I can smell it - NYC's human traffic, crowds so thick every back is pressed against every stomach and everyone is wondering why the hell they decided to do this in the first place. The excessively cold wait, huddled against strangers and friends, again thinking this was a terrible idea. Food plastered in pockets, empty bottles hanging from frozen fingertips, just in case.
And of course I'm not there, not yet. Tyler and I will drive from Huggiesville to State College, spend the night, meet up with Michelle and Curtis, and make the what seems to be 5.5 hour journey to the heart of New York. We will stand pressed against each other for a meager 10 hours, listening briefly to Daughtry and J.Lo, and I will be smiling, no need to worry there.
Crowds don't bother me in the slightest. I love to get lost in them. I will stow cash in one pocket, my pretty pink mace bottle in another, and whatever food might be able to fit where, because we're gonna be hungry.
And then we'll count down the precious hours, minutes, seconds until the ball drops. Lots of kissin', huggin', drinkin', chattin', laughin', glad to be in the midst of the greatest New Year's party. Confetti will fall from the sky, making the night that much more fun.
What a glorious way to ring in 2010. Bring it on.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
olympic diving boards
It's one in the morning and you wonder where
the time has gone, where it's been, why it's not
stopping
for you.
You feel the hope of each new day cloud beneath
a silver moon, and panic escapes, panting,
breathing labored like lips under pressure.
The feel of turmoil slithers in dreams, you're
not dreaming, but you lie awake at night
wondering why it can't be you who falls
asleep smiling.
It's not you. It never has been you.
Time waits for nobody, but somebody must move
the pawn because the sand sinks slowly
between closed fingers and runs out.
And suddenly, you fall asleep with that smile,
those dreams replaying in your head, but
they don't last for long. They move between reality
and hope, but which is true
you ask. Laced fingers feel the truth, and only
time will tell.
the time has gone, where it's been, why it's not
stopping
for you.
You feel the hope of each new day cloud beneath
a silver moon, and panic escapes, panting,
breathing labored like lips under pressure.
The feel of turmoil slithers in dreams, you're
not dreaming, but you lie awake at night
wondering why it can't be you who falls
asleep smiling.
It's not you. It never has been you.
Time waits for nobody, but somebody must move
the pawn because the sand sinks slowly
between closed fingers and runs out.
And suddenly, you fall asleep with that smile,
those dreams replaying in your head, but
they don't last for long. They move between reality
and hope, but which is true
you ask. Laced fingers feel the truth, and only
time will tell.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
The gift that...makes your eyes bleed?
Moni gave me pepper spray for Christmas. It's in a pretty pink bottle and hisses every time I unlock the cap.
Hmmmm.
Hmmmm.
Friday, December 25, 2009
good night, and good luck.
Christmas craziness is over. I'm numbingly tired and sweetly satisfied. I don't know about your family, but my family wakes up early every Christmas morning. I'm talking 5 or 6AM. Actually, let me set you straight; I wake up at 5 or 6 in the morning and I tip-toe out to our tree in the dark and set my presents underneath the tree. Then I race upstairs to shake my sister awake, who then shakes our brother awake, who in turn wriggles on our parents' bed like a worm in water.
It's a scene. I start the scene and they finish it, and we all stumble downstairs in a frenzy because by then, we've all been sitting around in a sleep-deprived daze waiting for cameras to be found and orange juice to be drank and teeth to be brushed. Do you have odd rituals like that? This year, after I poured each glass of pulp-filled orangeness, I gradually hid my glass behind the coffee table. Nobody, and I mean nobody, drinks orange juice right after brushing their teeth.
An hour later, our living room was covered in wrapping paper and boxes and pretty bags. Legos and board games and a Nintendo Wii and a ping pong table and weird things like a ukulele (!!!) and socks, lots of socks, (all mine) littered every available corner of the room. Our Christmas tree twinkled beautifully amidst the chaos.
And then...then come the post-Christmas gift unwrapping rituals. It's a funny thing, really. See, I don't like clutter. So as soon as everyone is finished searching their stockings, I collect every last one of my gifts and unload them in my room. I don't just stop there, though. I put everything away in its place (because there is a place for everything). My sister stacks all of her gifts neatly and orderly in piles, but then leaves them there, in the living room, for days. Drives me nuts. And then my brother is the absolute worst. His stuff is everywhere. It's all over the living room, in the dining room, on the kitchen table, strewn around the dog and the lamps and we're finding gifts for days that he forgot he even unwrapped. It's madness.
So, I now bid Christmas farewell. It's almost over, and I'll miss it greatly until next year when the craziness can consume me once again. Relaxation and a new year are staring me in the eye, and this year, I welcome both with open arms.
Let the fun keep on comin'. :)
It's a scene. I start the scene and they finish it, and we all stumble downstairs in a frenzy because by then, we've all been sitting around in a sleep-deprived daze waiting for cameras to be found and orange juice to be drank and teeth to be brushed. Do you have odd rituals like that? This year, after I poured each glass of pulp-filled orangeness, I gradually hid my glass behind the coffee table. Nobody, and I mean nobody, drinks orange juice right after brushing their teeth.
