good it does teaching him a lesson that only mattered on Earth. Once you're in heaven or hell, doesn't it really just...not matter what you do?
Anyway, Death is like "Hey, Everyman! Tomorrow you have to go see God! And you can never come back!" and Everyman's like "Shit! D: Wait! No! I need to get my affairs in order. Just give me...um, twelve years." And Death is like "Hellno. You are going tomorrow. You can bring a friend." And then he disappears. So Everyman is like "I love my friends and family, so I'm going to try and get them killed, too." Unfortunately for him, his family and friends get a lot less loyal when they find out what he has planned for them. Fellowship, Kindred and Cousin all abandon him. Aww, sadface. Everyman gets all emo. Then, he has a great idea! He'll call his friend Goods! (Yes. Yes, that is his name.) 'Goods' is a SOOPAR CLEVAHR ALLEGORICAL REPRESENTATION of money/wealth/riches. How subtle. Of course, when Everyman asks Goods to come with him to his reckoning, Goods pretty much laughs in his face. Well, you know what they say...you can't take it with you.
Everyman decides it would be a good idea to call on his other friend, Good Deeds. Unfortunately, he hasn't been a very good friend to Good Deeds. In fact, Good Deeds appears to be squished under a rock at the moment, so weak that she is unable to move. Despite this terrible treatment (See, not stop complaining that your friends never give you gas money. At least they don't squish you under giant allegorical rocks.) Good Deeds wants to help Everyman. But alas, she is too weak! Good Deeds calls upon her sister, Knowledge, to help Everyman. Then he grabs some more friends - Beauty, Strength, Discretion, and of course, his Five-Wits ("You must have them ready at all hours."). He also goes to see this guy named 'Confession' and Confession gives him a gift - it's a Penance! I'm trying to picture Penance in a gift bag. After he confesses, Good Deeds miraculously recovers. The whole motley crew skips and sings and follows the yellow brick road to go see God.
To go to his reckoning, Everyman has to jump into a grave. (O, subtlety!) Suddenly, everyone chickens out. Beauty, Strength and Five-Wits hi-tail it out of there. Discretion says something about not being able to stick around without Strength and follows suit. Knowledge sticks around, but only because she wants to watch (that sick, sick creature.)
Everyman and Good Deeds are the only remaining people. They say some shit in Latin and descend into the grave.
Can anyone guess what the moral is? Is it that...my goodness...God doesn't care if you're pretty? :0 WHAT? God doesn't love Brad Pitt more? Is it that all that matters on the day of reckoning are the Good Deeds you've done?
Okay, I'm running low on heavy sarcasm here. Basically, you'd have to be dumb as a ROCK to not get the idea here, but the play is STILL capped on either side by the Messenger and the Doctor explaining the moral of the story. I would be insulted to be an audience-member of this play.
I would probably throw rotten fruit.
Well, class, that completes your unwanted British Lit lecture for the day. I hope you found it amusing, or that it at least distracted you from homework long enough to be worth it. Also, if you're taking Survey of British Lit with good old Stuart next semester or something, now you're covered on at least three pieces of literature.
GINNY > SPARKNOTES
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Being Girl
Dear Mankind; (and I really do mean -men-)
I am here to talk about an issue that is of little consequence in the grand scheme of things, but which distresses me. This post is about being Girl. Allow me to explain, but first I'll begin with a clever anecdote in order to snag readers and make them smile.
I know most girls would prefer that you don't, while in their company, expound on the supreme sexiness of various models, actresses, singers, etc. I myself am not suggesting that you do so. However...well, let's look at this.
When most girls mention how hot another girl is to their boyfriend, they want said boyfriend to say something along the lines of "she's not nearly as pretty as you are." But in certain circumstances, what seems to be the right answer is actually a terrible answer. Observe:
Me: something something something about Megan Fox.
Male-Type Creature: Ugh, Megan Fox.
Me: ...you don't think Megan Fox is hot?
Male-Type Creature: Meh, well...
In this scenario, the male-type creature is attempting to make me feel better about my own standards of beauty by NOT talking about how sexy Megan Fox is. But rather than "you're prettier than her", the message he's sending is "my standards are so high that not even the nation's current sex symbol meets my expectations." That has the opposite effect intended. Instead of me going 'aw, he thinks I'm pretty,' I end up going 'my God, if he thinks Megan Fox is ugly, he must think I'm a -hag-.'
Case in point.
That very thought is the essence of being Girl. Girls (with a capital G) are insecure, compliment-hungry vultures who seek out negative things in innocuous and well-meant words and raise them triumphantly to the sky like a caveman making a kill.
Being Girl means fishing for compliments, twisting words, and attempting to manipulate men with feminine wiles. Being Girl means playing games - the kind of games that society tries to force us to play, even if it obstructs romance more than it propagates it. Here are some examples of being Girl:
Boy: You look really nice tonight.
Girl: So I don't look nice normally?
Boy: That dress makes you look so thin.
Girl: So you think I'm fat?
Girl: Does this color look good on me?
Boy: Every color looks good on you.
Girl: That is such a line. You're using lines on me!
Boy: It's not a line! You look good in every color!
Girl: You are such a jackass. You don't even care about me. Everyone knows I look awful in red.
Boy: You look great in red!
Girl: No I don't!! Every time you insist that I look good in red, I know you're lying to me. You're a liar!
Boy: Okay, okay, fine! Red /does/ wash you out a little.
Girl:...are you saying I look bad in red?
You see what I mean? These Girls have the ability to turn any and every nice comment that some poor, unsuspecting, well-meaning boy says into some sort of insult or degradation. Girls keep their men in a constant state of guilt and nerves. They are both in the doghouse and walking on eggshells constantly.
But for some unknown reason, Girls seem to be the most popular with guys. Why? Perhaps we will never know.
Any opinions that readers want to offer are welcome. This blog has anonymous comments enabled, so you don't have to have a Blogger account to reply. C:
Thoughts? Comments? Spam? Do you know a Girl? Are you a Girl? Guys, how do /you/ feel about Girls?
I am here to talk about an issue that is of little consequence in the grand scheme of things, but which distresses me. This post is about being Girl. Allow me to explain, but first I'll begin with a clever anecdote in order to snag readers and make them smile.
I know most girls would prefer that you don't, while in their company, expound on the supreme sexiness of various models, actresses, singers, etc. I myself am not suggesting that you do so. However...well, let's look at this.
When most girls mention how hot another girl is to their boyfriend, they want said boyfriend to say something along the lines of "she's not nearly as pretty as you are." But in certain circumstances, what seems to be the right answer is actually a terrible answer. Observe:
Me: something something something about Megan Fox.
