(On cashing out my savings bonds)
Mom: So we had to put a dollar in your account to take the money out. But some of them are Payable on death, and I didn't want to kill you. POD. So we're going to the bank at 10 so you can sign for them.
27 November, 2009
25 November, 2009
Happy Thanksgiving, from PETA
PETA is a terrible organization. They are loud, they are obnoxious, and they overdramatize their cause in a way that often repels people instead of converting them. Here's their newest propaganda just in time for Thanksgiving, where a cute little girl asks to say grace before her family sits down to eat dinner at the Thanksgiving meal.
Ugh. The "...and thank you for rainbows" comment is such an afterthought to try to make her sound young and innocent and perhaps take away the "sting" of the harsh realities that turkeys endure in our country. Yes, the meat industry in America is admittedly very bad, even in however many decades after The Jungle was written. (side note: ew.) PETA added the whole part about "the mean people who stomp on the little turkey heads" line in to really tug at the carnivorous heart strings. But the real effect? After watching this commercial, I sort of want to eat meat just to spite them. And I've been a vegetarian for over two years. So, objective not accomplished, PETA.
But seriously y'all- tofurkey is delicious. You should try some. Happy Thanksgiving!
Ugh. The "...and thank you for rainbows" comment is such an afterthought to try to make her sound young and innocent and perhaps take away the "sting" of the harsh realities that turkeys endure in our country. Yes, the meat industry in America is admittedly very bad, even in however many decades after The Jungle was written. (side note: ew.) PETA added the whole part about "the mean people who stomp on the little turkey heads" line in to really tug at the carnivorous heart strings. But the real effect? After watching this commercial, I sort of want to eat meat just to spite them. And I've been a vegetarian for over two years. So, objective not accomplished, PETA.
But seriously y'all- tofurkey is delicious. You should try some. Happy Thanksgiving!
24 November, 2009
A Cat Call Needing A Response
Since I've moved to the city, I've dealt with the usual amount of attention from male strangers, at least as much as any other 20something female. But this situation was different because my internship starts at 8am- This guy was out cat-calling people under the bright light of the sun. I was also wearing what I previously had considered a cat-call-proof outfit: khaki pants which flatter no woman, and a comfy dirty sweatshirt over a man-size green aquarium polo with sneakers. Not exactly the definition of sexy. In the course of my internship I get sprayed with salt water, protein from filters, and dead animal parts. I'm not going to wear anything nice.
So while on my way to my internship at the Aquarium last week I was talking on my cell phone, as most everyone else in this city does on their commute to and from work. I had just passed the restaurant I used to work for which meant I was a 4 minutes walk away from the Aquarium. That's when I noticed a guy standing on the corner yelling at people. Loudly. This scenario is a normal part of any person's commute. My usual plan of attack is to avoid, avoid, avoid, and so I crossed the street.
Because this guy either noticed that I was clearly distancing myself (or he just is in a habit of yelling at every female that walks by) he followed me and crossed the street too, at which point he yelled after me, "Why you calling me baby? I'm right here!"
Yep, there you are.
I am not one to normally respond to cat calls, but I would love to be able to come up with something for this one. As it was, I turned around, smiled, and kept on my merry way. Not exactly the Hail Mary of Cat Call Responses, but you've got to acknowledge a cat call that seems to defy any clever response.
So while on my way to my internship at the Aquarium last week I was talking on my cell phone, as most everyone else in this city does on their commute to and from work. I had just passed the restaurant I used to work for which meant I was a 4 minutes walk away from the Aquarium. That's when I noticed a guy standing on the corner yelling at people. Loudly. This scenario is a normal part of any person's commute. My usual plan of attack is to avoid, avoid, avoid, and so I crossed the street.
Because this guy either noticed that I was clearly distancing myself (or he just is in a habit of yelling at every female that walks by) he followed me and crossed the street too, at which point he yelled after me, "Why you calling me baby? I'm right here!"
Yep, there you are.
I am not one to normally respond to cat calls, but I would love to be able to come up with something for this one. As it was, I turned around, smiled, and kept on my merry way. Not exactly the Hail Mary of Cat Call Responses, but you've got to acknowledge a cat call that seems to defy any clever response.
23 November, 2009
Keg-Tapping Capabilities
My thirteenth year was a good year for me. I firmly suspect that this was when I peaked, and that the time since then has been a slow and steady decline into... God Knows What. Everyone has their peculiar theories about life; this is mine.
A large part of the reason that seventh grade was just so wonderful was that, up to this point, I had somehow managed to escape middle school awkwardness. Sure, I may have worn blue eye shadow to my school photo and looked slightly circus clown-ish, but the only one this really angered was my mother who had to pay for the photo and clearly didn't understand anything about being fashion-forward.
There is other evidence that I cite when bringing up this theory. I was dating a popular cute boy (don't judge me, it was middle school). I had great hair and the right clothes (which involved a long purple butterfly skirt for my first day of school outfit. But I swear- other people thought it was cool, too.) I was invited to the good parties, where kids danced in basements while their parents pretended to be busy upstairs. I was able to walk around school without a hall pass. And this was my last year where I didn't really have to try at school, and therefore had a bunch of free time afforded by the complete lack of effort in all things related to homework and studying. My twin sister and I, along with a group of our friends, had charmed an English teacher into let us watch the television Dawson's Creek (rated PG-13!) during lunchtime on the old television in his room. Needless to say, I felt pret-tee darn cool.
