Little Gifts

I find the strangest things to be treats for me.  For example, last night, I had a real treat.  I slept on the couch.  And yes, I found that to be a treat.

Growing up, my dad slept on the couch a lot.  Not because he was in trouble with my mom or any of those stereotypes you think of when the man is forced to sleep on the couch in a story or television show, but usually because he would stay up watching television so late that he would be the last one in the room still watching, and he’d just fall right asleep where he sat.  So, on days that I stayed up later than him, or days that he wasn’t home, and days when I didn’t have to wake up for school, I would carry my blanket out to the couch and make my own little nest to sleep in. I had full control of the television, and I could stay up or fall asleep at my choosing.  It’s true; we did have a very comfortable couch, so that made it an extra treat in itself, but it was also that I got to sleep out there where my dad normally slept.  For some reason or another, that was a privilege to me.

No one sleeps on the couch in our apartment.  In fact, most nights the living room is left abandoned as we go about our separate paths, trying to be productive in our own unique ways. But last night the roommate who lives right off the living room was out of town—and I had no one to disturb.

So I pulled out my comforter, put on my copy of The Princess Bride, and hunkered down into my own little nest to watch a movie I loved and to stay up or fall asleep at my choosing.

And frankly, it’s probably the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long, long while.

<3 

Blogger's Block

So—I don’t know what to write. Not that this is an unfamiliar feeling.  Anyone who fancies themselves a writer has dealt with that moment of “Well—what now?”  It’s a most unfortunate feeling, if I may say so myself. It’s even worse here, because it’s just a twisted form of Writers Block.

Okay, my good memory is failing me, and if you read this blog I apologize in advance for forgetting who you are, but one of my friends once told me that he didn’t believe in “Writer’s Block.” He told me it was just an excuse for a writer to be lazy, and not sit down and put nose to the grindstone and write what they were supposed to be writing.  I suppose that in some cases he’s probably right. I can think of people who have used writer’s block as an excuse for why they are watching tv instead of working on a story—Not me of course, but a friend.  However, to say that writer’s block as a genuine issue doesn’t exist I don’t think is possible.  I think there are those moments when someone is actually trying to write, to be productive in one way or another, and their brains just go on strike, protesting any work of any kind. They are left just staring at a blank word document or an empty page of notebook, and coming up with absolutely nothing.

Or just staring at the bottom of any already started document for a solid twenty minutes and thinking over and over again, “What in the world will I write today?” and finally giving it up as a lost cause and writing about the fact that she has nothing to write about.  

Okay, word count hit. I’m going to stop rambling now.  Sorry for taking up your time, and kindly enjoy the rest of your day.

<3

Tinker Sick?

So, Hollins Sick is nothing new. I was warned several times in advance through multiple different class years that I was bound to be Hollins Sick after graduation, no matter how much I thought I was ready to be done with the place.  But as we rapidly approach October, I’ve realized that what I’m going through right now is a very specific kind of Hollins Sick.  I’m Tinker Sick.  Without even realizing it, I’ve been waiting for a surprise day off.  A phone call from my boss that will tell me not to come into work, and I’ll spend the whole day dressed in something ridiculous. I have absolutely no desire to climb another mountain (always my least favorite part of Tinker Day, and I hated going down the mountain even more so), but the silly skits, inordinate amounts of foods that strictly speaking aren’t good for me, and proper excuse to dress up like an absolute fool—yeah, I really miss Tinker Day. 

I was half awake this morning (my alarm having already gone off once, but I knew I could hit snooze twice more before I actually had to get up) when one of my roommates dropped something in the kitchen.  It made a very distinct clanging pot sort of noise.  I longed for the days of Tinker Scares, no matter how they annoyed me as an underclassman or caused me to go deaf for a couple hours as a senior. It’s making my heart hurt even now just thinking about it. I wonder when the class of 2013 did their last one, or when they are going to do it again. I wonder if my Ring Sister has gotten to do any, since she’s a commuter student, and I sincerely hope she has.

I hope that when Tinker Day finally does come, I have the day off work.  If I do, I’m going to the Stop and Shop for some fried chicken and chocolate cake.  I’m going to wear my senior robe and my Rose Hill Tinker Shirt, and multiple layers of various other mismatching clothes.  I may even wear all that to the Stop and Shop and enjoy looking completely insane—just for the moment. And as much as I’m going to miss Tinker Day, I’ll just remember that I’ll still be able to feel my legs come three in the afternoon and try to focus on the bright side of it. 

SJEJ and Ashleigh

A year ago today, I sat in Bristol, VA, brimming with delayed teenage rebellion and the overwhelming desire to do something slightly stupid and highly permanent. After Ashleigh got out of classes, we were going to go together to get our first tattoos.  I had made the decision weeks prior, but even leading up to the moment, I was still trying to decide exactly what I was going to do.  The one thing I knew was that it was going to be related to my family.

See, it was half a joke at the time between Ashleigh and I, but we were going to run away to London. We were going to graduate, sell what we could, and then we would just go.  I wasn’t going to admit then just how serious I was about the idea, because I knew that if I revealed such a fact to Ashleigh, then she would make it happen.  After all, she was the one who got two fifteen year old girls to New York City for a movie premiere when neither girl had a job, or an allowance of any kind for that matter, all because we decided that we wanted to go stand and scream at a red carpet.   Ashleigh has that kind of power.  The only thing that made me hesitate was my connection to my family.  I didn’t want to leave them behind.  In fact, it’s actually been the hardest part of the past three and a half months, being so far away from my family.

