Before I became a professional writer, I was a creative writing student. Before that, I was an amateur child writer who shared my works only within my small circle of such friends and colleagues as amateur child writers have.
Sometimes, when I got a draft back from a fellow creative writing student or amateur child writer friend, there would be a comment along the lines of "This part isn't realistic...it's too coincidental."
Although I can agree that in many cases this feedback improved the draft, I find it strange that we demand our fiction be realistic and not coincidental. Reality isn't actually very realistic and it's often coincidental. As Mark Twain said, "Truth is stranger than fiction." And as I say (inspired somewhat by my history professor), "I find reality to be very strange."
I should define what I mean by "coincidental". Some people believe that life is chaos and randomness. I don't believe that. I believe that, like an author, the God of our world has put a lot of time and thought into building a reality full of delights. I personally don't think it's a coincidence when the person you've been thinking about all day just happens to be at the grocery store or when you have a hard day at work and then someone brings you cookies. Those are what we LDS folk call "tender mercies," and I believe that the hand of God is in them because He cares about us. There are other things that I would consider coincidences, like that you and all your closest friends were born on the 11th day of different months (I'm just making stuff up here). And yet, I still don't think those coincidences are as coincidental as we'd like them to be. I don't necessarily think they have any special meaning, but I do think they're little fun things that God threw into the design of the world...just for fun.
Anyway, whatever you believe coincidences are, life is just full of 'em.
Consider this: three of my four grandparents were born in the same year. Now, it's not very weird that my dad's parents were born in the same year, since they met in college. But both my parents' mothers were born in the same year, which is really weird. Statistically speaking, when you consider how many fertile years an adult woman has in her life, the chances of you marrying someone whose mother was born in the same year as your own mother are very low. Like, I legitimately don't even have any friends whose mother was born the same year as mine. Shutterbug's mom is probably a couple years younger than mine, but she's the only one who even comes close. A friend in junior high's mother was six or seven years younger than mine because she gave birth in her teens; Viola's mother is about 20 years older than mine because she gave birth in her forties. The span is wide.
What about this? Older Sister is a brunette; I'm a blonde (though not as blonde as I once was). Little Sister is a brunette; Baby Sister is a blonde. Little Brother is a brunette; Baby Brother is a blonde. Our hair colors alternate perfectly.
Or this? Little Brother was born on our dad's mom's birthday, and Baby Brother was born on our dad's dad's birthday. I mean, yeah, Little Brother was induced the day before our grandma's birthday, and there was a decent chance of him not coming until the next day. But Baby Brother came on his own about three weeks early. There's no accounting for it.
I've been thinking about this a lot the last few days because of a true event that no half-decent editor would ever let a writer put in their novel: an acquaintance who lives here in Hometown contacted me with some questions. The conversation ended, and I thought nothing else about it. A few weeks later, that acquaintance went to New York City, where there are literally millions of people. Yet he still happened to run into Older Sister outside a theatre and then asked her about the same topic!
In short, if fiction is supposed to mirror real life, then it should have more, and not less, coincidences.
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Thursday, September 14, 2017
Wednesday, July 26, 2017
Felt
Context: Following this post, I decided it might be appropriate to post the content from my creative nonfiction project about Steve Whitmire. I've thought about it a couple times, but before I never thought there would be much interest.
When Steve Whitmire got the box in the mail, he opened it right away. Inside, resting on a bed of Styrofoam peanuts, was Kermit the Frog.
The puppet was the same as the many others that had been made over the years: green felt skin, eleven-point collar, flippers, eyes with elongated pupils, and a flexible head that could be scrunched into almost any expression. The puppet’s mouth was slightly open in a half-smile, half-word. He looked like he was about to announce a guest star on The Muppet Show, sing a song about being green, or say, “Hi, Steve! How are you?”
Steve almost returned the greeting. His characters had played alongside Kermit for so long, it would have been natural for him to say, “Hiya, Kermit,” in the voice of Bean Bunny or Rizzo the Rat. But he stopped himself. As far as Steve was concerned, this wasn’t his old friend Kermit. The frog’s animus, his spirit, his essence—all of that was gone. Kermit had died with his performer, Jim Henson.
It doesn’t have to be that way Steve thought, staring at the Muppet. Jim’s spirit had left his body forever, but Kermit could be resurrected. All it would take was the right Muppeteer.
Steve picked up the famous frog and slipped his hand up into the body. He sat very still for a minute. Then he put the Muppet back in the box and walked away.
“He’s sure to have an e-mail,” my creative writing teacher said, something I had never even considered. Steve Whitmire? Me, e-mailing Steve Whitmire? Well, it was something to think about, for sure.
What would I say?
Dear Steve Whitmire,
My name is Awkward Mormon Girl Obnoxious. You’re probably not aware of it, but we sort of know each other. See, I have this friend named Runner Bean. Runner Bean’s family was on Extreme Home Makeover a few years back, so he knows Ty Pennington. Ty Pennington was on a segment in a Sesame Street Christmas special, in which he interacted with the Count von Count. As you know, the Count’s current puppeteer is Matt Vogel. You perform with Matt Vogel frequently. So we know each other. Sort of. By association. Yup.
Not that.
It took a long time for her to respond. This was due to my cringeworthy technique. When I say “cringeworthy,” I really mean “cringeworthy.” Usually when I pick Joni up, I never get around to performing her because I get wrapped up cringing in anticipation of my poor puppeteering instead. To be fair, I guess it would be easier for me if she were a more expressive Muppet. She isn’t, though; she’s a Whatnot, or a type of basic human puppet used in the background of The Muppet Show. Joni is great-looking: short dark hair, blue skin, orange nose, slanted purple eyes. I designed her myself on F.A.O. Schwartz’s Whatnot-making website, and I’m pretty proud of the way she turned out. However, Whatnots have fat plush heads that can’t easily be wrinkled into different expressions—pretty difficult to use effectively without additional mechanisms in the head. Alas, Joni lacks such mechanisms.
“Ahem,” Joni said. I stopped cringing and went back to performing her. “So?”
“So he’d hired teenage Muppeteers before, but that was when the Muppets were just starting and he was pretty darn young himself. In 1977, the Muppets were doing well for themselves. He could have had his pick of puppeteers, hired someone his own age. But no, he hired this super-naïve teenage boy from Atlanta, Georgia. Why’d he do that, Joni?”
“Super-naïve teenagers do amazing stuff all the time. Remember how you became a famous author when you were a super-naïve teenager? Oh… oh wait, you never did that, did you? My bad.”
“Thanks a lot,” I grouched, glaring at her. With some effort, I arranged her face in a sort of smirk. “I was always planning on it, but…”
“But reality caught up to you,” Joni said, patting my head.
Hastily Steve stepped back. Out stepped Jim Henson.
“Hi!” Steve said brightly. He’d flown to New York the night before with $20 (of which he’d already spent $19), a lightweight coat, and a trunk full of puppets. He had absolutely nothing else to his name, but he’d never been more excited in his life.
Jim stared at him. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, I’m Steve Whitmire.”
Jim stared.
“The puppeteer from Atlanta?” Steve clarified, his heart sinking down to his toes. He was overcome with a sense of panic.
He knows who I am, right? He’s got to; he paid for my airfare and my hotel! But… what if he doesn’t? What if this is all some huge mistake?
Steve highly doubted he would be able to purchase a return ticket with his one dollar. He wasn’t even sure he could find his way back to the airport. He knew nothing about New York. Before last night, he’d never been farther away from home than Kentucky.
To his relief, Jim said, “Oh yeah, well, c’mon in.” He led Steve inside, then paused at the top of the stairs.
“You know, we really weren’t expecting you this early.”
Steve looked at his watch. It was eight a.m. That didn’t seem too early, especially considering that he’d gotten up at seven and had put off heading to the studio as long as he possibly could. Sure, he’d only held off for less than an hour, but, still. He’d tried to wait, and every minute he’d been able to delay running straight towards his audition with the Muppets was a small victory.
The panicky feeling returned. “Well, you know, I could leave and come back later,” he said, trying to sound polite but hoping Jim wasn’t going to make him wait any longer. He didn’t know if he had that kind of willpower. Besides, he had no money and no place to go.
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”
Steve left his trunk of puppets at Henson Associates, trudged to a Woolworth’s on the corner. He spent his last dollar on a cup of coffee and sat there for three hours, waiting.
“Why didn’t I what?”
Joni touched the keys of my laptop. “Can I write something?”
“No. Why didn’t I what?”
“Why didn’t you become a famous author when you were a teenager?”
“Because I never wrote anything good enough to publish.”
“Who told you that you never wrote anything good enough to publish?”
“I did.”
“Well, what did the publishing companies say?”
“They didn’t say anything. I hardly sent out any submissions.”
Joni looked at me reproachfully.
“Listen, Joni, it’s like you said earlier: Reality caught up to me. Eventually I realized I was too young to get published, okay? Adults have a hard enough time getting themselves published, and then once they are published, they hardly ever become famous. A teenager like me doesn’t stand a chance. The only thing I can do with my life right now is go to school and get my creative writing degree.”
“And then you’ll be a famous author?”
“No, then I’ll have to find something else to do with my life after I ultimately fail as a writer,” I snapped.
“Well, you could always be a Muppeteer,” Joni said in a sing-song voice. There was a long pause. “Are you cringing at your technique again?”
I put her away.
After a few days of this, Jim told Steve he was hired. He wasn’t going to work on Sesame Street, though, as Jim had originally led him to believe. No, Jim was hiring Steve to come work on The Muppet Show.
Steve bit his lip and said nothing.
“Your character is guarding Liberace’s door. He doesn’t want to let Kermit in, Steve, and he has to be mean about it.”
“Jim,” the floor manager said softly. “It’s five minutes to eight.” Eight o’clock was when the technicians went home—always. The cast wasn’t allowed to keep them in studio a second longer than that.
Steve stared at the floor, frustrated. This was his first speaking role: easy, short, technically simple. Still, he had screwed up every take. It just wasn’t working.
“Don’t worry,” Jim said to the floor manager. “We’ll be done by then.” His voice was calm, confident. Never mind the fact that he had been working on this brief scene with Steve since seven-thirty, and it still hadn’t come together. Never mind that he could have turned to any one of “the guys”—Frank Oz, Richard Hunt, Jerry Nelson, Dave Goelz—to take over Steve’s part. It didn’t matter who played the guard in front of Liberace’s door. Jerry or Dave or Richard could easily do it in a take or two; Frank would only need one. Despite this, Jim hadn’t asked Steve to pass the puppet over to someone else, and Steve had a feeling he wasn’t going to. Jim wasn’t about to give him the easy way out.
“Let’s do it again, Steve,” Jim said. Steve extended the puppet above his head and waited for the camera to roll.
“No one, really. Rowlf’s hands. Miss Piggy’s dog, Foo-Foo. And Rizzo the Rat.”
“But Rizzo’s an important Muppet!”
“Not back then, he wasn’t. Rizzo was a background character on The Muppet Show—some rat puppet Steve found in storage and would walk in and out of scenes. Jim decided to make Rizzo an exalted extra by giving him lines, but the rat didn’t really take off until he was paired with Gonzo as a narrator in Muppet Christmas Carol.” I shrugged. “He spent his two and a half seasons on The Muppet Show doing all the puppetry work that nobody else wanted to do.”
“Poor kid.”
“Poor kid? No, he loved it.”
“I have Wembley.”
“Sure, but Fraggle Rock ended several years ago.” That was true. Since then, Steve had done many movies and projects as a full-fledged, experienced Muppet performer, but he had no main Muppets. Rizzo was a fun side character and Bean Bunny was a great character originated in The Bunny Picnic. Neither of them, however, was part of the core Muppet cast. “I’m frustrated that you don’t have any main characters. I think we should work toward getting you another major character, maybe something that’s like a sidekick to Kermit.”
“Like Fozzie?”
“Yes, like Fozzie. Fozzie is there, but Frank’s not always available, and it would be nice to have another character that could fill that role sometimes. I can work on that as soon as I get back to New York.”
“Great!” Steve said. It would be good to have a main character.
Then Jim passed away, and his son sent Kermit to Steve in a box.
Creative nonfiction is a genre that I didn't even knew existed before taking this class. It's nonfiction turned into a compelling story. This means that dialogue may be recreated without total accuracy...events may be combined...things that didn't actually happen but could have happened may even be included. ("Based on a true story" movies are, in my opinion, classic examples of creative nonfiction.) The following piece is light on the creativity and heavy on the nonfiction. Dedicated Muppet fans will know where I've taken liberties, but the majority of the Steve side of the story is reconstructed from a Steve Whitmire interview.
When Steve Whitmire got the box in the mail, he opened it right away. Inside, resting on a bed of Styrofoam peanuts, was Kermit the Frog.
The puppet was the same as the many others that had been made over the years: green felt skin, eleven-point collar, flippers, eyes with elongated pupils, and a flexible head that could be scrunched into almost any expression. The puppet’s mouth was slightly open in a half-smile, half-word. He looked like he was about to announce a guest star on The Muppet Show, sing a song about being green, or say, “Hi, Steve! How are you?”
Steve almost returned the greeting. His characters had played alongside Kermit for so long, it would have been natural for him to say, “Hiya, Kermit,” in the voice of Bean Bunny or Rizzo the Rat. But he stopped himself. As far as Steve was concerned, this wasn’t his old friend Kermit. The frog’s animus, his spirit, his essence—all of that was gone. Kermit had died with his performer, Jim Henson.