An hour later, our living room was covered in wrapping paper and boxes and pretty bags. Legos and board games and a Nintendo Wii and a ping pong table and weird things like a ukulele (!!!) and socks, lots of socks, (all mine) littered every available corner of the room. Our Christmas tree twinkled beautifully amidst the chaos.
And then...then come the post-Christmas gift unwrapping rituals. It's a funny thing, really. See, I don't like clutter. So as soon as everyone is finished searching their stockings, I collect every last one of my gifts and unload them in my room. I don't just stop there, though. I put everything away in its place (because there is a place for everything). My sister stacks all of her gifts neatly and orderly in piles, but then leaves them there, in the living room, for days. Drives me nuts. And then my brother is the absolute worst. His stuff is everywhere. It's all over the living room, in the dining room, on the kitchen table, strewn around the dog and the lamps and we're finding gifts for days that he forgot he even unwrapped. It's madness.
So, I now bid Christmas farewell. It's almost over, and I'll miss it greatly until next year when the craziness can consume me once again. Relaxation and a new year are staring me in the eye, and this year, I welcome both with open arms.
Let the fun keep on comin'. :)
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Butterfly Kisses
Context: Driving my brother (8) and sister (10) to meet my mom for dinner. Conversation:
Bro: Aeriale! Guess where I want to live when I grow up?
Me: Where Gav?
Bro: Well, I'm going to live with Logan (his friend) and we're going to live in the rain forest behind a waterfall. And I'm going to have a pet jaguar. And you need a code to get in.
Me: Wow. That sounds amazing! What's the code?
Bro: 67603. Don't tell anyone.
Me: Promise. So, where do you want to live Lacey?
Sis: I'm gonna live with Courtney (her friend), and I want to have an underground tunnel for all of my pets to roam around in.
Me: Sweet! So, I'm thinking that I want to live on a cloud.
Bro: Yeah!!
Sis: Aeriale, don't you fall through clouds?
Me: No! Cherubs sit on clouds all the time.
Bro: Yeah!!
Me: Either a cloud, or a sunken pirate ship.
Bro: YEAH!! Me tooooo!!!
*chuckles*
My siblings are still at that age when serious conversations are hilarious, and anything seems possible. It's so great. For a lovely fifteen minute drive, we listened to Norah Jones and talked about houses under water and jaguars for pets and cherubs on clouds. Those are my favorite conversations. Nothing seemed unrealistic because to them, it all made sense. Everything makes sense. Why bother with regular neighborhoods when you can live behind a waterfall in the rain forest? Why mess with dogs and cats when jaguars are at your fingertips?
Until I was probably 9, I wanted to be a butterfly when I grew up. Not even joking. I wanted to fly. I used to climb the highest trees and sit on the limbs for hours, pretending that whenever I felt like leaving, I could simply spread my wings and take off. I was never one to build cardboard wings and jump off roofs, but I was the kind of child that would lay in the grass and pretend that I could soar through the clouds. Being a butterfly was my aspiration -- to shed this life and move onto something completely radical, something that was beautiful and peaceful and able to jet off at a moments notice.
I'm no longer 9, but I'm still that dreaming girl in the grass. My idea of the perfect house may not be in the rain forest with jaguars, but I'm thinking more log cabin meets cottage by lake. With a tin roof to hear the rain. There must be a tin roof.
My dreams are more realistic, more manageable, but sometimes...sometimes, I still want to be a butterfly. And that's one dream I save for rainy days when my life seems too bogged down with callous rigidity. I spread my colorful wings and fly away.
Monday, December 21, 2009
O Christmas Tree
There's something to be said for sitting in my living room long after everyone has gone to bed, absentmindedly watching the christmas tree lights flicker on and off. There's something to be said for a mug in one hand and a novel in the other, the smell of our Douglas Fir drifting lazily throughout the house.There's something to be remembered, this tradition, about christmas tunes slowly putting me to sleep, the swirling lights another dream waiting to be had.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Forgotten.
Context:
Step-dad needed me to bring my Ipod to the high school on Friday night. He was in need of a few songs. It was a semi-formal high school dance...boys were wearing tuxes, girls were wearing heavy make-up and looked rather whorish. All of a sudden I was a sophomore at Hughesville again. I walked into the entrance of the school and immediately recognized my 8th grade history teacher. He was sitting at a desk outside the cafeteria (where the dance was being held) taking tickets from the students.
Conversation:
Me: Hey, Mr. Peterman, you probably don't remember me...
Mr. P: Hey, of course I remember you!
Me (very suprised): Uhh..
Mr. P: Let's see, you and your brothers and sisters!
Me (still very surprised..and a bit confused - my brothers and sisters are in elementary...): Uhh..
Mr. P: Okay. I don't really remember your name..
Me (finally, a question I could answer!): Aeriale. It's Aeriale.
Mr. P: (Blank stare. Silence)
Me: Cooksey-Kramer. Aeriale Cooksey-Kramer? I graduated in 2007.
Mr. P: Nope. No, I don't think I remember you. Sorry...I thought you were someone else. Hey, who did you used to hang out with?
