I've been thinking about how to post this on here, partly because I've been so nervous about getting a job, and partly because I'm just sort of afraid I won't say it the right way, but I got a job!
Yes, it's true. I somehow managed to wrangle an instructor position in this scary economic quicksand we're all sort of sinking in.
Evidence of the quicksandiness of the economy? Bobby is being replaced at his job by a computer. No lie. Let me say that again, because it just sounds so ridiculous and so sort of zeitgeisty (please allow me zeitgeisty, thanks). He is being replaced by a computer.
Because of this absurd, hilarious, and sad event, I really really needed to get a job. I'm happy to say I'll be teaching interpretation of literature and continuing as an adviser. It's possible, however, that I've started taking my advising position too seriously. Out with friends I'll nag them about documents they need to turn in and deadlines that are coming up.
Okay, I don't think I can say anymore about this. I'm too nervous/excited about the coming semester. And actually, writing this little blog right now is a distraction. I'm supposed to be working on a story.... Away I go!
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Something something do not good neighbors make
So, I suppose I didn't realize until I started writing this blog that I love the phrase do not good neighbors make . In honor of my new found appreciation for this phrase, I thought I'd list some things/people/ideas/whatever that do not, in fact, good neighbors make. Here we go.
1) Dogs with separation anxiety and owners with eight hour work days
2) Any kind of large bird, but especially macaws (although I love them, they are the nosiest)
3) A busy bakery (well, if it opens early, probably the customers would be loud, and wouldn't the smell of fresh bread wake me in the morning, like way before the alarm? Yeah, thought so)
4) Wal-Mart
5) Young adults living on their own for the first time
6) Young adults living on their own for the first time in a band
7) Young adults living on their own for the first time in a band that practices at odd hours
8) Anyone that you don't want to love the way you love yourself (thanks Bobby)
9) Mosquitoes
10) People who think they are delicate and unique snowflakes
11) My own growing awareness of my own mortality
12) One of Bobby's exes
So there is a short list. I'm sure, very sure, that there are many more. But hey, let's do one more, since it's the fourth of July.
13) People having firecracker fights and drinking heavily
And there you have it. 13 things which do not good neighbors make.
1) Dogs with separation anxiety and owners with eight hour work days
2) Any kind of large bird, but especially macaws (although I love them, they are the nosiest)
3) A busy bakery (well, if it opens early, probably the customers would be loud, and wouldn't the smell of fresh bread wake me in the morning, like way before the alarm? Yeah, thought so)
4) Wal-Mart
5) Young adults living on their own for the first time
6) Young adults living on their own for the first time in a band
7) Young adults living on their own for the first time in a band that practices at odd hours
8) Anyone that you don't want to love the way you love yourself (thanks Bobby)
9) Mosquitoes
10) People who think they are delicate and unique snowflakes
11) My own growing awareness of my own mortality
12) One of Bobby's exes
So there is a short list. I'm sure, very sure, that there are many more. But hey, let's do one more, since it's the fourth of July.
13) People having firecracker fights and drinking heavily
And there you have it. 13 things which do not good neighbors make.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Walking a dog
We are house-sitting for friends in one of those neighborhoods where everything looks the same. It's quite pretty and it was especially so today, everything sort of drenched and lush. Greener and more vibrant than you'd imagine.
But it's weird walking around with each house looking identical to the one we are watching. I keep thinking I could just walk up any one of the tiled driveways and use my key to open the door. Probably there are only four or five different floor plans. What are the odds that two of these maybe 300 hundred houses have one room decorated in the exact same way? Maybe both families went to Ikea; maybe both appreciated modern, concise design.
I think I'd love to be a realtor because then I could go into so many different houses.
It's also strange walking around because to me there's something about the kaleidoscopic effect of so many identical houses that makes it feel as if no one else is home. Like some kind of post-apocalyptic movie where the dog and I are the only ones left. We should gaze into each others' eyes, the dog and I , and then look to the sky, searching for life.
If the dog we're watching and I were the only living beings left in the world, here are a few things we would do:
1) We'd drive everyone's cars and park them in interesting formations. I'd tell the dog that this is a new art form, and he, being a dog, could do nothing but heartily agree. I'd create a little magazine about the movement and deliver said magazine to my own mailbox once a month.
2) We would break into the mall and pretend that zombies were attacking us. If zombies did attack, we'd move our operations to one of those super stores, preferably Target because I like their dishware.
3) The dog and I would have to learn how to cook. We'd just have to.
4) Go into everyone else's house. Like realtors.
There really is nothing quite as lonely as walking through a neighborhood seemingly devoid of all other life. Save, I suppose, the lawns and the trees and the flowers and the mosquitoes. But mosquitoes, as we all know, do not good neighbors make.
Walking around with the dog, I find myself thinking a lot about the future. I don't know if it's all the post-apocalyptic imaginings or something else, but I can't seem to help it. I haven't heard yet whether or not I got a job. Waiting like this is like slowly stretching your spine until it cracks, or like hitting the snooze button and going right back into a dream, or it's like letting the facet drip water into the sink until the sink is full and it overflows.
But it's weird walking around with each house looking identical to the one we are watching. I keep thinking I could just walk up any one of the tiled driveways and use my key to open the door. Probably there are only four or five different floor plans. What are the odds that two of these maybe 300 hundred houses have one room decorated in the exact same way? Maybe both families went to Ikea; maybe both appreciated modern, concise design.
I think I'd love to be a realtor because then I could go into so many different houses.
It's also strange walking around because to me there's something about the kaleidoscopic effect of so many identical houses that makes it feel as if no one else is home. Like some kind of post-apocalyptic movie where the dog and I are the only ones left. We should gaze into each others' eyes, the dog and I , and then look to the sky, searching for life.
If the dog we're watching and I were the only living beings left in the world, here are a few things we would do:
1) We'd drive everyone's cars and park them in interesting formations. I'd tell the dog that this is a new art form, and he, being a dog, could do nothing but heartily agree. I'd create a little magazine about the movement and deliver said magazine to my own mailbox once a month.
2) We would break into the mall and pretend that zombies were attacking us. If zombies did attack, we'd move our operations to one of those super stores, preferably Target because I like their dishware.
3) The dog and I would have to learn how to cook. We'd just have to.
4) Go into everyone else's house. Like realtors.
There really is nothing quite as lonely as walking through a neighborhood seemingly devoid of all other life. Save, I suppose, the lawns and the trees and the flowers and the mosquitoes. But mosquitoes, as we all know, do not good neighbors make.
Walking around with the dog, I find myself thinking a lot about the future. I don't know if it's all the post-apocalyptic imaginings or something else, but I can't seem to help it. I haven't heard yet whether or not I got a job. Waiting like this is like slowly stretching your spine until it cracks, or like hitting the snooze button and going right back into a dream, or it's like letting the facet drip water into the sink until the sink is full and it overflows.
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