Male-Type Creature: Ugh, Megan Fox.
Me: ...you don't think Megan Fox is hot?
Male-Type Creature: Meh, well...
In this scenario, the male-type creature is attempting to make me feel better about my own standards of beauty by NOT talking about how sexy Megan Fox is. But rather than "you're prettier than her", the message he's sending is "my standards are so high that not even the nation's current sex symbol meets my expectations." That has the opposite effect intended. Instead of me going 'aw, he thinks I'm pretty,' I end up going 'my God, if he thinks Megan Fox is ugly, he must think I'm a -hag-.'
Case in point.
That very thought is the essence of being Girl. Girls (with a capital G) are insecure, compliment-hungry vultures who seek out negative things in innocuous and well-meant words and raise them triumphantly to the sky like a caveman making a kill.
Being Girl means fishing for compliments, twisting words, and attempting to manipulate men with feminine wiles. Being Girl means playing games - the kind of games that society tries to force us to play, even if it obstructs romance more than it propagates it. Here are some examples of being Girl:
Boy: You look really nice tonight.
Girl: So I don't look nice normally?
Boy: That dress makes you look so thin.
Girl: So you think I'm fat?
Girl: Does this color look good on me?
Boy: Every color looks good on you.
Girl: That is such a line. You're using lines on me!
Boy: It's not a line! You look good in every color!
Girl: You are such a jackass. You don't even care about me. Everyone knows I look awful in red.
Boy: You look great in red!
Girl: No I don't!! Every time you insist that I look good in red, I know you're lying to me. You're a liar!
Boy: Okay, okay, fine! Red /does/ wash you out a little.
Girl:...are you saying I look bad in red?
You see what I mean? These Girls have the ability to turn any and every nice comment that some poor, unsuspecting, well-meaning boy says into some sort of insult or degradation. Girls keep their men in a constant state of guilt and nerves. They are both in the doghouse and walking on eggshells constantly.
But for some unknown reason, Girls seem to be the most popular with guys. Why? Perhaps we will never know.
Any opinions that readers want to offer are welcome. This blog has anonymous comments enabled, so you don't have to have a Blogger account to reply. C:
Thoughts? Comments? Spam? Do you know a Girl? Are you a Girl? Guys, how do /you/ feel about Girls?
Friday, September 11, 2009
Take That, Sausage Face!
I think you can get an idea of just how freakishly polite people at my school are by the fact that I was surprised when someone /didn't/ hold a door for me.
I mean, I was right there! And she clearly wasn't in a hurry or anything. I'd have held the door for her.
But that's unimportant. Today, I'm here to talk about the dream I had night before last. I (finally!!) had a dream involving zombies. Yeah, I know! Awesome! Right? Well, unfortunately, I didn't kick ass.
My dad and I were in a room - an upstairs bedroom of some kind in a mansion-y thing - lying in wait on the couches. The zombies were outside the room, some of them perched in trees (I didn't know zombies had the balance for that, but apparently the zombies of my subconscious do), some of them sitting on the windowsills, some climbing up the walls. Whenever one got close enough, we'd sit up, take a shot at 'em, and then lay back down again. For some reason, none of the zombies ever climbed in the windows and tried to eat us.
Anyway, my dad ran out of ammo, so he took my gun and ran off downstairs to do God knows what, leaving me armed with a gun that fired only sausages.
...okay, if you were expecting this to be really bad-ass, you stand corrected. Am I right?
Anyway, so I spot a zombie, I sit up, take aim, and the zombie breaks character and starts laughing. He says "Are you serious? Sausages?" They weren't even bratwursts or anything. They were like...little tiny breakfast sausages. Lil smokies. Who knows.
I raise my gun to fire again (don't make fun of my sausage-gun, I'll fire another one in your face) and realize that I am absolutely exhausted. Not just tired, but can't-keep-my-eyes-open, can-barely-lift-the-sausage-gun tired. I can't even aim because my eyelids are so heavy that I can only see the zombie's feet.
At this point I decide to run away, and somehow end up climbing up a winding staircase in this very tall white tower, where it's easy to avoid the zombies because they don't see me coming up the stairs, so I can run right past them and as soon as I'm out of sight, they forget I existed.
Then the dream dissolves into nonsense - as if anything before it made much sense - and I wake up to my alarm.
Not exactly how I expected my very first zombie dream to go, but not bad. At least I had good aim with the sausage gun, right?
...right?
I mean, I was right there! And she clearly wasn't in a hurry or anything. I'd have held the door for her.
But that's unimportant. Today, I'm here to talk about the dream I had night before last. I (finally!!) had a dream involving zombies. Yeah, I know! Awesome! Right? Well, unfortunately, I didn't kick ass.
My dad and I were in a room - an upstairs bedroom of some kind in a mansion-y thing - lying in wait on the couches. The zombies were outside the room, some of them perched in trees (I didn't know zombies had the balance for that, but apparently the zombies of my subconscious do), some of them sitting on the windowsills, some climbing up the walls. Whenever one got close enough, we'd sit up, take a shot at 'em, and then lay back down again. For some reason, none of the zombies ever climbed in the windows and tried to eat us.
Anyway, my dad ran out of ammo, so he took my gun and ran off downstairs to do God knows what, leaving me armed with a gun that fired only sausages.
...okay, if you were expecting this to be really bad-ass, you stand corrected. Am I right?
Anyway, so I spot a zombie, I sit up, take aim, and the zombie breaks character and starts laughing. He says "Are you serious? Sausages?" They weren't even bratwursts or anything. They were like...little tiny breakfast sausages. Lil smokies. Who knows.
I raise my gun to fire again (don't make fun of my sausage-gun, I'll fire another one in your face) and realize that I am absolutely exhausted. Not just tired, but can't-keep-my-eyes-open, can-barely-lift-the-sausage-gun tired. I can't even aim because my eyelids are so heavy that I can only see the zombie's feet.
At this point I decide to run away, and somehow end up climbing up a winding staircase in this very tall white tower, where it's easy to avoid the zombies because they don't see me coming up the stairs, so I can run right past them and as soon as I'm out of sight, they forget I existed.
Then the dream dissolves into nonsense - as if anything before it made much sense - and I wake up to my alarm.
Not exactly how I expected my very first zombie dream to go, but not bad. At least I had good aim with the sausage gun, right?
...right?
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Oh, This is What it's Like.
