So I just got back from my classes at the local state university. I'm really psyched about them. The first one, Historical Mysteries, Conspiracies, and Intrigue, is taught by this really wacky guy who reminds me of the instructors at CTY. His teaching style is quite eccentric. First of all, he's very excitable, and when he gets enthused about something, he starts shouting. Then he goes back to speaking in this very soft, low voice. I find it entertaining. Also, he goes off on magnificent tangents--we went from Lizzie Borden to Galileo and ended up spending 20 minutes on disproving his famed 'the cannonball and feather will fall at the same time' statement. Personally, I was saddened to learn that my teachers had been lying to me about this for the past eight years, but I'd always suspected them slightly anyway, and besides, that's how it goes. The regular people lie to you, and then the weirdos reveal the truth.
The second class, Preparation for PSAT/SAT Mathematics, is taught by this very pretty young teacher who seems slightly anxious. She's good at these specific types of problems, though. She's taught high school math for a while, so it is to be expected. I think it's going to help prepare me for the SSATs next weekend if I do the homework she gave us, and for other tests in the future over the next ten weeks. Plus I have definite room for improvement in math. I can use all the help I can get.
(PS- I have decided I love Jack Johnson.)
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
"endless summer"
It's funny how you can use something once and then decide that you'll never use it again, even though it's perfectly good. It just isn't right to use something with that much emotional value again.
For instance, I'm sitting at my desk, and I'm noticing the three-quarters-full Endless Summer Moisturizing Mist and Linen Spray on my window ledge. I'm thinking about the fact that I used that spray so excessively at camp, and I'm thinking about the words "endless summer," and what a lie that is, and I'm thinking about my view of the city from my window, which is perfect, but no one else can see how perfect it is because when I show them how it looks in a picture, they just can't tell. (I'll upload my view later, because right now Blogger is being uncooperative. You can't tell, but actually, people who make postcards would totally pay to set up their tripods and whatnot in my room because it's so amazing.)
Seems to happen a lot. Something is really incredible, but others just cannot see it from the pictures. It looks meaningless to them.
Oh my God. I really need to delve into my drawings or something. Listen to me.
I'm going to go sketch something now. You better hope it's not more eyes--for your own sakes.
ciao
the smart one
For instance, I'm sitting at my desk, and I'm noticing the three-quarters-full Endless Summer Moisturizing Mist and Linen Spray on my window ledge. I'm thinking about the fact that I used that spray so excessively at camp, and I'm thinking about the words "endless summer," and what a lie that is, and I'm thinking about my view of the city from my window, which is perfect, but no one else can see how perfect it is because when I show them how it looks in a picture, they just can't tell. (I'll upload my view later, because right now Blogger is being uncooperative. You can't tell, but actually, people who make postcards would totally pay to set up their tripods and whatnot in my room because it's so amazing.)
Seems to happen a lot. Something is really incredible, but others just cannot see it from the pictures. It looks meaningless to them.
Oh my God. I really need to delve into my drawings or something. Listen to me.
I'm going to go sketch something now. You better hope it's not more eyes--for your own sakes.
ciao
the smart one
Thursday, September 18, 2008
here, chicky chicky chicky
Yup, that's right--we're talking about STOCK!
It's okay if you don't get it.
Anyway, we spent a day in History class this week talking about the crashing stock market: between Dow, AIG, Merill-Lynch, and the tragic Lehman Brothers, I came up with the following for the class forum. My teacher liked it. What do you think?
As I understand, the American economy has suffered a few pretty substantial losses recently. Merrill-Lynch was taken over by Bank of America, and Lehman Brothers declared itself bankrupt after giving out too many mortgages that it couldn't maintain. Also, AIG's stock dropped 60 percent, Dow had its worst percentage drop since 2002, but neither of those are as big a deal.
I think the events happening in America's economy today are pretty concerning. Actually, the events happening in America today in general are pretty concerning. But the events in the economy are especially concerning because if there is as little attention paid to them as there has been to most of the other issues lately, there isn't much hope for the American economy.
My only question (that I can think of, at least) is why all of a sudden everything is collapsing.
It's okay if you don't get it.
Anyway, we spent a day in History class this week talking about the crashing stock market: between Dow, AIG, Merill-Lynch, and the tragic Lehman Brothers, I came up with the following for the class forum. My teacher liked it. What do you think?
As I understand, the American economy has suffered a few pretty substantial losses recently. Merrill-Lynch was taken over by Bank of America, and Lehman Brothers declared itself bankrupt after giving out too many mortgages that it couldn't maintain. Also, AIG's stock dropped 60 percent, Dow had its worst percentage drop since 2002, but neither of those are as big a deal.
I think the events happening in America's economy today are pretty concerning. Actually, the events happening in America today in general are pretty concerning. But the events in the economy are especially concerning because if there is as little attention paid to them as there has been to most of the other issues lately, there isn't much hope for the American economy.
My only question (that I can think of, at least) is why all of a sudden everything is collapsing.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
back to cool
That's what they say!
And speaking of speaking (man, can you tell how much I have always wanted to use a segue as cheesy as that?), my little brother just started at my school and says it's the best school ever and he never wants to leave.
I have just one thing to say: !
Actually I have a lot more than that to say. I got into the car with my mom and just started blabbing and didn't stop for ten minutes until she forced me to listen about my brother's first day. So first of all, I have what my last-year social studies teacher calls "the dream homeroom." I have several friends in there, and all in all, it should be great. In fact, it's one of the few things I'm optimistic about. My ex-teacher also said the funniest thing. She told me that the popular girl, let's call her Grace because there are no Graces at my school, actually has a lot in common with me once removed from "certain social influences." This is to me a fascinating concept because I have never been popular and find it close to unimaginable that I could be friends with the popular girl. However, my mom had a friend in college who was just that type--popular pretty cheerleader--and they were practically inseparable. So I'm interested in this possibility.
And speaking of speaking (man, can you tell how much I have always wanted to use a segue as cheesy as that?), my little brother just started at my school and says it's the best school ever and he never wants to leave.
I have just one thing to say: !
Actually I have a lot more than that to say. I got into the car with my mom and just started blabbing and didn't stop for ten minutes until she forced me to listen about my brother's first day. So first of all, I have what my last-year social studies teacher calls "the dream homeroom." I have several friends in there, and all in all, it should be great. In fact, it's one of the few things I'm optimistic about. My ex-teacher also said the funniest thing. She told me that the popular girl, let's call her Grace because there are no Graces at my school, actually has a lot in common with me once removed from "certain social influences." This is to me a fascinating concept because I have never been popular and find it close to unimaginable that I could be friends with the popular girl. However, my mom had a friend in college who was just that type--popular pretty cheerleader--and they were practically inseparable. So I'm interested in this possibility.
Friday, August 22, 2008
the houses may be prefab, the mindset may be postfab, but I'm fab for all eternity
I am kidding.
I know it means prefabricated. God.
Develop an appreciation for humor, wouldja?
Well, I went to MoMA on Thursday--for those of you like my friend who came with me and had never been to MoMA, that's the Museum of Modern Art in NYC--and saw a couple of awesome things there. I've been dying for some intellectual activity ever since I got back from New England, and I was only too thrilled to go. All I did for a month was walk and bike and hike--and of course, forget the book I was supposed to read for summer homework. The only museum-resembling place I got to go was the Loon Center, meant a hike, which was only supposed to take us about 45 minutes but ended up taking three hours when we got lost.
So anyway, see the first picture? That's something I took on my phone of the description of one of the housing units, System3. The structure, my least favorite, captured my mother's eye because of the text here highlighted: the units may be STACKED. Stacked! How thrilling! I've always wanted to have the freedom to stack my living space.
My favorite was Burst*008, the one created with a computer formula, but I didn't get a picture of it, and I don't believe in finding pictures on the Internet from things at which I was physically present. (Of course, if I could only be there in spirit, bring on the Google images.) Instead, I provide ici a photo of the Micro Compact Home, 76 square feet of living space. I thought the irony of me liking that one was harmonious with the irony in my life: similar to the way I prefer the tiny house, my favorite friends and guys tend to be short. Even my sister, my life consultant, is short for her age.
Sorry. I know it can get dangerous when I talk about irony.
