Right now, I just need to get this out of my system:
Everything I'm feeling right now, the being pulled by tides I thought I'd slipped, stretched ane torn along old fracture lines, all of it can be summed up in easy chords in this song.
Caledonia
by Dougie Maclean
I don't know if you can see,
The changes that have come over me.
In these last few days I've been afraid,
That I might drift away.
I've been telling stories, singing songs,
That make me think about where I come from.
That's the reason why I seem
So far away today.
(Chorus)
Let me tell you that I love you,
That I think about you all the time.
Caledonia, you're calling me,
Now I'm going home.
But if I shall become a stranger,
Know that it would make me more than sad,
Caledonia's been everything I've ever had.
Now I have moved and kept on moving,
Proved the points that I needed proving,
Lost the friends that I needed losing,
Found others on the way.
I have kissed the lads and left them crying,
Stolen dreams, yes there's no denying,
I have travelled hard sometimes with conscience flying,
Somewhere in the wind.
(Chorus)
Now I'm sitting here before the fire,
The empty room, a forest choir,
The flames have cooled. don't get any higher,
They've withered now they've gone.
But I'm steady thinking my way is clear,
And I know what I will do tomorrow,
When hands have shaken, the kisses flowed,
Then I will disappear.
(Chorus)
Now please, let's not be melodramatic. However, it's late at night, you'll have to forgive my musical penchants. And honestly, I'll explain it all later. For now, just reread the pretty song and flex your fingers to the repetitive chords.
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Right-- On a Personal Note
So, it's a time of upheaval and indecision in the life of moi, and so I'm going to vent on here for just a minute. I know, I was doing so well being non-dramatic and anti-egocentric, but it looks like we're going to try to strike a balance here... imagine that.
My family are a right cast of characters, let me just lay that out first of all. The best way to describe Mutie is to admit that she's sweet, but broken. I think that there are several elements that went into breaking her, but that's another discussion. Regardless, she's a sweet, lovely, loving and old-fashioned mama and I do adore her. My father and I have a more combative history-- only recently have he and I been able to have a decent conversation about the weather without digging into each other. As it is, so long as we avoid religion, politics, ethics, economics and climate change, we're okay. Yeah... we're okay. That said, I'm experiencing a new set of emotions at the moment-- I feel sorry for my father.
My father has never been the sort to inspire sympathy. In fact, I've spent most of my life spiting him and doing everything I could to alienate him. Not that he helped matters, but we all begin to realize our errors as we age, right. Well, it looks like Dad's been let go by his employer of 15 years. And the severance package they offered him, an overweight, balding, slightly deaf 50-something white man? A percentage of his insurance.
Now, Dad is an automotive engineer in Michigan. Nobody's surprised that he's in this position, least of all him. He was just hoping against hope that he could stick it out just a few more years-- maybe until his middle daughter graduated from high school. My sister, Weasle, is a lovely, bright 17 year old with an eye for changing the world. Honestly, she's one of two people I know personally who I truly believe will change the face of humanity. However, she's currently staring down the barrel of campus visits and standardized tests and all those attendant costs. Then there's also Badger, my baby sister-- a charming 12 year old with a number of years left in a really expensive private school system. Ouch. So, Dad sticks it out and waves the pink slip aside, hoping to last out just one more year and then give it the old heave-ho? Well, there's one more complicating factor that needs some explanation.
My father is one of four children: his older brother, Vaughn, his younger sister, Ciotka, and then my godmother, Yenta. Now, Vaughn and Dad were only 14 months apart. I say were because Vaughn died of complications from his chronic lymphocytic leukemia three years ago. (*Holy shit, it's really been three years?) Now, both their parents had various forms of cancer, as did their grandparents. Bobcia and Jodic died in their early fifties, as did Vaughn. Dad's now pushing mid-fifties, and it's not like he's in peak physical condition. He's borderline diabetic, overweight, hypertension-ridden and has high cholesterol along with bleeding ulcers, high blood pressure and a bad back and knees. Well done, there. The kicker is that Yenta's just been diagnosed with the same variety of cancer that eventually laid Vaughn in the grave after a long and debilitating struggle.
Can he afford to gamble and keep his job with the possibility that he could be flat out let go in December and have no health insurance at all?
And yeah, I'm sure losing his job and finding out about Yenta within three days of each other has been great for his ulcers.
Like I said, I'm not used to feeling badly for my father, but this tips the hand, I think.