Only adding to this was the fact that my sister was in college. College was hands-down the coolest thing I had ever heard of. Kate got to stay up late, go out with her friends, and live away from home. She got free tee-shirts from the student union, a big coup for me. She took me out for ice-cream when we visited her college. (Side note: my admiration can almost always be bought with desserts. Kate already had my love, but the ice cream really helped to seal the deal.) On the days not spent watching Dawson's Creek, I held court at the lunch table, amusing my peers with tidbits of the "college" life. (It involved a lot of freedom and ice cream.) But there was one event that occurred during my 13th year that forever cemented the fate of my coolness, and that was the night I learned how to tap a keg.
Yes, perhaps a 7th grader should not possess any sort of knowledge pertaining to the consumption of alcohol. My mother, for one, was none-too-thrilled when she learned of my newly acquired skill. My english teacher, the same one who let us watch tv at lunch, was- for lack of a better word- bemused, when he learned of it. He found out because I wrote an free-write essay on the topic. And ok, *maybe* I shouldn't have been so upfront about blatantly disregarding societal norms and their laws, especially those revolving around alcohol. Especially someone (anyone) could have easily notified some types of authorities. Perhaps the cspca? But I was a proud child to say the least, and I thought I was awesome. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops for the world to know. I, Emily, could tap a keg.
Let's be honest for a moment, though. I couldn't really tap a keg, as evidenced by the numerous occassions at a time in my life when I could legally and responsibly drink alcohol yet repeatedly failed to tap a keg of PBR or Milwaukee's Best. It's not as though I actually drank from the keg itself, or any other vessel of alky. The incident itself is much less exciting than the end result suggests.
My older, quieter, more sophisticated, college-aged sister Kate had invited my twin sister and I up to spend the night at her college (because we were more or less obsessed with the idea of college itself, and she was a good sister). She and a friend took us out bowling, brought us out to dinner at a dining hall, and then we ended up back to her dorm room for a sleep over. It was the description of innocence. But, as these things tend to happen, one thing led to another, and we all ended up going to meet her longterm boyfriend at another college dorm. The boyfriend was also a director of an a capella group, and they happened to be having a celebration that night.
I remember everyone being terribly cool and attractive. For some inexplicable reason, I also remember everyone being pretty nice to me as well. I wasn't so astonished at their niceties at the time, but looking back? I'm not sure how I would have treated a random and clearly out-of-place 7th grader at a college party. There would have been much staring, and then much reaming out of the person responsible. Let's not kid ourselves here- college students are infidels. And a Friday night in a college dorm, surrounded by debauchery and drinkery, is probably is not the best sort of influence on an impressionable middleschooler. Or worse, two middleschoolers, as my fellow twin and adventurer Chel was also present. Debaucherous.
Kate's boyfriend introduced the twin and I to most everyone. And everyone seemed pretty cool with it. That's probably how we ended up in the back room, where another college boy was tapping a keg for the party. (It was probably not the first keg). The boy tapping the keg was pretty enthusiastic that the twin and I learn; he thought it was a riot. But I was also thirteen, so any attention bestowed upon me by a college boy was probably viewed as enthusiastic. It was attention, plain and simple. So the keg-tapping boy instructed us in the proper techniques, I pumped the handle thing maybe once, and that was it. Newfound knowledge does not always come announced with horns and whistles, and this knowledge was tucked away for future parties, ones where I could regale others with stories of the first keg I encountered as I failed to use that knowledge to open the one in front of me. It was a distraction method, and it has worked numerous times. But I always try, because I secretly feel that the knowledge, born in me so young at the ripe old age of 13, should somehow nestle itself into my muscle memory and enable me to finally, by myself, tap a keg. One day.
After some more sisterly bonding, the delightful college party, and a final lesson in keg-tapping, it was soon time to go home to solidify my popularity and write that essay about my youth impropriety and the weekend at college. When my mom took did find out about it (after I wrote the essay), she took it in stride. My sister really was a pillar of responsibility and the bastion of adult respect. It was just one of those things that happens. You get invited to the right parties, you learn to tap a keg, you peak. And then everything else kind of seems a bit lackluster.
A large part of the reason that seventh grade was just so wonderful was that, up to this point, I had somehow managed to escape middle school awkwardness. Sure, I may have worn blue eye shadow to my school photo and looked slightly circus clown-ish, but the only one this really angered was my mother who had to pay for the photo and clearly didn't understand anything about being fashion-forward.
There is other evidence that I cite when bringing up this theory. I was dating a popular cute boy (don't judge me, it was middle school). I had great hair and the right clothes (which involved a long purple butterfly skirt for my first day of school outfit. But I swear- other people thought it was cool, too.) I was invited to the good parties, where kids danced in basements while their parents pretended to be busy upstairs. I was able to walk around school without a hall pass. And this was my last year where I didn't really have to try at school, and therefore had a bunch of free time afforded by the complete lack of effort in all things related to homework and studying. My twin sister and I, along with a group of our friends, had charmed an English teacher into let us watch the television Dawson's Creek (rated PG-13!) during lunchtime on the old television in his room. Needless to say, I felt pret-tee darn cool.