Well, I'm going to go figure out how to scan drawings onto my laptop, because it's making me sad that the latest ones on here are from January. Don't worry, the reasons for that are not because I've stopped drawing, they are that
a) MY BAT MITZVAH, HELLO, NEED I SAY MORE?
b) midterms/final tests/projects/4th quarter report cards flung me into a time-sucking pit of stress
c) suddenly I decided I wanted to join the track team
and
d) after that whole crapload of work, I was off and running on a long summer of travel.
But I'm back now.
But now I'm going to the scanner.
So bye.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
more about hair (hey, I'm bored)
Well, once my mom gets out of her close-to-the-end-of-the-summer-school-session faculty meeting, we're going to go into town and possibly get the dog groomed. Mom keeps asking about whether I remember the name of the groomer, and I keep reminding her that I didn't even know there was a dog salon here. Then tomorrow, I'm going to get my hair cut, yippee! I have miserable split ends. Weirdly enough, there are about six different spas, salons, etcetera here in this miniscule place. I guess little New England towns have to really have everything right there within a one- or two-mile radius, because when it's winter, you're completely snowed in.
That reminds me of my mom's friends. They've lived in Brooklyn for years--one of our Brooklyn friend-families--but they just recently decided to move to a tiny town in Canada. They have two small children and a yippy dog. They've also got an amazing house. (In fact, it turned out to be such a good investment that the father stopped working.) I wonder if they realize how totally removed from the rest of the universe they are going to be from about November to March. I mean, that's a long time to be crammed together in what looks from the pictures like a very small house with a screaming 9-year-old, 2-year-old, and puppy.
Not to be morbid, but the puppy may die.
Speaking of New York, I've been harboring this weird wish to move there. I mean, it would be a two-hour commute to school, but especially considering the fact that I have to wear a uniform, it would make me really feel like a student, which I like to feel. It would be like, oh, I'm getting up at 5 a.m. and leaving the house at 6 so I can catch a bus, look at me, in my plaid skirt and polo, I'm so devoted! I would love to feel that way.
All right, obviously I need to calm myself. Ooh, Nilla Wafers. Yum. Bye.
That reminds me of my mom's friends. They've lived in Brooklyn for years--one of our Brooklyn friend-families--but they just recently decided to move to a tiny town in Canada. They have two small children and a yippy dog. They've also got an amazing house. (In fact, it turned out to be such a good investment that the father stopped working.) I wonder if they realize how totally removed from the rest of the universe they are going to be from about November to March. I mean, that's a long time to be crammed together in what looks from the pictures like a very small house with a screaming 9-year-old, 2-year-old, and puppy.
Not to be morbid, but the puppy may die.
Speaking of New York, I've been harboring this weird wish to move there. I mean, it would be a two-hour commute to school, but especially considering the fact that I have to wear a uniform, it would make me really feel like a student, which I like to feel. It would be like, oh, I'm getting up at 5 a.m. and leaving the house at 6 so I can catch a bus, look at me, in my plaid skirt and polo, I'm so devoted! I would love to feel that way.
All right, obviously I need to calm myself. Ooh, Nilla Wafers. Yum. Bye.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Thoughts on Hong Kong
I have returned!! Much to your delight, I am sure, I have been permitted to blog because it lets me write every day, which my literature-craving brain needs. Here, I will now post the journal I've kept until this very moment of flying to Hong Kong. I have to exclude some more personal parts, though. Enjoy! I'll update tomorrow.
In The Airport – My Time=1:05 PM, Sunday, June 01, 2008
I’m sitting in the food court because our gate is full, and there aren’t any seats for us. Dad is waiting in line with Hanna and Nate at A&W. I saw a sign for A&W when we were on the moving sidewalk, which advertised it as “All-American.” That, I think, is kind of disenchanting, considering the board depicted a greasy bacon cheeseburger and almost moldy-looking root beer float. But they’re in line anyway because Hanna and Nate both want burgers. I think I’ll get a muffin and maybe a Snapple. I’ll get diet Snapple if they have it, but definitely not peach. I got that once at the upper school drink machine and it was disgusting, plus it left a weird, cold aftertaste. Instead, I’ll get lemon flavor...or that one that sounds like it.
1:14 – I’m BACK, and beware, I wield a corn muffin and bottled water. Hanna and Nate returned with a “cheeseburger,” fries, onion rings, and two root beers on a blue cafeteria tray. Truly, the whole thing has just been charming so far. OK, Hanna just finished eating her half of the burger she was sharing with Nate, and he’s totally thrilled to be eating it, as he keeps making satisfied sounds. Why do men grunt? I hate that. Anyway, Dad just came back—with a lemon diet Snapple! Unfortunately, he appears to want to drink it. I have faith in my powers of persuasion, though.
Ew, what is Dad eating?! It looks like some sort of toasted and breaded innards on lettuce. It’s fine, though; I respect that he tried hard in this option-lacking plastic bore of a food court. Well, there’s only about 10 minutes of charge left on this bucket of bolts. Later.
In The Air – 12:45 to go
That is, according to the little TV on the back of the seat in front of me. Actually, even that’s a lie—I looked at the TV that the nice middle-aged Chinese guy next to me is watching because I’m too lazy to pause Juno for a second to look at my own. I was only watching Juno to pass the time; it became boring after about ten minutes. However, I had to do something, and the “dream big” exchange about the Weimerauners (don’t know how to spell that) is only the best thing since sliced bread.
Oh my gosh, I almost forgot to say, even though Dad’s travel agent said she had gotten me, Hanna, and Nate three seats together, we’re actually all sitting in different rows, all in middle seats. I’m in Row 33, Hanna’s seat is in 26, and Nate’s is in 28. Lucky them, though: Nate got whoever was sitting next to Hanna to switch, so they’re sitting together. I’m between the Chinese dude and this young, slightly good-looking, irritable- and uppity-seeming guy who’s with his three friends, two of whom happen to be sitting right behind us.
The young guy—who will from now on be referred to as Jon, no matter what his name is—is watching Casablanca, which totally increases my faith in this whole on demand movie system they got for the TVs. It’s really great. I think there’s probably a genuinely decent selection, considering they’ve got Casablanca, Juno, that movie Becoming Jane with Anne Hathaway that I have an inexplicable desire to see, and Forrest Gump (Hanna’s watching it; it’s become her latest obsession, and she’s pushing me to watch it).
Jon got up to go somewhere a little while ago. I’m wondering what happened to him. The lavatory, whose name reminds me painfully of the Survival latrines, is only two yards ahead of my row.
I’m back; Jon just returned from the bathroom, a cocky grin on his face—“It’s a long ride, so I can’t guarantee I won’t be doing it again.” Exactly who uses the word ‘guarantee’ if they’re a normal person? Actually, never mind, that wasn’t fair. In the mini-limo that came to pick us up, I started talking to Hanna about how twisted and corrupt I believe the media to be, in response to her inquiry as to why I don’t freak out about flying. She scolded me for “doing nerd-talk.” I didn’t tell her that I actually get petrified about losing luggage on the suitcase carousel.
I’m sad that I chewed up the mint I stole from Nate. (Emily says that the way I grind stuff up in my teeth—ice, Tic Tacs, etcetera—says a lot about me. I say it’s part of my charm...like I do about all my flaws.) It was one of those fancy speckled ones from Icebreakers that came in the green tin, boasting about all the energy it supposedly possesses. I don’t understand why Icebreakers got a makeover. It seems like they’re trying really hard to be cute and Zen, which I totally respect, but personally, I think they should stick to their guns. No gum, mint, or any other breath-freshening helper should be doomed to be the misfit in the drugstore candy rack.
I had a dream on Friday night, the weirdest dream I’ve ever had about school, save for the one where a boy I know was dancing atop our dining-room table and my bed simultaneously in a tank top and cargo shorts. In this dream, the whole grade was in this huge, really nice, high-ceilinged cafeteria. Everything was highly glossy and sophisticated, the walls were an unimposing yet fresh and cool light green, and the tabletops were made of circular glass panels that seemed to be floating mid-air.
AND NOW FOR A BRIEF INTERMISSION: The Chinese guy on my left is watching a freaky techno movie with digital numbers and people who look like Chad Michael Murray.
We now return to our feature presentation.