My family are a right cast of characters, let me just lay that out first of all. The best way to describe Mutie is to admit that she's sweet, but broken. I think that there are several elements that went into breaking her, but that's another discussion. Regardless, she's a sweet, lovely, loving and old-fashioned mama and I do adore her. My father and I have a more combative history-- only recently have he and I been able to have a decent conversation about the weather without digging into each other. As it is, so long as we avoid religion, politics, ethics, economics and climate change, we're okay. Yeah... we're okay. That said, I'm experiencing a new set of emotions at the moment-- I feel sorry for my father.
My father has never been the sort to inspire sympathy. In fact, I've spent most of my life spiting him and doing everything I could to alienate him. Not that he helped matters, but we all begin to realize our errors as we age, right. Well, it looks like Dad's been let go by his employer of 15 years. And the severance package they offered him, an overweight, balding, slightly deaf 50-something white man? A percentage of his insurance.
Now, Dad is an automotive engineer in Michigan. Nobody's surprised that he's in this position, least of all him. He was just hoping against hope that he could stick it out just a few more years-- maybe until his middle daughter graduated from high school. My sister, Weasle, is a lovely, bright 17 year old with an eye for changing the world. Honestly, she's one of two people I know personally who I truly believe will change the face of humanity. However, she's currently staring down the barrel of campus visits and standardized tests and all those attendant costs. Then there's also Badger, my baby sister-- a charming 12 year old with a number of years left in a really expensive private school system. Ouch. So, Dad sticks it out and waves the pink slip aside, hoping to last out just one more year and then give it the old heave-ho? Well, there's one more complicating factor that needs some explanation.
My father is one of four children: his older brother, Vaughn, his younger sister, Ciotka, and then my godmother, Yenta. Now, Vaughn and Dad were only 14 months apart. I say were because Vaughn died of complications from his chronic lymphocytic leukemia three years ago. (*Holy shit, it's really been three years?) Now, both their parents had various forms of cancer, as did their grandparents. Bobcia and Jodic died in their early fifties, as did Vaughn. Dad's now pushing mid-fifties, and it's not like he's in peak physical condition. He's borderline diabetic, overweight, hypertension-ridden and has high cholesterol along with bleeding ulcers, high blood pressure and a bad back and knees. Well done, there. The kicker is that Yenta's just been diagnosed with the same variety of cancer that eventually laid Vaughn in the grave after a long and debilitating struggle.
Can he afford to gamble and keep his job with the possibility that he could be flat out let go in December and have no health insurance at all?
And yeah, I'm sure losing his job and finding out about Yenta within three days of each other has been great for his ulcers.
Like I said, I'm not used to feeling badly for my father, but this tips the hand, I think.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Worst. Luck. Ever.
It's true. I've officially earned the title. I don't know what deity I offended or puppy I kicked, but I'm reaping the sorrowful oats now. But let's start at the beginning...
I work full-time in the summers for a residential theatre company that does only summerstock, and normally I'd say that I've got it pretty good. I've an unbelievably understanding boss, a solid assistant, I'm comfortable with the duties, and I have a computer with internet access. However, there are a couple weeks which I have learned to rue, and this past has been one of them: the week of move-in for the company. Our actors and technical staff come from all over the place, and we provide housing for many of them. This year, there are six full houses to furnish with beds, tables, chairs, couches, lamps, end tables, vacuum cleaners, coffee tables and everything else their little hearts desire. Every year this is more and more of a headache, not to mention backache. We make use of community service labor, but it's still a helluva day. This year, it didn't start off well.
No, this year, my mother decided that I was an alcoholic the morning of the move.
Now, I do occasionally drink. In fact, I've been known to toss them back with the best of them. I drink red beers and stouts, cheap vodka and expensive scotch. I enjoy the good drink at the end of a long day. However, my mother has gotten it into her head that because I keep a well-stocked alcohol shelf in my living area, I must be an alcoholic. This is supremely unfortunate and resulted in a lot of shouting.
After duking it out with my mother, I proceeded to the U-Haul station here in town to pick up the truck. We were supposed to be getting a 17' hauler, but the one that they had for us had some problems-- the TRANSMISSION had FALLEN OUT when the last customer returned it. So what did they do? They gave us the 24' truck at the same price.
A good deal? Sure. However, a 24' truck is basically a TRANSPORT. A Semi-trailer. A BEAST. And I got to drive it. Oh, be still my beating heart. I not usually an easily-daunted individual. There is not much that I will generally shrink from due to intimidation, but this truck was ENORMOUS. However, there was nothing doing other than to climb up into the cab and throw the old beast into gear. The workers were all decent, and the moving went well enough. The crew from community service, the friendly felons, if you will, could only work until 4 pm. That was fine, most of the heavy lifting was done by that point. After we released them, my assistant, let's call him Eeyore due to his general attitude and standard vocalization, and I picked up four more couches and a couple arm chairs from the local St. Vinny's and hit the road again.