Whenever women talk about how obnoxious it is that guys hit on them all the time, I've been annoyed and immediately become snarky. "You poor thing," I mutter disparagingly. To me, the idea of guys being interested didn't seem like such a horrible circumstance to be in.
That was, of course, because it didn't happen to me. Now, this isn't a compliment-fishing pity-post, I am speaking in all honesty here when I say that I've never been attractive. I was a hyper, ADHD preteen with too-big eyes and the figure of a ten-year-old boy. However, this appears, in the last year, to have changed. Now, just because I'm kind of cute now doesn't mean guys hit on me all the time. They don't. However, when alcohol levels are high and I'm dressed like a Space Pirate, apparently I do get hit on a lot.
Let's specify: Space Pirate, to some girls at that party, apparently meant 'wear black leather and platform heels and look like a ten cent whore.' But you must understand, I was not really inviting advances with my outfit. I took the theme quite literally. Here's a visual aid, so you can see how not-slutty I was.
Now, let's make this perfectly clear first thing: if you interpret this post as ego-stroking "I'm so hot, I hate when guys hit on me", then you'll be reacting the same way I always have to girls who say guys hit on them. But whether or not you understand how unpleasant it is to be accosted by someone with beer-breath who won't let you back out of conversation, you should know that I don't mean this to sound conceited. I simply want to make commentary on the strange illness that seems to take hold of men when they've imbibed too much.
Symptoms include, but are not limited to:
-talking too loudly;
-thinking they are terribly witty;
-spitting when they talk;
-being physically forward/overly touchy; and
-becoming (if possible) even MORE resistant to taking hints than men usually are.
Don't get me wrong - at least one guy who flirted with me was pretty cute, relatively sober, and passably intelligent. Of course, he also looked about twenty-eight, and I don't even look nineteen. I look about seventeen. So I don't really respect an almost-thirty-year-old hitting on jailbait. I'm not jailbait, but I look like it. To specify.
Allow me to detail three of the encounters I had the other night.
ENCOUNTER NUMBER ONE
in which Ginny is incredibly witty and causes much joy and laughter.
On the fair Porch is where we lay our scene. I am seated next to Kayla on a chair on the back porch, where everyone seems to have gone to smoke. Ew. A man with silver paint on his face (He had been wearing a giant silver rubbery...thing on his head previously that looked like a butt. I suppose that his planet of origin, when paired with that hat-thing, could be considered humorous by some.) asks me if I am a space pirate. Judging by the fact that this is, in fact, a space pirate party, I confirm. He then says to me, "I'm an alien. I'm from Uranus." (Pronounced, of course, 'your-anus'. I prefer to pronounce it 'YER-in-us' when I have to use the word, to avoid mocking laughter.) I just look at him, a bit lost as to why he's addressing me. "I'm from New Mexic...er, New Ass-ico." He grins, pleased with the incredible intelligence of his classy pun. I stare at him for a moment, waiting to see if there's more. There doesn't appear to be.
"Your wit," I told him gravely, "astounds me."
I didn't know people on the porch were listening, but apparently there were, since a rather surprising amount of laughter greets that statement. I feel a moment of warm, fuzzy pride in my stomach for being clever and sober.
"I'm drunk," he says needlessly, "so my wit is a little..." he gropes for a word. "not good."
"I can see that," I reply sympathetically.
He leaves, presumably to go get another drink.
Now, I know what you're thinking, reader. "That wasn't flirting! He was just drunk!" Your correct. I have no illusions that the man was hitting on me (God, I hope fervently that he wasn't), but I thought the exchange, which played up my talent with witty repartee, was worth sharing. NOW. Moving on to stories where men actually hit on me. I promise, it happened.
ENCOUNTER NUMBER TWO
In which Ginny is, again, clever and funny, and she is given a career suggestion.
The scene: I am standing in the front yard by the garage where we had just finished taking photos in front of the garage door. I am accompanied by Kayla. We're talking amiably, enjoying the cool evening air (well, actually, she was cold. So maybe we weren't enjoying it that much), when yet another drunk guy I don't know comes to stand in front of us. He leans up against the wall, probably more to steady himself than to look cool (good thing, since it didn't work), and listens to us talk. I was in the middle of a sentence, so I finish, ignoring him entirely.
Apparently it was funny (I don't think it was, really) and he laughed. He looks at me and says "You're funny." Oh, clever boy! Who wants a treat? That's a sentence with a subject, a verb, AND an adjective! Most high school Spanish students can do that in TWO languages!
"Thank you," I respond instead.
"You should be a comedian," he tells me.
"Yeah," I agree. "I'd be great. I could just walk out onto the stage and people would start laughing." He laughs at this, more than is necessary, and I feel the need to prevent the awkward silence that I know is approaching.
"But female stand-up comedians don't usually do well," I added.
"What about Ellen DeGeneres?" he suggests, clearly proud of himself. Instead of informing him politely that Ellen is not a stand-up comedian, I nod in agreement.
"Yeah, she's great," I say.
"Even though she's a dyke," he adds.
Now, let's get this straight. I can deal with irritating people. I can deal with dumb people. (Well...for short periods of time.) But derogatory terms for homosexuals really piss me off. Inordinately so. I thin my lips, give a sharp nod that I hope sends the message "Well, you prejudiced douchebag, that's enough out of you." I grab Kayla's arm and say "I need to go inside and get another drink." To my annoyance, he follows us and opens the door for us, but we do manage to escape him once inside.
Urgh.
ENCOUNTER NUMBER THREE
In which Ginny is forcibly grabbed, leered at, and eventually rescued by an exceptionally tall man.
This was the real encounter (or series of encounters) that convinced me that I was, indeed, being hit on. And not with much finesse. These others could all be interpreted either way - no one had said anything overtly sexual or provocative to me, and with the exception of some casual touching on my shoulder/back by a few random guys, which I quickly sidestepped, I wasn't convinced that I was particularly appealing to any of these drunk party-goers.
The first time I meet someone I will call 'Green-Shirt Guy', he drags Lauren and I into the living room, reassuring us that "It's okay, I'm the director." Whatever that means. He has two other party guests in the room and has instructed the guy to dip the girl into a romantic pose.
"I'm directing a love scene," he tells Lauren and I, "and I need you to critique it." He motions to the couple. "Kiss," he instructs them, and they proceed to suck face with an off-putting enthusiasm. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Lauren and I exchange glances. Green-Shirt Guy leans forward to instruct the couple further and Lauren mutters, "Come hold my hair while I throw up." Since Lauren's had absolutely nothing to drink that night, I immediately catch on that she's helping us escape, and I follow her to the bathroom. We shut the door and she makes retching noises, just to be safe and to have a cover story.