Only adding to this was the fact that my sister was in college. College was hands-down the coolest thing I had ever heard of. Kate got to stay up late, go out with her friends, and live away from home. She got free tee-shirts from the student union, a big coup for me. She took me out for ice-cream when we visited her college. (Side note: my admiration can almost always be bought with desserts. Kate already had my love, but the ice cream really helped to seal the deal.) On the days not spent watching Dawson's Creek, I held court at the lunch table, amusing my peers with tidbits of the "college" life. (It involved a lot of freedom and ice cream.) But there was one event that occurred during my 13th year that forever cemented the fate of my coolness, and that was the night I learned how to tap a keg.
Yes, perhaps a 7th grader should not possess any sort of knowledge pertaining to the consumption of alcohol. My mother, for one, was none-too-thrilled when she learned of my newly acquired skill. My english teacher, the same one who let us watch tv at lunch, was- for lack of a better word- bemused, when he learned of it. He found out because I wrote an free-write essay on the topic. And ok, *maybe* I shouldn't have been so upfront about blatantly disregarding societal norms and their laws, especially those revolving around alcohol. Especially someone (anyone) could have easily notified some types of authorities. Perhaps the cspca? But I was a proud child to say the least, and I thought I was awesome. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops for the world to know. I, Emily, could tap a keg.
Let's be honest for a moment, though. I couldn't really tap a keg, as evidenced by the numerous occassions at a time in my life when I could legally and responsibly drink alcohol yet repeatedly failed to tap a keg of PBR or Milwaukee's Best. It's not as though I actually drank from the keg itself, or any other vessel of alky. The incident itself is much less exciting than the end result suggests.
My older, quieter, more sophisticated, college-aged sister Kate had invited my twin sister and I up to spend the night at her college (because we were more or less obsessed with the idea of college itself, and she was a good sister). She and a friend took us out bowling, brought us out to dinner at a dining hall, and then we ended up back to her dorm room for a sleep over. It was the description of innocence. But, as these things tend to happen, one thing led to another, and we all ended up going to meet her longterm boyfriend at another college dorm. The boyfriend was also a director of an a capella group, and they happened to be having a celebration that night.
I remember everyone being terribly cool and attractive. For some inexplicable reason, I also remember everyone being pretty nice to me as well. I wasn't so astonished at their niceties at the time, but looking back? I'm not sure how I would have treated a random and clearly out-of-place 7th grader at a college party. There would have been much staring, and then much reaming out of the person responsible. Let's not kid ourselves here- college students are infidels. And a Friday night in a college dorm, surrounded by debauchery and drinkery, is probably is not the best sort of influence on an impressionable middleschooler. Or worse, two middleschoolers, as my fellow twin and adventurer Chel was also present. Debaucherous.
Kate's boyfriend introduced the twin and I to most everyone. And everyone seemed pretty cool with it. That's probably how we ended up in the back room, where another college boy was tapping a keg for the party. (It was probably not the first keg). The boy tapping the keg was pretty enthusiastic that the twin and I learn; he thought it was a riot. But I was also thirteen, so any attention bestowed upon me by a college boy was probably viewed as enthusiastic. It was attention, plain and simple. So the keg-tapping boy instructed us in the proper techniques, I pumped the handle thing maybe once, and that was it. Newfound knowledge does not always come announced with horns and whistles, and this knowledge was tucked away for future parties, ones where I could regale others with stories of the first keg I encountered as I failed to use that knowledge to open the one in front of me. It was a distraction method, and it has worked numerous times. But I always try, because I secretly feel that the knowledge, born in me so young at the ripe old age of 13, should somehow nestle itself into my muscle memory and enable me to finally, by myself, tap a keg. One day.
After some more sisterly bonding, the delightful college party, and a final lesson in keg-tapping, it was soon time to go home to solidify my popularity and write that essay about my youth impropriety and the weekend at college. When my mom took did find out about it (after I wrote the essay), she took it in stride. My sister really was a pillar of responsibility and the bastion of adult respect. It was just one of those things that happens. You get invited to the right parties, you learn to tap a keg, you peak. And then everything else kind of seems a bit lackluster.
17 November, 2009
Popstars: Songs About Technology are Always Lame.
Even if you are unimaginably famous, a crappy pop song is a crappy pop song. With that in mind, here's Beyoncés super crap new pop hit that will probably and nauseatingly hit number one on Billboard, "Video Phone." And this is my totally subjective and entirely accurate brief analysis.
The concept of the video is like it was directed by 3 separate people. The beginning appears to be derived from something out of Resevoir Dogs, but then we have her dancing as some sort of futuristic bored gum-chewing stripper that throws her ponytail braid around. And then we have men with cameras on their heads (but keeping with the theme, shouldn't they be videophones?) Beyoncé can do so much better than this.
Remember Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)? That was pop brilliance itself! But "Video Phone?" As our spanish friends say- chupa la gran. Does anyone actually call their cell phone a "videophone?" I'm pretty sure most cellular devices have video capabilities nowadays, so really only grandparents and the technologically illiterate refer to their cell as a videophone. Making Beyoncé... dare I say it, behind the times? Out of touch?