It doesn’t have to be that way Steve thought, staring at the Muppet. Jim’s spirit had left his body forever, but Kermit could be resurrected. All it would take was the right Muppeteer.
Steve picked up the famous frog and slipped his hand up into the body. He sat very still for a minute. Then he put the Muppet back in the box and walked away.
***
With great nervousness and excitement, I considered interviewing Steve Whitmire. “He’s sure to have an e-mail,” my creative writing teacher said, something I had never even considered. Steve Whitmire? Me, e-mailing Steve Whitmire? Well, it was something to think about, for sure.
What would I say?
Dear Steve Whitmire,
My name is Awkward Mormon Girl Obnoxious. You’re probably not aware of it, but we sort of know each other. See, I have this friend named Runner Bean. Runner Bean’s family was on Extreme Home Makeover a few years back, so he knows Ty Pennington. Ty Pennington was on a segment in a Sesame Street Christmas special, in which he interacted with the Count von Count. As you know, the Count’s current puppeteer is Matt Vogel. You perform with Matt Vogel frequently. So we know each other. Sort of. By association. Yup.
Not that.
***
Steve Whitmire had been a fan of puppeteering since he was just a kid living near Atlanta. At eleven years old, he wrote a letter to Jim Henson. Jim Henson wrote back.
When Steve graduated from high school, he had a yearbook full of scribbled notes jokingly calling him “Kermit” and a first-place prize for puppeteering in the school talent show. He jumped straight into performing a character called Otis the Beach Bum at a local theme park, then cohosted a television program with his best friend Gary. Simply called The Kids’ Show, it was nominated for a state Emmy Award. Clearly, Steve was going places.
He was in the middle of negotiating his own television show when Jim Henson called.
When Steve graduated from high school, he had a yearbook full of scribbled notes jokingly calling him “Kermit” and a first-place prize for puppeteering in the school talent show. He jumped straight into performing a character called Otis the Beach Bum at a local theme park, then cohosted a television program with his best friend Gary. Simply called The Kids’ Show, it was nominated for a state Emmy Award. Clearly, Steve was going places.
He was in the middle of negotiating his own television show when Jim Henson called.
***
“Eighteen and a half, Joni,” I said to my Muppet. “Jim Henson hired Steve Whitmire when Steve was eighteen and a half.” It took a long time for her to respond. This was due to my cringeworthy technique. When I say “cringeworthy,” I really mean “cringeworthy.” Usually when I pick Joni up, I never get around to performing her because I get wrapped up cringing in anticipation of my poor puppeteering instead. To be fair, I guess it would be easier for me if she were a more expressive Muppet. She isn’t, though; she’s a Whatnot, or a type of basic human puppet used in the background of The Muppet Show. Joni is great-looking: short dark hair, blue skin, orange nose, slanted purple eyes. I designed her myself on F.A.O. Schwartz’s Whatnot-making website, and I’m pretty proud of the way she turned out. However, Whatnots have fat plush heads that can’t easily be wrinkled into different expressions—pretty difficult to use effectively without additional mechanisms in the head. Alas, Joni lacks such mechanisms.
“Ahem,” Joni said. I stopped cringing and went back to performing her. “So?”
“So he’d hired teenage Muppeteers before, but that was when the Muppets were just starting and he was pretty darn young himself. In 1977, the Muppets were doing well for themselves. He could have had his pick of puppeteers, hired someone his own age. But no, he hired this super-naïve teenage boy from Atlanta, Georgia. Why’d he do that, Joni?”
“Super-naïve teenagers do amazing stuff all the time. Remember how you became a famous author when you were a super-naïve teenager? Oh… oh wait, you never did that, did you? My bad.”
“Thanks a lot,” I grouched, glaring at her. With some effort, I arranged her face in a sort of smirk. “I was always planning on it, but…”
“But reality caught up to you,” Joni said, patting my head.
***
Steve pressed the buzzer three times before the door opened. Later he learned that the door was the kind of door where you pressed a bell and then someone else buzzed you in, but on the day of his audition at Henson Associates he didn’t know that. So there he was, repeatedly pressing the buzzer, when all of a sudden the door flew open. Hastily Steve stepped back. Out stepped Jim Henson.
“Hi!” Steve said brightly. He’d flown to New York the night before with $20 (of which he’d already spent $19), a lightweight coat, and a trunk full of puppets. He had absolutely nothing else to his name, but he’d never been more excited in his life.
Jim stared at him. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, I’m Steve Whitmire.”
Jim stared.
“The puppeteer from Atlanta?” Steve clarified, his heart sinking down to his toes. He was overcome with a sense of panic.
He knows who I am, right? He’s got to; he paid for my airfare and my hotel! But… what if he doesn’t? What if this is all some huge mistake?
Steve highly doubted he would be able to purchase a return ticket with his one dollar. He wasn’t even sure he could find his way back to the airport. He knew nothing about New York. Before last night, he’d never been farther away from home than Kentucky.
To his relief, Jim said, “Oh yeah, well, c’mon in.” He led Steve inside, then paused at the top of the stairs.
“You know, we really weren’t expecting you this early.”
Steve looked at his watch. It was eight a.m. That didn’t seem too early, especially considering that he’d gotten up at seven and had put off heading to the studio as long as he possibly could. Sure, he’d only held off for less than an hour, but, still. He’d tried to wait, and every minute he’d been able to delay running straight towards his audition with the Muppets was a small victory.
The panicky feeling returned. “Well, you know, I could leave and come back later,” he said, trying to sound polite but hoping Jim wasn’t going to make him wait any longer. He didn’t know if he had that kind of willpower. Besides, he had no money and no place to go.
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”
Steve left his trunk of puppets at Henson Associates, trudged to a Woolworth’s on the corner. He spent his last dollar on a cup of coffee and sat there for three hours, waiting.
***
“Why didn’t you?” “Why didn’t I what?”
Joni touched the keys of my laptop. “Can I write something?”
“No. Why didn’t I what?”
“Why didn’t you become a famous author when you were a teenager?”
“Because I never wrote anything good enough to publish.”
“Who told you that you never wrote anything good enough to publish?”
“I did.”
“Well, what did the publishing companies say?”
“They didn’t say anything. I hardly sent out any submissions.”
Joni looked at me reproachfully.
“Listen, Joni, it’s like you said earlier: Reality caught up to me. Eventually I realized I was too young to get published, okay? Adults have a hard enough time getting themselves published, and then once they are published, they hardly ever become famous. A teenager like me doesn’t stand a chance. The only thing I can do with my life right now is go to school and get my creative writing degree.”
“And then you’ll be a famous author?”
“No, then I’ll have to find something else to do with my life after I ultimately fail as a writer,” I snapped.
“Well, you could always be a Muppeteer,” Joni said in a sing-song voice. There was a long pause. “Are you cringing at your technique again?”
I put her away.
***
Steve’s audition wasn’t much of an audition. When he returned to the studio at eleven, he and Jim and Frank Oz played around with puppets for a while. Then Jim took Steve around and introduced him to the people at the studio. After a few days of this, Jim told Steve he was hired. He wasn’t going to work on Sesame Street, though, as Jim had originally led him to believe. No, Jim was hiring Steve to come work on The Muppet Show.
***
“You have to be mean to Kermit,” Jim chided Steve. Steve bit his lip and said nothing.
“Your character is guarding Liberace’s door. He doesn’t want to let Kermit in, Steve, and he has to be mean about it.”
“Jim,” the floor manager said softly. “It’s five minutes to eight.” Eight o’clock was when the technicians went home—always. The cast wasn’t allowed to keep them in studio a second longer than that.
Steve stared at the floor, frustrated. This was his first speaking role: easy, short, technically simple. Still, he had screwed up every take. It just wasn’t working.
“Don’t worry,” Jim said to the floor manager. “We’ll be done by then.” His voice was calm, confident. Never mind the fact that he had been working on this brief scene with Steve since seven-thirty, and it still hadn’t come together. Never mind that he could have turned to any one of “the guys”—Frank Oz, Richard Hunt, Jerry Nelson, Dave Goelz—to take over Steve’s part. It didn’t matter who played the guard in front of Liberace’s door. Jerry or Dave or Richard could easily do it in a take or two; Frank would only need one. Despite this, Jim hadn’t asked Steve to pass the puppet over to someone else, and Steve had a feeling he wasn’t going to. Jim wasn’t about to give him the easy way out.
“Let’s do it again, Steve,” Jim said. Steve extended the puppet above his head and waited for the camera to roll.
***
“Who did Steve play on The Muppet Show?” Joni asked me. I’d brought her out again after some wheedling on her part and many, many promises to be good and to not talk about my puppeteering technique. “No one, really. Rowlf’s hands. Miss Piggy’s dog, Foo-Foo. And Rizzo the Rat.”
“But Rizzo’s an important Muppet!”
“Not back then, he wasn’t. Rizzo was a background character on The Muppet Show—some rat puppet Steve found in storage and would walk in and out of scenes. Jim decided to make Rizzo an exalted extra by giving him lines, but the rat didn’t really take off until he was paired with Gonzo as a narrator in Muppet Christmas Carol.” I shrugged. “He spent his two and a half seasons on The Muppet Show doing all the puppetry work that nobody else wanted to do.”
“Poor kid.”
“Poor kid? No, he loved it.”
***
When The Muppet Show ended in 1981, it was because Jim wanted to move on to other things. Specifically, he wanted to create a kids’ show that could lead to world peace. It was called Fraggle Rock.
Of everything that Steve has done as a Muppeteer, I envy him Fraggle Rock the most. Fraggle Rock has sometimes been cited as “the best children’s television show of all time” and, really, I don’t think that can be argued with. Because of the lofty goals Jim had for it, you’d think the show would be boring and overly teachy, but this is not the case. The show is about a group of creatures named Fraggles who sing and dance and have fun all day while learning important life lessons and cracking fantastic jokes. It doesn’t get much better than that.
Each of the five main Fraggles is complex and nuanced, made likable by the puppeteer despite the character’s obvious faults. Steve’s Fraggle was named Wembley, a chronically indecisive but goodhearted little fellow.
“Wembley, give it to me straight. Am I invisible?” Gobo Fraggle asked his best friend.
Steve moved Wembley’s head and scrunched his nose into an expression of genuine scrutiny and consideration. “Uh… well, I don’t think so, but that’s only my opinion.”
The set members choked on their quiet laughter.
“What should I do?” Wembley asked Gobo.
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Can you give me a hint?”
“That’s a wrap!” the director called.
“Good job,” Jerry chuckled as he and Steve lowered their puppets.
“Thanks. You too.” Steve carefully pulled Wembley off his hand. As he went to put his puppet away until their next scene, he noticed Jim standing there, watching. When Steve caught his eye, he nodded and gave an approving smile.
I wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.
Of everything that Steve has done as a Muppeteer, I envy him Fraggle Rock the most. Fraggle Rock has sometimes been cited as “the best children’s television show of all time” and, really, I don’t think that can be argued with. Because of the lofty goals Jim had for it, you’d think the show would be boring and overly teachy, but this is not the case. The show is about a group of creatures named Fraggles who sing and dance and have fun all day while learning important life lessons and cracking fantastic jokes. It doesn’t get much better than that.
Each of the five main Fraggles is complex and nuanced, made likable by the puppeteer despite the character’s obvious faults. Steve’s Fraggle was named Wembley, a chronically indecisive but goodhearted little fellow.
“Wembley, give it to me straight. Am I invisible?” Gobo Fraggle asked his best friend.
Steve moved Wembley’s head and scrunched his nose into an expression of genuine scrutiny and consideration. “Uh… well, I don’t think so, but that’s only my opinion.”
The set members choked on their quiet laughter.
“What should I do?” Wembley asked Gobo.
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Can you give me a hint?”
“That’s a wrap!” the director called.
“Good job,” Jerry chuckled as he and Steve lowered their puppets.
“Thanks. You too.” Steve carefully pulled Wembley off his hand. As he went to put his puppet away until their next scene, he noticed Jim standing there, watching. When Steve caught his eye, he nodded and gave an approving smile.
***
Guess what? Steve doesn’t have an e-mail address, at least not one you can find on Google. I discovered this after I tried every single search term I could think of. The closest thing I found was a website explaining that if you want Muppeteers to sign photos of their characters, you have to send the photos care of Sesame Workshop and pray they fall into the right hands. Unless I became a writer for a posh magazine overnight, there was no way I was going to be able to interview Steve Whitmire. I would just have to make do without an interview, and he would just have to remain unaware of my insignificant existence. I wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.
***
“You know, we need to get you a main character,” Jim said over dinner in 1990. “I have Wembley.”
“Sure, but Fraggle Rock ended several years ago.” That was true. Since then, Steve had done many movies and projects as a full-fledged, experienced Muppet performer, but he had no main Muppets. Rizzo was a fun side character and Bean Bunny was a great character originated in The Bunny Picnic. Neither of them, however, was part of the core Muppet cast. “I’m frustrated that you don’t have any main characters. I think we should work toward getting you another major character, maybe something that’s like a sidekick to Kermit.”
“Like Fozzie?”
“Yes, like Fozzie. Fozzie is there, but Frank’s not always available, and it would be nice to have another character that could fill that role sometimes. I can work on that as soon as I get back to New York.”