We hang out there for a bit, and when we come back out, the 'Director' is gone. Phew.
Later, I'm on the porch and Ben motions for Kayla and Lauren and I to come to the front yard to take pictures (this directly precedes Encounter Number Two) and we all stand up to go. On my way to the door, Green-Shirt Guy steps in front of me and says something like "Let me show you something," or something equally sketchy. He then grabs my upper arms. I bring up my plastic laser pistol that makes laser-y noises and put it directly between our faces. "Back! Back," I say, only half-joking, and a few people nearby laugh.
He then proceeds to stick out his tongue and LICK the tip of my gun.
I just about regurgitated my pizza and Sprite all over him. Instead, I said "Oh, God. I have to go." Disgust was thick in my voice, just so you know. No "Oh God, giggle giggle! Ew! Haha! Lick it again!"
I then tried to pull out of his grip and he wouldn't let go. "I have to GO," I said more firmly, and managed to wrench myself out of his grip.
Now, there were a lot of people there. I'm sure he wasn't going to do anything, I was safe as houses. But it made me very uncomfortable being caught in Green-Shirt Guy's grip and surrounded by people I didn't know. At this point, I was determined to avoid him the rest of the night, even if that meant suspiciously switching rooms every time I caught sight of him.
I managed very well, actually, until I went to leave. I was making the rounds, saying goodbye to people, when I turn around to find Green-Shirt Guy right in front of me. He holds up an unlit cigarette in one hand and gives me a half-smile that I'm sure he thinks looks sexy and inviting. "Meet me on the porch," he says. Good God.
"I'm LEAVING," I say loudly and firmly. He opens his mouth to say something else to me, and to my immense relief, Dane, Lauren's six-foot-million boyfriend, who is currently bristling with modded Space Pirate weapons, comes over, grabs me into a hug, and carries me back over to my group of people.
Let me take a moment to explain how much smart girls/safe girls/girls who don't want to get raped appreciate what Anne calls "Pallys." (Meaning: Paladins.) These are the guys who, when they see a girl looking uncomfortable in conversation with a guy, they'll walk up, join in the conversation, and generally protect the girl from the creeper. When it's required, they'll come up with an excuse for you to come with them and leave. I love those guys. Dane is one of those guys.
So yeah...thanks. : P
So, moral of the story - never go to a party without a Pally, and always carry a plastic, laser-noise-making space pirate pistol in case of being accosted.
Ginny, out.
That was, of course, because it didn't happen to me. Now, this isn't a compliment-fishing pity-post, I am speaking in all honesty here when I say that I've never been attractive. I was a hyper, ADHD preteen with too-big eyes and the figure of a ten-year-old boy. However, this appears, in the last year, to have changed. Now, just because I'm kind of cute now doesn't mean guys hit on me all the time. They don't. However, when alcohol levels are high and I'm dressed like a Space Pirate, apparently I do get hit on a lot.
Let's specify: Space Pirate, to some girls at that party, apparently meant 'wear black leather and platform heels and look like a ten cent whore.' But you must understand, I was not really inviting advances with my outfit. I took the theme quite literally. Here's a visual aid, so you can see how not-slutty I was.
Now, let's make this perfectly clear first thing: if you interpret this post as ego-stroking "I'm so hot, I hate when guys hit on me", then you'll be reacting the same way I always have to girls who say guys hit on them. But whether or not you understand how unpleasant it is to be accosted by someone with beer-breath who won't let you back out of conversation, you should know that I don't mean this to sound conceited. I simply want to make commentary on the strange illness that seems to take hold of men when they've imbibed too much.
Symptoms include, but are not limited to:
-talking too loudly;
-thinking they are terribly witty;
-spitting when they talk;
-being physically forward/overly touchy; and
-becoming (if possible) even MORE resistant to taking hints than men usually are.
Don't get me wrong - at least one guy who flirted with me was pretty cute, relatively sober, and passably intelligent. Of course, he also looked about twenty-eight, and I don't even look nineteen. I look about seventeen. So I don't really respect an almost-thirty-year-old hitting on jailbait. I'm not jailbait, but I look like it. To specify.
Allow me to detail three of the encounters I had the other night.
ENCOUNTER NUMBER ONE
in which Ginny is incredibly witty and causes much joy and laughter.
On the fair Porch is where we lay our scene. I am seated next to Kayla on a chair on the back porch, where everyone seems to have gone to smoke. Ew. A man with silver paint on his face (He had been wearing a giant silver rubbery...thing on his head previously that looked like a butt. I suppose that his planet of origin, when paired with that hat-thing, could be considered humorous by some.) asks me if I am a space pirate. Judging by the fact that this is, in fact, a space pirate party, I confirm. He then says to me, "I'm an alien. I'm from Uranus." (Pronounced, of course, 'your-anus'. I prefer to pronounce it 'YER-in-us' when I have to use the word, to avoid mocking laughter.) I just look at him, a bit lost as to why he's addressing me. "I'm from New Mexic...er, New Ass-ico." He grins, pleased with the incredible intelligence of his classy pun. I stare at him for a moment, waiting to see if there's more. There doesn't appear to be.
"Your wit," I told him gravely, "astounds me."
I didn't know people on the porch were listening, but apparently there were, since a rather surprising amount of laughter greets that statement. I feel a moment of warm, fuzzy pride in my stomach for being clever and sober.
"I'm drunk," he says needlessly, "so my wit is a little..." he gropes for a word. "not good."
"I can see that," I reply sympathetically.
He leaves, presumably to go get another drink.
Now, I know what you're thinking, reader. "That wasn't flirting! He was just drunk!" Your correct. I have no illusions that the man was hitting on me (God, I hope fervently that he wasn't), but I thought the exchange, which played up my talent with witty repartee, was worth sharing. NOW. Moving on to stories where men actually hit on me. I promise, it happened.
ENCOUNTER NUMBER TWO
In which Ginny is, again, clever and funny, and she is given a career suggestion.
The scene: I am standing in the front yard by the garage where we had just finished taking photos in front of the garage door. I am accompanied by Kayla. We're talking amiably, enjoying the cool evening air (well, actually, she was cold. So maybe we weren't enjoying it that much), when yet another drunk guy I don't know comes to stand in front of us. He leans up against the wall, probably more to steady himself than to look cool (good thing, since it didn't work), and listens to us talk. I was in the middle of a sentence, so I finish, ignoring him entirely.