She does use with the line "What, you want me naked? If you like it you can tape it on your video phone." Perhaps she's actually making some insightful social commentary on all the sex tape scandals recently, a lá ex-Ms. California Carrie Prejean. As we all know (or should know by now) taping something on your "videophone" is a fast ticket to TMZ notoriety. But such a passive statement that can be summed up as "you want me naked? Okay, whatever" actually does fit her whole bored stripper dancing that occurs in the video. Above all else, she gets points for consistentency. And I am too disappointed in Lady Gaga to even comment on her appearance in the video.
This is when you know a pop song is crappy:
When the song repeats catch words and phrases. For example, Beyoncés "Video Phone" repeats the word "video phone" sixteen times in the lyrics and chorus (not including background vocals). In addition, she uses the word "video" by itself an additional seven times, and the words cell phone once, video screen once, tape once, and film once. If you didn't know what the word videophone meant- look! She gave you context clues! Someone had a thesaurus, huh B? Wink.
These lyrics really help to flush out the song:
"On your video phone, make a cameo
Tape me on your video phone, I can handle you
Watch me on your video phone, on your video, video
If you want me you can watch me on your video phone
I love how you approach me
Fresh white with your pants hangin' grown man low
Everything you sayin' soundin' good to me
No need to convince me anymore."
Pants hanging grown man low? Either she's being clever and talking about wearing pants normally, as most grown men should do or... well. Or the whole song is really just mindless dribble that details her narcissism in wanting to be taped by a guy with a flashy phone and pants falling off his butt.
No need to convince ME anymore, Beyoncé. This was an album filler, wasn't it?
The concept of the video is like it was directed by 3 separate people. The beginning appears to be derived from something out of Resevoir Dogs, but then we have her dancing as some sort of futuristic bored gum-chewing stripper that throws her ponytail braid around. And then we have men with cameras on their heads (but keeping with the theme, shouldn't they be videophones?) Beyoncé can do so much better than this.
Remember Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)? That was pop brilliance itself! But "Video Phone?" As our spanish friends say- chupa la gran. Does anyone actually call their cell phone a "videophone?" I'm pretty sure most cellular devices have video capabilities nowadays, so really only grandparents and the technologically illiterate refer to their cell as a videophone. Making Beyoncé... dare I say it, behind the times? Out of touch?
She does use with the line "What, you want me naked? If you like it you can tape it on your video phone." Perhaps she's actually making some insightful social commentary on all the sex tape scandals recently, a lá ex-Ms. California Carrie Prejean. As we all know (or should know by now) taping something on your "videophone" is a fast ticket to TMZ notoriety. But such a passive statement that can be summed up as "you want me naked? Okay, whatever" actually does fit her whole bored stripper dancing that occurs in the video. Above all else, she gets points for consistentency. And I am too disappointed in Lady Gaga to even comment on her appearance in the video.
This is when you know a pop song is crappy:
When the song repeats catch words and phrases. For example, Beyoncés "Video Phone" repeats the word "video phone" sixteen times in the lyrics and chorus (not including background vocals). In addition, she uses the word "video" by itself an additional seven times, and the words cell phone once, video screen once, tape once, and film once. If you didn't know what the word videophone meant- look! She gave you context clues! Someone had a thesaurus, huh B? Wink.
These lyrics really help to flush out the song:
"On your video phone, make a cameo
Tape me on your video phone, I can handle you
Watch me on your video phone, on your video, video
If you want me you can watch me on your video phone
I love how you approach me
Fresh white with your pants hangin' grown man low
Everything you sayin' soundin' good to me
No need to convince me anymore."
Pants hanging grown man low? Either she's being clever and talking about wearing pants normally, as most grown men should do or... well. Or the whole song is really just mindless dribble that details her narcissism in wanting to be taped by a guy with a flashy phone and pants falling off his butt.
No need to convince ME anymore, Beyoncé. This was an album filler, wasn't it?
16 November, 2009
Beaver Pond
Beaver Pond was a little muddy body of water tucked away into the southern part of the state forest in my hometown. It might not actually be called Beaver Pond, that was just what everyone called it. I guess I never really asked, just took it as one of those things that you never really questioned. It was high school, after all. But after hangouts there were established, I hoped to hear word nearly every weekend that there would be a gathering.
Thankfully, the boy I was dating was able to garner me an invite by being involved the right crowds. He was the captain of the lacrosse team. He lived in an unfathomably large house, and owned every video game console known to man. Besides me, there were other girls who had crushes on him (and maybe even a boy or two). He was effortlessly accepted, and being his girlfriend- I was accepted too. So that was nice.
Trust me, I don't know how we got to be dating either. It wasn't that I was a total dork in high school, but it is hard to be invited to all the cool parties when you're busy with singing in the school chorus, writing for the lit magazine, heading up far too community service events. I was the type of girl that actually kind of enjoyed studying, though I probably never would have admitted it out loud. I was in the musical every year, for goodness sake! Running for the track team and being on varsity soccer could never fully counteract singing show-tunes, at least in the popularity contests. But long story short, I was sometimes invited to weekend night gatherings at the super-hyped Beaver Pond. And I was thrilled.
The boys who organized the gathering were the type of boys that you would expect. They played sports, and were the first to experiment with drinking. They smoked pot, and taught themselves to play acoustic guitar. They considered themselves edgy. Every school has these type of boys, and mine was no exception. They were just cool, and others treated them that way. It was high school.