“Great!” Steve said. It would be good to have a main character.
Then Jim passed away, and his son sent Kermit to Steve in a box.
***
“What about that thing you wrote over the summer? Are you going to send that to a publisher?”
“Eventually. I have to edit it some more first.”
“So when will you be done editing?”
“Over Christmas break. Hopefully. Maybe.”
If Joni’d had an eye-rolling mechanism like Wembley Fraggle’s, it would have been in use then. “Hurry it up. You’re going to want to get that thing published as soon as possible so you can be a famous author.”
“And what’s the hurry, exactly?”
“Well, hey. You’ll still be a teenager until April. There’s still a chance for you to make your lifelong dream happen.”
Joni was silent as I thought about it. “Well,” I said slowly to her, “when you put it that way…” If there was anything I’d learned from Steve’s story, it was that it didn’t matter how young or inexperienced you were as long as you were willing to try.
“I guess I can hurry the revisions a little.”
“Yay!” Joni said. “Also, I would appreciate it if you worked on your puppeteering technique some more. You’re not doing me justice.”
I made a noise of disgust.
“You say that now, but who knows? Maybe if you get good, you’ll get hired by the Muppets, and you can be a famous author.”
“Yeah, and maybe I’ll become the next performer of Kermit the Frog.”
“Maybe you will,” Joni said, and she wasn’t being sarcastic.
It was a month before Steve could take the puppet out of the box again. Finally, the studio called and asked him if he would record something for them as Kermit. Nothing too stressful, just a little song or something—but even a little song became stressful when Steve considered what they were really asking of him.
“Oh, Jim,” he whispered, “I can’t do this.”
In his head, Jim said, “Of course you can, Steve. Of course you can.”
Steve took a deep breath, then settled the green frog on his hand. He opened the puppet’s mouth. He spoke.
“Hi-ho, everyone. Kermit the Frog here.”
“Eventually. I have to edit it some more first.”
“So when will you be done editing?”
“Over Christmas break. Hopefully. Maybe.”
If Joni’d had an eye-rolling mechanism like Wembley Fraggle’s, it would have been in use then. “Hurry it up. You’re going to want to get that thing published as soon as possible so you can be a famous author.”
“And what’s the hurry, exactly?”
“Well, hey. You’ll still be a teenager until April. There’s still a chance for you to make your lifelong dream happen.”
Joni was silent as I thought about it. “Well,” I said slowly to her, “when you put it that way…” If there was anything I’d learned from Steve’s story, it was that it didn’t matter how young or inexperienced you were as long as you were willing to try.
“I guess I can hurry the revisions a little.”
“Yay!” Joni said. “Also, I would appreciate it if you worked on your puppeteering technique some more. You’re not doing me justice.”
I made a noise of disgust.
“You say that now, but who knows? Maybe if you get good, you’ll get hired by the Muppets, and you can be a famous author.”
“Yeah, and maybe I’ll become the next performer of Kermit the Frog.”
“Maybe you will,” Joni said, and she wasn’t being sarcastic.
***
Kermit could be resurrected. All it would take was the right Muppeteer, and according to Jim’s wife, his son, and the guys, that Muppeteer was Steve Whitmire. It was a month before Steve could take the puppet out of the box again. Finally, the studio called and asked him if he would record something for them as Kermit. Nothing too stressful, just a little song or something—but even a little song became stressful when Steve considered what they were really asking of him.
“Oh, Jim,” he whispered, “I can’t do this.”
In his head, Jim said, “Of course you can, Steve. Of course you can.”
Steve took a deep breath, then settled the green frog on his hand. He opened the puppet’s mouth. He spoke.
“Hi-ho, everyone. Kermit the Frog here.”
Thursday, June 15, 2017
Please Be Nice to My Baby Sister
I just spent an hour going through a Facebook friend's posts.
I won't explain just how far back I went, but suffice it to say that there was some stuff about Mitt Romney in there.
What was my intention? My intention was to find a status that this person posted years ago, when Older Sister was on her mission. To the best of my memory, the status said something along the lines of how Mormon missionaries don't deserve any kind of respect unless they've earned it. I suppose that's a fair statement, though I didn't love it. What upset me was that, if I recall correctly, in the comments of this status this person and some friends were trading stories of ways they liked to troll the missionaries.
I got really close to leaving my own comment: "Hey, my sister is serving a mission right now. If she were serving here, would you do those things to her?" Something like that. Something just to remind them that, hey, missionaries are people too, and just because you don't agree with them doesn't mean they deserve to be harassed. Yeah, I get it that no one likes to be approached by people they disagree with, but when I went to Nameless Utah College, I was approached by so many political and religious activists that I didn't agree with. I still managed to engage with them civilly, even when brushing them off. I didn't go out of my way to harass them, because why would I do that? (Okay, well, that's mostly true. There was one time when a girl brought voting registrations to the school. She explained to me that the political party that most people in my college supported needed help in the elections. She asked me to register and offer my support. Since I wasn't registered to vote, I took that opportunity to register...for a party that believed the exact opposite of the party she was promoting. And then she had to mail my registration in. So I guess that was a little harassing. But it was still civil.)
The reason I'm thinking about this long-ago status now is that Baby Sister is due to ship out on her mission any day now. Consider it: she has something she believes in so much that she's willing to give up her family, her job, her schooling, her friends, her right to sleep in, her free time, the many Netflix and YouTube shows that she follows, fry sauce, the premiere of How to Train Your Dragon 3 next summer, the ability to celebrate the epilogue day of Harry Potter (September 1st 2017—so close!), and her beloved makeup palette with approximately 7,000 kinds of eyeshadow. Whether you believe that sharing the gospel helps people, she believes that sharing the gospel helps people. And in the end, it's those people that she must be going on a mission for, because the enormous amount of sacrifice required of her suggests that she's sure not doing it for herself.
I guess the title of this post is misleading, because if you see my cutie baby sister when she's out in the mission field, you sure don't have to be nice to her. But I hope that you will not be actively rude to her...and not just because if you are, super irrational Big Sister! Awkward Mormon Girl will track you down and give you several paper cuts.
I won't explain just how far back I went, but suffice it to say that there was some stuff about Mitt Romney in there.
What was my intention? My intention was to find a status that this person posted years ago, when Older Sister was on her mission. To the best of my memory, the status said something along the lines of how Mormon missionaries don't deserve any kind of respect unless they've earned it. I suppose that's a fair statement, though I didn't love it. What upset me was that, if I recall correctly, in the comments of this status this person and some friends were trading stories of ways they liked to troll the missionaries.
I got really close to leaving my own comment: "Hey, my sister is serving a mission right now. If she were serving here, would you do those things to her?" Something like that. Something just to remind them that, hey, missionaries are people too, and just because you don't agree with them doesn't mean they deserve to be harassed. Yeah, I get it that no one likes to be approached by people they disagree with, but when I went to Nameless Utah College, I was approached by so many political and religious activists that I didn't agree with. I still managed to engage with them civilly, even when brushing them off. I didn't go out of my way to harass them, because why would I do that? (Okay, well, that's mostly true. There was one time when a girl brought voting registrations to the school. She explained to me that the political party that most people in my college supported needed help in the elections. She asked me to register and offer my support. Since I wasn't registered to vote, I took that opportunity to register...for a party that believed the exact opposite of the party she was promoting. And then she had to mail my registration in. So I guess that was a little harassing. But it was still civil.)
The reason I'm thinking about this long-ago status now is that Baby Sister is due to ship out on her mission any day now. Consider it: she has something she believes in so much that she's willing to give up her family, her job, her schooling, her friends, her right to sleep in, her free time, the many Netflix and YouTube shows that she follows, fry sauce, the premiere of How to Train Your Dragon 3 next summer, the ability to celebrate the epilogue day of Harry Potter (September 1st 2017—so close!), and her beloved makeup palette with approximately 7,000 kinds of eyeshadow. Whether you believe that sharing the gospel helps people, she believes that sharing the gospel helps people. And in the end, it's those people that she must be going on a mission for, because the enormous amount of sacrifice required of her suggests that she's sure not doing it for herself.
I guess the title of this post is misleading, because if you see my cutie baby sister when she's out in the mission field, you sure don't have to be nice to her. But I hope that you will not be actively rude to her...and not just because if you are, super irrational Big Sister! Awkward Mormon Girl will track you down and give you several paper cuts.
Thursday, May 11, 2017
My Migraine
I've been planning to write this post...with this title...for literally three years.
WELL HERE I AM.
During my first year of college, I started getting dizzy on occasion. I would become disoriented, and I'd see rainbow splotches on my vision. The splotches were beautiful, but also scary, because human vision isn't supposed to rainbow splotch.
But nothing ever came of it. It would last for an hour or so, and then it would go away. No big deal.
You might remember that throughout most of college, I worked in fast food. Just typing those words makes me recall the smells of French fry grease and bleach water; the weight of the long, perky ponytail dangling down my back; the way I would sob into the soapy water with which I was deck-scrubbing the dining room floor at one a.m. when I still had to finish a paper before going to bed. (Actually, I don't remember now if I actually physically sobbed. Probably not, since the assistant manager was right there. But I was sobbing imaginary tears, I promise.)
We got free kid-sized drinks every day at work. I almost always got water. One day, though, I filled my little cup with Dr. Pepper, because I had a headache.
It started off small, that headache. Instead of going away, it got worse. Then it slowly wrapped around my head and bore down into my brain.
My mom often has migraines. I suspected that this was one.
I felt terrible. My head hurt so bad, and I was a little nauseated. Then I started getting dizzy. You'd think that might be a big cause for concern, but I figured I just needed to make it to the end of my shift, and then I could go home and rest.
I tell you, I almost made it. I had less than an hour left. A man walked up to my register and ordered a chicken basket. I started punching things on the register and suddenly realized that I could barely talk, barely stand, and that I had no idea how to get this man's chicken basket rung up. I smiled at him and told him I needed to step away for a moment. I walked into the back office and declared that someone needed to help the man at the counter because I was going to pass out.
I didn't pass out, but that wasn't much comfort to me. My face was numb. I could barely talk, barely remember words. La Petite, who worked with me at the time, said she thought I was having a stroke.
BOSS: You need to eat something.
I found enough words to tell her that I didn't have any money. I was probably exaggerating, but not much. The price of food at my place of employment was far too much considering how much money I allotted myself to spend each paycheck.(That amount was 20%, though I would cap my funds at lower amounts on the rare occasions I made a paycheck that was, say, $150-plus. During the school year my two-week paycheck was often around $60, meaning I had $12 to spend on entertainment for the next two weeks. I know that sounds terribly tightfisted, and it was, but I managed to fund my own trip to Europe that way so don't sneer.)
My boss bought me a chicken sandwich and watched me eat it, which was a struggle. Then she made me call my mom, which was also a struggle. I went home, took a nap, threw up, ate a bunch of ice cream, and watched Fraggle Rock with the Fearless One.
And that, my friends, is how I found out that I am one of the rare humans who get basilar migraines, which is a fancy name for migraines that come with a whole slew of debilitating symptoms.
Yay.
During my last year of college, I left the fast food business and accepted a job tutoring kids in a tourist-trap city half an hour from College City and an hour from Hometown. To reach my workplace, I had to drive through a twisty, snowstorm-ridden canyon, sometimes in the dark.
One day, I was scheduled to go to work right after my afternoon class. During my morning class, I came down with one of my lovely basilar migraines.
I happened to bring my journal to school that day. Here's what I wrote: Geez. I'm having a crazy dizzy spell. I get these sometimes, and it's scarey because I have to drive to wWork cCity in two and a healf hours. Hopefelly it will clear up fore before I han head out.
Migraines are not conducive to flawless spelling.
By that point, I had learned ways to help mitigate the symptoms. I took headache medicine, drank a lot of fluids, and ate a copious amount of food. The dizziness abated enough for me to drive safely. However, my head pounded like someone was knocking on the inside, trying to get out.
When I arrived at the picturesque, expensive building where my workplace was situated, I was informed that my first appointment had been canceled (that would happen sometimes, but I still got paid). I knew what I had to do! I stuffed Quits inside my already-bulging backpack and headed towards the picturesque, expensive Italian restaurant next door.
Like the town, the restaurant was a tourist trap. It was such a tourist trap that the prices were posted on a glass-encased parchment-y piece of paper displayed outside, like in European vacation spots and at Disneyland, but the restaurant was still relatively nice. It was the kind of place you would bring a business client whom you were hoping to mildly impress.
Mind you, I didn't make a habit of dressing nice for school. Even if I had, I was exhausted, I hadn't been home in about ten hours, and I felt terrible. I must have looked a sight. Yet I lugged my fat backpack into the relatively nice, picturesque, expensive restaurant where a few people were meeting with business clients they hoped to mildly impress, and I asked to be seated.
The waiter obliged. He treated me most civilly, though he could easily have chosen to disdain me. I sat heavily at the highly polished table and unceremoniously dumped my backpack on the seat opposite. Then I proceeded to spend almost all the money I was earning from my canceled tutored session on a Dr. Pepper and an order of focaccia.
I was expecting a small plate of focaccia. Instead I received an entire focaccia pizza. Eight pieces. Plus my frosty, delicious Dr. Pepper.