I tell you, my subconscious goes wild when I sleep. Freud could find a hundred psychoanalytical mysteries in my messed-up mind. (I can't continue with the rest of this dream because it gets too offensive to other kids in my school.)
I feel like listening to my iPod but am starting to feel slightly stupid for two reasons. First, that would be a waste of entertainment reserves. Second, the existence of a clock right there in the corner of my screen just registered in my tiny brain, which I coulda-shoulda-woulda consulted to record the time when I started to write this. Well, I’ll calculate it when I feel like summoning brainpower. Besides, now it’s 7:55 my time, so there you go.
Ooh, turbulence! The captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign! This is exciting. Yummy, darkness...maybe I’ll go to sleep. Have to take our my lenses. Let the records show that I should be able to fall asleep because I’ve been dozing from 8 to 6 lately, for reasons unknown.
Bye-bye, my little electronic one. Sleep tight.
***
It is currently 3:28 AM my time, and I am awake, hopelessly and entirely. There’s no way I’m getting back to sleep. The TV says that we have eleven hours to go still. God, it feels like it’s at least six. Why did Jon have to have his window open? All that Arctic ice is so bright it glows. Oh well, I won’t write any more because this is probably gibberish, considering the time. I’ll just be annoyed with my iPod’s incapability to play “I’ve Just Seen A Face,” eat my sandwich (maybe), and watch a movie.
UGH I’m so bored...and tired...but we’ll never ever get there and I’ll never ever fall asleep! Wait, just realized: I must’ve somehow dramatically misread the time, because I just looked at it again and it says FOUR HOURS! WOOHOO! OK, I’m watching The Holiday. Cameron Diaz looks sad.
In The Airport – My Time=1:05 PM, Sunday, June 01, 2008
I’m sitting in the food court because our gate is full, and there aren’t any seats for us. Dad is waiting in line with Hanna and Nate at A&W. I saw a sign for A&W when we were on the moving sidewalk, which advertised it as “All-American.” That, I think, is kind of disenchanting, considering the board depicted a greasy bacon cheeseburger and almost moldy-looking root beer float. But they’re in line anyway because Hanna and Nate both want burgers. I think I’ll get a muffin and maybe a Snapple. I’ll get diet Snapple if they have it, but definitely not peach. I got that once at the upper school drink machine and it was disgusting, plus it left a weird, cold aftertaste. Instead, I’ll get lemon flavor...or that one that sounds like it.
1:14 – I’m BACK, and beware, I wield a corn muffin and bottled water. Hanna and Nate returned with a “cheeseburger,” fries, onion rings, and two root beers on a blue cafeteria tray. Truly, the whole thing has just been charming so far. OK, Hanna just finished eating her half of the burger she was sharing with Nate, and he’s totally thrilled to be eating it, as he keeps making satisfied sounds. Why do men grunt? I hate that. Anyway, Dad just came back—with a lemon diet Snapple! Unfortunately, he appears to want to drink it. I have faith in my powers of persuasion, though.
Ew, what is Dad eating?! It looks like some sort of toasted and breaded innards on lettuce. It’s fine, though; I respect that he tried hard in this option-lacking plastic bore of a food court. Well, there’s only about 10 minutes of charge left on this bucket of bolts. Later.
In The Air – 12:45 to go
That is, according to the little TV on the back of the seat in front of me. Actually, even that’s a lie—I looked at the TV that the nice middle-aged Chinese guy next to me is watching because I’m too lazy to pause Juno for a second to look at my own. I was only watching Juno to pass the time; it became boring after about ten minutes. However, I had to do something, and the “dream big” exchange about the Weimerauners (don’t know how to spell that) is only the best thing since sliced bread.
Oh my gosh, I almost forgot to say, even though Dad’s travel agent said she had gotten me, Hanna, and Nate three seats together, we’re actually all sitting in different rows, all in middle seats. I’m in Row 33, Hanna’s seat is in 26, and Nate’s is in 28. Lucky them, though: Nate got whoever was sitting next to Hanna to switch, so they’re sitting together. I’m between the Chinese dude and this young, slightly good-looking, irritable- and uppity-seeming guy who’s with his three friends, two of whom happen to be sitting right behind us.
The young guy—who will from now on be referred to as Jon, no matter what his name is—is watching Casablanca, which totally increases my faith in this whole on demand movie system they got for the TVs. It’s really great. I think there’s probably a genuinely decent selection, considering they’ve got Casablanca, Juno, that movie Becoming Jane with Anne Hathaway that I have an inexplicable desire to see, and Forrest Gump (Hanna’s watching it; it’s become her latest obsession, and she’s pushing me to watch it).
Jon got up to go somewhere a little while ago. I’m wondering what happened to him. The lavatory, whose name reminds me painfully of the Survival latrines, is only two yards ahead of my row.
I’m back; Jon just returned from the bathroom, a cocky grin on his face—“It’s a long ride, so I can’t guarantee I won’t be doing it again.” Exactly who uses the word ‘guarantee’ if they’re a normal person? Actually, never mind, that wasn’t fair. In the mini-limo that came to pick us up, I started talking to Hanna about how twisted and corrupt I believe the media to be, in response to her inquiry as to why I don’t freak out about flying. She scolded me for “doing nerd-talk.” I didn’t tell her that I actually get petrified about losing luggage on the suitcase carousel.
I’m sad that I chewed up the mint I stole from Nate. (Emily says that the way I grind stuff up in my teeth—ice, Tic Tacs, etcetera—says a lot about me. I say it’s part of my charm...like I do about all my flaws.) It was one of those fancy speckled ones from Icebreakers that came in the green tin, boasting about all the energy it supposedly possesses. I don’t understand why Icebreakers got a makeover. It seems like they’re trying really hard to be cute and Zen, which I totally respect, but personally, I think they should stick to their guns. No gum, mint, or any other breath-freshening helper should be doomed to be the misfit in the drugstore candy rack.
I had a dream on Friday night, the weirdest dream I’ve ever had about school, save for the one where a boy I know was dancing atop our dining-room table and my bed simultaneously in a tank top and cargo shorts. In this dream, the whole grade was in this huge, really nice, high-ceilinged cafeteria. Everything was highly glossy and sophisticated, the walls were an unimposing yet fresh and cool light green, and the tabletops were made of circular glass panels that seemed to be floating mid-air.
AND NOW FOR A BRIEF INTERMISSION: The Chinese guy on my left is watching a freaky techno movie with digital numbers and people who look like Chad Michael Murray.
We now return to our feature presentation.
I tell you, my subconscious goes wild when I sleep. Freud could find a hundred psychoanalytical mysteries in my messed-up mind. (I can't continue with the rest of this dream because it gets too offensive to other kids in my school.)
I feel like listening to my iPod but am starting to feel slightly stupid for two reasons. First, that would be a waste of entertainment reserves. Second, the existence of a clock right there in the corner of my screen just registered in my tiny brain, which I coulda-shoulda-woulda consulted to record the time when I started to write this. Well, I’ll calculate it when I feel like summoning brainpower. Besides, now it’s 7:55 my time, so there you go.
Ooh, turbulence! The captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign! This is exciting. Yummy, darkness...maybe I’ll go to sleep. Have to take our my lenses. Let the records show that I should be able to fall asleep because I’ve been dozing from 8 to 6 lately, for reasons unknown.
Bye-bye, my little electronic one. Sleep tight.
***
It is currently 3:28 AM my time, and I am awake, hopelessly and entirely. There’s no way I’m getting back to sleep. The TV says that we have eleven hours to go still. God, it feels like it’s at least six. Why did Jon have to have his window open? All that Arctic ice is so bright it glows. Oh well, I won’t write any more because this is probably gibberish, considering the time. I’ll just be annoyed with my iPod’s incapability to play “I’ve Just Seen A Face,” eat my sandwich (maybe), and watch a movie.
UGH I’m so bored...and tired...but we’ll never ever get there and I’ll never ever fall asleep! Wait, just realized: I must’ve somehow dramatically misread the time, because I just looked at it again and it says FOUR HOURS! WOOHOO! OK, I’m watching The Holiday. Cameron Diaz looks sad.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
cycles of addiction
Unfortunately, I'm in health for the last quarter of the year, so today we learned about inhalants. The only thing that stuck for me was the term "cycle of addiction," which, although it's about something serious, strikes me as funny whenever I say it or think it. For instance: cycle of addiction!!