On Friday a word of mouth call would go around indicating that Beaver Pond was on that night. My twin wasn't so into the parties, as she sometimes felt the boys to be pretentious and contrived. Looking back, it's not hard to see why. But I was enamored by them and their friend group. I had been teaching myself guitar, mostly because my dad is a rock star and genius with the instrument, but I longed for the day when someone around the fire would ask if anyone wanted to play and I could bust out my version of Oasis' Wonderwall. It never happened, but I still sometimes practice it in case it ever comes up in the future. I will be prepared.
The twin was a good sport to come with me and play designated driver, though the maybe beer and a half I would drink would hardly qualify as drunk driving. But, like other sheltered teens, I was absolutely terrified of getting into trouble with the law, let alone my mother. The twin was also my backup in case I got shy (which I often did). She was carefree spirit with the gift of gab that knew she was above all the high school bullshit. And because of this, the twin was very much loved within that group. She was sassy, she was sarcastic, and she sang along with the boys as they played on their guitars.
To get to Beaver Pond, we parked along a quiet road and had to walk into the forest. At the time, I felt super stealth, but twenty-some odd random cars on a small residential street is a tad conspicuous. I'm sure we fooled very few people. The Pond's neighbors seemed cool enough with it. Or maybe they just didn't care what a bunch of teens were doing. Either way, we never got caught.
The walk in the woods took about fifteen minutes along the train tracks. We walked guided only by the light of our open cell phones, checking the ground. Cell phones, from experience, do not provide a great deal of light, so we mostly stumbled blindly forward until we hit the forked tree on the right. From there, you would stumble forward until you could see the light of the bonfire. And then you had have arrived: welcome to Beaver Pond. I never saw anyone with an actual flashlight, but everyone seemed to get there alright.
The parties brought together kids from all three different high schools in my town, and even some private schoolers. There were a lot of kids I recognized, and some I didn't. Like most small towns we had a lot of gossip, so some of the people were so notorious that I had heard of them well before I met them. The six boys from the catholic high school who called themselves the Untouchables. The Sexy Seven, seven self-entitled upperclass girls from my own school. (Even then, I thought it was a lame name. There are thesauruses, people.) Everything was just kind of chill. Sometimes people mingled, sometimes they didn't. One of the boys used to bring out his guitar and play requests throughout the night. To this day, I love when people play guitar by bonfires. The collective effect of music and staring at a fire is so comfortable that I could have sat there mesmerized for hours. It also could have been the effects of the smoke inhalation and the first intoxicating sips of teenage rebellion and beer. But I chose to think it was the former.
At the end of the night the biggest concerns did not always focus on getting caught. Getting hit by the train, though, was a real concern. The train usually trucked its way through at least once during the night, which was cool in the way that I had never been so close to a moving train before. I respected its power, and kept my distance. But I do remember one night when a (stupid) girl got it into her head that she "had" to touch the train because it was "so beautiful." I'm pretty sure her only drinks that night were O'Douls, a non-alcoholic beer selection bought by the boys to give to girls to see what they would do when they were "drunk." Mean, but also kind of funny. While I was secretly hoping that darwinian selection might prevail, someone eventually stopped her. Which, looking back, I guess was the right idea.
The beer at Beaver Pond was usually terrible. I can't remember since then when I've actually had Goldschlauger or Pabst Blue Ribbon and been excited about it. Even if it was free. But at the time, I reveled in the fact that I was being illicit. I was drinking in a forest, with other subversive peers, rejecting societal laws. No matter that I had perhaps one drink a night- I was clearly a rebel. I also never had to pay, which was a nice precedent to set for my future college years. I was a cheap rebel. Viva la resistance.
But if no one tried to touch the train and everyone got home safely, it was a good night. I remember lying in bed, smelling a bit like bonfire smoke and just absolutely adoring life.
We were never caught, which was definitely a good thing. But it's not like we were doing anything too revolutionary or life-altering: we were just a group of kids with nothing to do in a small town who got together and had a bonfire. Everyone was pretty responsible with drivers and carpooling, so nothing terrible ever happened. I think every kid should have a little bit of a defiant background. And I look back on these memories as a pretty good picture of modern youth, feeling very cool and chill and nonconformist by hanging out with some friends in the middle of a forest.
Thankfully, the boy I was dating was able to garner me an invite by being involved the right crowds. He was the captain of the lacrosse team. He lived in an unfathomably large house, and owned every video game console known to man. Besides me, there were other girls who had crushes on him (and maybe even a boy or two). He was effortlessly accepted, and being his girlfriend- I was accepted too. So that was nice.
Trust me, I don't know how we got to be dating either. It wasn't that I was a total dork in high school, but it is hard to be invited to all the cool parties when you're busy with singing in the school chorus, writing for the lit magazine, heading up far too community service events. I was the type of girl that actually kind of enjoyed studying, though I probably never would have admitted it out loud. I was in the musical every year, for goodness sake! Running for the track team and being on varsity soccer could never fully counteract singing show-tunes, at least in the popularity contests. But long story short, I was sometimes invited to weekend night gatherings at the super-hyped Beaver Pond. And I was thrilled.