Me: Um. Becka Newhart. (she was the track star, tennis champ, beauty-queen extraordinare. We are still close to this day).
Mr. P: Oh yeah! Becka..I remember her!
Me (feeling rather uncomfortable and stupid): Listen, can I just go into the dance..my dad's the DJ, and he needs my Ipod....
Mr. P: Oh, sure. Sure. It was good seeing you again!
...You know, I never was the lead in the musicals. I was never in the top three Varsity spots on the tennis team. I was never Valedictorian, and I never really stood out anywhere.
But oh, to be long forgotten. Now there's an achievement that many people will never gain. I suppose you can say I was never remembered. At least by those who don't matter. :)
Step-dad needed me to bring my Ipod to the high school on Friday night. He was in need of a few songs. It was a semi-formal high school dance...boys were wearing tuxes, girls were wearing heavy make-up and looked rather whorish. All of a sudden I was a sophomore at Hughesville again. I walked into the entrance of the school and immediately recognized my 8th grade history teacher. He was sitting at a desk outside the cafeteria (where the dance was being held) taking tickets from the students.
Conversation:
Me: Hey, Mr. Peterman, you probably don't remember me...
Mr. P: Hey, of course I remember you!
Me (very suprised): Uhh..
Mr. P: Let's see, you and your brothers and sisters!
Me (still very surprised..and a bit confused - my brothers and sisters are in elementary...): Uhh..
Mr. P: Okay. I don't really remember your name..
Me (finally, a question I could answer!): Aeriale. It's Aeriale.
Mr. P: (Blank stare. Silence)
Me: Cooksey-Kramer. Aeriale Cooksey-Kramer? I graduated in 2007.
Mr. P: Nope. No, I don't think I remember you. Sorry...I thought you were someone else. Hey, who did you used to hang out with?
Me: Um. Becka Newhart. (she was the track star, tennis champ, beauty-queen extraordinare. We are still close to this day).
Mr. P: Oh yeah! Becka..I remember her!
Me (feeling rather uncomfortable and stupid): Listen, can I just go into the dance..my dad's the DJ, and he needs my Ipod....
Mr. P: Oh, sure. Sure. It was good seeing you again!
...You know, I never was the lead in the musicals. I was never in the top three Varsity spots on the tennis team. I was never Valedictorian, and I never really stood out anywhere.
But oh, to be long forgotten. Now there's an achievement that many people will never gain. I suppose you can say I was never remembered. At least by those who don't matter. :)
Friday, December 18, 2009
Aeriale's Semi-Plans/Aspirations/Big To-Do's over Christmas Break....
These are not in order, nor are many of them set in stone, but here's how I hope these lovely 3 weeks pan out:::
>> Experience a Times Square New Year ;)
>> Roadtrip to Maine for a few days ((sleep in van, if necessary))
>> Read these novels:
Hand to Mouth to India - Tom Thumb
Breakfast of Champions - Kurt Vonnegut
Local Girls - Alice Hoffman
The Road - Cormac McCarthy
...and any other travel lit. that I can get my hands on.
>> Did I mention read?
>> Find somewhere amazing to let loose on my iceskates.
>> Watch a million movies.
>> Sleeeeeeeeep. Because next semester is going to allow for no sleep. At all. Ever.
>> Experience a Times Square New Year ;)
>> Roadtrip to Maine for a few days ((sleep in van, if necessary))
>> Read these novels:
Hand to Mouth to India - Tom Thumb
Breakfast of Champions - Kurt Vonnegut
Local Girls - Alice Hoffman
The Road - Cormac McCarthy
...and any other travel lit. that I can get my hands on.
>> Did I mention read?
>> Find somewhere amazing to let loose on my iceskates.
>> Watch a million movies.
>> Sleeeeeeeeep. Because next semester is going to allow for no sleep. At all. Ever.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Today is the 6 Month Anniversary of...
...stepping onto the MV Explorer for the first time. These videos capture some of my favorite memories of the summer :) I miss you all dearly!
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Stethoscope.
Can you hear me in this short string of words
This incompatible vocal of syllables and mesh
Looped through genuine smiles and loud bursts of gut-wrenching giggles?
Can you hear my voice in this tacky jingle,
my delirious melancholy and niceties shoving themselves
between your insults and intellectual moonshine?
Can you hear my rolling eyes, they give in and burn
and trickle to a watery sludge that is in constant battle
with your bullshit, if you'll pardon my language.
I am not accustomed to cursing, cursing, and I'd like
to blow my nose with the dreg that hangs from pouty lips,
so with little adieu, I'll be on my lonely way home.
Stop trying to hear my footsteps; they are simply tip-toeing
in the opposite direction and even if you linger to watch me glide away
don't expect me to turn around. Not this time.
This incompatible vocal of syllables and mesh
Looped through genuine smiles and loud bursts of gut-wrenching giggles?
Can you hear my voice in this tacky jingle,
my delirious melancholy and niceties shoving themselves
between your insults and intellectual moonshine?
Can you hear my rolling eyes, they give in and burn
and trickle to a watery sludge that is in constant battle
with your bullshit, if you'll pardon my language.