Doesn't that make you laugh? No? OK.
I have a confession to make: I've been a bad Jew. I've chewed 2 pieces of gum, eaten 2 Tootsie Rolls, stolen 2 chips from my friends' lunches, and had a piece of cake made by my friend Katy that was absolutely to die for (hate the expression but had to use it, sorry).
I feel so naughty.
Also, there's something else I have to rant about--that's what this blog is for, anyway, ranting. I hate it when other people get me into trouble. My friends have gotten me yelled at by my advisor three times in the past two days, and it's definitely not fun. Also, in French class today, the girl behind me kept kicking my chair, so I kept moving up my desk, until the teacher finally singled us out and scolded us because she "had to talk." I'm sorry, but she's lecturing all class; does it kill her to say something else? And it was the other girl's fault. It just was. If you're reading this, Olivia, I am totally going to get you kicked out tomorrow.
Just you wait. All of you...mwahahahaha...
Just kidding.
Hey, guess what? I got a 16.7 on my 100-meter today at the track meet. It was fun. Some people said I was fast. Also my friend lost her tiny stud earring under the bleachers in a moment of brilliance. Yeah, I do hang out with some smart people.
Doesn't that make you laugh? No? OK.
I have a confession to make: I've been a bad Jew. I've chewed 2 pieces of gum, eaten 2 Tootsie Rolls, stolen 2 chips from my friends' lunches, and had a piece of cake made by my friend Katy that was absolutely to die for (hate the expression but had to use it, sorry).
I feel so naughty.
Also, there's something else I have to rant about--that's what this blog is for, anyway, ranting. I hate it when other people get me into trouble. My friends have gotten me yelled at by my advisor three times in the past two days, and it's definitely not fun. Also, in French class today, the girl behind me kept kicking my chair, so I kept moving up my desk, until the teacher finally singled us out and scolded us because she "had to talk." I'm sorry, but she's lecturing all class; does it kill her to say something else? And it was the other girl's fault. It just was. If you're reading this, Olivia, I am totally going to get you kicked out tomorrow.
Just you wait. All of you...mwahahahaha...
Just kidding.
Hey, guess what? I got a 16.7 on my 100-meter today at the track meet. It was fun. Some people said I was fast. Also my friend lost her tiny stud earring under the bleachers in a moment of brilliance. Yeah, I do hang out with some smart people.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
part of my short story, "Why I Am Iris" - middle
That night, I dreamt my parents got divorced. It was bizarre, a mix of Little Manhattan, which I'd just watched, and my mom and dad's fight over Bailey. It had been the middle of dinner when the dog's leavings had been spotted on the front hall rug. My dad loved that rug. He'd bought it as a Christmas (which we celebrate for fun) present for himself, along with the cell phone for my sister and new curtains for me. My mom and I, however, hated the rug with a passion and wanted to get rid of it, expose the beautiful, golden hardwood floors with honey-colored diagonal slats that ran a constant throughout our entire house. To put it simply, the rug was ugly and reminded us of stewed tomatoes; the floor was pretty and reminded us of caramel; basic human instinct appeals towards physical attractiveness.
My dad was to this rule, as with every other, an exception. He went for tattered Converses, paint-spattered jeans, leaving cobwebs trapped inside the windows because they provided "character." He adored the tomato-sauce rug with the polluted-ocean border and was terrified to remove it lest the wood floors' glow become diminished by thunking backpacks and stomping feet. When he spied, out of the corner of his eye, the dog turd on the carpet, he got that look in his eye. The look he got when talking about putting his dad's huge old Poughkeepsie house on the market, the look he got when my sister talked back, the look he got when my brother left the seltzer uncapped or I didn't say hi to him after he got home from a week in Boston. This was what we liked to call the don't-look-at-me-like-that look. If only looks could kill.
So he sent the death glare to ten-week-old Bailey, eating the strap on Hannah's flip flop, and stormed over.
"Do it how the vet said," my mom piped up. My dad, of course, grabbed the thing's neck so hard that I screamed. I am not a scream-y girl, but when I heard Bailey squeal like that, I admittedly got scared. He shut Bailey in the crate and returned to his seat at the head of the table. At this point, my peaceful night of chicken and rice became Dinner Theater.
"I would really like it if the dog were paper-trained," Dad said angrily, eyes glistening.
"Well this is how I'm doing this," Mom replied, still calm. "I raised four dogs, all paper-trained like this. I know what I'm doing."
My dad's face hardened. "I'm getting sick and tired of my house getting ruined by the damn thing." He was pulling the man-of-the-house card. Don't do it, I mentally cautioned him, don't do it, she hates that, don't...
"Fine. Do you want me to put down the paper and station myself in the kitchen and watch it all hours of the day? 'Cause that's great. I'd do it. I have nothing else to do." This is what happens, I telepathically told Dad. She has unearthly amounts to do. Don't even go near that nerve. She's gonna kill you. Or worse, she might even cry...oh Dad, please...
He rolled his eyes at the speed of quicksilver. "I just don't see much of an effort being put into it."
That was it. Right to the chase. I could sense what was about to happen. "You don't see much of anything." Ouch. I felt a vibe; I knew Hannah and even little Nat were both thinking about Dad's other life in Boston, how much he was never home and we missed him, how much Mom must have missed him. It was almost like she was a single mother. I remembered how, last winter, Dad had promised to tell his boss Mary that the traveling had to stop or he would quit. Since then, the flying back and forth had increased so much that every single week, without fail, Dad spent two, three, maybe even four nights a week in Boston. Whatever happened to promises? I could kill Mary.
Mom went upstairs. I looked at my chicken. Nat looked at Hannah. Dad had the look.
So the day after that fiasco, when I woke up from the divorce dream, I ran downstairs to make sure my dad's other promise hadn't been broken: that he would not repeat his parents' actions and put us through the turmoil of divorce. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Dad bent over an Ampad Evidence legal pad. His arm rested at an odd angle. I tilted my head to further examine it. I must have turned my head too much, because he glanced up momentarily and yelped, knocking over a carton of orange-mango juice with his weirdly bent elbow. He let out a colorful streak of swears. "Sorry," I offered.
"Jesus Christ." Apparently he'd spilled most of the juice onto his lap.
"Don't use that language, please, Brett," my mom sang, appearing in the cupboard with Bailey in her arms. She'd walked from the landing to the kitchen by using a short stairwell we'd dubbed the "secret stairs." I never understood why it was ten steps shorter than the staircase we used to get from the same landing to the front hall. I probably never would.
"Don't let the dog—" Dad stopped short at Mom's warning glance. "There's decaf in the second coffeemaker," he sighed with a tone of slight defeat.
"Great." She smiled and put Bailey down, who promptly dove into her Ikea food bowl. I walked around to the kitchen table and pulled a chair over to the cabinet with the plates, reaching for the highest shelf. I needed to wake up. Hopefully pulling a muscle or two in my arm would do the trick, since I couldn't make my own coffee and obviously no one was offering.
"What the hell." Hannah made her charming entrance.
I jumped down from the chair. "Iris, your father hates when you do that," Mom said drearily. Was this supposed to be news? As four- and two-year-olds, my sister and I had been disallowed to even jump up and down for fear of knocking down the plaster on Dad's precious basement ceiling. Thus I ignored her.
"What the hell yourself, Hannah." I punched her carelessly on the head. "What are those, like, swim shorts or something?"
"They're called Soffes, idiot." She kicked me in the back. I grabbed my spine in pain.
"I know they're Soffes but those are, like, obscene. Where'd you get them, Maggie?" Maggie was her tiny, scantily clad best friend.
"Shut up," Hannah retorted, all-knowing. She selected a coffee granola bar and pulled off the wrapper lazily.
"Hey...those are mine...I need caffeine..." I halfheartedly tried to grab it from her, but Hannah crammed it in her mouth. "Twit," I groaned.
"Butthole," she responded, mouth full of coffee beans that were rightfully mine. "Whereza ice cream?" she demanded, opening the freezer. She found it and commenced eating Rocky Road with a tablespoon.
I resigned myself to position of eldest-child bottom-feeder.
