Remember how my last post was about construction? It’s on-going (both creatively in my writing and physically in my city), and last Wednesday I got a solid reminder of that fact.
I slid on a new pair of shoes and took my now-usual route to work, avoiding the front-of-my-apartment construction by going out the back way, traversing the temporary water pipes and sidestepping the cones and “sidewalk closed” signs to get to the bus stop. I managed to step around the water gushing from the bus-stop construction site, although I kept checking the band-aid I’d put on to pre-empt any new-shoe blisters.
I was feeling pretty good after I caught the earlier bus and the train was there right when I got to my transfer so I didn’t have to wait. I settled in, getting through a few pages of the book I’m currently reading, Awkward: A Detour, as the train rumbled along the track. And I had good tunes on my iPod–what could be better? I just had to cross the expanse of grass behind the bank on the same block as my building since the sidewalk is closed, due to–you guessed it–construction.
Summer has come early, much to the benefit of the construction crews. I’ve been fortunate in that I have a friend and coworker who lives two blocks from me, so I’ve mostly been getting rides from her, but on days I don’t, my commute is now re-routed at several points due to various cones, bulldozers, and barricades. I have to go out my back door (because my road is closed and they’ve torn up parts of the sidewalk), cut through the alley and run down the street .3 miles to the bus stop (because the bus has been rerouted because my road is now closed). The last block of this sprint is behind a set of barricades because they’re building apartments on that block. I worry that the bus driver isn’t going to see me and won’t stop.
The bus is being re-routed currently because the cross-street near where I live is also being fixed and they’ve closed the bridge over the highway. It used to stop somewhat close to my train transfer, but lately, for some reason, it’s been re-rerouted and now goes straight instead of turning, so I have a bit of a jaunt when I transfer. And they’re building new offices kiddie-corner from work, so when I get off the train, I have another construction site to circumvent, which has forced the closures of various roads around my office.
My friend and fellow blogger, Rachel, nominated me for a Creative Blogger Award, which is very kind, since I often don’t feel very creative and instead imagine myself as smooshing things together to approximate a post like a small child gluing scraps onto a piece of cardboard and calling it a diorama. Which, I guess, is creative. If you haven’t checked out Rachel’s blog, Fellow Passengers, you should because she is tackling big and small things, such as faith, writing, and parenting twin toddlers and a preschooler. Every post makes me feel good. So, thank you, Rachel for this award!
Her nomination got me thinking about creativity and its many forms. If necessity is the mother of invention, then creativity is the fun aunt or doofus uncle or someone who buys you the toys you probably shouldn’t have but totally love, like a full-sized drum kit or a seed bead loom or a set of messy oil pastels, and who tells you about his or her adventures in the world that exists outside your suburban home and then gets you all hopped up on ice cream and…where was I going with this? Oh, yeah.
Those of you who’ve followed the blog for a while know that I love word play, puns, and portmanteau. Monday was Star Wars Day (May the Fourth, get it?), so I thought I’d post some puns, jokes, and funny observations from recently.
I saw this on the bus on Monday. It was awesome.
I also saw the Papa John’s delivery guy go through the drive-thru at Dairy Queen recently. I really wish I had gotten a picture of that.
Last week a coworker (who isn’t that much older than I am) said he’d been to more countries by the time he had graduated high school than he’d been to states in the U.S. I told him it was easier when the continents were all close together.*
1.an activity done regularly in one’s leisure time for pleasure.“her hobbies are reading and gardening”
synonyms: pastime, leisure activity, leisure pursuit;
I went to the dentist a week ago, which is always an adventure, but this time I had a different hygienist than the one before. The one last week was perky and sweet, very encouraging about my teeth (no cavities, thankyouverymuch), and we’d established a pretty good rapport when she asked me what I “do.”
This is a difficult question.*
I used to reply solely with whatever I did as a job, which seems to be the stock answer people are looking for. What’s your occupation? How do you make your money? That last question seems kind of rude, but it’s really in essence the same as “What do you do?” and “What’s your occupation?” It’s hard not to interpret this as “Who are you to the world?”