I am not accustomed to cursing, cursing, and I'd like
to blow my nose with the dreg that hangs from pouty lips,
so with little adieu, I'll be on my lonely way home.
Stop trying to hear my footsteps; they are simply tip-toeing
in the opposite direction and even if you linger to watch me glide away
don't expect me to turn around. Not this time.
Iris.
and I don't want the world to see me
'cause I don't think that they'd understand
when everything is made to be broken
i just want you to know who I am
i just want you to know who I am
i just want you to know who I am.
'cause I don't think that they'd understand
when everything is made to be broken
i just want you to know who I am
i just want you to know who I am
i just want you to know who I am.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Leonard Cohen <3
"Let's meet tomorrow if you choose
upon the shore, beneath the bridge
that they are building on some endless river
Then he leaves the platform
for the sleeping car that's warm
You realize, he's only advertising one more shelter
And it comes to you, he never was a stranger
And you say okay, the bridge or someplace later."
upon the shore, beneath the bridge
that they are building on some endless river
Then he leaves the platform
for the sleeping car that's warm
You realize, he's only advertising one more shelter
And it comes to you, he never was a stranger
And you say okay, the bridge or someplace later."
Friday, December 11, 2009
The weather outside is frightful...
...but I love, love, love it. Did I mention I love it?
The pearly white flakes blow around in a frenzy and my cheeks flush and my nose numbs and all is right in the world because nothing gets better than this. Who couldn't fall in love with the crunch under their boots, or that feeling that I might just be the only other person on the planet because not a soul is seen when trudging to my 8AM? The trees that haven't lost their leaves hold the snow, their limbs drooping and sagging from the pressure of carrying such a delicate weight.
My absolute favorite aspect about winter? Nighttime strolls. It doesn't matter if the wind is blowing harshly and I can't feel my fingers and my toes are frozen stiff.
I can't describe to you the feeling of peace that overrides all other feelings when I'm strolling through the frigid night air...no anxiety, no sorrow, no anger... just a feeling that everything is the way it should be, that everything is okay.
The pearly white flakes blow around in a frenzy and my cheeks flush and my nose numbs and all is right in the world because nothing gets better than this. Who couldn't fall in love with the crunch under their boots, or that feeling that I might just be the only other person on the planet because not a soul is seen when trudging to my 8AM? The trees that haven't lost their leaves hold the snow, their limbs drooping and sagging from the pressure of carrying such a delicate weight.
My absolute favorite aspect about winter? Nighttime strolls. It doesn't matter if the wind is blowing harshly and I can't feel my fingers and my toes are frozen stiff.
I can't describe to you the feeling of peace that overrides all other feelings when I'm strolling through the frigid night air...no anxiety, no sorrow, no anger... just a feeling that everything is the way it should be, that everything is okay.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Burned.
I know I'm playing with fire.
Sometimes fire is mesmerizing. Sometimes it's addicting, a flicker of craving.
But just how close can I play without getting burned?
How close can I play without going up in flames?
How close will the fire allow me to play before it shoves me down on the ground again because the heat is unbearable, a lame excuse for following my heart?
Sometimes fire is mesmerizing. Sometimes it's addicting, a flicker of craving.
But just how close can I play without getting burned?
How close can I play without going up in flames?
How close will the fire allow me to play before it shoves me down on the ground again because the heat is unbearable, a lame excuse for following my heart?
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Retrospect.
Here I sit: in a beret that is sure to be gawked at, in my warm room after just taking a shower and eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch (which is sure to make anyone contemplative), mesmerized by the sight of snow. Louis Armstrong and Amy Grant are celebrating Christmas through my laptop speakers. And I can't help but remember. Isn't that what December is all about? Remembering, cherishing, keeping in mind?
So, here is what I'm thinking about; a kind of ode to anyone who has shared a noteworthy memory with me. To anyone who has made me smile, laugh, and embrace everything life has to offer. This December, I'm thinking of you.
An Ode To You, and You, and You.
Remember when we sat in the middle of the road at my cabin on Thanksgiving, mimicking Sir Mix A Lot and videotaping ourselves?
Remember when we went horseback riding in the Poconos for your birthday...and you didn't want to at first?
Remember when we sat at Starbucks until closing one night until they told us nastily to just leave already?
Remember when we went Geocaching by the baseball field for what seemed liked hours, and still found absolutely nothing?
Remember when we were getting ready to go out one night, and to prepare, we belted N'SYNC from my back porch on my karaoke machine?
Remember when we raced on the Bayfront at night because we could? Remember how we danced and sang at every stoplight?
Remember sipping wine on the last night of finals, wishing you didn't have to leave?
Remember skinny-dipping in the State Park while it was not only thunder storming out, but still broad daylight?
Remember getting lost in the woods after we picnicked, and then driving down dirt roads that were literally deserted and terrifying?
Remember watching trashy, poorly made horror flicks that always provided us with giggles and conversation for months to come?
Remember spooning in Egypt because who knew the desert froze over at night?
Remember trying to teach me for hours how to snowboard and then giving up and just counting the stars instead?