Apparently it was funny (I don't think it was, really) and he laughed. He looks at me and says "You're funny." Oh, clever boy! Who wants a treat? That's a sentence with a subject, a verb, AND an adjective! Most high school Spanish students can do that in TWO languages!
"Thank you," I respond instead.
"You should be a comedian," he tells me.
"Yeah," I agree. "I'd be great. I could just walk out onto the stage and people would start laughing." He laughs at this, more than is necessary, and I feel the need to prevent the awkward silence that I know is approaching.
"But female stand-up comedians don't usually do well," I added.
"What about Ellen DeGeneres?" he suggests, clearly proud of himself. Instead of informing him politely that Ellen is not a stand-up comedian, I nod in agreement.
"Yeah, she's great," I say.
"Even though she's a dyke," he adds.
Now, let's get this straight. I can deal with irritating people. I can deal with dumb people. (Well...for short periods of time.) But derogatory terms for homosexuals really piss me off. Inordinately so. I thin my lips, give a sharp nod that I hope sends the message "Well, you prejudiced douchebag, that's enough out of you." I grab Kayla's arm and say "I need to go inside and get another drink." To my annoyance, he follows us and opens the door for us, but we do manage to escape him once inside.
Urgh.
ENCOUNTER NUMBER THREE
In which Ginny is forcibly grabbed, leered at, and eventually rescued by an exceptionally tall man.
This was the real encounter (or series of encounters) that convinced me that I was, indeed, being hit on. And not with much finesse. These others could all be interpreted either way - no one had said anything overtly sexual or provocative to me, and with the exception of some casual touching on my shoulder/back by a few random guys, which I quickly sidestepped, I wasn't convinced that I was particularly appealing to any of these drunk party-goers.
The first time I meet someone I will call 'Green-Shirt Guy', he drags Lauren and I into the living room, reassuring us that "It's okay, I'm the director." Whatever that means. He has two other party guests in the room and has instructed the guy to dip the girl into a romantic pose.
"I'm directing a love scene," he tells Lauren and I, "and I need you to critique it." He motions to the couple. "Kiss," he instructs them, and they proceed to suck face with an off-putting enthusiasm. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Lauren and I exchange glances. Green-Shirt Guy leans forward to instruct the couple further and Lauren mutters, "Come hold my hair while I throw up." Since Lauren's had absolutely nothing to drink that night, I immediately catch on that she's helping us escape, and I follow her to the bathroom. We shut the door and she makes retching noises, just to be safe and to have a cover story.
We hang out there for a bit, and when we come back out, the 'Director' is gone. Phew.
Later, I'm on the porch and Ben motions for Kayla and Lauren and I to come to the front yard to take pictures (this directly precedes Encounter Number Two) and we all stand up to go. On my way to the door, Green-Shirt Guy steps in front of me and says something like "Let me show you something," or something equally sketchy. He then grabs my upper arms. I bring up my plastic laser pistol that makes laser-y noises and put it directly between our faces. "Back! Back," I say, only half-joking, and a few people nearby laugh.
He then proceeds to stick out his tongue and LICK the tip of my gun.
I just about regurgitated my pizza and Sprite all over him. Instead, I said "Oh, God. I have to go." Disgust was thick in my voice, just so you know. No "Oh God, giggle giggle! Ew! Haha! Lick it again!"
I then tried to pull out of his grip and he wouldn't let go. "I have to GO," I said more firmly, and managed to wrench myself out of his grip.
Now, there were a lot of people there. I'm sure he wasn't going to do anything, I was safe as houses. But it made me very uncomfortable being caught in Green-Shirt Guy's grip and surrounded by people I didn't know. At this point, I was determined to avoid him the rest of the night, even if that meant suspiciously switching rooms every time I caught sight of him.
I managed very well, actually, until I went to leave. I was making the rounds, saying goodbye to people, when I turn around to find Green-Shirt Guy right in front of me. He holds up an unlit cigarette in one hand and gives me a half-smile that I'm sure he thinks looks sexy and inviting. "Meet me on the porch," he says. Good God.
"I'm LEAVING," I say loudly and firmly. He opens his mouth to say something else to me, and to my immense relief, Dane, Lauren's six-foot-million boyfriend, who is currently bristling with modded Space Pirate weapons, comes over, grabs me into a hug, and carries me back over to my group of people.
Let me take a moment to explain how much smart girls/safe girls/girls who don't want to get raped appreciate what Anne calls "Pallys." (Meaning: Paladins.) These are the guys who, when they see a girl looking uncomfortable in conversation with a guy, they'll walk up, join in the conversation, and generally protect the girl from the creeper. When it's required, they'll come up with an excuse for you to come with them and leave. I love those guys. Dane is one of those guys.
So yeah...thanks. : P
So, moral of the story - never go to a party without a Pally, and always carry a plastic, laser-noise-making space pirate pistol in case of being accosted.
Ginny, out.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
The Murder of Children
I just brutally slaughtered a baby Tentacool.
Well, I guess it doesn't count as slaughter if they only faint, but I thundershocked the shit out of that thing! Poor little baby Tentacool. It was a girl. I was in a level 20+ area and she was only level 9. Strikes me as a sad, sad glitch that leads to child abuse.
Plus, I got almost /no/ experience from that.
When seeking out a tiny notebook to secretly write down the levels of evolution for about fifty Pokémon I have...well, I started that sentence badly. I found a notebook, and in the front was a page with a list of funny things written down on it - or things I certainly thought were funny when I wrote them down. I seem to remember taking the notebook to school and planning on jotting down story ideas, but only ending up jotting down things I wanted to remember.
Here is what it said. (Sic, including lack or abundance of capitals.)
"BLASPHEMY
I almost cried yesterday when my alarm went off
secret yellow belt
french vegetarian army
my mom called to tell me she was thinking about me. when I asked her why, she said 'because you're wasting your potential.'
Girl scouts come to door selling cookies, she's on the couch in PJs, her dad brings them inside: 'here's the bathroom...come see the basement, it's a disaster!' her: 'who are these people?' "
Now allow me to explain. Some of these just aren't funny, although they were to me at the time, but others only sound ridiculous in my freshman-year-of-highschool shorthand.
IN-DEPTH EXAMINATION TIME.
"BLASPHEMY"
This was me writing down a word I wanted to use more often. I, of course, meant it in terms of "They're out of chocolate milk!" "Out of chocolate milk?! BLASPHEMY!" And I still think this is funny, and good thing, since I use 'blasphemy' all the time when I'm unhappy.
"I almost cried yesterday when my alarm went off."
Someone said this to me - in art class, I think - and I remember thinking it was hilarious. Well. Opinions change.