Mom had ignored the entire interaction between me and Hannah but thankfully picked up the word 'caffeine.' "Iris, would you like some coffee?" My eyes widened. "Can you make it yourself?" I opened my mouth to respond that she knew I couldn't make my own. "I mean add your own sugar and Lactaid and whatever." I nodded dolefully. "Here." She handed me a steaming mug of coffee and a sack of sugar. I dumped as much as would fit into my cup.
"Thanks." I started up the stairs.
"Go get dressed," she yelled after me. I sighed and jogged up the three flights of stairs to my attic room.
School that day was uneventful except that I fell up the stairs on the way to science, making me late for the test. Luckily my entire class was also late because the school administrators obviously had no idea that they were putting one huge clique together in the same science class. Except me. I was not part of this clique. But that was probably good for my health in the end.
When my mom pulled up the car at home, I jumped out of the passenger's seat and flew over the porch stairs to check the mail. Frantically, I flicked aside Oriental Trading, Pottery Barn, ShopRite coupons, Vanguard bills, and various other unwanted junk until I got a paper cut on my thumb. Sucking on the bleeding finger, I looked down at what had slit me open: a tiny envelope. "Yes!" I called out to my mom.
"How many today?" she asked, climbing up the porch steps—with much effort, due to the four bags of grading I had not helped her with.
"Um..." I turned over the envelope. "Crap." I hate when she does that, I thought.
"What's wrong?" She turned the key in the door.
"Nothing..." I muttered. Hannah skipped through the front hall, kicked me in the shin, and leapt over the couch. "You know," I called to her, grabbing a piece of cold pizza, "I really appreciate that you open the response cards for me."
"No problem."
"I mean, why would I want to know who's coming to my bat mitzvah? I mean, like, duh." I sifted through the trifle bowl containing the 'yes' response cards, looking for the one that had come today, whose envelope had been left out on the porch. Aha—oh. Into the 'yes' bowl, Hannah had put a response card saying that the Anand family of five could not come.
"I know you love me," Hannah said in a singsong voice. "And also, hey, did you notice the envelope I left out there?"
"Ya think?" I shoved my bleeding thumb in her face. She shoved an exaggerated toothy smile right back in mine.
"Help me." She walked backwards on her heels, sort of dancing, to the dining room table, where a red binder completely obliterated by the name 'Hannah' and a myriad of smiley faces lay uncomfortably underneath a math textbook with a tie-dye Book Sox cover. "Now."
"No." I heaved my backpack onto my left shoulder and began trudging upstairs. Nat's iPod lay on the third stair. I swiped it; mine had gotten destroyed in the washing machine.
"You suck," Hannah yelled up to me.
"Love ya too." And as was customary of my sister and me when we were trying to get back at the other for something minor, I taped the picture of Kevin and Brennan, the dorky family friends who were the same ages as us, onto her bedroom door. Above it I scrawled the words 'Hannah + Brennan' in a heart. It was immature, but even the slightest, most ridiculous suggestion that we would like one of the Hughes boys irked us to no end. I smiled at myself and went upstairs to work.
My dad was to this rule, as with every other, an exception. He went for tattered Converses, paint-spattered jeans, leaving cobwebs trapped inside the windows because they provided "character." He adored the tomato-sauce rug with the polluted-ocean border and was terrified to remove it lest the wood floors' glow become diminished by thunking backpacks and stomping feet. When he spied, out of the corner of his eye, the dog turd on the carpet, he got that look in his eye. The look he got when talking about putting his dad's huge old Poughkeepsie house on the market, the look he got when my sister talked back, the look he got when my brother left the seltzer uncapped or I didn't say hi to him after he got home from a week in Boston. This was what we liked to call the don't-look-at-me-like-that look. If only looks could kill.
So he sent the death glare to ten-week-old Bailey, eating the strap on Hannah's flip flop, and stormed over.
"Do it how the vet said," my mom piped up. My dad, of course, grabbed the thing's neck so hard that I screamed. I am not a scream-y girl, but when I heard Bailey squeal like that, I admittedly got scared. He shut Bailey in the crate and returned to his seat at the head of the table. At this point, my peaceful night of chicken and rice became Dinner Theater.
"I would really like it if the dog were paper-trained," Dad said angrily, eyes glistening.
"Well this is how I'm doing this," Mom replied, still calm. "I raised four dogs, all paper-trained like this. I know what I'm doing."
My dad's face hardened. "I'm getting sick and tired of my house getting ruined by the damn thing." He was pulling the man-of-the-house card. Don't do it, I mentally cautioned him, don't do it, she hates that, don't...
"Fine. Do you want me to put down the paper and station myself in the kitchen and watch it all hours of the day? 'Cause that's great. I'd do it. I have nothing else to do." This is what happens, I telepathically told Dad. She has unearthly amounts to do. Don't even go near that nerve. She's gonna kill you. Or worse, she might even cry...oh Dad, please...
He rolled his eyes at the speed of quicksilver. "I just don't see much of an effort being put into it."
That was it. Right to the chase. I could sense what was about to happen. "You don't see much of anything." Ouch. I felt a vibe; I knew Hannah and even little Nat were both thinking about Dad's other life in Boston, how much he was never home and we missed him, how much Mom must have missed him. It was almost like she was a single mother. I remembered how, last winter, Dad had promised to tell his boss Mary that the traveling had to stop or he would quit. Since then, the flying back and forth had increased so much that every single week, without fail, Dad spent two, three, maybe even four nights a week in Boston. Whatever happened to promises? I could kill Mary.
Mom went upstairs. I looked at my chicken. Nat looked at Hannah. Dad had the look.
So the day after that fiasco, when I woke up from the divorce dream, I ran downstairs to make sure my dad's other promise hadn't been broken: that he would not repeat his parents' actions and put us through the turmoil of divorce. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Dad bent over an Ampad Evidence legal pad. His arm rested at an odd angle. I tilted my head to further examine it. I must have turned my head too much, because he glanced up momentarily and yelped, knocking over a carton of orange-mango juice with his weirdly bent elbow. He let out a colorful streak of swears. "Sorry," I offered.
"Jesus Christ." Apparently he'd spilled most of the juice onto his lap.
"Don't use that language, please, Brett," my mom sang, appearing in the cupboard with Bailey in her arms. She'd walked from the landing to the kitchen by using a short stairwell we'd dubbed the "secret stairs." I never understood why it was ten steps shorter than the staircase we used to get from the same landing to the front hall. I probably never would.
"Don't let the dog—" Dad stopped short at Mom's warning glance. "There's decaf in the second coffeemaker," he sighed with a tone of slight defeat.
"Great." She smiled and put Bailey down, who promptly dove into her Ikea food bowl. I walked around to the kitchen table and pulled a chair over to the cabinet with the plates, reaching for the highest shelf. I needed to wake up. Hopefully pulling a muscle or two in my arm would do the trick, since I couldn't make my own coffee and obviously no one was offering.
"What the hell." Hannah made her charming entrance.
I jumped down from the chair. "Iris, your father hates when you do that," Mom said drearily. Was this supposed to be news? As four- and two-year-olds, my sister and I had been disallowed to even jump up and down for fear of knocking down the plaster on Dad's precious basement ceiling. Thus I ignored her.
"What the hell yourself, Hannah." I punched her carelessly on the head. "What are those, like, swim shorts or something?"
"They're called Soffes, idiot." She kicked me in the back. I grabbed my spine in pain.
"I know they're Soffes but those are, like, obscene. Where'd you get them, Maggie?" Maggie was her tiny, scantily clad best friend.
"Shut up," Hannah retorted, all-knowing. She selected a coffee granola bar and pulled off the wrapper lazily.
"Hey...those are mine...I need caffeine..." I halfheartedly tried to grab it from her, but Hannah crammed it in her mouth. "Twit," I groaned.
"Butthole," she responded, mouth full of coffee beans that were rightfully mine. "Whereza ice cream?" she demanded, opening the freezer. She found it and commenced eating Rocky Road with a tablespoon.
I resigned myself to position of eldest-child bottom-feeder.
Mom had ignored the entire interaction between me and Hannah but thankfully picked up the word 'caffeine.' "Iris, would you like some coffee?" My eyes widened. "Can you make it yourself?" I opened my mouth to respond that she knew I couldn't make my own. "I mean add your own sugar and Lactaid and whatever." I nodded dolefully. "Here." She handed me a steaming mug of coffee and a sack of sugar. I dumped as much as would fit into my cup.