Remember going through wax museums in Canada and flipping out because the one wax figure really looked like Jeffrey Dahmer?
Remember going to see Cats and how I could not stop laughing at the absurdity of it all?
Remember when you told me to 'Go For It', and I didn't?
Remember trying on the hunting gear in Gander Mountain, and trying to take pictures without freaking out the other customers?
Remember sleeping under the stars on my back porch, and then waking up at 4AM freezing and covered in morning dew?
Remember playing Drop-Off at the cabin and seeing the 'prisoner' walk past?
Remember riding in the bed of your truck in the rain and spitting sunflower seeds over the side?
Remember eating chocolate cake and drinking wine from those classy red plastic cups on my bedroom floor?
Remember?
I'm thankful for these times and so many, many more. I can't wait for the memories that are waiting to happen. I just wanted you to know that.
So, here is what I'm thinking about; a kind of ode to anyone who has shared a noteworthy memory with me. To anyone who has made me smile, laugh, and embrace everything life has to offer. This December, I'm thinking of you.
An Ode To You, and You, and You.
Remember when we sat in the middle of the road at my cabin on Thanksgiving, mimicking Sir Mix A Lot and videotaping ourselves?
Remember when we went horseback riding in the Poconos for your birthday...and you didn't want to at first?
Remember when we sat at Starbucks until closing one night until they told us nastily to just leave already?
Remember when we went Geocaching by the baseball field for what seemed liked hours, and still found absolutely nothing?
Remember when we were getting ready to go out one night, and to prepare, we belted N'SYNC from my back porch on my karaoke machine?
Remember when we raced on the Bayfront at night because we could? Remember how we danced and sang at every stoplight?
Remember sipping wine on the last night of finals, wishing you didn't have to leave?
Remember skinny-dipping in the State Park while it was not only thunder storming out, but still broad daylight?
Remember getting lost in the woods after we picnicked, and then driving down dirt roads that were literally deserted and terrifying?
Remember watching trashy, poorly made horror flicks that always provided us with giggles and conversation for months to come?
Remember spooning in Egypt because who knew the desert froze over at night?
Remember trying to teach me for hours how to snowboard and then giving up and just counting the stars instead?
Remember going through wax museums in Canada and flipping out because the one wax figure really looked like Jeffrey Dahmer?
Remember going to see Cats and how I could not stop laughing at the absurdity of it all?
Remember when you told me to 'Go For It', and I didn't?
Remember trying on the hunting gear in Gander Mountain, and trying to take pictures without freaking out the other customers?
Remember sleeping under the stars on my back porch, and then waking up at 4AM freezing and covered in morning dew?
Remember playing Drop-Off at the cabin and seeing the 'prisoner' walk past?
Remember riding in the bed of your truck in the rain and spitting sunflower seeds over the side?
Remember eating chocolate cake and drinking wine from those classy red plastic cups on my bedroom floor?
Remember?
I'm thankful for these times and so many, many more. I can't wait for the memories that are waiting to happen. I just wanted you to know that.
Monday, December 7, 2009
For what it's worth..
I am a sister, a loyal friend, your confidant.
I am who you need me to be, but not because I'm flaky or wishy-washy.
I am a very strong-willed, ambitious individual.
I am God's kid.
I am the smile on your face.
I am an artist, a magician of words, a creator of plots and characters.
I am a feeler, an emotional wreck at times, but don't hold it against me.
I am on the back-burner, behind the curtains, waiting for my spotlight.
I am a fan of movies and laughing and always saving room for dessert.
I am that girl who has her head in the clouds.
I am a listener.
I am a collector of hearts.
I am an acceptable excuse for a planner, but I'm in my element when spontaneity hits the fan.
I am a dreamer.
I am a traveler, a wanderer, an explorer of places vast and barely on the map.
I'm a hat wearin', music lovin', curious gal ready to conquer the world one smile at a time.
I am.
Now excuse me, it's snowing. My duck boots are waiting. My beanie is on. I am out the door.
I am who you need me to be, but not because I'm flaky or wishy-washy.
I am a very strong-willed, ambitious individual.
I am God's kid.
I am the smile on your face.
I am an artist, a magician of words, a creator of plots and characters.
I am a feeler, an emotional wreck at times, but don't hold it against me.
I am on the back-burner, behind the curtains, waiting for my spotlight.
I am a fan of movies and laughing and always saving room for dessert.
I am that girl who has her head in the clouds.
I am a listener.
I am a collector of hearts.
I am an acceptable excuse for a planner, but I'm in my element when spontaneity hits the fan.
I am a dreamer.
I am a traveler, a wanderer, an explorer of places vast and barely on the map.
I'm a hat wearin', music lovin', curious gal ready to conquer the world one smile at a time.
I am.
Now excuse me, it's snowing. My duck boots are waiting. My beanie is on. I am out the door.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Self-Portrait
From now on, I'd rather keep looking into someone else's eyes... this self-portrait thing is not my ideal Sunday project.
Glasses- Check.
Eyes - Uhm. Maybe they are not my own eyes, but they are there.
Nose - Cross hatched and crooked.
Ears - Ack.
Lips - What lips?
The shadow under my neck - There in all its glory.