"secret yellow belt"
I'm relatively sure that the story here was that I was play-fighting with a friend, or even just making really clichéd, slightly racist Asian fighting stances, and them saying that I wasn't very threatening (I'm not, you know. About 5'3" on a tall day, and just over 100 pounds. I'm actually...not dangerous at all. As much as I wish I could be.) and me responding with a defensive "How do you know I'm not secretly a blackbelt?" My friend must've said something derisive along the lines of "You'd never make blackbelt." I probably conceded and said, "Well...secret yellow belt?"
Then I undoubtedly laughed uproariously and wrote it down for posterity.
"french vegetarian army"
I really wish I could remember the story behind this one. As it is, we shall have to leave it to speculation. I still like this one, though, I feel that I must create a story behind it. Perhaps I will some day.
"my mom called to tell me she was thinking about me. when I asked her why, she said 'because you're wasting your potential.' "
Someone really did say this to me. I don't know if I'll ever be quite sure whether or not he or she ripped it off a comedian. I can't even remember who said it to me. But if I'm thinking it's ripped off of a comedian, that means it's pretty funny. The only problem is, I can't ever use it. It sounds too canned. Hmph.
"Girl scouts come to door selling cookies, she's on the couch in PJs, her dad brings them inside: 'here's the bathroom...come see the basement, it's a disaster!' her: 'who are these people?' "
So, with her name replaced with simple the letter 'K', here is the full version of this little story that a friend told me.
"The other day I was lying on the couch in my pajamas, watching TV, and the doorbell rings. My dad gets it and it's a girl scout selling cookies, and her mom. I go back to watching TV, and next thing you know they're in my house and my dad is giving them the tour. I hear him say 'Here's the bathroom...come see the basement, it's a disaster!' (and the way she told the story, he sounded incredibly cheerful about that) and K sat up off the couch and said 'Who ARE these people?' "
Again, I think it's one of those stories that's much funnier when you're telling it. But if you want to be a hit with your friends and have a bunch of nonchalant funny stories to keep people laughing at parties, act like this stuff happened to you and tell it. Trust me, no one's gonna suspect you of lying, it's just a pointless funny story. Bonus: you get to make fun of your father to your friends, which might make up for that time he showed them all video of you taking a bath at age two.
Well, I guess it doesn't count as slaughter if they only faint, but I thundershocked the shit out of that thing! Poor little baby Tentacool. It was a girl. I was in a level 20+ area and she was only level 9. Strikes me as a sad, sad glitch that leads to child abuse.
Plus, I got almost /no/ experience from that.
When seeking out a tiny notebook to secretly write down the levels of evolution for about fifty Pokémon I have...well, I started that sentence badly. I found a notebook, and in the front was a page with a list of funny things written down on it - or things I certainly thought were funny when I wrote them down. I seem to remember taking the notebook to school and planning on jotting down story ideas, but only ending up jotting down things I wanted to remember.
Here is what it said. (Sic, including lack or abundance of capitals.)
"BLASPHEMY
I almost cried yesterday when my alarm went off
secret yellow belt
french vegetarian army
my mom called to tell me she was thinking about me. when I asked her why, she said 'because you're wasting your potential.'
Girl scouts come to door selling cookies, she's on the couch in PJs, her dad brings them inside: 'here's the bathroom...come see the basement, it's a disaster!' her: 'who are these people?' "
Now allow me to explain. Some of these just aren't funny, although they were to me at the time, but others only sound ridiculous in my freshman-year-of-highschool shorthand.
IN-DEPTH EXAMINATION TIME.
"BLASPHEMY"
This was me writing down a word I wanted to use more often. I, of course, meant it in terms of "They're out of chocolate milk!" "Out of chocolate milk?! BLASPHEMY!" And I still think this is funny, and good thing, since I use 'blasphemy' all the time when I'm unhappy.
"I almost cried yesterday when my alarm went off."
Someone said this to me - in art class, I think - and I remember thinking it was hilarious. Well. Opinions change.
"secret yellow belt"
I'm relatively sure that the story here was that I was play-fighting with a friend, or even just making really clichéd, slightly racist Asian fighting stances, and them saying that I wasn't very threatening (I'm not, you know. About 5'3" on a tall day, and just over 100 pounds. I'm actually...not dangerous at all. As much as I wish I could be.) and me responding with a defensive "How do you know I'm not secretly a blackbelt?" My friend must've said something derisive along the lines of "You'd never make blackbelt." I probably conceded and said, "Well...secret yellow belt?"
Then I undoubtedly laughed uproariously and wrote it down for posterity.
"french vegetarian army"
I really wish I could remember the story behind this one. As it is, we shall have to leave it to speculation. I still like this one, though, I feel that I must create a story behind it. Perhaps I will some day.
"my mom called to tell me she was thinking about me. when I asked her why, she said 'because you're wasting your potential.' "
Someone really did say this to me. I don't know if I'll ever be quite sure whether or not he or she ripped it off a comedian. I can't even remember who said it to me. But if I'm thinking it's ripped off of a comedian, that means it's pretty funny. The only problem is, I can't ever use it. It sounds too canned. Hmph.
"Girl scouts come to door selling cookies, she's on the couch in PJs, her dad brings them inside: 'here's the bathroom...come see the basement, it's a disaster!' her: 'who are these people?' "
So, with her name replaced with simple the letter 'K', here is the full version of this little story that a friend told me.
"The other day I was lying on the couch in my pajamas, watching TV, and the doorbell rings. My dad gets it and it's a girl scout selling cookies, and her mom. I go back to watching TV, and next thing you know they're in my house and my dad is giving them the tour. I hear him say 'Here's the bathroom...come see the basement, it's a disaster!' (and the way she told the story, he sounded incredibly cheerful about that) and K sat up off the couch and said 'Who ARE these people?' "
Again, I think it's one of those stories that's much funnier when you're telling it. But if you want to be a hit with your friends and have a bunch of nonchalant funny stories to keep people laughing at parties, act like this stuff happened to you and tell it. Trust me, no one's gonna suspect you of lying, it's just a pointless funny story. Bonus: you get to make fun of your father to your friends, which might make up for that time he showed them all video of you taking a bath at age two.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Mirrors
So I just had the strangest moment, where I got up to go brush my teeth after watching three episodes of Gilmore Girls (I only planned on watching one, but so it goes with Gilmore Girls, it seems) and look in the mirror and find myself totally shocked to see...well, my face. It isn't that I was expecting someone else's - it's just that I subconsciously had an image in my mind of what my face looks like, and my face didn't look like that.
