I just started doing my dramatic interpretation of Samuel Beckett's 1969 play Breath, when I realized I was sitting publicly at the reference desk. I'm not afraid of looking silly or unprofessional, but I don't think my boss would appreciate complaints about "the creepy chick who works Sunday nights."
At least I got a breath and a half in before I aborted my performance piece.
Showing posts with label Games I play. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Games I play. Show all posts
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
On a positive note, for once
In the movie Amelie, my favorite scene is where young Amelie gets revenge on her neighbor by cutting out his cable. She sits with a radio on his roof, and every time his favorite futbol team gets close to scoring a goal, she pulls his cable wire so that he can’t see it. He screams and flails about. I smile. As I said to a friend, “I am a naughty gnome,” mostly ineffectual but craving to cause chaos.
My friend’s favorite part of Amelie is when she lists people’s favorite things, no matter how odd they are, like plunging your fingers into a bowl of dried beans. Of course, I don’t remember this scene at all because it’s always the naughty bits I remember, but how it affected my friends is inspiring me.
Here are some of my favorite things:
Drinking water poured from gallon jugs of purified liquid absence—it tastes deliciously like nothing.
Kissing my husband goodbye—so much sweeter than hello because it pines.
Watching my dog roll over on her back and wag her tail at my husband’s feet, no matter where they are in the house or what he’s doing.
The smell of new electronics—the scent of potential.
The third track on my Sleepy Time CD I burned to put me to sleep every night. I know it’s a good night when the last thing I hear is track three.
All of my retired Puffalumps. I love you, and I’m sorry I loved you to pieces. I’m even sorrier that Fisher-Price no longer makes you.
Waking up just a little bit when my husband comes to bed.
Tell me what you love--those little things or those odd things that fit so perfect.
My friend’s favorite part of Amelie is when she lists people’s favorite things, no matter how odd they are, like plunging your fingers into a bowl of dried beans. Of course, I don’t remember this scene at all because it’s always the naughty bits I remember, but how it affected my friends is inspiring me.
Here are some of my favorite things:
Drinking water poured from gallon jugs of purified liquid absence—it tastes deliciously like nothing.
Kissing my husband goodbye—so much sweeter than hello because it pines.
Watching my dog roll over on her back and wag her tail at my husband’s feet, no matter where they are in the house or what he’s doing.
The smell of new electronics—the scent of potential.
The third track on my Sleepy Time CD I burned to put me to sleep every night. I know it’s a good night when the last thing I hear is track three.
All of my retired Puffalumps. I love you, and I’m sorry I loved you to pieces. I’m even sorrier that Fisher-Price no longer makes you.
Waking up just a little bit when my husband comes to bed.
Tell me what you love--those little things or those odd things that fit so perfect.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Imaginary conversation that will be very important one day
“Are we playing cows or horses?”
“Cows.”
“Are we doing count only your side of the car?”
“Yeah, it’s too hard to look at both sides when I’m driving.”
“Are we counting by individual animal?”
“No! That’s too complicated.”
“By the field?”
“Ok, field.”
…
“Are we playing cemetery rules?”
“Cemetery rules?”
“If the passenger sees a cemetery on the driver’s side of the car but the driver doesn’t call it, then the passenger can call it and the driver loses all their points.”
“And that works if the driver sees the passenger’s side, too, right?”
“Yep.”
…
“Who’s keeping score? The passenger or the smartest one in the car?”
“Cows.”
“Are we doing count only your side of the car?”
“Yeah, it’s too hard to look at both sides when I’m driving.”
“Are we counting by individual animal?”
“No! That’s too complicated.”
“By the field?”
“Ok, field.”
…
“Are we playing cemetery rules?”
“Cemetery rules?”
“If the passenger sees a cemetery on the driver’s side of the car but the driver doesn’t call it, then the passenger can call it and the driver loses all their points.”
“And that works if the driver sees the passenger’s side, too, right?”
“Yep.”
…
“Who’s keeping score? The passenger or the smartest one in the car?”