"Thanks." I started up the stairs.
"Go get dressed," she yelled after me. I sighed and jogged up the three flights of stairs to my attic room.
School that day was uneventful except that I fell up the stairs on the way to science, making me late for the test. Luckily my entire class was also late because the school administrators obviously had no idea that they were putting one huge clique together in the same science class. Except me. I was not part of this clique. But that was probably good for my health in the end.
When my mom pulled up the car at home, I jumped out of the passenger's seat and flew over the porch stairs to check the mail. Frantically, I flicked aside Oriental Trading, Pottery Barn, ShopRite coupons, Vanguard bills, and various other unwanted junk until I got a paper cut on my thumb. Sucking on the bleeding finger, I looked down at what had slit me open: a tiny envelope. "Yes!" I called out to my mom.
"How many today?" she asked, climbing up the porch steps—with much effort, due to the four bags of grading I had not helped her with.
"Um..." I turned over the envelope. "Crap." I hate when she does that, I thought.
"What's wrong?" She turned the key in the door.
"Nothing..." I muttered. Hannah skipped through the front hall, kicked me in the shin, and leapt over the couch. "You know," I called to her, grabbing a piece of cold pizza, "I really appreciate that you open the response cards for me."
"No problem."
"I mean, why would I want to know who's coming to my bat mitzvah? I mean, like, duh." I sifted through the trifle bowl containing the 'yes' response cards, looking for the one that had come today, whose envelope had been left out on the porch. Aha—oh. Into the 'yes' bowl, Hannah had put a response card saying that the Anand family of five could not come.
"I know you love me," Hannah said in a singsong voice. "And also, hey, did you notice the envelope I left out there?"
"Ya think?" I shoved my bleeding thumb in her face. She shoved an exaggerated toothy smile right back in mine.
"Help me." She walked backwards on her heels, sort of dancing, to the dining room table, where a red binder completely obliterated by the name 'Hannah' and a myriad of smiley faces lay uncomfortably underneath a math textbook with a tie-dye Book Sox cover. "Now."
"No." I heaved my backpack onto my left shoulder and began trudging upstairs. Nat's iPod lay on the third stair. I swiped it; mine had gotten destroyed in the washing machine.
"You suck," Hannah yelled up to me.
"Love ya too." And as was customary of my sister and me when we were trying to get back at the other for something minor, I taped the picture of Kevin and Brennan, the dorky family friends who were the same ages as us, onto her bedroom door. Above it I scrawled the words 'Hannah + Brennan' in a heart. It was immature, but even the slightest, most ridiculous suggestion that we would like one of the Hughes boys irked us to no end. I smiled at myself and went upstairs to work.
Friday, April 18, 2008
ugh so sick
Hi...
I'm sick once again...no surprise this time, I'm sure, as you all--I guess I should say "y'all" there--are used to hearing me lament about how miserably bad my immune system is.
It could be the 4-hour track meet in the freezing cold wearing nothing but shorts and a t-shirt, which was immeasurably stupid of me. It could be the gross multitude of chocolaty food left over after the post-bat mitzvah brunch. It could be eating salad that tasted like fish--don't think it was supposed to taste like that. But whatever it is, I've been bedridden for four days, and I'm missing several assessments, a piano lesson, a track meet, and a dance. That's great. Just great. And to top it all off, my horoscope has been jabbering on about how great my "love life" is supposed to be this week, especially today. Well, unless I'm going to have a miraculous recovery or they're talking about my recent affair with Jolly Ranchers, chocolate, seltzer, and Gilmore Girls, they're barking up the wrong tree.
Then again, I guess I should have seen this coming. In November maybe, as I'm supposed to look out (doc's orders) for the fall and eating too much candy on Halloween. But the weather's been switched around, warm in fall and cold in spring, plus I ate very little candy on Halloween and there was so much bat mitzvah crap left in my house that I've been compelled to eat a truly horrifying amount. So it was bound to happen.
But I really do believe in my horoscopes, so it does kind of suck that it would sound so good today. If only my lungs didn't hurt when I breathe.
I'm sick once again...no surprise this time, I'm sure, as you all--I guess I should say "y'all" there--are used to hearing me lament about how miserably bad my immune system is.
It could be the 4-hour track meet in the freezing cold wearing nothing but shorts and a t-shirt, which was immeasurably stupid of me. It could be the gross multitude of chocolaty food left over after the post-bat mitzvah brunch. It could be eating salad that tasted like fish--don't think it was supposed to taste like that. But whatever it is, I've been bedridden for four days, and I'm missing several assessments, a piano lesson, a track meet, and a dance. That's great. Just great. And to top it all off, my horoscope has been jabbering on about how great my "love life" is supposed to be this week, especially today. Well, unless I'm going to have a miraculous recovery or they're talking about my recent affair with Jolly Ranchers, chocolate, seltzer, and Gilmore Girls, they're barking up the wrong tree.
Then again, I guess I should have seen this coming. In November maybe, as I'm supposed to look out (doc's orders) for the fall and eating too much candy on Halloween. But the weather's been switched around, warm in fall and cold in spring, plus I ate very little candy on Halloween and there was so much bat mitzvah crap left in my house that I've been compelled to eat a truly horrifying amount. So it was bound to happen.
But I really do believe in my horoscopes, so it does kind of suck that it would sound so good today. If only my lungs didn't hurt when I breathe.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
takashi murakami
Here are some pictures from the only Japanese artist I genuinely like: Takashi Murakami.
I went to the exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum of Art this past Saturday when I was going to my old friend's bat mitzvah. My dad picked up a volume about Japanese art in their bookstore, and these pictures caught my eye in a flash. I hate Japanese art usually; the cuteness and clean lines annoy me to no end, especially in anime, which I loathe with a passion. However, I love this sadistic and happy grimness. Check it out and rate it. I posted them to a school forum, too.
Monday, April 7, 2008
reading and running, la de da
OK. I know I haven't been posting, but my mom decided that my siblings and I are not allowed on the computer at home anymore, or at least until next year. Fortunately, my dad is IT director of a worldwide lawfirm, so he's got my back. So let's get to the point, shall we?
I just finished reading White Noise by Don DeLillo, and I have to say I found it to possess many killer lines. Almost every page had at least a couple of punchlines. But I have to leave soon, so there's not too much more I can say about it.
Also, I just started track, and I love it.
Have to go. Thanks and later.
I just finished reading White Noise by Don DeLillo, and I have to say I found it to possess many killer lines. Almost every page had at least a couple of punchlines. But I have to leave soon, so there's not too much more I can say about it.
Also, I just started track, and I love it.
Have to go. Thanks and later.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
burn baby burn
I guess it was going to happen sometime. Everyone burns out eventually, right? Just because I get a B doesn't mean that much. As Mark Twain once said, "Don't let school get in the way of your education." Amen, brother.
Is there anything fun about godforsaken Extended Day--as my friends and I call it, Extended Hell? Seriously, I don't want to come here and stay after school, and when I do have to come here, I don't want my blogging to be interrupted by people who think I'm too shy. I'm not shy. I just don't talk to people I don't like. If you think I'm too shy, that's really your problem.
And, my last firey topic, I just read here about the Wednesday afternoon blaze in a 25-story Brooklyn building. I guess it happens all the time, but this was in the New York Times, so this is the one I'm interested in. Turns out three firefighters were injured in my old town. Yeah, I know it's severely uninteresting, but it reminds me of my friend Aidan's dad. Aidan's father, a firefighter, died in 9/11. Aidan's grieving mother, Marian Fontana, wrote a bestselling book, Widow's Walk, about her husband and his death.
Sad, huh? And the kid, being my age, was only five years old when his dad passed away. Talk about tough.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
French fish fiche
Today was an interesting one in terms of April Fools' Day. I have my own take on it: I don't know what to do. My sister is very talented at playing April Fools' jokes on people; she once came back from spring break on April 1st and told everyone that the "splint" on her finger was from slamming her finger in a car door over break and that she was getting it off that afternoon. So the day after April Fools' Day, when the finger was once more bare, no one doubted that her joke was true. In fact, she came out from the whole fiasco with a vigorously signed false splint.