Hair - Nope. I'm still bald.
Anything else that I might have missed? Oh. Yeah. Me.
Glasses- Check.
Eyes - Uhm. Maybe they are not my own eyes, but they are there.
Nose - Cross hatched and crooked.
Ears - Ack.
Lips - What lips?
The shadow under my neck - There in all its glory.
Hair - Nope. I'm still bald.
Anything else that I might have missed? Oh. Yeah. Me.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Culturalization.
The triumph of integrating oneself into the art scene of downtown Erie is, surprisingly, a kind of unique other-world affair.
That's how I spent my Friday night -- meandering through comfortable crowds of wine connoisseurs and those with a taste for beautiful artwork and people. Everyone was dressed up. Big hats sat on permed heads, Burberry shawls lounged on pin-straight shoulders, men wore ties and sports jackets and were cleanly shaved in an arrogant, wealthy sort of way.
I've always wondered where these kinds of people hide. I drive through Erie quite frequently and I must say, the selection of people is nothing short of depressing. I can point out which corners the hobos frequent, where the Crackdonalds is located, and which types are always hopping the guardrails in the middle of the highway, pulling their pants up with a lazy finger. To put it bluntly, downtown Erie is not the kind of place I'd like to find myself lounging around in at night. It's not what one might call 'rough', but it's just kind of run-down and dead-ended.
So, I park the Beast outside of the Crackdonalds and maneuver past the hoards of thick perfume and wads of money into my first gallery. Bright lights, Big city. Everything is shiny, well-kept. Price tags litter shelves and my eyes bulge at the glassware, the couture of Vera Wang, the utter style and motion of mastery design. It's perfect.
Of course I find the food -- a lovely selection of brownie bites (with a thin layer of fudge slapped in the middle), crackers and bread bits ready to be sloughed with crab dips and artichoke paste. This, I thought with a smile, is going to be a good night.
I ended up purchasing a Christmas gift, and one of those yummy oreos with the frosting made to look like a cutesy snowman, and made my way to the next four galleries all in a matter of two some hours.
Through the course of the night, I stared at Picasso's artwork, thinking I myself could mimic something like that. I ran a finger along the earth ware that I should not have touched. I sipped punch and wine and had my fair share of cookies and strawberries and crackers filled to the brim with dips galore. I lingered too long, and stared too much, and had an absolute blast mingling with the artsy types.
If only my wallet were fuller, my stomach a bit hungrier, my gas tank not screaming FEED ME, then I might have walked around a little more. But every good night must end. So, indeed, here I am on a Saturday night, waiting to make my way out into the flurry of snow for another round of Christmas shopping and taste-testing and beautiful people-watching.
I suppose Friday night might have ended, but who says I can't keep making it last forever? Saturday night, here I come.
That's how I spent my Friday night -- meandering through comfortable crowds of wine connoisseurs and those with a taste for beautiful artwork and people. Everyone was dressed up. Big hats sat on permed heads, Burberry shawls lounged on pin-straight shoulders, men wore ties and sports jackets and were cleanly shaved in an arrogant, wealthy sort of way.
I've always wondered where these kinds of people hide. I drive through Erie quite frequently and I must say, the selection of people is nothing short of depressing. I can point out which corners the hobos frequent, where the Crackdonalds is located, and which types are always hopping the guardrails in the middle of the highway, pulling their pants up with a lazy finger. To put it bluntly, downtown Erie is not the kind of place I'd like to find myself lounging around in at night. It's not what one might call 'rough', but it's just kind of run-down and dead-ended.
So, I park the Beast outside of the Crackdonalds and maneuver past the hoards of thick perfume and wads of money into my first gallery. Bright lights, Big city. Everything is shiny, well-kept. Price tags litter shelves and my eyes bulge at the glassware, the couture of Vera Wang, the utter style and motion of mastery design. It's perfect.
Of course I find the food -- a lovely selection of brownie bites (with a thin layer of fudge slapped in the middle), crackers and bread bits ready to be sloughed with crab dips and artichoke paste. This, I thought with a smile, is going to be a good night.
I ended up purchasing a Christmas gift, and one of those yummy oreos with the frosting made to look like a cutesy snowman, and made my way to the next four galleries all in a matter of two some hours.
Through the course of the night, I stared at Picasso's artwork, thinking I myself could mimic something like that. I ran a finger along the earth ware that I should not have touched. I sipped punch and wine and had my fair share of cookies and strawberries and crackers filled to the brim with dips galore. I lingered too long, and stared too much, and had an absolute blast mingling with the artsy types.
If only my wallet were fuller, my stomach a bit hungrier, my gas tank not screaming FEED ME, then I might have walked around a little more. But every good night must end. So, indeed, here I am on a Saturday night, waiting to make my way out into the flurry of snow for another round of Christmas shopping and taste-testing and beautiful people-watching.
I suppose Friday night might have ended, but who says I can't keep making it last forever? Saturday night, here I come.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Glycerine::An Insider's Scoop into the Happenings of Dobs
I feel like it is my obligation to give you the inside scoop, the lithe truth, the ucky details and completely ridiculous behind-the-scenes of my workplace: Behrend's one and only cafeteria-style fine dining -- Dobbins.