Sunday, June 15, 2008
The gods’ annoying endowment
Prometheus gave us fire. Athena wisdom. Calliope poetry. Euterpe gave me the power to recognize Chinese muzak versions of American pop hits of yesteryear.
“’I just called… to say… I love you.’”
“What?”
“’I just called… to say how much I care.’”
“What are you singing that for?”
“That’s what’s on the restaurant muzak.”
Laughing, "I can't even hear it."
“Oh! ‘Love lift us up where we be-looong!’”
“How is this your talent? Of all the useful things you could do…?”
“I can identify bad Chinese muzak?”
“Yes. What is up with that?”
“’Don’t cry for me Argentina!’”
“’I just called… to say… I love you.’”
“What?”
“’I just called… to say how much I care.’”
“What are you singing that for?”
“That’s what’s on the restaurant muzak.”
Laughing, "I can't even hear it."
“Oh! ‘Love lift us up where we be-looong!’”
“How is this your talent? Of all the useful things you could do…?”
“I can identify bad Chinese muzak?”
“Yes. What is up with that?”
“’Don’t cry for me Argentina!’”
Monday, October 15, 2007
Dealt a bad hand
I wonder what Al Gore has nightmares about. Does he dream of losing control of the electoral process, over and over, ad infinitum? Does he wake, sitting upright in bed, fists clenched, gritting his teeth, thinking “Not again!”? Does he dream that he’s lost his clothing on the way to the Supreme Court where he challenges the legality of George W. Bush’s presidency?
I told my friend last week that I never dream about being inappropriately naked. Apparently, I lied. Last thing this morning, I dreamt over and over, rotating scenarios, that I had appeared somewhere important naked. I don’t recall ever having this dream before, but, in disturbing tableaux, I was forced into situations where I must act as arbiter, mediator, or other authority in front of an audience. In the last scenario, I sat behind a diner table, and I tried to scooch down to hide my nudity. It was useless, though, because my moderation of the debate between two warring political factions was being televised, and CNN commentators seemed to be focusing on my inappropriate attire, not on our important progress toward peaceful negotiations.
I’m feeling more Al Gore right now, though, where this waking nightmare is a shameful daylight truth that one tries to escape like the pall of a rain cloud.
I lose at Uno. Over and over, I lose at Uno. Hand after hand gets dealt, and I lose. I don’t remember ever being a winner at Uno, not even as a kid. As a kid, the competition amongst my cousins provided the fun, not the winning. As an adult, I honed a competitive bitterness that spurs me to win.
But I can’t win at Uno.
I feel like Al Gore, making TV appearances about the importance of my new think tank work, winning Nobel Peace Prizes for my advocacy on global warming, but always followed by the acrid taint of “Hey, he’s that guy that lost to a retard in a presidential election. God he must be stupid to lose to a retard!” And, let’s face it, he’s lost credibility. Yeah, we get that everything he says is true, and we know from Futurama that he’s funny, but, I mean, he’s that guy that lost to the retard, right?
Uno, Al Gore, dreams, retards—how’s all this stupid stuff make sense? Uno is a retarded game that children play, yet it’s my living nightmare that I can never win. I grit my teeth and clench my fists: “Not again!” I give up on you, Uno. I won’t challenge any more popular vote versus Electoral College versus disenfranchisement of voters just to lose another hand. You taunt me like a recurring naked-at-the-high-school reunion dream. I get it. You win, Uno. Now, leave me alone and let me start my think tank to rehabilitate women’s rights in the Middle East.
I told my friend last week that I never dream about being inappropriately naked. Apparently, I lied. Last thing this morning, I dreamt over and over, rotating scenarios, that I had appeared somewhere important naked. I don’t recall ever having this dream before, but, in disturbing tableaux, I was forced into situations where I must act as arbiter, mediator, or other authority in front of an audience. In the last scenario, I sat behind a diner table, and I tried to scooch down to hide my nudity. It was useless, though, because my moderation of the debate between two warring political factions was being televised, and CNN commentators seemed to be focusing on my inappropriate attire, not on our important progress toward peaceful negotiations.
I’m feeling more Al Gore right now, though, where this waking nightmare is a shameful daylight truth that one tries to escape like the pall of a rain cloud.