In the two hours before my next tutoring session, I ate all eight slices of focaccia and drank all the Dr. Pepper. I do not normally do such things. I couldn't do it now. I wouldn't advise trying it at home. But I stuck my head in one of the Chronicle of Prydain books and, using a slow and measured pace, I worked my way through the entire focaccia pizza and the entire soda.
That, my friends, is the kind of aplomb with which I handle my basilar migraines.
WELL HERE I AM.
During my first year of college, I started getting dizzy on occasion. I would become disoriented, and I'd see rainbow splotches on my vision. The splotches were beautiful, but also scary, because human vision isn't supposed to rainbow splotch.
But nothing ever came of it. It would last for an hour or so, and then it would go away. No big deal.
You might remember that throughout most of college, I worked in fast food. Just typing those words makes me recall the smells of French fry grease and bleach water; the weight of the long, perky ponytail dangling down my back; the way I would sob into the soapy water with which I was deck-scrubbing the dining room floor at one a.m. when I still had to finish a paper before going to bed. (Actually, I don't remember now if I actually physically sobbed. Probably not, since the assistant manager was right there. But I was sobbing imaginary tears, I promise.)
We got free kid-sized drinks every day at work. I almost always got water. One day, though, I filled my little cup with Dr. Pepper, because I had a headache.
It started off small, that headache. Instead of going away, it got worse. Then it slowly wrapped around my head and bore down into my brain.
My mom often has migraines. I suspected that this was one.
I felt terrible. My head hurt so bad, and I was a little nauseated. Then I started getting dizzy. You'd think that might be a big cause for concern, but I figured I just needed to make it to the end of my shift, and then I could go home and rest.
I tell you, I almost made it. I had less than an hour left. A man walked up to my register and ordered a chicken basket. I started punching things on the register and suddenly realized that I could barely talk, barely stand, and that I had no idea how to get this man's chicken basket rung up. I smiled at him and told him I needed to step away for a moment. I walked into the back office and declared that someone needed to help the man at the counter because I was going to pass out.
I didn't pass out, but that wasn't much comfort to me. My face was numb. I could barely talk, barely remember words. La Petite, who worked with me at the time, said she thought I was having a stroke.
BOSS: You need to eat something.
I found enough words to tell her that I didn't have any money. I was probably exaggerating, but not much. The price of food at my place of employment was far too much considering how much money I allotted myself to spend each paycheck.(That amount was 20%, though I would cap my funds at lower amounts on the rare occasions I made a paycheck that was, say, $150-plus. During the school year my two-week paycheck was often around $60, meaning I had $12 to spend on entertainment for the next two weeks. I know that sounds terribly tightfisted, and it was, but I managed to fund my own trip to Europe that way so don't sneer.)
My boss bought me a chicken sandwich and watched me eat it, which was a struggle. Then she made me call my mom, which was also a struggle. I went home, took a nap, threw up, ate a bunch of ice cream, and watched Fraggle Rock with the Fearless One.
And that, my friends, is how I found out that I am one of the rare humans who get basilar migraines, which is a fancy name for migraines that come with a whole slew of debilitating symptoms.
Yay.
During my last year of college, I left the fast food business and accepted a job tutoring kids in a tourist-trap city half an hour from College City and an hour from Hometown. To reach my workplace, I had to drive through a twisty, snowstorm-ridden canyon, sometimes in the dark.
One day, I was scheduled to go to work right after my afternoon class. During my morning class, I came down with one of my lovely basilar migraines.
I happened to bring my journal to school that day. Here's what I wrote: Geez. I'm having a crazy dizzy spell. I get these sometimes, and it's scar
Migraines are not conducive to flawless spelling.
By that point, I had learned ways to help mitigate the symptoms. I took headache medicine, drank a lot of fluids, and ate a copious amount of food. The dizziness abated enough for me to drive safely. However, my head pounded like someone was knocking on the inside, trying to get out.
When I arrived at the picturesque, expensive building where my workplace was situated, I was informed that my first appointment had been canceled (that would happen sometimes, but I still got paid). I knew what I had to do! I stuffed Quits inside my already-bulging backpack and headed towards the picturesque, expensive Italian restaurant next door.
Like the town, the restaurant was a tourist trap. It was such a tourist trap that the prices were posted on a glass-encased parchment-y piece of paper displayed outside, like in European vacation spots and at Disneyland, but the restaurant was still relatively nice. It was the kind of place you would bring a business client whom you were hoping to mildly impress.
Mind you, I didn't make a habit of dressing nice for school. Even if I had, I was exhausted, I hadn't been home in about ten hours, and I felt terrible. I must have looked a sight. Yet I lugged my fat backpack into the relatively nice, picturesque, expensive restaurant where a few people were meeting with business clients they hoped to mildly impress, and I asked to be seated.
The waiter obliged. He treated me most civilly, though he could easily have chosen to disdain me. I sat heavily at the highly polished table and unceremoniously dumped my backpack on the seat opposite. Then I proceeded to spend almost all the money I was earning from my canceled tutored session on a Dr. Pepper and an order of focaccia.
I was expecting a small plate of focaccia. Instead I received an entire focaccia pizza. Eight pieces. Plus my frosty, delicious Dr. Pepper.
In the two hours before my next tutoring session, I ate all eight slices of focaccia and drank all the Dr. Pepper. I do not normally do such things. I couldn't do it now. I wouldn't advise trying it at home. But I stuck my head in one of the Chronicle of Prydain books and, using a slow and measured pace, I worked my way through the entire focaccia pizza and the entire soda.
That, my friends, is the kind of aplomb with which I handle my basilar migraines.
Wednesday, April 26, 2017
The So What
Did I learn things in college?
Yes.
Are they applicable to real life?
Debatable.
One of the things drilled into my head during my Honors classes was this: "So what?" Every paper has to have a thesis, but it also has to have a So What: Why does your thesis statement matter? Why should anyone care? Why should they waste their time reading your writing?
So Whats are hard to write because, like most writing, they can be pretty subjective. What you care about isn't what everyone else cares about, or, more pointedly, what your professor cares about. In other words, good luck, sucka.
A few nights ago, I had a dream about one of my favorite books, Danny the Champion of the World.
I use the term "dream" loosely, because for the past four months or so I've mostly had waking dreams, aka dreams where my alarm goes off several times. I hit the snooze button, roll over, and go back to sleep to continue dreaming. The dreams then become fragmented, peppered with articulated thoughts from my waking state.
During this particular waking dream, I was composing a thesis statement about how Danny the Champion of the World is vastly different from Roald Dahl's other children's books. The book has no magical candy or marvelous medicine. There are no giants or witches. There no talking giraffes, foxes, or hippopotamuses. The book has a slight feel of magical realism, but it's mostly wacky hijinks. Every event in the book could feasibly happen in real life. It probably wouldn't, but it could.
The problem was that I couldn't figure out my So What. I couldn't figure out why this mattered. So, after hitting the snooze button four or five times, as I laid my head back down on my pillow I realized I needed a different thesis.
This time, I started thinking how, although many of Roald Dahl's books prominently feature female characters and at least two I could think of have female protagonists, Danny the Champion of the World has almost no "onscreen" female characters. I could think of only one woman who was actually involved in a scene.
This seemed like a much more interesting topic. However, what was the So What? Why should people care? Why did it matter?
My alarm blared one last time. This time, I sat up for good. And as I did, it all came rushing to me: It didn't! It didn't matter! Danny's mother died when he was a baby. He's raised entirely by his father on the outskirts of a small village, and he goes to an all-male school with all-male teachers as was common in the book's time period (and which matches Roald Dahl's own educational experience). The doctor, the constable, and the wealthy villain obsessed with hunting are all male, as also was fitting for the time period. None of these characters could have feasibly been female due to the setting and circumstances of the story!
This was the grand epiphany I had as I woke with a start. I was pretty happy with my conclusion. However, the more I think about it, the more I am certain that this particular So What wouldn't have flown with my professors. In fact, although I think Waking Dream Awkward Mormon Girl had a good point, my So What of "It doesn't matter" was probably impressive to only me.
It's probably good that I'm no longer in college.
Yes.
Are they applicable to real life?
Debatable.
One of the things drilled into my head during my Honors classes was this: "So what?" Every paper has to have a thesis, but it also has to have a So What: Why does your thesis statement matter? Why should anyone care? Why should they waste their time reading your writing?
So Whats are hard to write because, like most writing, they can be pretty subjective. What you care about isn't what everyone else cares about, or, more pointedly, what your professor cares about. In other words, good luck, sucka.
A few nights ago, I had a dream about one of my favorite books, Danny the Champion of the World.
I use the term "dream" loosely, because for the past four months or so I've mostly had waking dreams, aka dreams where my alarm goes off several times. I hit the snooze button, roll over, and go back to sleep to continue dreaming. The dreams then become fragmented, peppered with articulated thoughts from my waking state.
During this particular waking dream, I was composing a thesis statement about how Danny the Champion of the World is vastly different from Roald Dahl's other children's books. The book has no magical candy or marvelous medicine. There are no giants or witches. There no talking giraffes, foxes, or hippopotamuses. The book has a slight feel of magical realism, but it's mostly wacky hijinks. Every event in the book could feasibly happen in real life. It probably wouldn't, but it could.
The problem was that I couldn't figure out my So What. I couldn't figure out why this mattered. So, after hitting the snooze button four or five times, as I laid my head back down on my pillow I realized I needed a different thesis.
This time, I started thinking how, although many of Roald Dahl's books prominently feature female characters and at least two I could think of have female protagonists, Danny the Champion of the World has almost no "onscreen" female characters. I could think of only one woman who was actually involved in a scene.
This seemed like a much more interesting topic. However, what was the So What? Why should people care? Why did it matter?
My alarm blared one last time. This time, I sat up for good. And as I did, it all came rushing to me: It didn't! It didn't matter! Danny's mother died when he was a baby. He's raised entirely by his father on the outskirts of a small village, and he goes to an all-male school with all-male teachers as was common in the book's time period (and which matches Roald Dahl's own educational experience). The doctor, the constable, and the wealthy villain obsessed with hunting are all male, as also was fitting for the time period. None of these characters could have feasibly been female due to the setting and circumstances of the story!
This was the grand epiphany I had as I woke with a start. I was pretty happy with my conclusion. However, the more I think about it, the more I am certain that this particular So What wouldn't have flown with my professors. In fact, although I think Waking Dream Awkward Mormon Girl had a good point, my So What of "It doesn't matter" was probably impressive to only me.
It's probably good that I'm no longer in college.
Saturday, April 8, 2017
Tell All
Yesterday, as I was perusing my Facebook, I noticed something interesting. A fellow who went to college with me got married a few weeks ago in Taiwan. He was married to his wife in a temple after the normal LDS fashion, but it looked like there was also a huge celebration before or after the temple ceremony...or both.
Immediately, I started composing in my head exactly what I would say to Viola when I told her about it.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Viola, remember so-and-so from Nameless Utah College? The one from Virginia I would have gone out with if he'd asked me? Well, he just got married in Taiwan because apparently his wife is Taiwanese. It looked like they had what I assume was a bunch of traditional Taiwanese wedding traditions. From the pictures it looks like the bride had at least four different special wedding outfits. And it looked like one of the traditions involved so-and-so dressing up as a squid before the wedding. I kid you not, he was wearing a squid headpiece. Now I'm really curious about Taiwanese weddings. I actually read an article a few days ago about how in certain parts of Indonesia, funerals are more expensive, festive, and important than weddings. Isn't the world interesting?
And so on and so forth. It's funny how when we develop a bond with someone, we want to share everything with them. All week, I've been storing up words in my head: descriptions of the cupcakes my mom brought me at work on Wednesday and of my Thursday doctor's appointment. Quick, pointless anecdotes about the four hours I spent today with Little Sister, Mr. Little Sister, and Baby Sister in our grandmother's basement, painting the shelves in the basement so that they're ready when Little Sister and Mr. Little Sister move in after their wedding. A meandering explanation of my psychological reaction to having to plan a party. I store them all up in readiness to give away to the right person. The right person will think they're valuable. The right person will look at me and think how great it is that I want to share with them, even though what I'm saying isn't interesting in the least. If you've ever talked at length to a small child, you might understand what I mean. Small children tend to go on and on, but we find them fascinating and count ourselves lucky that they would trust us enough to share their words.
Immediately, I started composing in my head exactly what I would say to Viola when I told her about it.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Viola, remember so-and-so from Nameless Utah College? The one from Virginia I would have gone out with if he'd asked me? Well, he just got married in Taiwan because apparently his wife is Taiwanese. It looked like they had what I assume was a bunch of traditional Taiwanese wedding traditions. From the pictures it looks like the bride had at least four different special wedding outfits. And it looked like one of the traditions involved so-and-so dressing up as a squid before the wedding. I kid you not, he was wearing a squid headpiece. Now I'm really curious about Taiwanese weddings. I actually read an article a few days ago about how in certain parts of Indonesia, funerals are more expensive, festive, and important than weddings. Isn't the world interesting?