However, I was never able to come up with a good one. Even my mother is better than I am. One April Fools' Day, she convinced my father that he had a tick. Of course he was terrified, but even though he didn't know it was a joke until later, he wasn't all that freaked out because his entire family--they're from the country--has Lyme disease anyway. Not to be mean, but he'd just be fitting in.
Luckily for me, though, this year's All Fools' Day (did you know it's sometimes called that?) put forth a widespread joke opportunity: French class. I'm pretty sure all of the French classes in my grade had a worksheet with fish on it to color in, but I'm also pretty sure that only my class got so into it. Granted, people from other blocks were sticking fish on my back, but that's beside the point. My fish was covered--my own brilliant handiwork--in MY INITIAL! It was extremely fantastic. Even when there are no fish to color and cut out--and hopelessly mangle--we are an enthusiastic bunch.
So if anyone except me is looking for something to get out of this post...I bet you didn't know that April Fools' Day used to be New Years.
However, I was never able to come up with a good one. Even my mother is better than I am. One April Fools' Day, she convinced my father that he had a tick. Of course he was terrified, but even though he didn't know it was a joke until later, he wasn't all that freaked out because his entire family--they're from the country--has Lyme disease anyway. Not to be mean, but he'd just be fitting in.
Luckily for me, though, this year's All Fools' Day (did you know it's sometimes called that?) put forth a widespread joke opportunity: French class. I'm pretty sure all of the French classes in my grade had a worksheet with fish on it to color in, but I'm also pretty sure that only my class got so into it. Granted, people from other blocks were sticking fish on my back, but that's beside the point. My fish was covered--my own brilliant handiwork--in MY INITIAL! It was extremely fantastic. Even when there are no fish to color and cut out--and hopelessly mangle--we are an enthusiastic bunch.
So if anyone except me is looking for something to get out of this post...I bet you didn't know that April Fools' Day used to be New Years.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
spring cleaning (can you say ick)
Dear everyone,
I guess this is why we pay $10,000 in taxes every year: our garbage collectors ROCK. Our public schools? Honestly, we could use some more tracking. But the trash guys--and gals--kudos to you.
This morning, while I was still blissfully asleep, my mom apparently called up the garbage collectors and asked them if, for two hundred bucks, she could have them pick up anything we wanted to dispose of. They agreed, and at 10 in the morning, she was standing in front of my recently woken-up self with a looming box of Hefty bags, saying, "We have a project."
Well, we then spent over two hours (until my mom had to go pick up my brother and sister from their half day) pulling out dirt-covered sleds, wooden planks, too-small clothing, and other equally pleasant items from a garage, where we had to stop when it started raining; attic; and sunroom slathered in useless stuff. Yes, I feel like I've accomplished something, but I also have the horrible urge to vacuum.
See, a couple of months ago, I discovered our cleaning ladies had stolen not just several hundred dollars from me, but also a gold ring with a good-sized ruby and six small diamonds. It wasn't the kind of thing you can replace. My mom found it on the streets of New York City years ago. So even when my advisor kindly offered a gold ring with a ruby and diamonds that she "didn't want," it wasn't the same, and I just couldn't take her jewelry.
So my mother fired them, and, long story short, my stairway and room became dust hell. While in a cleaning frenzy a couple of days ago to make my room acceptable before a friend came over, I pulled a rather unfriendly-looking wad of dust out from under my overloaded and tilting bookshelf. It's disgruntling to see layers of the stuff sitting around the place where you live, especially when your little sister has horrible asthma triggered chiefly by dust mites.
I have to go--my sister's got two friends over, my brother's got one, and I've got up the motivation to vacuum.
Adios amigos.
I guess this is why we pay $10,000 in taxes every year: our garbage collectors ROCK. Our public schools? Honestly, we could use some more tracking. But the trash guys--and gals--kudos to you.
This morning, while I was still blissfully asleep, my mom apparently called up the garbage collectors and asked them if, for two hundred bucks, she could have them pick up anything we wanted to dispose of. They agreed, and at 10 in the morning, she was standing in front of my recently woken-up self with a looming box of Hefty bags, saying, "We have a project."
Well, we then spent over two hours (until my mom had to go pick up my brother and sister from their half day) pulling out dirt-covered sleds, wooden planks, too-small clothing, and other equally pleasant items from a garage, where we had to stop when it started raining; attic; and sunroom slathered in useless stuff. Yes, I feel like I've accomplished something, but I also have the horrible urge to vacuum.
See, a couple of months ago, I discovered our cleaning ladies had stolen not just several hundred dollars from me, but also a gold ring with a good-sized ruby and six small diamonds. It wasn't the kind of thing you can replace. My mom found it on the streets of New York City years ago. So even when my advisor kindly offered a gold ring with a ruby and diamonds that she "didn't want," it wasn't the same, and I just couldn't take her jewelry.
So my mother fired them, and, long story short, my stairway and room became dust hell. While in a cleaning frenzy a couple of days ago to make my room acceptable before a friend came over, I pulled a rather unfriendly-looking wad of dust out from under my overloaded and tilting bookshelf. It's disgruntling to see layers of the stuff sitting around the place where you live, especially when your little sister has horrible asthma triggered chiefly by dust mites.
I have to go--my sister's got two friends over, my brother's got one, and I've got up the motivation to vacuum.
Adios amigos.
Monday, March 17, 2008
murder on the orient express
I'm hungry. Hopefully the carton of strawberries I'm working on eating will suffice.
My sister's dress rehearsal for her play, my mother's adapted version of Murder on the Orient Express, went interestingly today at her school. I sat behind the 8-by-8-foot sheet, stapled to a wooden frame, projecting this image onto the sheet throughout a production that was slightly over an hour long. Around me were four fifth-grade boys, walking back and forth in front of the projector, irking me to no end. Everyone kept forgetting their lines and speaking in mouse tones, but all in all, it was pretty funny, what with all the stuff they improvised.
Hey, if I get a chance, do you think I should try to go for middle school president?
Saturday, March 15, 2008
sick on break
Hello literate beings of the world:
I'm sick and miserable, with my stomach killing me, as well as my throat and ears. I have a relentless cough, and even when I clear my throat, the congestion comes back immediately.
Anyway though...I truly do apologize for not posting for a week; this time it wasn't of my own accord. I had a punishment that stated I wasn't allowed on the computer because I've been so mean to my brother lately. I'll try to be more consistent.
Is anyone else on spring break? Tell me about it--unless you're one of those people who are actually going somewhere on vacation, like everyone else I know.
By the way, it's been a great week for my mom. She got a promotion and a brand-new, bright red, shiny set of laundry machine and dryer! (YES)
I'm sick and miserable, with my stomach killing me, as well as my throat and ears. I have a relentless cough, and even when I clear my throat, the congestion comes back immediately.
Anyway though...I truly do apologize for not posting for a week; this time it wasn't of my own accord. I had a punishment that stated I wasn't allowed on the computer because I've been so mean to my brother lately. I'll try to be more consistent.
Is anyone else on spring break? Tell me about it--unless you're one of those people who are actually going somewhere on vacation, like everyone else I know.
By the way, it's been a great week for my mom. She got a promotion and a brand-new, bright red, shiny set of laundry machine and dryer! (YES)
Monday, March 3, 2008
regrets and updates
Dear browsers,
Sorry sorry sorry for not posting for over a week or responding to your comments or updating any HTML or anything. My life has become completely crammed with stuff between social problems, fluctuating grades, bat mitzvah insanity, midterms, the school play, piano, and the fact that I am now restricted to one hour a day--with supervision--on the computer because I put videos on YouTube, which I was not supposed to do.
My bathroom recently got revamped. My dad got new curtains, a rug, a caddy with frosted glass in the door, a soap dispenser, and towels. The whole thing looks really coordinated because everything is white and therefore matches the walls, bath, toilet, sink, floor, and each other, but also the dark trimming on the curtains, large mounted mirror, and towels all match in this really great way that I just can't pinpoint.
Perhaps the best way to say it is that the perfectionist in me is deeply excited.
Has any portion of your house/tumbledown shack by the old railroad track/apartment/whatever else you've got gotten redone?