I lose at Uno. Over and over, I lose at Uno. Hand after hand gets dealt, and I lose. I don’t remember ever being a winner at Uno, not even as a kid. As a kid, the competition amongst my cousins provided the fun, not the winning. As an adult, I honed a competitive bitterness that spurs me to win.
But I can’t win at Uno.
I feel like Al Gore, making TV appearances about the importance of my new think tank work, winning Nobel Peace Prizes for my advocacy on global warming, but always followed by the acrid taint of “Hey, he’s that guy that lost to a retard in a presidential election. God he must be stupid to lose to a retard!” And, let’s face it, he’s lost credibility. Yeah, we get that everything he says is true, and we know from Futurama that he’s funny, but, I mean, he’s that guy that lost to the retard, right?
Uno, Al Gore, dreams, retards—how’s all this stupid stuff make sense? Uno is a retarded game that children play, yet it’s my living nightmare that I can never win. I grit my teeth and clench my fists: “Not again!” I give up on you, Uno. I won’t challenge any more popular vote versus Electoral College versus disenfranchisement of voters just to lose another hand. You taunt me like a recurring naked-at-the-high-school reunion dream. I get it. You win, Uno. Now, leave me alone and let me start my think tank to rehabilitate women’s rights in the Middle East.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
My new(est) obsession
Hooping. Grown-up hula hooping. I'm taking my first class on Thursday, and I can't wait. I wish today were Thursday and not lame ol' Wednesday!
Watch some of the hooping videos on the link above. I'll let you know when I can do the hoop headstand, but don't hold your breath or you'll pass out from waiting.
Watch some of the hooping videos on the link above. I'll let you know when I can do the hoop headstand, but don't hold your breath or you'll pass out from waiting.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Is sick, nice, worthy
I just tried one of those online anagram generators, and I got "Is sick, nice worthy." I think it should be "Is sick, nice, worthy." That would be better.
Other gems from this site include:
Hysteric Sick Wino
Sinister Chick Yow
Chicory Sinew Skit
Ricochet Kiss Winy
Hearts,
Sinister Chick Yow
Other gems from this site include:
Hysteric Sick Wino
Sinister Chick Yow
Chicory Sinew Skit
Ricochet Kiss Winy
Hearts,
Sinister Chick Yow
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Widow's Walk
I just sat at the Widow’s Walk and waited for my husband to come back to me.
Think of the lonely paths worn by many footsteps that lead to the sea. Grieving widows walk to the water to look for and long for their husbands lost at sea, beating down the grass into a row of sorrow. The Widow’s Walk is a sacred place symbolic of lost love and tinged with loneliness.
Today, my husband asked that we go to the video game store. We walked up and down the mall because all the stores had moved or been replaced, and we couldn’t find the video game store. We found a mall security agent at the far end of the mall, and he informed us that we had missed the only video game store; it was all the way at the opposite end, where we had started.
Conveniently, there was a comfy bench outside the game store. I sat with the other women while our husbands and boyfriends went into the sea. We waited and we hoped and we prayed that one day they’d return.
I broke the code. Instead of grieving as sisters in our solitude, I marched into the store, stood over my husband crouching to look at the bottom row, and growled, “Hello?”
He said, “I’m looking for a third game.”
I turned to stomp away, and he said to my back, “I’m almost finished.”
The agony of a video game widow, I feel so abandoned and neglected as I sit in wait for him when he goes to places I won’t follow. I moan and sigh, I check the time, I watch the sun sink lower into the mall skylights. I wait. I wait in the sacred place, hoping he’ll return.
Think of the lonely paths worn by many footsteps that lead to the sea. Grieving widows walk to the water to look for and long for their husbands lost at sea, beating down the grass into a row of sorrow. The Widow’s Walk is a sacred place symbolic of lost love and tinged with loneliness.
Today, my husband asked that we go to the video game store. We walked up and down the mall because all the stores had moved or been replaced, and we couldn’t find the video game store. We found a mall security agent at the far end of the mall, and he informed us that we had missed the only video game store; it was all the way at the opposite end, where we had started.