And so on and so forth. It's funny how when we develop a bond with someone, we want to share everything with them. All week, I've been storing up words in my head: descriptions of the cupcakes my mom brought me at work on Wednesday and of my Thursday doctor's appointment. Quick, pointless anecdotes about the four hours I spent today with Little Sister, Mr. Little Sister, and Baby Sister in our grandmother's basement, painting the shelves in the basement so that they're ready when Little Sister and Mr. Little Sister move in after their wedding. A meandering explanation of my psychological reaction to having to plan a party. I store them all up in readiness to give away to the right person. The right person will think they're valuable. The right person will look at me and think how great it is that I want to share with them, even though what I'm saying isn't interesting in the least. If you've ever talked at length to a small child, you might understand what I mean. Small children tend to go on and on, but we find them fascinating and count ourselves lucky that they would trust us enough to share their words.
Saturday, February 18, 2017
The Parting of the Ways
I did at least one musical a year for eight years straight. Then I quit. I was graduating high school, and I wanted to focus on my degree.
For years, I did no theatre. I missed it, but I didn't have the time or the energy to devote to frequent rehearsals and weeks or performances. Then, one Sunday, I saw Goldfinger at a fireside.
I really didn't know Goldfinger. I'd seen him perform with the local improv troupe for years. In fact, one night he irritated me by trying to talk to me after the show while I was waiting for one of my parents to pick me up. If I recall correctly, he was trying to inform me that the theatre would be turning off its lights soon and/or making sure that I would be able to get home okay, but I usually don't like it when people I don't know approach me, even when they're trying to be helpful. I was not very responsive. A year and a half later, I saw him at Older Sister's mission farewell, where we were formally introduced. He kept listening to my conversation with Little Sister and laughing.
When I saw Goldfinger at the fireside, he remembered me. He asked about Older Sister and then blurted out, "The troupe is having open auditions on Tuesday. You should come."
I was taken aback, because although I had a lot of musical theatre experience, I didn't think he knew that. Plus I knew nothing about improv theatre. So I politely declined.
Now I tell you what, up to this point I'd only had one audition experience that I would call "spiritual." It was when I auditioned for Anne of Green Gables. At that age I'd been in three theatrical productions and was working on a fourth, but I'd never ever had any lines or been featured in any way. All of my productions had been through a children's theatre program where you paid a fee to participate, so I'd never even had a real audition. I don't think anyone thought I actually had any aptitude for theatre. I was a body to fill up the space in the chorus, and that's all. So when I saw the poster for Anne of Green Gables, I shouldn't have felt as strongly about auditioning as I did. Later in life, I realized that feeling as a prompting.
The last thing that I expected was to feel a prompting about auditioning for an improv troupe. Sure, I loved improv...as an audience member! I admired the skills Goldfinger and his colleagues possessed, but I didn't think I had them. Besides, some of the things I loved most about being in structured theatre were a) getting to be someone else rather than presenting myself to the audience as Awkward Mormon Girl Obnoxious, b) knowing exactly what I was supposed to say or supposed to do (unlike in real life, where maneuvering unexpected social situations was completely beyond me), and c) getting the chance to do the same thing over and over again; if I messed up one time, I could always do better the next. Improv had none of those things. Improv was the exact opposite of those things.
In spite of all this, though, I felt like I should go to the audition. I mean, yes, how awesome would it be if I did well at the audition and I got to work with this troupe that I'd been a fan of for years? I did consider that. The greater part of the feeling, though, was that this was something that God wanted me to do. So I decided that, what the hey, I would go to the audition.
This was back in the day when I didn't drive much, and when I headed to the audition after institute, I couldn't remember how to get to the theatre! I showed up rather late, which was extremely unprofessional and embarrassing and, for most theatrical opportunities, would have automatically disqualified me. Yet in this instance, I was still allowed to audition.
Like I said, I knew next to nothing about improv, so throughout the audition I just had to follow my basic knowledge of theatre, my own instincts, and what I'd gleaned from watching many improv comedy shows. At the end of the audition, I was surprised to realize that I'd done all right. In fact, if the comments a few of the troupe members gave me afterward were any indication, I'd done pretty darn well. And, now that I'd dipped my toes back into theatre, I not only hoped the troupe would invite me back...I knew that if they did, I probably wouldn't be able stay away.
Happily, they offered me a chance to workshop with them and learn some actual improv skills. I worked hard and had fun, and at the end of the workshop, they invited me to join the troupe.
I came to appreciate the "throwaway genius" of improv. Lack of repetition, I realized, could be a gift. Instead of trying to replicate my own performance night after night, each show was a do-over, a completely fresh opportunity.
There were some improv things that I learned to do really well. There were some things I never quite grasped, and there were some things I naturally excelled at in the beginning but which I lost under the weight of the knowledge of improv theory. All in all, though, it was a great experience with great people.
After four years, I got another prompting. This time, the prompting was not to audition, but to leave. So I left.
It was hard, because a lot of people wanted me to stay. I questioned my decision multiple times, especially as my last show loomed closer and closer. But I felt like it was the right thing to do. I felt (and still feel) like Heavenly Father wanted something else for me. Although the commitment to an improv troupe doesn't require the almost nightly commitment of a musical, musicals end. I found improv troupes require a greater commitment, just spread out over a longer period of time. That was all right with me...until suddenly, it wasn't. I know that's not a super rational explanation, but I feel like all will be made clear to me in time.
My last show was sad but also happy. A lot of kind friends and family came to see me. My troupe saw me off in a grand style, with flowers and a card.
I don't know what, exactly, lies in my future that will replace improv. I do know that someday, when I look back, I'll know why I left when I did. Sometimes, a guarantee on the future is all we can hope for.
For years, I did no theatre. I missed it, but I didn't have the time or the energy to devote to frequent rehearsals and weeks or performances. Then, one Sunday, I saw Goldfinger at a fireside.
I really didn't know Goldfinger. I'd seen him perform with the local improv troupe for years. In fact, one night he irritated me by trying to talk to me after the show while I was waiting for one of my parents to pick me up. If I recall correctly, he was trying to inform me that the theatre would be turning off its lights soon and/or making sure that I would be able to get home okay, but I usually don't like it when people I don't know approach me, even when they're trying to be helpful. I was not very responsive. A year and a half later, I saw him at Older Sister's mission farewell, where we were formally introduced. He kept listening to my conversation with Little Sister and laughing.
When I saw Goldfinger at the fireside, he remembered me. He asked about Older Sister and then blurted out, "The troupe is having open auditions on Tuesday. You should come."
I was taken aback, because although I had a lot of musical theatre experience, I didn't think he knew that. Plus I knew nothing about improv theatre. So I politely declined.
Now I tell you what, up to this point I'd only had one audition experience that I would call "spiritual." It was when I auditioned for Anne of Green Gables. At that age I'd been in three theatrical productions and was working on a fourth, but I'd never ever had any lines or been featured in any way. All of my productions had been through a children's theatre program where you paid a fee to participate, so I'd never even had a real audition. I don't think anyone thought I actually had any aptitude for theatre. I was a body to fill up the space in the chorus, and that's all. So when I saw the poster for Anne of Green Gables, I shouldn't have felt as strongly about auditioning as I did. Later in life, I realized that feeling as a prompting.
The last thing that I expected was to feel a prompting about auditioning for an improv troupe. Sure, I loved improv...as an audience member! I admired the skills Goldfinger and his colleagues possessed, but I didn't think I had them. Besides, some of the things I loved most about being in structured theatre were a) getting to be someone else rather than presenting myself to the audience as Awkward Mormon Girl Obnoxious, b) knowing exactly what I was supposed to say or supposed to do (unlike in real life, where maneuvering unexpected social situations was completely beyond me), and c) getting the chance to do the same thing over and over again; if I messed up one time, I could always do better the next. Improv had none of those things. Improv was the exact opposite of those things.
In spite of all this, though, I felt like I should go to the audition. I mean, yes, how awesome would it be if I did well at the audition and I got to work with this troupe that I'd been a fan of for years? I did consider that. The greater part of the feeling, though, was that this was something that God wanted me to do. So I decided that, what the hey, I would go to the audition.
This was back in the day when I didn't drive much, and when I headed to the audition after institute, I couldn't remember how to get to the theatre! I showed up rather late, which was extremely unprofessional and embarrassing and, for most theatrical opportunities, would have automatically disqualified me. Yet in this instance, I was still allowed to audition.
Like I said, I knew next to nothing about improv, so throughout the audition I just had to follow my basic knowledge of theatre, my own instincts, and what I'd gleaned from watching many improv comedy shows. At the end of the audition, I was surprised to realize that I'd done all right. In fact, if the comments a few of the troupe members gave me afterward were any indication, I'd done pretty darn well. And, now that I'd dipped my toes back into theatre, I not only hoped the troupe would invite me back...I knew that if they did, I probably wouldn't be able stay away.
Happily, they offered me a chance to workshop with them and learn some actual improv skills. I worked hard and had fun, and at the end of the workshop, they invited me to join the troupe.
I came to appreciate the "throwaway genius" of improv. Lack of repetition, I realized, could be a gift. Instead of trying to replicate my own performance night after night, each show was a do-over, a completely fresh opportunity.
There were some improv things that I learned to do really well. There were some things I never quite grasped, and there were some things I naturally excelled at in the beginning but which I lost under the weight of the knowledge of improv theory. All in all, though, it was a great experience with great people.
After four years, I got another prompting. This time, the prompting was not to audition, but to leave. So I left.
It was hard, because a lot of people wanted me to stay. I questioned my decision multiple times, especially as my last show loomed closer and closer. But I felt like it was the right thing to do. I felt (and still feel) like Heavenly Father wanted something else for me. Although the commitment to an improv troupe doesn't require the almost nightly commitment of a musical, musicals end. I found improv troupes require a greater commitment, just spread out over a longer period of time. That was all right with me...until suddenly, it wasn't. I know that's not a super rational explanation, but I feel like all will be made clear to me in time.
My last show was sad but also happy. A lot of kind friends and family came to see me. My troupe saw me off in a grand style, with flowers and a card.
I don't know what, exactly, lies in my future that will replace improv. I do know that someday, when I look back, I'll know why I left when I did. Sometimes, a guarantee on the future is all we can hope for.
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
The Bus
I was a bus kid for most of my public school experience. Most days after school, I had to board the big yellow monster, endure a ride of several minutes, and then walk several blocks to get home.
When I got to college, I took a Utah Transit Authority bus (or rather, two buses, as I had to transfer) to almost every class. I had to wait in the rain, the snow, the battering winds and the freezing cold. Oh, sure, it was pleasant to ride the bus on warm spring days, when I could sit in the sunshine during my transfer and read a book. Most of the time, though, it was miserable.
After I graduated from Nameless Utah College, I thought that my bus-riding days were over. However, I soon realized that there was no way I was getting to work in the snow. People from out of town scoff and say that Utah drivers don't know how to drive in the snow, but I say all snow is different. I know how to successfully drive in some kinds of snow, but I lack the skillz to grapple with all of them. If so many non-Utah people really do know a technique that allows for driving in all kinds of snow, I demand that they make an instructional course and mass-produce it immediately. The northern hemisphere needs it.
The first winter I worked in Work City, I took the bus for about two months straight. Unfortunately, it was just as tedious as it had been during school. Even more so, perhaps, now that my life had moved on from the poor college student stage.
Last winter, I took the bus maybe a grand total of three weeks when you add all the days together. I just couldn't bear it if I didn't have to.
This winter, I've tried to avoid the bus at all. I just can't do it. However, after my car slid into an adjacent lane on a freeway exit last week, my hand was forced.
Monday morning found me standing in the cold and the dark, waiting for a bus.
It's discouraging yet humbling to find yourself back in a place you keep thinking you've left behind.
Ah well. Maybe someday. A girl can always hope.
When I got to college, I took a Utah Transit Authority bus (or rather, two buses, as I had to transfer) to almost every class. I had to wait in the rain, the snow, the battering winds and the freezing cold. Oh, sure, it was pleasant to ride the bus on warm spring days, when I could sit in the sunshine during my transfer and read a book. Most of the time, though, it was miserable.
After I graduated from Nameless Utah College, I thought that my bus-riding days were over. However, I soon realized that there was no way I was getting to work in the snow. People from out of town scoff and say that Utah drivers don't know how to drive in the snow, but I say all snow is different. I know how to successfully drive in some kinds of snow, but I lack the skillz to grapple with all of them. If so many non-Utah people really do know a technique that allows for driving in all kinds of snow, I demand that they make an instructional course and mass-produce it immediately. The northern hemisphere needs it.
The first winter I worked in Work City, I took the bus for about two months straight. Unfortunately, it was just as tedious as it had been during school. Even more so, perhaps, now that my life had moved on from the poor college student stage.
Last winter, I took the bus maybe a grand total of three weeks when you add all the days together. I just couldn't bear it if I didn't have to.
This winter, I've tried to avoid the bus at all. I just can't do it. However, after my car slid into an adjacent lane on a freeway exit last week, my hand was forced.
Monday morning found me standing in the cold and the dark, waiting for a bus.
It's discouraging yet humbling to find yourself back in a place you keep thinking you've left behind.
Ah well. Maybe someday. A girl can always hope.
Saturday, May 14, 2016
Pictures of Food I Ate in Europe
There's no trickety-trick to this post. This month marks my anniversary of that time in college that I went to Europe, and I decided to celebrate by writing a post that literally is just pictures of food that I ate when I was there.