Sorry sorry sorry for not posting for over a week or responding to your comments or updating any HTML or anything. My life has become completely crammed with stuff between social problems, fluctuating grades, bat mitzvah insanity, midterms, the school play, piano, and the fact that I am now restricted to one hour a day--with supervision--on the computer because I put videos on YouTube, which I was not supposed to do.
My bathroom recently got revamped. My dad got new curtains, a rug, a caddy with frosted glass in the door, a soap dispenser, and towels. The whole thing looks really coordinated because everything is white and therefore matches the walls, bath, toilet, sink, floor, and each other, but also the dark trimming on the curtains, large mounted mirror, and towels all match in this really great way that I just can't pinpoint.
Perhaps the best way to say it is that the perfectionist in me is deeply excited.
Has any portion of your house/tumbledown shack by the old railroad track/apartment/whatever else you've got gotten redone?
Sunday, February 17, 2008
books and movies
Don't worry, this time there's a reason for the title of the post being "movies."
BOOKS:
-The Hotel New Hampshire The end, even if it wasn't ugly or big or violent enough, even if it didn't have enough fatalism or barbells or did "not merit so much as a moan from Screaming Annie," despite all these supposed flaws, it was definitely right.
-1984 Just started this one, as opposed to just having finished the previous book, but I'm convinced that it's got just the right amount of confusing to make sense. (I wonder if I can say "just" one more time in a single sentence.)
-Discordia: The Eleventh Dimension I read this all today. It was pretty short and very difficult to read but easy to get through, if you know what I mean. This book was written by my the mother of one of my mom's favorite old students; the mother's name is Dena K. Salmon (how cool is that?). Actually, it hasn't even been published yet; what I got to read was a sort of pre-edition, a draft, a mock-up. I liked it very much all the same.
-Jane Eyre Look, maybe there was a rather interest-renewing murder right where I left off, but Brontë is going to have to try just a little harder to keep my attention span on its toes. I have to abandon this one until there's really no reading material left, at which point I will finally burn it and make a beeline for that great used bookstore in Princeton.
-The Mayor of Casterbridge Tom...Tom...Wake up, man. Where'd you go? I thought you'd changed. I thought this novel, maybe, was going to get the plot going before the last three pages. It did, too, and I was so proud, even optimistic for once in my life. Unfortunately, though, I have hit a wall. Hopefully, this dull and wordy section is just a bump in the road, as there were many of in Tess. So to be fair, and also because I otherwise love your work, once I finish 1984, I'll give this one an honest second chance.
MOVIES:
-JUNO Yes, I saw this a while ago, but I finally ripped the soundtrack from my mom's officemate's CD to my laptop, and I can't stop listening. Unfortunately, I can't transfer the songs to my iPod either. Oh well, can't win 'em all.
-27 Dresses I have to say that my least favorite dress in the whole thing was that of Katharine Heigl's character at her own wedding. I'm sorry, but the overly heavy overcoat-like layer of embroidery just does not do it for me. I prefer the Southern Belle dress; at least that one's got a sense of humor.
-South Pacific I'll admit it, I've seen it roughly a quadrillion times, but my grandmother and I, what with the combination of my deep and unnatural mind-craving to hear the earworm My Girl Back Home and her slightly nauseating nostalgia for the flick, we just had to watch it.
-Schindler's List Sorry, sorry, the list is getting long, but believe me, I'm omitting some. (Obviously I've had nothing to do over President's Day weekend but sit around like an oaf, eating and watching movies.) All I can say is that I'm honestly not as much of a night person as the me that watched this movie until 2:30 in the morning without having had any coffee whatsoever since noon that morning--and I'm especially not the me who cried like she was mourning the death of her own mother watching the part at the end where Schindler's Jews today put stones on his grave. If you haven't seen it, you're either living under a rock or you're full of pitiable ignorance. Or, of course, both could be the case.
I'll try to make links out of these tomorrow, but right now, I've got a dystopia and a Winston to catch up with.
BOOKS:
-The Hotel New Hampshire The end, even if it wasn't ugly or big or violent enough, even if it didn't have enough fatalism or barbells or did "not merit so much as a moan from Screaming Annie," despite all these supposed flaws, it was definitely right.
-1984 Just started this one, as opposed to just having finished the previous book, but I'm convinced that it's got just the right amount of confusing to make sense. (I wonder if I can say "just" one more time in a single sentence.)
-Discordia: The Eleventh Dimension I read this all today. It was pretty short and very difficult to read but easy to get through, if you know what I mean. This book was written by my the mother of one of my mom's favorite old students; the mother's name is Dena K. Salmon (how cool is that?). Actually, it hasn't even been published yet; what I got to read was a sort of pre-edition, a draft, a mock-up. I liked it very much all the same.
-Jane Eyre Look, maybe there was a rather interest-renewing murder right where I left off, but Brontë is going to have to try just a little harder to keep my attention span on its toes. I have to abandon this one until there's really no reading material left, at which point I will finally burn it and make a beeline for that great used bookstore in Princeton.
-The Mayor of Casterbridge Tom...Tom...Wake up, man. Where'd you go? I thought you'd changed. I thought this novel, maybe, was going to get the plot going before the last three pages. It did, too, and I was so proud, even optimistic for once in my life. Unfortunately, though, I have hit a wall. Hopefully, this dull and wordy section is just a bump in the road, as there were many of in Tess. So to be fair, and also because I otherwise love your work, once I finish 1984, I'll give this one an honest second chance.
MOVIES:
-JUNO Yes, I saw this a while ago, but I finally ripped the soundtrack from my mom's officemate's CD to my laptop, and I can't stop listening. Unfortunately, I can't transfer the songs to my iPod either. Oh well, can't win 'em all.
-27 Dresses I have to say that my least favorite dress in the whole thing was that of Katharine Heigl's character at her own wedding. I'm sorry, but the overly heavy overcoat-like layer of embroidery just does not do it for me. I prefer the Southern Belle dress; at least that one's got a sense of humor.
-South Pacific I'll admit it, I've seen it roughly a quadrillion times, but my grandmother and I, what with the combination of my deep and unnatural mind-craving to hear the earworm My Girl Back Home and her slightly nauseating nostalgia for the flick, we just had to watch it.
-Schindler's List Sorry, sorry, the list is getting long, but believe me, I'm omitting some. (Obviously I've had nothing to do over President's Day weekend but sit around like an oaf, eating and watching movies.) All I can say is that I'm honestly not as much of a night person as the me that watched this movie until 2:30 in the morning without having had any coffee whatsoever since noon that morning--and I'm especially not the me who cried like she was mourning the death of her own mother watching the part at the end where Schindler's Jews today put stones on his grave. If you haven't seen it, you're either living under a rock or you're full of pitiable ignorance. Or, of course, both could be the case.
I'll try to make links out of these tomorrow, but right now, I've got a dystopia and a Winston to catch up with.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
movies
Hello losers, winners, and those of you in 2nd place...and apparently, thanks to Megan at http://lablover12.blogspot.com/ , hello to President Bush and his FBI. (Shout-out to Mike at the White House.)
Sorry I haven't posted for almost a week; there just hasn't been too much going on. But a great artist, especially a great writer, can make something out of nothing.
This week turned my crew for the school play into something dismal. What used to be a seemingly vital job--props for Macbeth--has become basketball with the gym teacher. "If you want to join the guys," he says, and play basketball for an hour, the other two girls in Props and Painting and I are welcome to do so. Otherwise, we can just sit there and watch the kids who are actually in the play rehearse. It's only kind of amusing, because the director guy yells so FRICKIN loud whenever he gets a touch angry about something, and then everyone is completely stiff.
It's embarrassing.
Sorry I haven't posted for almost a week; there just hasn't been too much going on. But a great artist, especially a great writer, can make something out of nothing.
This week turned my crew for the school play into something dismal. What used to be a seemingly vital job--props for Macbeth--has become basketball with the gym teacher. "If you want to join the guys," he says, and play basketball for an hour, the other two girls in Props and Painting and I are welcome to do so. Otherwise, we can just sit there and watch the kids who are actually in the play rehearse. It's only kind of amusing, because the director guy yells so FRICKIN loud whenever he gets a touch angry about something, and then everyone is completely stiff.
It's embarrassing.
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