I've worked here now since Freshman year. I've held numerous titles in the place -- dish room attendant, line server, Chef's help, salad prep, grille cook, checker, and my latest, Pasta Girl. I can flip onions and peppers and garlic to students' hearts' content. I can toss the Alfredo in the air and land it smack back in the pan without splattering it all over myself. I can eavesdrop (my favorite past time, by the way) on so many interesting conversations so that I will never run out of stories to write about.
Perhaps I should introduce you to my co-workers on Wednesday nights? Maybe you can get a feel for an average Pasta Girl night? I will be as uncensored and politically incorrect as possible, rest assured. Can you handle the truth?
Let's begin with Pasta Boy, my sidekick, my Alfredo partner in crime. He is actually kind of beautiful, and I'm sure he knows it. He has this untameable brown hair and thick black glasses, similar to my own. The guy never fails at making me crack up, and I don't think I ever fail at putting a smile on those handsome, dimpled cheeks. So we whistle and throw pasta into the air and talk about everything. He's going to tune my Bouzouki for me next week. And then there's his girlfriend (of course there's a girlfriend. What kind of nice guy would I meet without a girlfriend?)...
Dessert Girl..who is gorgeous, of course. She wears pearls to work every night. They glimmer around her neck every time she bends down to show a little cleavage to Pasta Boy. I really can't dislike her because she always saves me a piece of cake, or a sliver of brownie that she stores under her counter. I eat my fair share of yummy goodness over at her station.
Then there's Line Server Dude who is forever winking at me and making these crude gestures with his hands while I am sipping my chocolate milk during breaks. He's always touching me on the arm, lacing his fingers through mine when I'm not looking, calling me sweetie and baby, rubbing my shoulders. See, he's this black guy who's absolutely hilarious, which is why his gestures are not sexual harassment. I like the guy. He makes me laugh. And he brings me whatever is on the line to snack on throughout the night...
which leads me to introduce you to Tattooed Supervisor and Mohawk Supervisor. They are something else, and if I can even begin to describe them accurately, I think I deserve a nice pat on the back (which Line Server Dude will probably have covered next week). Tattooed Supervisor constantly lifts up his shirt for me to admire the brilliant ink scribbled all over his back and shoulders. We do this out of eye shot by the sink. I'm sure it's not very becoming of him (who sports a RED shirt, while the rest of us sport the dull blue ones), but he's great. He has this drawl that makes me smile. Then Mohawk Supervisor enjoys whipping other workers with wet towels. I try to stay out of his line of fire. It's amusing to watch, however, and there are constant wars between the guys at Dobbins to see who can leave the nastiest welts in the most private of places. Pasta Boy was trying to enlighten me on the techniques of "wrist snapping" tonight, but it was a major fail.
Now there's Bus Boy who never fails to stare awkwardly at me whenever he's passing by with various carts of dishes. Bus Boy is funny in a dry, awkward kind of way, and although he waits every night to walk me back to my apartment, I feel the need to tell him very soon that nothing is going to happen between us. Ever. Not even in the Dairy Freezer, where people go to feel each other up during breaks.
I'm half tempted to call the Dairy Freezer the Rape Closet because every time I go back there I feel like very bad things could happen. It's this vibe, you know. The heavy metal door slams behind me as I grab some more Parmesan cheese, and WHAM...you just never know.
There's also the Stoner Pizza Maker, who is strung out on lethal things every time he comes into work. He's always throwing pepperoni at me and trying to 'scare' me by jumping out of hidden corners into my face. He talks with this slow, drawn out voice and is never really 'with it', if you know what I mean. He told Dessert Girl tonight that she should try some Meth with him sometime. Her pearls glimmered as she shook her curls at him in a "what the hell?" kind of way.
And I really can't forget about Check Mate, the checker girl who is boisterous, obnoxious, and ready to fight you. I'm sure she could take anyone who talked back to her, and she tries to pick a fight every night with one of the supervisors. Her numerous mouth piercings give her a lisp, and she's a pretty hefty black girl with this boulder on her shoulder. It's hilarious. I like to provoke her, just to see what she'll say to me, which is not much. I took her to the beach last year, so we have an understanding.
I really don't even want to go into the Managers...who are all sadistic and utterly ridiculous. So I won't. But you get the idea.
This is where I spend my Wednesday nights...and I love every minute of it. Sure, I complain about how I hate Dobbins and how I can't stand swiping my card to sign onto my shift, but I'm lying. Once I'm there, I don't stop smiling. I love to people-watch, and stare at Pasta Boy's dimples, and make a fool of myself while singing into the mop as I clean up, pretending to be Cinderella. I enjoy the people I work with a little too much, I think, and I wouldn't trade them for the world. Which is why I felt the need to share this little tid-bit of my life with you.
I mean, there's also my tutoring job that consumes more of my time than Dobbins does...but we'll save that analysis for another time, another blog, another rant...