Conveniently, there was a comfy bench outside the game store. I sat with the other women while our husbands and boyfriends went into the sea. We waited and we hoped and we prayed that one day they’d return.
I broke the code. Instead of grieving as sisters in our solitude, I marched into the store, stood over my husband crouching to look at the bottom row, and growled, “Hello?”
He said, “I’m looking for a third game.”
I turned to stomp away, and he said to my back, “I’m almost finished.”
The agony of a video game widow, I feel so abandoned and neglected as I sit in wait for him when he goes to places I won’t follow. I moan and sigh, I check the time, I watch the sun sink lower into the mall skylights. I wait. I wait in the sacred place, hoping he’ll return.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Mind games
I love to play games with myself. I establish goofy challenges and criteria to entertain myself. I make up elaborate stories about strangers and create tiny worlds with any little facts I can glean.
I worked for my little sister for a while, and my job involved data entry of customer contracts. Making up games about people in the contracts distracted me so much I’d rush into my sister’s office to tell her the story: “Look! This guy’s birthday is this weekend! Oh my God, he’s almost 70. I bet his kids don’t love him enough and that’s why he’s alone. Look where he lives. I bet he’s going to throw a party for himself this weekend. Isn’t that sad? His kids should throw the party. I hope people go to his party. I hope his co-workers show up.”
She’d look up at me from her computer for a nano-second, “Mmm-hmm.” We’re sisters. We have decades of experience at tuning each other out.
My current favorite game is one you can play too—in addition to making up facts about strangers. It’s called “Next Blog.” I didn’t actually invent this game, but I swear it’s tons of fun anyway. At the top of my blog on the right hand side in the Blogger toolbar, there’s a link that says “Next Blog.” Click on it. But then use your back arrow to come back here!
Every time you click on that button, you’ll get a different result. I love it. Now I get to make up stories about the bloggers who went to the trouble to create such wildly varied destinations for me. I went through a phase where every time I played “Next Blog,” I’d end up on a site written in a different language. That made me sad. I felt left out of the fun. It added a new dimension to “Next Blog” though because I’d try to pick out the words I knew and see if I could figure out what the blog was about. Lots of the blogs were in Spanish. I know “corazon,” cerveza,” “bano.” Not really helpful at the blog game. Once I found an Asian language site that was all about flowers. Oh I loved that one. The flowers were beautiful and exotic confections of swirling pink, but I didn’t know where they were or what they were.
The only “Next Blog” game website I’ve bookmarked was a self-help site about finding your spiritual center. I got there by following a link from a clinically depressed person’s blog. The site made me laugh because it was so serious, but it kind of scared me because some of the self-improvement tips were deeply inspirational. I don’t really want to be inspired by the “links I enjoy” on a blog that says “Today I found a new guru.” It just sounds too out of context to my life.
Tonight I “Next Blogged” I Heart to Blog. It’s kinda weird stuff about graphic design and Apple computers, but I like it. It looks like there’s some entertaining links on there that I look forward to following.
So what’s “I Heart to Blog’s” story? I thought he was a guy. My first made up story starred “I Heart to Blog” as a guy. Guys like Apple computers. He’s not. He’s she. I think she thinks about stuff too much like I do cause the title is tongue-in-cheek. She also thinks too much about shoes. I also think she’s the go-to-guy at her company for computer questions the tech support crew can’t handle. Or she’s totally free-lance and that’s why she loves Apple. I don’t think she’ll ever “Next Blog” me because she doesn’t have the standard-issue Blogger toolbar. It’s a shame. She’s missing out.
I worked for my little sister for a while, and my job involved data entry of customer contracts. Making up games about people in the contracts distracted me so much I’d rush into my sister’s office to tell her the story: “Look! This guy’s birthday is this weekend! Oh my God, he’s almost 70. I bet his kids don’t love him enough and that’s why he’s alone. Look where he lives. I bet he’s going to throw a party for himself this weekend. Isn’t that sad? His kids should throw the party. I hope people go to his party. I hope his co-workers show up.”
She’d look up at me from her computer for a nano-second, “Mmm-hmm.” We’re sisters. We have decades of experience at tuning each other out.