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| This is spaetzle, also known as the first food I ate in Europe. This plate of spaetzle (on the right) with the meaty gravy saucy thing (on the left) was consumed at Hofbrauhaus, Munich's famous 400+-year-old beer house/restaurant. |
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| Non-food bonus picture: When the Nazis were in power, they painted swastikas all over the ceiling at Hofbrauhaus. But instead of repainting the ceiling after the war, the management just turned the swastikas into friendly picnic blanket-print swastikas. |
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| This delicious plate of food also came from Munich. I don't remember the German name, but it consisted of lamb, vegetables, and rice. |
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| Here we have sauerkraut and bratwurst, as eaten in the village near Neuschwanstein Castle in the Bavarian region. I did not care for the sauerkraut, the bratwurst, or the mashed potatoes that were clearly not made from real potatoes and had the approximate consistency of buttercream frosting. |
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| Non-food bonus picture: A picture I snapped of Neuschwanstein Castle, better known as the castle from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and one of the inspirations for Cinderella's castle in Disney World. I much preferred the castle to the food near the castle. |
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| I'd heard the term schnitzel before, but I had no idea that schnitzel was veal. This poorly lit picture is of a plate of schnitzel, mushrooms, and a sort of potato pancake eaten at the outdoor seating of a restaurant in Innsbruck. |
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| Before this trip, I said that I didn't like spaghetti. But what I actually meant was that I don't like American spaghetti, because, as I discovered, real European spaghetti is delicious. Here we have a plateful of spaghetti: spaghetti Bolognese (with the red sauce), spaghetti carbonara (with the white sauce), and spaghetti with Gorgonzola cheese (whose Italian name I don't remember). If memory serves, this repast was eaten in Steinach am Brenner near the Austrian-Italian border. |
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| I do believe this is the last meal I ate in Austria. 'Twas a most excellent mushroom ravioli. |
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| Here's a pizza that I ate somewhere in Italy. I tried to order a normal pepperoni pizza. I did not realize that in Italian, "pepperoni" means "peppers." In any case, I didn't find the pizza to be terribly impressive, and I stuck to pasta the rest of the trip. |
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| Salmon risotto! |
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| Just looking at this picture practically makes my face break out. This is cheese ravioli covered in nothing but more cheese, bacon, and butter. It was delicious/disgusting. |
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| This baby actually came from an Italian McDonald's. The trip to Mickey D's was actually worth it simply because they had such different items on the menu. This hamburger included a focaccia bun, mozzarella, and a creamy tomato sauce. |
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| This is my favorite kind of spaghetti by far, spaghetti al cartoccio. It's spaghetti that's baked in tin foil with a little oil and seafood. The seafood in this spaghetti was nice and fresh, as I purchased it in Rio Maggiore on the coast of Italy. |
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| Non-food bonus picture: This is Rio Maggiore, one of the five towns collectively known as the Cinque Terre. It's what I think of whenever someone says, "paradise." |
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| Non-food bonus picture: The cross isn't really an emblem in my branch of Christianity, but I still really liked this cliffside bench and cross in Rio Maggiore. It seemed like a quiet place to commune with God. |
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| This picture was taken in a trendy restaurant with odd lighting in Genoa. This entree consisted of noodles and cheese squished into a tiny ball that was then breaded, fried, and garnished with some kind of green leaf and a side of pesto sauce. It was tasty, but not terribly filling. |
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| Also, when I was in Europe I ate gelato every day. I've never been sorry. |
Friday, March 18, 2016
NAQ
Some people do an FAQ post, where they answer frequently asked questions. I'm doing an NAQ post, where I'll answer never asked questions.
NAQ #1: What's your favorite kind of ice cream?
S'mores by Dryer's. But I also like cherry chocolate chip, Neapolitan, butter pecan, and cake batter or any variation of cake batter (such as birthday cake).
NAQ #2: What kind of jobs have you had?
Summer rec teacher. Fast food employee/training sponsor. SAT and ACT tutor. Now I help write training for other people's companies. To correct a common and understandable misconception, I have never written an instruction manual.
NAQ #3: What scares you?
Making telephone calls. Turning left at intersections. The Woman in Black. But in truth, the thing that scares me the most is the thought that one of my younger siblings might die.
NAQ #4: What are you self-conscious about?
My overly sensitive, always-red skin (particularly around the nose). My terrible posture. My lack of romantic relationship experience. My social awkwardness. The fact that I can't sing very well.
NAQ #5: What aren't you self-conscious about?
If I'm not conscious of it, do I really know? But most things not listed above, probably.
NAQ #6: How did you get your hair to be so long?!
This is the question that I wish people would ask! I had short hair during most of high school. Like, it was even buzzed-at-the-neck short at one point. After graduation, I started growing it out, and I haven't stopped since. Do you know how hard it is for me to grow out my hair? It's very hard! Because, although my hair grows very fast, I get restless and cut it all off periodically.
I was really looking forward to my high school reunion. I figured people would say, "Wow, your hair is so long!" And I'd say, "That's right! Do I have kids now? No! Am I married? No! Did I serve a mission? No! But by golly, I have SUPER LONG HAIR. And a college degree."
But. Nobody. Mentioned my hair at all. Not a soul.
Directly after the reunion, I went to Rosebud's wedding reception. When I congratulated the bride and groom, the new Mr. Rosebud said, "Wow, your hair is really long!"
And I was all, "FINALLY, SOMEONE WHO APPRECIATES MY HARD WORK."
NAQ #1: What's your favorite kind of ice cream?
S'mores by Dryer's. But I also like cherry chocolate chip, Neapolitan, butter pecan, and cake batter or any variation of cake batter (such as birthday cake).
NAQ #2: What kind of jobs have you had?
Summer rec teacher. Fast food employee/training sponsor. SAT and ACT tutor. Now I help write training for other people's companies. To correct a common and understandable misconception, I have never written an instruction manual.
NAQ #3: What scares you?
Making telephone calls. Turning left at intersections. The Woman in Black. But in truth, the thing that scares me the most is the thought that one of my younger siblings might die.
NAQ #4: What are you self-conscious about?
My overly sensitive, always-red skin (particularly around the nose). My terrible posture. My lack of romantic relationship experience. My social awkwardness. The fact that I can't sing very well.
NAQ #5: What aren't you self-conscious about?
If I'm not conscious of it, do I really know? But most things not listed above, probably.
NAQ #6: How did you get your hair to be so long?!
This is the question that I wish people would ask! I had short hair during most of high school. Like, it was even buzzed-at-the-neck short at one point. After graduation, I started growing it out, and I haven't stopped since. Do you know how hard it is for me to grow out my hair? It's very hard! Because, although my hair grows very fast, I get restless and cut it all off periodically.
I was really looking forward to my high school reunion. I figured people would say, "Wow, your hair is so long!" And I'd say, "That's right! Do I have kids now? No! Am I married? No! Did I serve a mission? No! But by golly, I have SUPER LONG HAIR. And a college degree."
But. Nobody. Mentioned my hair at all. Not a soul.
Directly after the reunion, I went to Rosebud's wedding reception. When I congratulated the bride and groom, the new Mr. Rosebud said, "Wow, your hair is really long!"
And I was all, "FINALLY, SOMEONE WHO APPRECIATES MY HARD WORK."
Friday, January 8, 2016
Fun Facts About Me
Now that I've had this blog for almost three years, it seems like a good time to tell you some fun facts about myself! Because better late than never, right?
Fun Fact #1: As longtime readers have probably already gleaned, I have one older sister, two younger sisters, and two younger brothers. Bonus Fun Fact: My siblings and I don't really look alike. There are resemblances between some of us, but for the most part people don't peg the six of us as siblings.
Fun Fact #2: I always tell people that I graduated in creative writing, but it's actually more complicated than that. I actually graduated with two majors, English with an emphasis in creative writing and Honors. Having a degree in Honors basically just means that I'm an overachiever. I also minored in history.
Fun Fact #3: I have the mad skill of typing 100 words a minute without using home row.
Fun Fact #4: I got my driver's license when I was eighteen. I was not anxious to take on the responsibilities of being a driver.
Fun Fact #5: I was named after my uncle.
Fun Fact #1: As longtime readers have probably already gleaned, I have one older sister, two younger sisters, and two younger brothers. Bonus Fun Fact: My siblings and I don't really look alike. There are resemblances between some of us, but for the most part people don't peg the six of us as siblings.
Fun Fact #2: I always tell people that I graduated in creative writing, but it's actually more complicated than that. I actually graduated with two majors, English with an emphasis in creative writing and Honors. Having a degree in Honors basically just means that I'm an overachiever. I also minored in history.
Fun Fact #3: I have the mad skill of typing 100 words a minute without using home row.
Fun Fact #4: I got my driver's license when I was eighteen. I was not anxious to take on the responsibilities of being a driver.
Fun Fact #5: I was named after my uncle.
Monday, December 7, 2015
'Tis the Season to Overschedule
Every December, I have two kajillion and three things planned. There are Christmas festivities, family in town, friends on break from school, service projects to participate in, good movies coming out, and all sorts of other loveliness. When I was in public school, I had many band and choir performances. When I was in college, I had finals. And often, work picks up before the end of the year. When I worked in fast food, I used to work two or three times as many hours during December as I did during the rest of the months.
One year, a fellow asked me on a date at the end of November. And I said, "Well, let's see. The next time that I'll be free is probably... December 21st." I think he thought that I was lying, but I most certainly wasn't.
If someone asked me on a date right now, I'd have to tell them to wait until next year. 'Cause I ain't got time for that. I have so many things going on between now and the end of the year that I feel like I'm about to spontaneously combust. Everything is happening at once. It's a good thing that I don't have to schedule time to breathe, because if I did, I would die.
Overscheduling is, I should mention, often the Obnoxious way. My family tends to live at the speed of light, moving from activity to activity barely hanging on by the seat of our pants. Sometimes it's a good thing: we do get things done. Sometimes it's a little much. Or a lot much.
So far, I've managed to juggle everything really well. Except for the fact that I've become a little, shall we say, loopy. I'm here. I'm there. I'm all over the place.
Over the weekend, I identified all the potential problems in a potential relationship with this guy I don't really know but kind of think is cute. First I identified all the problems; then I solved them. And I was like, "There we go! Things will definitely work out and we can get married sometime in the next year and have seven kids." And then I started writing a journal entry explaining all of this to my posterity and whoever else is going to read my journal. And then halfway through I was like, "Wait. What? Why did I do this? I don't even know anything about this guy. What is wrong with me? Why did I spend so much time on this?" The answer is that at some point, my rational mind became overtired from being worked so hard. It stopped working the way it usually does and instead started rationalizing things that don't make sense. And that's only the beginning.
On the way home from work today, I was crying. When I walked in the door, I was angry. And about five minutes later, I was peaceful and serene and preparing a pot of beef stew. And a couple of hours later, I was being vaguely charming at family home evening. And now I'm all giddy and happy and I don't even know. While I was in the shower, I composed a Hanukkah carol of my own devising (because it's the first night of Hanukkah, goyim.) I'm giggling while I write this.
I think I am currently a little what they call, what's the word, unstable.
But oh well! There are things that must be done, and I will do them. By the grace of God, I will get through this month.
One year, a fellow asked me on a date at the end of November. And I said, "Well, let's see. The next time that I'll be free is probably... December 21st." I think he thought that I was lying, but I most certainly wasn't.
If someone asked me on a date right now, I'd have to tell them to wait until next year. 'Cause I ain't got time for that. I have so many things going on between now and the end of the year that I feel like I'm about to spontaneously combust. Everything is happening at once. It's a good thing that I don't have to schedule time to breathe, because if I did, I would die.
Overscheduling is, I should mention, often the Obnoxious way. My family tends to live at the speed of light, moving from activity to activity barely hanging on by the seat of our pants. Sometimes it's a good thing: we do get things done. Sometimes it's a little much. Or a lot much.
So far, I've managed to juggle everything really well. Except for the fact that I've become a little, shall we say, loopy. I'm here. I'm there. I'm all over the place.
Over the weekend, I identified all the potential problems in a potential relationship with this guy I don't really know but kind of think is cute. First I identified all the problems; then I solved them. And I was like, "There we go! Things will definitely work out and we can get married sometime in the next year and have seven kids." And then I started writing a journal entry explaining all of this to my posterity and whoever else is going to read my journal. And then halfway through I was like, "Wait. What? Why did I do this? I don't even know anything about this guy. What is wrong with me? Why did I spend so much time on this?" The answer is that at some point, my rational mind became overtired from being worked so hard. It stopped working the way it usually does and instead started rationalizing things that don't make sense. And that's only the beginning.
On the way home from work today, I was crying. When I walked in the door, I was angry. And about five minutes later, I was peaceful and serene and preparing a pot of beef stew. And a couple of hours later, I was being vaguely charming at family home evening. And now I'm all giddy and happy and I don't even know. While I was in the shower, I composed a Hanukkah carol of my own devising (because it's the first night of Hanukkah, goyim.) I'm giggling while I write this.
I think I am currently a little what they call, what's the word, unstable.
But oh well! There are things that must be done, and I will do them. By the grace of God, I will get through this month.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
It's Locked
Over the past several months, I've had several conversations where I've mentioned Nancy Drew computer games, and the people I'm talking to are like, "What?"
Apparently, there are a lot of people who don't know about these wonderful PC games. My parents didn't have a gaming system when I was growing up. So while my peers were playing Nintendo games where a plumber and his brother drive race cars with a dinosaur and a princess, I was solving mysteries and fighting crime with Nancy Drew, girl detective. And when I say, "me," I mean, "me and my little sisters who were watching me play."