I've worked here now since Freshman year. I've held numerous titles in the place -- dish room attendant, line server, Chef's help, salad prep, grille cook, checker, and my latest, Pasta Girl. I can flip onions and peppers and garlic to students' hearts' content. I can toss the Alfredo in the air and land it smack back in the pan without splattering it all over myself. I can eavesdrop (my favorite past time, by the way) on so many interesting conversations so that I will never run out of stories to write about.
Perhaps I should introduce you to my co-workers on Wednesday nights? Maybe you can get a feel for an average Pasta Girl night? I will be as uncensored and politically incorrect as possible, rest assured. Can you handle the truth?
Let's begin with Pasta Boy, my sidekick, my Alfredo partner in crime. He is actually kind of beautiful, and I'm sure he knows it. He has this untameable brown hair and thick black glasses, similar to my own. The guy never fails at making me crack up, and I don't think I ever fail at putting a smile on those handsome, dimpled cheeks. So we whistle and throw pasta into the air and talk about everything. He's going to tune my Bouzouki for me next week. And then there's his girlfriend (of course there's a girlfriend. What kind of nice guy would I meet without a girlfriend?)...
Dessert Girl..who is gorgeous, of course. She wears pearls to work every night. They glimmer around her neck every time she bends down to show a little cleavage to Pasta Boy. I really can't dislike her because she always saves me a piece of cake, or a sliver of brownie that she stores under her counter. I eat my fair share of yummy goodness over at her station.
Then there's Line Server Dude who is forever winking at me and making these crude gestures with his hands while I am sipping my chocolate milk during breaks. He's always touching me on the arm, lacing his fingers through mine when I'm not looking, calling me sweetie and baby, rubbing my shoulders. See, he's this black guy who's absolutely hilarious, which is why his gestures are not sexual harassment. I like the guy. He makes me laugh. And he brings me whatever is on the line to snack on throughout the night...
which leads me to introduce you to Tattooed Supervisor and Mohawk Supervisor. They are something else, and if I can even begin to describe them accurately, I think I deserve a nice pat on the back (which Line Server Dude will probably have covered next week). Tattooed Supervisor constantly lifts up his shirt for me to admire the brilliant ink scribbled all over his back and shoulders. We do this out of eye shot by the sink. I'm sure it's not very becoming of him (who sports a RED shirt, while the rest of us sport the dull blue ones), but he's great. He has this drawl that makes me smile. Then Mohawk Supervisor enjoys whipping other workers with wet towels. I try to stay out of his line of fire. It's amusing to watch, however, and there are constant wars between the guys at Dobbins to see who can leave the nastiest welts in the most private of places. Pasta Boy was trying to enlighten me on the techniques of "wrist snapping" tonight, but it was a major fail.
Now there's Bus Boy who never fails to stare awkwardly at me whenever he's passing by with various carts of dishes. Bus Boy is funny in a dry, awkward kind of way, and although he waits every night to walk me back to my apartment, I feel the need to tell him very soon that nothing is going to happen between us. Ever. Not even in the Dairy Freezer, where people go to feel each other up during breaks.
I'm half tempted to call the Dairy Freezer the Rape Closet because every time I go back there I feel like very bad things could happen. It's this vibe, you know. The heavy metal door slams behind me as I grab some more Parmesan cheese, and WHAM...you just never know.
There's also the Stoner Pizza Maker, who is strung out on lethal things every time he comes into work. He's always throwing pepperoni at me and trying to 'scare' me by jumping out of hidden corners into my face. He talks with this slow, drawn out voice and is never really 'with it', if you know what I mean. He told Dessert Girl tonight that she should try some Meth with him sometime. Her pearls glimmered as she shook her curls at him in a "what the hell?" kind of way.
And I really can't forget about Check Mate, the checker girl who is boisterous, obnoxious, and ready to fight you. I'm sure she could take anyone who talked back to her, and she tries to pick a fight every night with one of the supervisors. Her numerous mouth piercings give her a lisp, and she's a pretty hefty black girl with this boulder on her shoulder. It's hilarious. I like to provoke her, just to see what she'll say to me, which is not much. I took her to the beach last year, so we have an understanding.
I really don't even want to go into the Managers...who are all sadistic and utterly ridiculous. So I won't. But you get the idea.
This is where I spend my Wednesday nights...and I love every minute of it. Sure, I complain about how I hate Dobbins and how I can't stand swiping my card to sign onto my shift, but I'm lying. Once I'm there, I don't stop smiling. I love to people-watch, and stare at Pasta Boy's dimples, and make a fool of myself while singing into the mop as I clean up, pretending to be Cinderella. I enjoy the people I work with a little too much, I think, and I wouldn't trade them for the world. Which is why I felt the need to share this little tid-bit of my life with you.
I mean, there's also my tutoring job that consumes more of my time than Dobbins does...but we'll save that analysis for another time, another blog, another rant...
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Coffee Shop Talk
Sometimes, school work comes second to good conversation.
Sometimes, illusions are drowned in the midst of authenticity.
Sometimes, it's promising. Sometimes, it's not. But always, it makes me smile.
Sometimes, illusions are drowned in the midst of authenticity.
Sometimes, it's promising. Sometimes, it's not. But always, it makes me smile.
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