The boys who organized the gathering were the type of boys that you would expect. They played sports, and were the first to experiment with drinking. They smoked pot, and taught themselves to play acoustic guitar. They considered themselves edgy. Every school has these type of boys, and mine was no exception. They were just cool, and others treated them that way. It was high school.
On Friday a word of mouth call would go around indicating that Beaver Pond was on that night. My twin wasn't so into the parties, as she sometimes felt the boys to be pretentious and contrived. Looking back, it's not hard to see why. But I was enamored by them and their friend group. I had been teaching myself guitar, mostly because my dad is a rock star and genius with the instrument, but I longed for the day when someone around the fire would ask if anyone wanted to play and I could bust out my version of Oasis' Wonderwall. It never happened, but I still sometimes practice it in case it ever comes up in the future. I will be prepared.
The twin was a good sport to come with me and play designated driver, though the maybe beer and a half I would drink would hardly qualify as drunk driving. But, like other sheltered teens, I was absolutely terrified of getting into trouble with the law, let alone my mother. The twin was also my backup in case I got shy (which I often did). She was carefree spirit with the gift of gab that knew she was above all the high school bullshit. And because of this, the twin was very much loved within that group. She was sassy, she was sarcastic, and she sang along with the boys as they played on their guitars.
To get to Beaver Pond, we parked along a quiet road and had to walk into the forest. At the time, I felt super stealth, but twenty-some odd random cars on a small residential street is a tad conspicuous. I'm sure we fooled very few people. The Pond's neighbors seemed cool enough with it. Or maybe they just didn't care what a bunch of teens were doing. Either way, we never got caught.
The walk in the woods took about fifteen minutes along the train tracks. We walked guided only by the light of our open cell phones, checking the ground. Cell phones, from experience, do not provide a great deal of light, so we mostly stumbled blindly forward until we hit the forked tree on the right. From there, you would stumble forward until you could see the light of the bonfire. And then you had have arrived: welcome to Beaver Pond. I never saw anyone with an actual flashlight, but everyone seemed to get there alright.
The parties brought together kids from all three different high schools in my town, and even some private schoolers. There were a lot of kids I recognized, and some I didn't. Like most small towns we had a lot of gossip, so some of the people were so notorious that I had heard of them well before I met them. The six boys from the catholic high school who called themselves the Untouchables. The Sexy Seven, seven self-entitled upperclass girls from my own school. (Even then, I thought it was a lame name. There are thesauruses, people.) Everything was just kind of chill. Sometimes people mingled, sometimes they didn't. One of the boys used to bring out his guitar and play requests throughout the night. To this day, I love when people play guitar by bonfires. The collective effect of music and staring at a fire is so comfortable that I could have sat there mesmerized for hours. It also could have been the effects of the smoke inhalation and the first intoxicating sips of teenage rebellion and beer. But I chose to think it was the former.
At the end of the night the biggest concerns did not always focus on getting caught. Getting hit by the train, though, was a real concern. The train usually trucked its way through at least once during the night, which was cool in the way that I had never been so close to a moving train before. I respected its power, and kept my distance. But I do remember one night when a (stupid) girl got it into her head that she "had" to touch the train because it was "so beautiful." I'm pretty sure her only drinks that night were O'Douls, a non-alcoholic beer selection bought by the boys to give to girls to see what they would do when they were "drunk." Mean, but also kind of funny. While I was secretly hoping that darwinian selection might prevail, someone eventually stopped her. Which, looking back, I guess was the right idea.
The beer at Beaver Pond was usually terrible. I can't remember since then when I've actually had Goldschlauger or Pabst Blue Ribbon and been excited about it. Even if it was free. But at the time, I reveled in the fact that I was being illicit. I was drinking in a forest, with other subversive peers, rejecting societal laws. No matter that I had perhaps one drink a night- I was clearly a rebel. I also never had to pay, which was a nice precedent to set for my future college years. I was a cheap rebel. Viva la resistance.
But if no one tried to touch the train and everyone got home safely, it was a good night. I remember lying in bed, smelling a bit like bonfire smoke and just absolutely adoring life.
We were never caught, which was definitely a good thing. But it's not like we were doing anything too revolutionary or life-altering: we were just a group of kids with nothing to do in a small town who got together and had a bonfire. Everyone was pretty responsible with drivers and carpooling, so nothing terrible ever happened. I think every kid should have a little bit of a defiant background. And I look back on these memories as a pretty good picture of modern youth, feeling very cool and chill and nonconformist by hanging out with some friends in the middle of a forest.
11 November, 2009
A Three Hour Tour
Sometimes putting things back into perspective is a much needed thing. One should appreciate being able to breathe in and out without difficulty, to be able to call on a friend or loved one, to be able to realize that hey- maybe life is pretty good after all. Today, unexpectedly, I gained a lot of perspective. I realized that it is okay that I am young and do not have a fulltime job. That for today, it's ok to not have one true calling in life. That I have a loving network of family and friends. And also, most importantly, that I did not drown trapped underneath a flimsy capsized boat in 9-foot swells and fifty-degree wate.
The latter part is mainly what gave me that perspective. Any day henceforth that also manages to avoid such a situation is going to be viewed as successful in my book.