So, lest you be unfamiliar with the ways of Nancy Drew, here are a few things you should know about these amazing games:
1. Nancy's always in danger.
Which you already know if you know anything about Nancy Drew. Girl's a danger magnet. Just look at these Nancy Drew game titles:
#2: Stay Tuned for Danger
#9: Danger on Deception Island
#14: Danger by Design
I'm just waiting for the game titled Danger. Or more descriptive, Dangerous Danger.
2. There's always unexpected entertainment.
Nancy says weird stuff. Like, really weird stuff. And she talks to herself a lot. And to inanimate objects. And every time she finds a locked door, there's this jiggling-lock noise. And then Nancy says, in this dreary monotone voice, "It's locked."
She does that every. Single. Time. She finds a locked door. Which is a lot of times. And as far as I can tell, they use the exact same sound clip in all 30+ games, so she says it with the exact same inflection every time.
Also, in one game, whenever you sent Nancy into the bathroom to wash her hands, she would quote another game. Or sing a song about a guy named Mystico.
3. You will be challenged.
When you're Nancy "Danger" Drew, you have to do all sorts of challenging stuff. Some of the challenges are things that the game provides resources to help you with, like organizing ancient Mayan artifacts or translating French words using a tourist dictionary. But some challenges come with zero instructions, like that time in Stay Tuned for Danger where you have to defuse a bomb. You have to figure out what tools to use to defuse the bomb, and how to defuse the bomb without blowing it up, and you have to do those things before the bomb explodes in your (well, Nancy's) face.
Also, sometimes the clues you need are extremely well-hidden. Once, we couldn't find a clue to help Nancy open an electric panel, so I decided to write out all the possible combinations that could be entered in the lock. We then tried each one of them until we found the one that opened the panel. The process was an exquisite mixture of agony and accomplishment.
4. You will feel smart.
The structure of the game allows you to try ridiculous things. Like putting poisoned jellyfish on other people's sandwiches. Or untying a chandelier and watching it break into a bazillion pieces. Sometimes, Little Sister and I will try something unbelievably ridiculous, only to discover that it actually is a good move. Once we clicked on a pair of chattering teeth like a hundred times. Imagine our surprise when we heard a clucking sound and found an Easter egg in our inventory! And yes, in Nancy Drew, Easter eggs are literally Easter eggs.
Also, at the end of every game, you confront and defeat the villain. Little Sister and I are quite fond of predicting how Nancy will beat the villain. We've gotten very good at it. Last time we predicted that a marshmallow-eating alligator, which was correct, but did not predict that said alligator would swallow the very valuable crystal skull, which happened. Well, you can't win 'em all.
5. But you will become even smarter.
Because Nancy Drew games are set in the real world, they contain all sorts of interesting information that actually isn't as useless as you might think. In the Nancy Drew games, I've learned information about world history, regions, and cultures that has helped me in school classes and in my travels. Which further emphasizes the truth that learning can be fun. And/or you can force people to learn stuff as long as you put it in computer games.
6. You will get creeped out.
The first several Nancy Drew games share most of the same soundtrack. The theme song, which plays in the background of several scenes in those games, goes something like this: "Doo-doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo-doo. Doo-doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo-doo. DOO doo, Doo doo, DOO doo doo doo-oo-oo."
And now that you perfectly understand my lyrical rendition of said theme song, you can agree that it's a bit creepy. It always made me and my sisters feel a little...uneasy. But we knew that Nancy was really in danger when the music would get really fast and wild with a lot of percussion and crescendo!
The summer that Baby Brother was born, Bessie stayed with us for two weeks while her parents were in South America. She watched us play Secret of the Haunted Mansion.
"There's a ghost that sometimes appears in that mirror," Little Sister and I told Bessie, "and it's really scary."
Older Sister was skeptical. "These games aren't that scary."
Then the ghost appeared in the mirror. Everyone, including Older Sister, screamed.
Well, there you have it. I hope I've convinced you of the wonderfulness of Nancy Drew computer games. Because they truly are wonderful. In fact, they are so wonderful that I feel about ready to do some sleuthing in real life.
Earlier this week, Little Sister and I had this conversation:
If we ever end up doing it, the first thing I'm going to do is test the lock and then announce drearily, "It's locked."
Apparently, there are a lot of people who don't know about these wonderful PC games. My parents didn't have a gaming system when I was growing up. So while my peers were playing Nintendo games where a plumber and his brother drive race cars with a dinosaur and a princess, I was solving mysteries and fighting crime with Nancy Drew, girl detective. And when I say, "me," I mean, "me and my little sisters who were watching me play."
So, lest you be unfamiliar with the ways of Nancy Drew, here are a few things you should know about these amazing games:
1. Nancy's always in danger.
Which you already know if you know anything about Nancy Drew. Girl's a danger magnet. Just look at these Nancy Drew game titles:
#2: Stay Tuned for Danger
#9: Danger on Deception Island
#14: Danger by Design
I'm just waiting for the game titled Danger. Or more descriptive, Dangerous Danger.
2. There's always unexpected entertainment.
Nancy says weird stuff. Like, really weird stuff. And she talks to herself a lot. And to inanimate objects. And every time she finds a locked door, there's this jiggling-lock noise. And then Nancy says, in this dreary monotone voice, "It's locked."
She does that every. Single. Time. She finds a locked door. Which is a lot of times. And as far as I can tell, they use the exact same sound clip in all 30+ games, so she says it with the exact same inflection every time.
Also, in one game, whenever you sent Nancy into the bathroom to wash her hands, she would quote another game. Or sing a song about a guy named Mystico.
3. You will be challenged.
When you're Nancy "Danger" Drew, you have to do all sorts of challenging stuff. Some of the challenges are things that the game provides resources to help you with, like organizing ancient Mayan artifacts or translating French words using a tourist dictionary. But some challenges come with zero instructions, like that time in Stay Tuned for Danger where you have to defuse a bomb. You have to figure out what tools to use to defuse the bomb, and how to defuse the bomb without blowing it up, and you have to do those things before the bomb explodes in your (well, Nancy's) face.
Also, sometimes the clues you need are extremely well-hidden. Once, we couldn't find a clue to help Nancy open an electric panel, so I decided to write out all the possible combinations that could be entered in the lock. We then tried each one of them until we found the one that opened the panel. The process was an exquisite mixture of agony and accomplishment.
4. You will feel smart.
The structure of the game allows you to try ridiculous things. Like putting poisoned jellyfish on other people's sandwiches. Or untying a chandelier and watching it break into a bazillion pieces. Sometimes, Little Sister and I will try something unbelievably ridiculous, only to discover that it actually is a good move. Once we clicked on a pair of chattering teeth like a hundred times. Imagine our surprise when we heard a clucking sound and found an Easter egg in our inventory! And yes, in Nancy Drew, Easter eggs are literally Easter eggs.
Also, at the end of every game, you confront and defeat the villain. Little Sister and I are quite fond of predicting how Nancy will beat the villain. We've gotten very good at it. Last time we predicted that a marshmallow-eating alligator, which was correct, but did not predict that said alligator would swallow the very valuable crystal skull, which happened. Well, you can't win 'em all.
5. But you will become even smarter.
Because Nancy Drew games are set in the real world, they contain all sorts of interesting information that actually isn't as useless as you might think. In the Nancy Drew games, I've learned information about world history, regions, and cultures that has helped me in school classes and in my travels. Which further emphasizes the truth that learning can be fun. And/or you can force people to learn stuff as long as you put it in computer games.
6. You will get creeped out.
The first several Nancy Drew games share most of the same soundtrack. The theme song, which plays in the background of several scenes in those games, goes something like this: "Doo-doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo-doo. Doo-doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo-doo. DOO doo, Doo doo, DOO doo doo doo-oo-oo."
And now that you perfectly understand my lyrical rendition of said theme song, you can agree that it's a bit creepy. It always made me and my sisters feel a little...uneasy. But we knew that Nancy was really in danger when the music would get really fast and wild with a lot of percussion and crescendo!
The summer that Baby Brother was born, Bessie stayed with us for two weeks while her parents were in South America. She watched us play Secret of the Haunted Mansion.
"There's a ghost that sometimes appears in that mirror," Little Sister and I told Bessie, "and it's really scary."
Older Sister was skeptical. "These games aren't that scary."
Then the ghost appeared in the mirror. Everyone, including Older Sister, screamed.
Well, there you have it. I hope I've convinced you of the wonderfulness of Nancy Drew computer games. Because they truly are wonderful. In fact, they are so wonderful that I feel about ready to do some sleuthing in real life.
Earlier this week, Little Sister and I had this conversation:
Friday, August 7, 2015
Blessed
Life is hard right now.
Life is usually hard, but right now it's more forcefully hard than usual.
But I can tell you that every time something hard has happened to me, I have received blessings greater than my hardships.
My junior year of high school, I sank into a deep clinical depression. I felt very sad, and very lonely. The quality of everything I did took a nose dive. And when I say everything, I mean my schoolwork, too.
I would not be able to go to college without a scholarship; my parents couldn't afford to help me. Every day, every night, whenever I had a moment where I could feel something other than apathy of depression, I was anxious about my future. I wanted to go to college. Would I be able to go?
But blessings were given to me. More than blessings--miracles. Provisions had been and continued to be made for me in a most wondrous way.
A few months before I became depressed, I took the PSAT, or NMSQT, test. I scored in the 98th percentile, which qualified me as a contender to be a National Merit Scholar. And although my individual grades were slipping, my overall GPA remained healthy enough and my portfolio of activities was impressive enough that in spite of the Cs, I was chosen a year later. And because schools with National Merit Scholars receive extra funding, suddenly all these colleges basically offered me a degree for free. At Nameless Utah College, I paid for my books and fees, but I didn't pay a red cent of the actual tuition. My education was assured without me having to do much of anything.
That was one amazing blessing. Another one was that one day, for no reason in particular, I felt promoted to seek out Best Friend Boy. But at the time, he was only Friend Boy. We weren't super close. I liked him, and Etch-a-Sketch, and Shutterbug a lot, but I was sort of a free agent at school. I didn't really have a "group." I felt like I had enough close friends outside of school and I didn't need any more.
However, I decided to confide in Best Friend Boy some of the difficulties of my depression. I can only attribute this weird decision to divine intervention, and I have been grateful for said divine intervention every day since. There is no doubt in my mind that the love of Best Friend Boy, Etch-a-Sketch, and Shutterbug changed my life. Without that depression, though, I never would have been humble enough to accept that love and friendship.
Life was difficult, but what I needed was provided to me...even when I didn't know that I needed it.
A year and a half ago, some other issues of great personal import which I cannot share here arose. And on top of that, I was in my last semester of college, and the pressure was mounting to do all the necessary things that must be done in the last year of college, like find a real job that was in my field which I could support myself with. And on top of that, the interim job that I had decided to take was in a city an hour away. And on top of that, I was in the Relief Society presidency, devoting much of my free time to serving Heavenly Father. We would go visit women in our ward at least one day a week, among other duties. And I couldn't just show up for these visits; to be effective, I had to really be present. And on top of that, I became very sick for seven weeks. I was always sick to my stomach and had no appetite, and what I did eat did not stay put. I went to doctors and specialists, but they had no idea what was wrong. And on top of that, I became an insomniac, lying awake at night and wondering how I could possibly get through all of this.
The obvious blessing here is that I did get through it. I scarcely remember doing homework, but somehow it got done. And things got better. I received a blessing of healing from my father, and my illness went away. I graduated successfully and found a job in my field, which I wasn't expecting. Creative writers don't get creative writing jobs. They either get rich writing novels or are forced to work in another field or starve to death while trying to live on freelance work and particularly vivid descriptions of food. My insomnia ceased. And best of all, after everything cleared up, I was able to go to the temple to be endowed. This has been the greatest blessing of all.
I said in a previous post that I hadn't yet received many blessings out of my current trials. But what I guess I really meant was that I haven't received the type of blessings that would mean my current trials are coming to an end. Because I have been so blessed. I have a family that I love so much. I have the knowledge of the true gospel in the end of days. I have good friends, supportive roommates, a good job that gives me what I need and more, a healthy body, wonderful church callings, yellow shoes, all three seasons of Avatar the Last Airbender, and so much more. At the moment, I don't have everything that I hope for, but I have so much to thank God for every day. I know that He loves me, and I know that in time, the deepest desires of my heart will surely come my way.
Life is usually hard, but right now it's more forcefully hard than usual.
But I can tell you that every time something hard has happened to me, I have received blessings greater than my hardships.
My junior year of high school, I sank into a deep clinical depression. I felt very sad, and very lonely. The quality of everything I did took a nose dive. And when I say everything, I mean my schoolwork, too.
I would not be able to go to college without a scholarship; my parents couldn't afford to help me. Every day, every night, whenever I had a moment where I could feel something other than apathy of depression, I was anxious about my future. I wanted to go to college. Would I be able to go?
But blessings were given to me. More than blessings--miracles. Provisions had been and continued to be made for me in a most wondrous way.
A few months before I became depressed, I took the PSAT, or NMSQT, test. I scored in the 98th percentile, which qualified me as a contender to be a National Merit Scholar. And although my individual grades were slipping, my overall GPA remained healthy enough and my portfolio of activities was impressive enough that in spite of the Cs, I was chosen a year later. And because schools with National Merit Scholars receive extra funding, suddenly all these colleges basically offered me a degree for free. At Nameless Utah College, I paid for my books and fees, but I didn't pay a red cent of the actual tuition. My education was assured without me having to do much of anything.