My current favorite game is one you can play too—in addition to making up facts about strangers. It’s called “Next Blog.” I didn’t actually invent this game, but I swear it’s tons of fun anyway. At the top of my blog on the right hand side in the Blogger toolbar, there’s a link that says “Next Blog.” Click on it. But then use your back arrow to come back here!
Every time you click on that button, you’ll get a different result. I love it. Now I get to make up stories about the bloggers who went to the trouble to create such wildly varied destinations for me. I went through a phase where every time I played “Next Blog,” I’d end up on a site written in a different language. That made me sad. I felt left out of the fun. It added a new dimension to “Next Blog” though because I’d try to pick out the words I knew and see if I could figure out what the blog was about. Lots of the blogs were in Spanish. I know “corazon,” cerveza,” “bano.” Not really helpful at the blog game. Once I found an Asian language site that was all about flowers. Oh I loved that one. The flowers were beautiful and exotic confections of swirling pink, but I didn’t know where they were or what they were.
The only “Next Blog” game website I’ve bookmarked was a self-help site about finding your spiritual center. I got there by following a link from a clinically depressed person’s blog. The site made me laugh because it was so serious, but it kind of scared me because some of the self-improvement tips were deeply inspirational. I don’t really want to be inspired by the “links I enjoy” on a blog that says “Today I found a new guru.” It just sounds too out of context to my life.
Tonight I “Next Blogged” I Heart to Blog. It’s kinda weird stuff about graphic design and Apple computers, but I like it. It looks like there’s some entertaining links on there that I look forward to following.
So what’s “I Heart to Blog’s” story? I thought he was a guy. My first made up story starred “I Heart to Blog” as a guy. Guys like Apple computers. He’s not. He’s she. I think she thinks about stuff too much like I do cause the title is tongue-in-cheek. She also thinks too much about shoes. I also think she’s the go-to-guy at her company for computer questions the tech support crew can’t handle. Or she’s totally free-lance and that’s why she loves Apple. I don’t think she’ll ever “Next Blog” me because she doesn’t have the standard-issue Blogger toolbar. It’s a shame. She’s missing out.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
I'm a winner!
Last night, as Matthew and I were wrapping up to leave our friends' house, they made the joke, "We're in competition with you to see how messy we can make our apartment." We exchanged more jokes about my piling habits. The second we walked mere footsteps from their door, Matthew said, "Honey, you know that was a joke right? You know you don't really have to compete with them for messiness?" I laughed; I understood. Matthew continued, "Because I'd hate to think how messy you'd be if you were actually trying."
It's true. I usually excel at the things I seriously undertake.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
BFF
I found my blogoshpere soul mate. His name is Piggles and he’s a guinea pig. In our complete profiles, we list that our hobby in common is “making messes.” Awh! It’s so cute to have another soul I can relate to! I also identify with some of Piggles’ other hobbies. (If you read his profile on Blogger http://pigglepooh.blogspot.com/, see if you can guess which of his activities I like too.)
Piggles and I probably also keep house in a similar manner: spread the things we like all over the room so we can see everything at once. Unless Piggles is neater than me. Which is possible. I am known for being a piler. It starts out that I place something I want to come back to later on a flat surface. Later something else ends up on top of that item. This multiplies until the flat surface—say, a coffee table—collapses under the weight of the pile, at which point I continue to add more things to the pile, and it eventually becomes a pile of piles. I straighten approximately as often as Victoria’s Secret has their semi-annual sale.
My sister, my mom, and my husband all say in relation to me: “She covers every flat surface.” Those exact words, no matter the situation. I find it amazing that they universally refer to my ability to cover “flat surfaces.” “Why those particular words,” I asked my husband. “Because that’s what you do. You cover flat surfaces.”
When we were little and we still shared a room, my sister got very upset with me once and pushed all of my things over onto my side of the room, of the desk, and of the dresser. Like a bulldozer rolling back the earth. She then took masking tape and ran it in a straight line down the center of everything. One side said “C” for me, and the other side said “S” for her. I later learned there’s an “I Love Lucy” story just like this, but my fed-up sister created this idea on her own. I still love it when I go to her house and she says, “I’m sorry it’s so messy.” If anyone should know by what standard I’m gauging her messiness, it’s her.