When I woke up this morning and recognized that today was Wednesday, I was excited. I got to work at the aquarium! And play with sea creatures! And also, because my boss is super cool, I knew that I would be going on a collecting trip to some local islands off Boston Harbour, where we would grab some new animals for exhibits. Some starfish, sea urchins, seaweed, and hermit crabs were on the list, along with decorated rocks and various other wonders from the sea. I was both excited and nervous, as I hadn't been snorkeling since my Bahamas winter study last year, where the aquamarine water and lack of current came together for a leisurely snorkle-fest. While I knew that today, being November in the Northeast, would not hold quite the same balmy conditions for me, I was still very much looking forward to the trip. I was well equipped with a borrowed 7mm wetsuit, fins, snorkle, mask, and a healthy appetite for adventure. Me and a team of four, all skilled scuba divers (which I am most definitely not), would be driving the Aquarium's 20some-odd foot boat maybe a couple of miles out of the harbor to do some collecting. Have you ever heard the Gilligan's Island theme song, Three Hour Tour? It was kind of like that.
However, it appears that no weather reports were checked before our departure. As I am still just a lowly intern, I sincerely hope the blame does not fall on me. Pete, our fearless captain, had a burrito in one hand and a heavy lead foot. He also apparently has a complete aversion to conservative boating, as was made apparent when we charged the waves head on (though there was most definitely a small-craft advisory due to the ludicrously high wind speeds and ginormous waves. Adjectives mine).
According to proper boating technique, hitting waves head on with the bow of the boat is the most effective way to avoid capsizing. It is also an extremely effective way to give fellow crewmembers (especially new lowly interns) giant massive coronaries every time that you hit a swell. My position on the boat was rather ineffective, as I just kind of hung from the ceiling hand-holds and tried (unsuccessfully) to not get slammed into the side of the boat with every wave we hit. I also was shrieking inside my head every time our boat dropped down a swell, but as that was on the inside the other crew members probably had no idea. I'm hoping.
I discovered that my adrenal glands are wonderfully efficient. Each time we crashed down my system was flooded with fight or flight responses. Unfortunately for me, I was torn between both, and therefore unable to do anymore than hang from the ceiling. Maybe I'm not the person you should seek out in an emergency, but at least I know the system works. Also, as the four-by-four cabin was relatively safe, though it lacked a wall between the back of the boat and the foot and a half boat wall which separated us from the water, this was the only place I could really go. So I may be bruised and battered, and I may have done very little to help with the actual boating, but I am terribly alive. And that's ok by me.
In retrospect, we all acknowledged that we should not have gone out that day. I acknowledged this as we hit the first wave, but Captain Pete conceded this point well after we had docked safely and I had already thrown myself onto the ground. Better late than never, I suppose.
The entire trip was a battle, you could say, between our twenty-foot boat versus nature's nine-foot swells. And we lost that battle. If you think nine-feet is not that big, you have clearly never been sailing before. I cannot tell you how many different prayers I rattled through as we hit the crest of one wave and my stomach jumped into my throat as we sailed through the air to the bottom of the next. When we hit a wave "right" (and I use the term "right here," loosely) we rode that baby all the way up and then had the exhilarating and absolutely mind-boggling of dropping, boat and all, all the way down. For over an hour to get out there, and over an hour to get back. To think that there are adrenaline junkies who enjoy such a thing? No thank you, sir- I am tapping out.
There hit a point in the trip when I desperately searched for any religious mantra to distract me from falling off and maybe to give God a little heads-up that I might need some help, and soon. Actually, there hit many points when this came up, but sadly, the only song that I found was a song I learned in church school when I was ten. It was called "All God's Creatures Have a Place in the Choir." The running dialogue in my head went more or less, "All God's creatures have a place in the choir F?@&#*** **@!#*, some sing low, and some sing S*** higher, some sing out on a telephone wire and ******* **&&@#* **?@^#^ ,some just clap their hands... or paws... or anything at all, AHHH&#**@($@# noow." The asterisks are vividly interspersed swear words, and the new ones I made up on the spot. If I had been in a better frame of mind, I might have remembered them, but as it was I am just happy to walk on good ol' solid earth and not remember them (for the time being). It's all in the perspective. (But I do remember noting that some of the amalgamated swear words were pretty catchy. Before we dropped the next wave, anyway.)
At the end of the trip, we had a cooler full of mussels, hermit crabs, and the like, one broken plexiglass window from wave impact, and one dismantled ungodly expensive GPS/Depthfinder computer system that had loosened itself from four bolts in the ceiling in one of the most terrifying of waves we hit. I'm pretty sure I shed at least one tear. (Just one though- even if I was going to die, I was not going to be the intern that fussed about it. No, I was going to go down proudly, even stoicly. Like the captain of the Titanic, minus the title. And the beard.)
So after that trip, everything seems kinda cool now. I've re-discovered my love of walking on the stationary ground. My arms are sore from the death-grip I had on the ceiling hand-holds, and my left knee maybe hurts a little from repeatedly slamming into the wall of the boat, but I'll take gladly these any day. Because after it was over, it made a good story. And now a few more people at the Aquarium know my name. And because I dreamed of waves last night, and am very much looking forward to the promised future boat ride from my boss. A boat ride on a day without any waves. And in the very distant future. It's perspective.
The latter part is mainly what gave me that perspective. Any day henceforth that also manages to avoid such a situation is going to be viewed as successful in my book.