I don't know what it was, but I felt like my face looked rounder, and my eyes looked bigger, and my lips were all red like I'd just been eating a Ring Pop or something, but all I've had to eat since dinner was an apple, and that had nothing to do with it. Anyway. That's unrelated.
The point is - have you ever had one of those moments? Where you look in the mirror and just have to stare at yourself for a second, trying to make sense of it? I don't know if that's normal, having moments like that. And I don't mean in a philosophical way - like 'wow, I'm not the person I wanted to be' - but I mean honestly, like you're looking at a body double who's almost perfect.
And who looks awfully confused.
I don't know what it was, but I felt like my face looked rounder, and my eyes looked bigger, and my lips were all red like I'd just been eating a Ring Pop or something, but all I've had to eat since dinner was an apple, and that had nothing to do with it. Anyway. That's unrelated.
The point is - have you ever had one of those moments? Where you look in the mirror and just have to stare at yourself for a second, trying to make sense of it? I don't know if that's normal, having moments like that. And I don't mean in a philosophical way - like 'wow, I'm not the person I wanted to be' - but I mean honestly, like you're looking at a body double who's almost perfect.
And who looks awfully confused.
People-Passing: A Study in Awkwardness
Today I will tell you all about something I hate.
What I hate is when you're walking down a long stretch of path, or a hallway, or a street, and there is /nobody/ there, and you're all alone, and then, then you see that tiny speck of approaching person in the distance. And you think to yourself: "Oh, shit. Here it comes." This is the point where you start worrying about how to interact with this person. There are a lot of options. You can wave, you can smile, you can speak, or you can not interact at all. If you're really awkward you can just make eye contact and then make no gesture at all. So as they approach, you're thinking about all the other awkward people-passing encounters you've had, which is setting you up for awkwardness in this one just by worrying about it, but you can't help it. It's just so awkward. By this point they're far enough away that you can see their eyes, but not close enough to talk to each other. You aren't sure whether or not to make eye contact, so you keep flicking your eyes up and then down. They're usually doing the same, so sometimes you meet eyes, which is terrible because you're too far away to say anything. So you could just quickly look away, or you could nod or wave or smile, but if you nod or wave or smile, then what do you do for the remainder of the time before they reach you in the hallway? Do you maintain eye contact? You can't try talking yet, they're too far away. Has your greeting been completed and now you just walk past them? What if they want to say hello? Does that make you rude?
And the worst part is when you're just about to pass them and you're thinking "phew, almost over," and then they reach up to brush their hair away from their face or something and you think it's a wave, so you fling your hand up into the air and wave, and they look at you like you're a lunatic and almost never wave back, and by that point they've passed you anyway, so you can't even see their face and know whether or not they think you're a lunatic.
And then they tell all their family and friends about this awkward girl they walked past on campus today, and give a physical description, and put out fliers, and no one talks to you ever again.
Don't you hate that?
What I hate is when you're walking down a long stretch of path, or a hallway, or a street, and there is /nobody/ there, and you're all alone, and then, then you see that tiny speck of approaching person in the distance. And you think to yourself: "Oh, shit. Here it comes." This is the point where you start worrying about how to interact with this person. There are a lot of options. You can wave, you can smile, you can speak, or you can not interact at all. If you're really awkward you can just make eye contact and then make no gesture at all. So as they approach, you're thinking about all the other awkward people-passing encounters you've had, which is setting you up for awkwardness in this one just by worrying about it, but you can't help it. It's just so awkward. By this point they're far enough away that you can see their eyes, but not close enough to talk to each other. You aren't sure whether or not to make eye contact, so you keep flicking your eyes up and then down. They're usually doing the same, so sometimes you meet eyes, which is terrible because you're too far away to say anything. So you could just quickly look away, or you could nod or wave or smile, but if you nod or wave or smile, then what do you do for the remainder of the time before they reach you in the hallway? Do you maintain eye contact? You can't try talking yet, they're too far away. Has your greeting been completed and now you just walk past them? What if they want to say hello? Does that make you rude?
And the worst part is when you're just about to pass them and you're thinking "phew, almost over," and then they reach up to brush their hair away from their face or something and you think it's a wave, so you fling your hand up into the air and wave, and they look at you like you're a lunatic and almost never wave back, and by that point they've passed you anyway, so you can't even see their face and know whether or not they think you're a lunatic.
And then they tell all their family and friends about this awkward girl they walked past on campus today, and give a physical description, and put out fliers, and no one talks to you ever again.
Don't you hate that?
Friday, August 21, 2009
Connections
My father travels a lot for business. Well, not so much a /lot/ anymore, but still...some. Well. He was on a plane from...a city to a city, and something interesting happened.
He gets on the plane, and an older man is in front of him, giving a guitar case to a flight attendant. He thinks to himself about how strange it is that he gets to carry his guitar on, since his son (my brother) always has to check his. Then he puts it from his mind and goes to sit down, and finds that he's sitting next to the man who had the guitar. He sits down, and the flight attendant comes back with the guitar and says to the man, "Why don't you play us a song?" He looks at her and looks at the guitar, and says "I don't know how to play that thing." The flight attendant gives him a funny look, but goes away. My dad says to the man, "I could've sworn you had that guitar when we were getting on the plane..." "Must've been someone else," the man says. My dad makes some offhand comment about how funny it is that the flight attendant seemed to think he was some kind of a rockstar. The man then said something like "You never know who's a rock star." My dad, being male and thus quite dense, didn't catch anything, and they proceeded to spend most of the flight talking about environmental issues and eco-conscious...things, since that's what my dad does.
He also at some point shows the man a picture of me and proudly explains that I'm a singer. Which you will see the irony of in a moment, when I reach the climax of this story.
Finally, at the end of the flight, he thinks to ask the man what /he/ does for a living. The man points to his hat, which says 'the Beach Boys' on it. "I'm with the Beach Boys," he says. My dad gapes at him for a moment and says something along the lines of "I'm not a /huge/ Beach Boys fan, but I know there's Brian Wilson, Mike Love..." He sticks out his hand to shake and says, "Mike Love. Nice to meet you." He then proceeded to point out the other four band members, who were all on the plane. Flying coach.
My dad not only met Mike Love and chatted about eco things, but told a member of the Beach Boys that I'm a singer. Good lord. It's really too bad they didn't become besties and exchange phone numbers or something. I'd have a really massive in into the music world. Instead of all my measly semi-impressive jazz connections.