That was one amazing blessing. Another one was that one day, for no reason in particular, I felt promoted to seek out Best Friend Boy. But at the time, he was only Friend Boy. We weren't super close. I liked him, and Etch-a-Sketch, and Shutterbug a lot, but I was sort of a free agent at school. I didn't really have a "group." I felt like I had enough close friends outside of school and I didn't need any more.
However, I decided to confide in Best Friend Boy some of the difficulties of my depression. I can only attribute this weird decision to divine intervention, and I have been grateful for said divine intervention every day since. There is no doubt in my mind that the love of Best Friend Boy, Etch-a-Sketch, and Shutterbug changed my life. Without that depression, though, I never would have been humble enough to accept that love and friendship.
Life was difficult, but what I needed was provided to me...even when I didn't know that I needed it.
A year and a half ago, some other issues of great personal import which I cannot share here arose. And on top of that, I was in my last semester of college, and the pressure was mounting to do all the necessary things that must be done in the last year of college, like find a real job that was in my field which I could support myself with. And on top of that, the interim job that I had decided to take was in a city an hour away. And on top of that, I was in the Relief Society presidency, devoting much of my free time to serving Heavenly Father. We would go visit women in our ward at least one day a week, among other duties. And I couldn't just show up for these visits; to be effective, I had to really be present. And on top of that, I became very sick for seven weeks. I was always sick to my stomach and had no appetite, and what I did eat did not stay put. I went to doctors and specialists, but they had no idea what was wrong. And on top of that, I became an insomniac, lying awake at night and wondering how I could possibly get through all of this.
The obvious blessing here is that I did get through it. I scarcely remember doing homework, but somehow it got done. And things got better. I received a blessing of healing from my father, and my illness went away. I graduated successfully and found a job in my field, which I wasn't expecting. Creative writers don't get creative writing jobs. They either get rich writing novels or are forced to work in another field or starve to death while trying to live on freelance work and particularly vivid descriptions of food. My insomnia ceased. And best of all, after everything cleared up, I was able to go to the temple to be endowed. This has been the greatest blessing of all.
I said in a previous post that I hadn't yet received many blessings out of my current trials. But what I guess I really meant was that I haven't received the type of blessings that would mean my current trials are coming to an end. Because I have been so blessed. I have a family that I love so much. I have the knowledge of the true gospel in the end of days. I have good friends, supportive roommates, a good job that gives me what I need and more, a healthy body, wonderful church callings, yellow shoes, all three seasons of Avatar the Last Airbender, and so much more. At the moment, I don't have everything that I hope for, but I have so much to thank God for every day. I know that He loves me, and I know that in time, the deepest desires of my heart will surely come my way.
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Elegy Mourning the Things We Cannot Do for Each Other
Here's some of the last poetry I wrote in college.
Here’s mourning all the time I spent on you,
and here’s me laying all my love to rest.
So rest in peace, all feelings misconstrued—
you simply couldn’t stand up to time’s test.
I’ll bury all attempts to be your friend.
I’ll stick them in a silk-lined pinewood box.
I’ll bring my foolish efforts to an end;
I’ll stab them, give them plague or deadly pox.
I’m sorry that your life is sad and bleak,
I’m sorry for the thoughts inside your head.
I know my feelings won’t be what you seek—
I hope this time they’re well and truly dead.
Each time our friendship is resurrected,
it takes more from me than I expected.
Here’s mourning all the time I spent on you,
and here’s me laying all my love to rest.
So rest in peace, all feelings misconstrued—
you simply couldn’t stand up to time’s test.
I’ll bury all attempts to be your friend.
I’ll stick them in a silk-lined pinewood box.
I’ll bring my foolish efforts to an end;
I’ll stab them, give them plague or deadly pox.
I’m sorry that your life is sad and bleak,
I’m sorry for the thoughts inside your head.
I know my feelings won’t be what you seek—
I hope this time they’re well and truly dead.
Each time our friendship is resurrected,
it takes more from me than I expected.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Waiting for Elijah
Every year at Nameless Utah College, I would see signs inviting all and sundry to a Passover celebration. And every year, I would think about attending so that I might connect with my Jewish ancestry.
But I never did until this year.
The prophet Malachi said, "Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord:
"And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse."
We have a simple interpretation of Malachi's prophecy. Elijah returned to the Earth at the dedication of the Kirtland temple. He brought the sealing powers back to the Earth. The sealing powers allow us to perform saving ordinances for and be sealed to our ancestors, turning our hearts to our fathers. They also allow us to be sealed to our descendants, turning our hearts to our children.
I've been spending a lot of time in the temple lately, doing proxy work for and thinking about my Jewish ancestors. My heart has never been so fully facing them, and so it was that this year of all years, I was drawn to the Passover.
I contacted the person in charge of Nameless Utah College's Passover and asked if it would be appropriate for me to attend. She said I would be welcome.
My two very non-Jewish roommates, bless their hearts, volunteered to accompany me to this very Jewish and rather expensive event with ever so much alcohol at which they would be even more out of their depth than I would be. And thus, the Saturday night before Easter, we set forth.
Upon arrival, a college student walked up to us, greeted us, and said, "Sit anywhere you like! That table over there is Cattle. The table with the sunglasses is Darkness. And the table with the plastic swords and baby feet is Death of the Firstborn, if you think that kind of thing is funny."
And we were like, "Erm... uh... huh?
Looking around, we realized that the decorations on the tables representing the ten plagues from the Book of Exodus. And I had an internal monologue that went something like this:
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Is this…okay?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Well, I guess so. If anyone has a right to poke fun at the Book of Exodus, Jews do.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: But do they always do this at Passover? Is it common?”
I thought that no, it probably wasn’t, and having reached this conclusion I thereupon took a seat at a table that wasn't Death of the Firstborn, because I didn't think that kind of thing was funny. Our table was decorated with combs, to represent Lice, and plastic locusts, for obvious reasons.
Soon the Seder began. The rabbi alternated between reading passages from the Haggadah (the book of Passover scripture) and having those of us attending the Passover read passages of the Haggadah.
Part of the Haggadah said, “If God had not redeemed our ancestors, then we and our children and our children’s children would still be enslaved to Pharaoh in Egypt.” I thought about that and was surprised to realize that it’s true. I think sometimes we think that slavery is uniquely American, that it happened to only one group of people at one time and in one place. But that’s not true at all.
In between passages of the Haggadah, the rabbi led us in Hebrew songs, which were lovely and stirring. He also gave brief addresses of his own devising.
In one of these addresses, the rabbi commented that someone rises up in every generation with an intent to destroy the Jews. He mentioned Hitler, Saddam Hussein, and other names I didn’t recognize. He also talked at length about the suffering of the Holocaust. As he talked, I thought about my own family. I thought about relatives who died in the Holocaust. We’ve been trying to find the names of these relatives and to learn exactly what happened to them for years. Recently, we learned that many of our European relatives were living in a village called Sassmachen. Some were killed there on July 26th, 1941. The rest were taken on a pointless excursion out of town only to be shot on August 7th.
I say it’s a shame. It’s a shame on the world that such things ever happened, and are happening, and will continue to happen. Living in a fallen world is part of the mortal experience, but oh, how fallen a fallen world is!
Throughout all the reading, and the singing, and the rabbi's addresses, there were places where we ate and drank ceremonial food. This included cups of wine (grape juice for the Seamstress and Pepper and me), parsley dipped in salt water, horseradish, and pieces of matzah. After the first part of the Seder, there was also a full meal of matzo ball soup, chicken, brisket, herb potatoes, and vegetables. An unleavened strawberry sponge cake followed.
Then there were some silly activities. The rabbi hid a piece of matzah and made us all look for it, something that is usually done by children. He also led us through what I can only describe as a Jewish version of "There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly." It started with "An only kid, an only kid, my father bought for two zuzim!" and ended with God destroying the Angel of Death who killed the butcher who etcetera etcetera you get the idea.
The rabbi assigned someone to do a sound effect for each line. He told me that every time he said "an only kid," I had to make a noise like a goat.
And I was like, "Somehow I feel like all of my improv comedy training has led up to this moment where I was asked to make a goat sound in front of a bunch of strangers at Passover." In other words, I was well prepared for this experience.
After this fun, we finished the Seder from the Haggadah.
Now, the Jews are also mindful of the words of Malachi. They know Elijah was to return, and they are waiting for him. Jewish tradition holds that Elijah will return at the Passover. (Interestingly enough, when Elijah appeared in the Kirtland temple, it was during the Passover.) A cup of wine is filled for the prophet, a chair is left empty, and the door is opened to let Elijah enter.
Around the time that the door was opened for Elijah, the rabbi gave another address, one to this effect: "The Orthodox Jews still believe that the Messiah will come, but I don't believe that. At least, I don't believe that an actual person will come to us. I believe that if things are going to get better, we have to make it happen ourselves."
I don't know what the other people in the room thought of that statement. I didn't agree, but seeing as I'm Christian and my whole religion began with the coming of the Messiah, that shouldn't surprise anyone. And I can't even begin to guess what the Jewish people in the room were thinking. So I will just say that I think it would be hard to see your people be persecuted and destroyed and not have the expected warrior-king Messiah swoop down from the sky to stop it, but I think it would be harder to have nobody to look to for deliverance.
We finished the Seder. One of the last things we said was, "Next year in Jerusalem." Then we left through the same door through which Elijah was expected.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
April is National Poetry Month
I could call this post "College Ruins Everything," but in sixth grade I performed a rap song about thinking positive so now I have to live up to my street rep.
Once upon a time aka a year ago, I was a creative writing student of Nameless Utah College. When you go to college for creative writing at Nameless Utah College, they force you to take a bunch of classes about different kinds of creative writing. The first of these classes was a class about poetry.
I have long been a poetry enthusiast. I enjoyed writing poems as early as age eight. Throughout junior high and high school, I would often write poems when I was supposed to be listening in class. Though I didn't aspire to be a poet, I found the art delightful.
The other students in my poetry class had a different view. Poetry was serious, serious work. It was an art form of an epic nature. It therefore had to be within the box of being outside the box, if you know what I mean.
The other students and the professor criticized my poems for being about happy subjects. They told me to write about something sad.
They didn't like that my poems weren't mysterious. They told me to be less transparent.
And, finally, they told me to stop writing poems that rhyme. Because rhyming poems, my professor said, were only for Hallmark cards.
These people were lovely people.I liked all of them a lot, and we had some really fun times together. But I never got past the feeling that they believed only certain kind of poems should be written or read, and that it wasn't okay for me to want to write something else.
This affected me more than it should have. In the several years since that class, I wrote only one poem that I can remember. Until now.
April is National Poetry Month. It's like National Novel Writing Month, but without the cool acronym. Anyways, it seemed a shame to let this month pass without writing a poem. Therefore, I decided to, in the words of Taylor Swift "shake it off," and overcame my poetry anxiety to write a poem for Little Sister. I didn't worry too much about technique, or metric feet, or anything a good poet is supposed to think about. I just wrote it:
Ballerinas have feet.
Poems have feet, too.
Poems like this have a beat.
Ballet beats you black and blue.
Writing poems involves hard words
Like "trochee" and "cinquain."
Being a ballerina is even worse.
Your body's wracked with pain.
There's a moral to this story, if you want to know it:
Never ever ever be a ballerina or a poet.
Once upon a time aka a year ago, I was a creative writing student of Nameless Utah College. When you go to college for creative writing at Nameless Utah College, they force you to take a bunch of classes about different kinds of creative writing. The first of these classes was a class about poetry.
I have long been a poetry enthusiast. I enjoyed writing poems as early as age eight. Throughout junior high and high school, I would often write poems when I was supposed to be listening in class. Though I didn't aspire to be a poet, I found the art delightful.
The other students in my poetry class had a different view. Poetry was serious, serious work. It was an art form of an epic nature. It therefore had to be within the box of being outside the box, if you know what I mean.
The other students and the professor criticized my poems for being about happy subjects. They told me to write about something sad.
They didn't like that my poems weren't mysterious. They told me to be less transparent.
And, finally, they told me to stop writing poems that rhyme. Because rhyming poems, my professor said, were only for Hallmark cards.
These people were lovely people.I liked all of them a lot, and we had some really fun times together. But I never got past the feeling that they believed only certain kind of poems should be written or read, and that it wasn't okay for me to want to write something else.
This affected me more than it should have. In the several years since that class, I wrote only one poem that I can remember. Until now.
April is National Poetry Month. It's like National Novel Writing Month, but without the cool acronym. Anyways, it seemed a shame to let this month pass without writing a poem. Therefore, I decided to, in the words of Taylor Swift "shake it off," and overcame my poetry anxiety to write a poem for Little Sister. I didn't worry too much about technique, or metric feet, or anything a good poet is supposed to think about. I just wrote it:
Ballerinas have feet.
Poems have feet, too.
Poems like this have a beat.
Ballet beats you black and blue.
Writing poems involves hard words
Like "trochee" and "cinquain."
Being a ballerina is even worse.
Your body's wracked with pain.
There's a moral to this story, if you want to know it:
Never ever ever be a ballerina or a poet.
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