Piggles and I probably also keep house in a similar manner: spread the things we like all over the room so we can see everything at once. Unless Piggles is neater than me. Which is possible. I am known for being a piler. It starts out that I place something I want to come back to later on a flat surface. Later something else ends up on top of that item. This multiplies until the flat surface—say, a coffee table—collapses under the weight of the pile, at which point I continue to add more things to the pile, and it eventually becomes a pile of piles. I straighten approximately as often as Victoria’s Secret has their semi-annual sale.
My sister, my mom, and my husband all say in relation to me: “She covers every flat surface.” Those exact words, no matter the situation. I find it amazing that they universally refer to my ability to cover “flat surfaces.” “Why those particular words,” I asked my husband. “Because that’s what you do. You cover flat surfaces.”
When we were little and we still shared a room, my sister got very upset with me once and pushed all of my things over onto my side of the room, of the desk, and of the dresser. Like a bulldozer rolling back the earth. She then took masking tape and ran it in a straight line down the center of everything. One side said “C” for me, and the other side said “S” for her. I later learned there’s an “I Love Lucy” story just like this, but my fed-up sister created this idea on her own. I still love it when I go to her house and she says, “I’m sorry it’s so messy.” If anyone should know by what standard I’m gauging her messiness, it’s her.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Lincoln, Lincoln I’ve been thinkin’
I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about what I want to put in my blog, and it’s hard to think of stories that don’t embarrass someone who I have no call to embarrass. I can embarrass myself all day long because that’s funny, but some of my best stories happen with other people.
But here’s an observational gem for you: I’ve got a vein on the back of my right hand I can make wiggle based on how I flex my hand. My left hand doesn’t do anything cool. Actually, since I’m right-eyed, right-handed, and even right-footed, a friend of mine started a series of jokes about my left side that my husband still continues today. I hope that doesn’t sound too mean. If you knew how untalented my left side was you’d understand.
So back to the back of my right hand. This vein, it dances. It’s great. It’s an utterly useless talent, but it shimmies like a belly-dancer from side to side. The rest of me lacks such grace. If only bodily skills were transferable.
That’s my favorite limerick by the way:
Lincoln, Lincoln I’ve been thinkin,’
What the heck have you been drinkin’?
Is it water? Is it wine?
Oh my gosh, it’s turpentine!
Genius. You have to do it with the William Shatner dramatic interpretation though.
I also like:
Moses supposes his toeses are roses,
But Moses supposes erroneously.
This one you have to put the emphasis on “erroneously” in a mock serious second-grade teacher way. I also like to open my eyes wide and tilt my head just so on “erroneously” for additional impact. It’s not as hilarious as Lincoln though, which will crack me up every time.
I’m gonna go look at the back of my hand again now.
But here’s an observational gem for you: I’ve got a vein on the back of my right hand I can make wiggle based on how I flex my hand. My left hand doesn’t do anything cool. Actually, since I’m right-eyed, right-handed, and even right-footed, a friend of mine started a series of jokes about my left side that my husband still continues today. I hope that doesn’t sound too mean. If you knew how untalented my left side was you’d understand.
So back to the back of my right hand. This vein, it dances. It’s great. It’s an utterly useless talent, but it shimmies like a belly-dancer from side to side. The rest of me lacks such grace. If only bodily skills were transferable.
That’s my favorite limerick by the way:
Lincoln, Lincoln I’ve been thinkin,’
What the heck have you been drinkin’?
Is it water? Is it wine?
Oh my gosh, it’s turpentine!
Genius. You have to do it with the William Shatner dramatic interpretation though.
I also like:
Moses supposes his toeses are roses,
But Moses supposes erroneously.
This one you have to put the emphasis on “erroneously” in a mock serious second-grade teacher way. I also like to open my eyes wide and tilt my head just so on “erroneously” for additional impact. It’s not as hilarious as Lincoln though, which will crack me up every time.
I’m gonna go look at the back of my hand again now.
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