He gets on the plane, and an older man is in front of him, giving a guitar case to a flight attendant. He thinks to himself about how strange it is that he gets to carry his guitar on, since his son (my brother) always has to check his. Then he puts it from his mind and goes to sit down, and finds that he's sitting next to the man who had the guitar. He sits down, and the flight attendant comes back with the guitar and says to the man, "Why don't you play us a song?" He looks at her and looks at the guitar, and says "I don't know how to play that thing." The flight attendant gives him a funny look, but goes away. My dad says to the man, "I could've sworn you had that guitar when we were getting on the plane..." "Must've been someone else," the man says. My dad makes some offhand comment about how funny it is that the flight attendant seemed to think he was some kind of a rockstar. The man then said something like "You never know who's a rock star." My dad, being male and thus quite dense, didn't catch anything, and they proceeded to spend most of the flight talking about environmental issues and eco-conscious...things, since that's what my dad does.
He also at some point shows the man a picture of me and proudly explains that I'm a singer. Which you will see the irony of in a moment, when I reach the climax of this story.
Finally, at the end of the flight, he thinks to ask the man what /he/ does for a living. The man points to his hat, which says 'the Beach Boys' on it. "I'm with the Beach Boys," he says. My dad gapes at him for a moment and says something along the lines of "I'm not a /huge/ Beach Boys fan, but I know there's Brian Wilson, Mike Love..." He sticks out his hand to shake and says, "Mike Love. Nice to meet you." He then proceeded to point out the other four band members, who were all on the plane. Flying coach.
My dad not only met Mike Love and chatted about eco things, but told a member of the Beach Boys that I'm a singer. Good lord. It's really too bad they didn't become besties and exchange phone numbers or something. I'd have a really massive in into the music world. Instead of all my measly semi-impressive jazz connections.
Storytime: Squirrel Staredown
"Welcome back, Ginny!" you all cry happily! Yes, I know. I know. But I'm here now. Everything is going to be alright.
Allow me to regale you with an epic saga that I like to call "The Squirrel Staredown." This all went down last year, but I recounted it to someone yesterday and thought you crowd of nonexistent followers of my blog would like to hear it. So here goes.
---
To set the scene - I had just finished taking a German test. In that class, as soon as we finished the test we were allowed to leave. That chapter I happened to be particularly prepared for, so I finished in about fifteen minutes and went to leave the building. I step outside of the doors and there's no one there, since everyone is in class - except for a squirrel, sitting on the wall.
Now, it is my habit when spotting wild animals (as much as a squirrel on a college campus can really be called 'wild') to meet their eyes and stare at them rudely until they run away. I...I just do. Shh.
So I'm staring at this squirrel, and he is not backing down. He's staring right back at me like I just insulted his mother or something. I am locked in a staring contest with this squirrel for...probably just under a minute. A long time. At this point, I'm getting bored, so I decide to walk away - but I can't stop staring at the squirrel, because that would be admitting defeat. And I refuse to lose a staredown with a rodent who is literally the size of my calf. So I start walking while maintaining eye contact with the squirrel - and the thing paces me down the wall.
This annoys me, so I keep walking until I reach the end of the wall. The thought going through my head is "Ha! When I reach the end of the wall, he'll have to stop pacing me, and I'll win!" At the end of the wall, there's a trash can. The squirrel climbs on top of it and then sticks his head into the opening of the trash can, like he's gonna get himself some lunch or something. This strikes me as unacceptable for some reason. That squirrel should not be fishing through our trash! To scare him off, I take a step forward. A threatening step.
The squirrel hops down off the trash can and takes a step towards ME. Now, keep in mind, I am not afraid of squirrels. They're little and scared and...well, they're rodents. You know. But when an angry squirrel takes a pace TOWARDS you, it's generally not wise to stick around and share some communicable diseases with him. So I take a step /back/ (not in fear! NOT IN FEAR. In...um, in self defense. Self preservation.) - right into another student from my German class, who's leaving the building.
He says, predictably, "What are you doing?" I begin to explain, saying something totally rational like "There was this squirrel, and it was threatening me-" and then I turn around to point to the squirrel...which has conveniently disappeared.
And that, children, is the story of how Ginny had a staredown with a squirrel, and lost, ending in not only defeat, but humiliation. Come back next week for another amusing story featuring Schadenfreude!
Allow me to regale you with an epic saga that I like to call "The Squirrel Staredown." This all went down last year, but I recounted it to someone yesterday and thought you crowd of nonexistent followers of my blog would like to hear it. So here goes.
---
To set the scene - I had just finished taking a German test. In that class, as soon as we finished the test we were allowed to leave. That chapter I happened to be particularly prepared for, so I finished in about fifteen minutes and went to leave the building. I step outside of the doors and there's no one there, since everyone is in class - except for a squirrel, sitting on the wall.
Now, it is my habit when spotting wild animals (as much as a squirrel on a college campus can really be called 'wild') to meet their eyes and stare at them rudely until they run away. I...I just do. Shh.
So I'm staring at this squirrel, and he is not backing down. He's staring right back at me like I just insulted his mother or something. I am locked in a staring contest with this squirrel for...probably just under a minute. A long time. At this point, I'm getting bored, so I decide to walk away - but I can't stop staring at the squirrel, because that would be admitting defeat. And I refuse to lose a staredown with a rodent who is literally the size of my calf. So I start walking while maintaining eye contact with the squirrel - and the thing paces me down the wall.
This annoys me, so I keep walking until I reach the end of the wall. The thought going through my head is "Ha! When I reach the end of the wall, he'll have to stop pacing me, and I'll win!" At the end of the wall, there's a trash can. The squirrel climbs on top of it and then sticks his head into the opening of the trash can, like he's gonna get himself some lunch or something. This strikes me as unacceptable for some reason. That squirrel should not be fishing through our trash! To scare him off, I take a step forward. A threatening step.
The squirrel hops down off the trash can and takes a step towards ME. Now, keep in mind, I am not afraid of squirrels. They're little and scared and...well, they're rodents. You know. But when an angry squirrel takes a pace TOWARDS you, it's generally not wise to stick around and share some communicable diseases with him. So I take a step /back/ (not in fear! NOT IN FEAR. In...um, in self defense. Self preservation.) - right into another student from my German class, who's leaving the building.
He says, predictably, "What are you doing?" I begin to explain, saying something totally rational like "There was this squirrel, and it was threatening me-" and then I turn around to point to the squirrel...which has conveniently disappeared.
And that, children, is the story of how Ginny had a staredown with a squirrel, and lost, ending in not only defeat, but humiliation. Come back next week for another amusing story featuring Schadenfreude!
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