Recently, I’ve gotten better about saying, “I’m a writer,” although that leads to the complicated follow-up question, “What have you written?” or “Where can I find you?” and then I usually have to fess up that my “day job” is something different. But at least I assert myself as a writer first. That’s how I consider myself. That’s what (eventually) I hope to get paid to do.
For some reason, I slipped into my old habit and answered first with my administrative job, and then felt the need to clarify, “Well, that’s my day job. Really, I’m a writer.”
“Oh, so it’s like a hobby?” she said, so earnest in her dismissal of what I do.
Well, AWP was a tornado, as always. I feel like I went through an entire graduate class in three days and somehow lived to tell about it. I now understand the word bleary. It took me a week to recover. But, as with every year, it was a good way to network, reconnect, learn, and gain renewed energy toward writing.
Here’s how it went:
I learned that when writing about members of your family, it can be easier if they’re dead because they can’t argue with you, but you also can feel an obligation to get it right because they can’t tell their own versions of the story.*
You have to make a list of the people you’re willing to alienate and the ones you’re not.*
Often it’s best to show up and shut up; when you stop talking, people will talk to fill the silence.*
Ten years ago today, I paid my taxes.
That’s not noteworthy, at least, in my opinion it’s not. Everybody pays their taxes.* Or, at least, they’re supposed to. And, as great as it is when you do what you’re supposed to, it isn’t something you should win points for.**
Regardless, it probably wasn’t even ten years ago today that I paid my taxes because I wouldn’t have had time. I wouldn’t have had time, because ten years ago today I had my first real grown-up job interview. I was 23 and had thrown together a mismatched suit of sorts. I had a fake briefcase and a pair of penniless loafers.
Because I was young, and naïve, and it was in New York City, my parents came along.*** Because it was in New York City, and I had to fly, I took time off of my two part-time jobs. Because I was good enough, or maybe just had a pulse, they offered me a job. Because I was desperate and wanted to live in New York, or maybe just young and naïve, I said yes.
I didn’t pull any pranks last week, but I am a huge fan of them. Just thought you should know. Here are some things I learned recently:
You cannot covertly eat a powdered donut.
Tampons work as field dressing for bullet wounds (or so says the protagonist/narrator in Jen Percy’s Demon Camp: A Soldier’s Exorcism).
The Bloody Mary was invented in the 1920s and contains (on average) roughly half your daily intake of sodium.
Jean-Claude Van Damme is still badass at 54.*
Trying to buy a car is a huge pain when you don’t have a car to get you to the car dealership.
Tilapia Filet would make a good stage name/pseudonym.
Moby Dick. The novel is daunting. It is, after all, about a whale, a behemoth, a colossus. It conjures up an image of man’s blind quest for revenge. More than one review of it includes the term “monomaniacal.” So it is with a sense of accomplishment that I am able to share that I read Moby Dick. Every single page. Of course, it was an assigned novel in my American Novels course in college. And perhaps a few of the pages were read while my eyes were shutting… But I made it a goal that I would read the entire book. And I did.
I am reminded of a time when Phyllis Newman appeared on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson and shared her technique for impressing people at a party. She would just mention the title of some classic literature, like War and Peace… and never indicate that she hadn’t read the book. Mentioning Moby Dick would inspire awe. Or maybe not. Maybe only someone who has read the entire novel, every page, would be impressed. Others might have only perused the comic book version and aren’t aware of the tedium of completing this “work” of literature.
My dad wrote this post, and it seemed fitting to publish it the week March Madness begins. I get my competitive nature and love of sports from my dad, who coached at and was the athletic director of my high school (not at the same time), and who always advocated the importance of good sportsmanship, not only on the part of the players but also the fans. Here he writes about his own struggles with losing gracefully, or what he refers to as his demon. -Sarah
Losing . . . My Demon
“Show me a good and gracious loser and I’ll show you a failure.” -Knute Rockne
“It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game.” –Grantland Rice
While almost all of us would prefer to have our friends and family associate us with Grantland Rice’s quote, many of us (including me) instead play like we believe in Knute Rockne’s philosophy.
All of my life I have been known as someone who loves to compete. But I’m not sure that this is true. Perhaps, more accurately, I love to win. I am, more often than not, a poor loser. I don’t want to be and I try not to be. But far too often, I am.