In one way or another, my tattoo always contained four letters, SJEJ, which stood for Susan, Jay, Ethan, and Jessica.  I had to limit it to just my immediate family, or else the list would have gone far too long and not been at all practical. The location changed several times throughout the decision making process, including the morning of the 23^rd.  The color of the tattoo changed while I was sitting in the chair, literally two minutes before needle hit skin.  Ashleigh made faces at me while I was getting it done—more to distract me from the nerves of “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this” rather than from the pain. (All in all, it really didn’t hurt. Just felt weird.) Now, I have SJEJ tattooed on my left wrist in royal blue ink, the exact size to be perfectly hidden by my watch band.

The other day I told Ashleigh I was considering running away to England again. Again, I’m not sure if knows just how serious I am about the whole thing—but I know that if I really want it, I can ask her to help me make it possible, and Ashleigh is good enough to make sure I get there.  After all, I never thought I would get to stand at the edge of the red carpet for a Harry Potter premiere, or have the guts to get a tattoo.  And I think that marks a great friend.

<3

Cleaning Considerations

I think that my biggest downfall is frustration. Since I was little, I’ve found that a lot of things that I have tried have come relatively easy.  Or, rather, things that I want to do have come relatively easy to me.  So, when I have to actually work for something, I get rather frustrated rather quickly.  To this day, I’m pretty sure the only reason I can’t drive a stick shift with ease is directly related to my own frustration. If I could have gotten my own frustration under control, then I probably could have mastered it.

I need to make sure that I do not let frustration get the best of me in the next couple of years.  Things are going to be tough, and I’m betting that there are going to be at least a hundred things to get frustrated about, probably every day. If I let myself, it will be very easy to quit everything.  It will be very easy to find easier ways to survive—and ten, twenty, thirty years from now, I will be very upset with myself for letting things get out of hand.  I mean, it only took me eight years to be very annoyed with myself that I didn’t learn how to drive a stick shift properly, and that had absolutely nothing to do with my hopes and dreams since childhood. 

So, yeah. These are the things I think about while cleaning coffee urns. It’s probably good that I have the day off tomorrow.

<3 

Ode to a Bookstore

Right now, I am sitting in a Barnes and Noble.  I know that really, I should be trying to support my local bookstores and things of that nature, but there is something about Barnes and Noble that just puts me immediately at ease.  Perhaps it is that I can walk into a Barnes and Noble and walk out without buying something and not feel too terribly guilty because they won’t really suffer from my lack of a book purchase.  Also, free wi-fi, and relatively cheap access to soda and the like.

But really, it’s the familiarity of it all.  No matter where I am—Virginia Beach, Roanoke, Shelton—I can drive to a BN and really feel like I’ve been there before.  My first time in the store it might take a few moments to get situated as to which section is where, but once I’m in between some shelves or bunkered down in an arm chair, I really could be anywhere, whether I want to be closer to home, or further away.  That’s a good feeling.

To change the subject completely: I’ve just looked up and realized that there are outlets on the ceiling.  Why would they put outlets on the ceiling? What’s the point in that? Who is breaking out the ladder to plug things in and dangle them through the room?

Jumping back:  I could continue to ramble about the wonders of BN, or other bookstores of choice, but I’ve found throughout my life that there are bookstore people and non-bookstore people.  Bookstore people know the feeling—the breath of fresh air and the calming wave that just walking into a bookstore provides.  Whether they agree with me or not about chain stories, they still know the feeling and can relate to it.  Non-bookstore people just think I’m crazy, and no matter what I do, I would never be able to explain it to them.  So, I’m not going to waste my breath (typing time?).  I just hope they have something that makes them feel as good as bookstores make me feel. 

<3

Diseased

So, I've had my first post college "failing" as an adult.  Failing is in quotes there because the average human being wouldn't consider it failing, but I still can't help but feel guilty about it.  Today, I had to call out of work.  As we speak, I should be at work, but I'm not. I'm sick.

I had a fever all day yesterday and into last night.  This morning, I had a bit of a fever still, significantly less than yesterday, but decided to go ahead and call out of work. Considering that my job deals with a lot of food and the like, it was probably best for everyone, co-workers and customers alike, if I just stayed home and got some rest, really shook off the fever before returning to work. Rationally I know that it isn't my fault that I got sick, and I did call out with plenty of warning, and really it's probably best that I'm not acting as a typhoid Mary for this silly flu/cold thing that I've got.   But I can't help but feel guilty for not being there today.  And feeling guilty when I realize how much money I'm losing for not going to work, because I could use that money.  Grumble, Grumble. Pointless complaining. There's nothing I can do about it now.  I'm not at work today.  There are worse things in the world, and with any luck it will be forgotten after a manner of time. 

All right, enough of me whining.  I'm going to go take a nap or, I guess, just go to sleep. I've got to be fighting fit for tomorrow.  As sad as it sounds, tomorrow, it's Starbucks or bust.

<3