When I woke up this morning and recognized that today was Wednesday, I was excited. I got to work at the aquarium! And play with sea creatures! And also, because my boss is super cool, I knew that I would be going on a collecting trip to some local islands off Boston Harbour, where we would grab some new animals for exhibits. Some starfish, sea urchins, seaweed, and hermit crabs were on the list, along with decorated rocks and various other wonders from the sea. I was both excited and nervous, as I hadn't been snorkeling since my Bahamas winter study last year, where the aquamarine water and lack of current came together for a leisurely snorkle-fest. While I knew that today, being November in the Northeast, would not hold quite the same balmy conditions for me, I was still very much looking forward to the trip. I was well equipped with a borrowed 7mm wetsuit, fins, snorkle, mask, and a healthy appetite for adventure. Me and a team of four, all skilled scuba divers (which I am most definitely not), would be driving the Aquarium's 20some-odd foot boat maybe a couple of miles out of the harbor to do some collecting. Have you ever heard the Gilligan's Island theme song, Three Hour Tour? It was kind of like that.
However, it appears that no weather reports were checked before our departure. As I am still just a lowly intern, I sincerely hope the blame does not fall on me. Pete, our fearless captain, had a burrito in one hand and a heavy lead foot. He also apparently has a complete aversion to conservative boating, as was made apparent when we charged the waves head on (though there was most definitely a small-craft advisory due to the ludicrously high wind speeds and ginormous waves. Adjectives mine).
According to proper boating technique, hitting waves head on with the bow of the boat is the most effective way to avoid capsizing. It is also an extremely effective way to give fellow crewmembers (especially new lowly interns) giant massive coronaries every time that you hit a swell. My position on the boat was rather ineffective, as I just kind of hung from the ceiling hand-holds and tried (unsuccessfully) to not get slammed into the side of the boat with every wave we hit. I also was shrieking inside my head every time our boat dropped down a swell, but as that was on the inside the other crew members probably had no idea. I'm hoping.
I discovered that my adrenal glands are wonderfully efficient. Each time we crashed down my system was flooded with fight or flight responses. Unfortunately for me, I was torn between both, and therefore unable to do anymore than hang from the ceiling. Maybe I'm not the person you should seek out in an emergency, but at least I know the system works. Also, as the four-by-four cabin was relatively safe, though it lacked a wall between the back of the boat and the foot and a half boat wall which separated us from the water, this was the only place I could really go. So I may be bruised and battered, and I may have done very little to help with the actual boating, but I am terribly alive. And that's ok by me.
In retrospect, we all acknowledged that we should not have gone out that day. I acknowledged this as we hit the first wave, but Captain Pete conceded this point well after we had docked safely and I had already thrown myself onto the ground. Better late than never, I suppose.
The entire trip was a battle, you could say, between our twenty-foot boat versus nature's nine-foot swells. And we lost that battle. If you think nine-feet is not that big, you have clearly never been sailing before. I cannot tell you how many different prayers I rattled through as we hit the crest of one wave and my stomach jumped into my throat as we sailed through the air to the bottom of the next. When we hit a wave "right" (and I use the term "right here," loosely) we rode that baby all the way up and then had the exhilarating and absolutely mind-boggling of dropping, boat and all, all the way down. For over an hour to get out there, and over an hour to get back. To think that there are adrenaline junkies who enjoy such a thing? No thank you, sir- I am tapping out.
There hit a point in the trip when I desperately searched for any religious mantra to distract me from falling off and maybe to give God a little heads-up that I might need some help, and soon. Actually, there hit many points when this came up, but sadly, the only song that I found was a song I learned in church school when I was ten. It was called "All God's Creatures Have a Place in the Choir." The running dialogue in my head went more or less, "All God's creatures have a place in the choir F?@&#*** **@!#*, some sing low, and some sing S*** higher, some sing out on a telephone wire and ******* **&&@#* **?@^#^ ,some just clap their hands... or paws... or anything at all, AHHH&#**@($@# noow." The asterisks are vividly interspersed swear words, and the new ones I made up on the spot. If I had been in a better frame of mind, I might have remembered them, but as it was I am just happy to walk on good ol' solid earth and not remember them (for the time being). It's all in the perspective. (But I do remember noting that some of the amalgamated swear words were pretty catchy. Before we dropped the next wave, anyway.)
At the end of the trip, we had a cooler full of mussels, hermit crabs, and the like, one broken plexiglass window from wave impact, and one dismantled ungodly expensive GPS/Depthfinder computer system that had loosened itself from four bolts in the ceiling in one of the most terrifying of waves we hit. I'm pretty sure I shed at least one tear. (Just one though- even if I was going to die, I was not going to be the intern that fussed about it. No, I was going to go down proudly, even stoicly. Like the captain of the Titanic, minus the title. And the beard.)
So after that trip, everything seems kinda cool now. I've re-discovered my love of walking on the stationary ground. My arms are sore from the death-grip I had on the ceiling hand-holds, and my left knee maybe hurts a little from repeatedly slamming into the wall of the boat, but I'll take gladly these any day. Because after it was over, it made a good story. And now a few more people at the Aquarium know my name. And because I dreamed of waves last night, and am very much looking forward to the promised future boat ride from my boss. A boat ride on a day without any waves. And in the very distant future. It's perspective.
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