Of COURSE there was significant construction on the roads leading to one of the houses, but I only picked off one construction barrel-- I consider this to be a badge of honor in a truck of such ungodly proportions. After that, we came to discover that one of the houses has the most narrow doors in all of America, and there was NO WAY we were getting a couch into the living room. So, we threw the couch back into the cargo bay and I put the key in the ignition. Turn the key.
Nothing happens.
Let me repeat that-- NOTHING HAPPENED. The giant-ass truck DID NOT START.
The battery had died. Eventually a neighbor who somehow knew Eeyore offered to give us a jump. Luckily that worked out, and we continued distributing our remaining couches. I was so flabbergasted that I had a laughing fit. What U-Haul dies on the road? Apparently, the one I touch.
We finally returned the U-Haul to its home on the lot, and I headed home myself. I was pretty proud of myself for driving the damned thing, and I wanted to preen a little for the family and have them acknowledge my automobile superiority. However, it was not to be. Not only was my mother still fixated on my supposedly-doomed liver, but my sister wasn't home, my father was busy with something, and my brother could best be described as an asshat. After a disgustingly humid day of hauling mattresses and couches, at least I could take a soothing bath, right? WRONG. My brother had decided to replace the shower head in the downstairs bathroom, and so I was thoroughly thwarted. I came back to work the next day feeling bruised and abused, but the work didn't end the day before. No, there were still dishes to distribute and lightbulbs and shower curtains and regular curtains and ironing boards. I basically worked the weekend and into Monday getting things around, and the actors attempted to arrive on Sunday.
I say "attempted" because the splatter pattern of their arrival times was a work of postmodern art. It stipulated in their contracts that they arrive between 1 and 5 on Sunday. This TOTALLY did not happen. Which brings us to Monday...
Monday was the company picnic. Monday morning, somebody needed to be checked in at 9. After that, is was to the rental place to pick us a 20' by 30' tent and tables and chairs for 60 people. We managed to fit this all in a minivan, and off to the back yard of a certain board member to set it all up. The people at the rental place said that setting up the tent would be no big deal, that children put up this tent all the time. I don't know who those children are, but I'm guessing they can trace a straight line to Attila the Hun. The tent spikes were easily TWO FEET LONG. When I asked the previously mentioned board member for a sledge hammer with which to drive these spikes into his year, he rummaged around in his three car garage and eventually gave me not a sledge hammer, but a MALLET HAMMER. For those of you unfamiliar with the Hammer family, the Mallet is the wimpy, rubbery illegitimate cousin of the Sledge. This mallet hammer had an 8 inch handle and a hard rubber head. Riiiight. If I were a CLOWN, I might have been able to drive a spike with it. As it was, I can only say that Eeyore did an amazing job driving those spikes.
Two-thirds of the way through driving spikes in 90-degree+ heat, my boss called and ORDERED me to abandon the tent and go out to housing to Lysol some beds, kill some mold, and greet two of our big-time actor/director types. Fine, fine. Eeyore soaked the beds in Lysol, and I swept. We welcomed our peoples and headed back out to the picnic site to assemble the tent.
I think I'm the only campfire girl left in the universe. Or at least the only one who remembers how to tie a barrel knot. My legs and arms hurt from carrying the tables, my back hurt from the beds and couches, and the rope made short work of my hands. By the time I finished the tent and my boss finished yelling about how none of this was my job and I needed to be working on assembling the program, I noticed that the aforementioned board member's THREE GROWN CHILDREN were sitting in his living room WATCHING Eeyore and I struggle in the oppressive heat to get everything set up. Just SITTING THERE.
Once at the picnic, one of our directors who I'd greeted earlier in the day informed me that he was ALLERGIC to the bed Eeyore had so recently lysol'd. In fact, he'd broken out in hives. Well, shit. I don't exactly have beds here there and everywhere, but I would see what I could do. This resulting in spending $160 that we DO NOT HAVE to buy him and new bed. But what you do for one child, you must do for the next, and the actor who lives near him decided that his bed must have been soaked in urine at some point and he needed a new mattress. FINE. I understand not wanting to sleep on those beds, but by this point-- I'm never touching a mattress with the intention of moving it for the REST OF MY LIFE. From here on out, I'll sleep in a hammock like a good little pirate.
Then, on Wednesday, I found out that the Driver's Responsibility Fine that I had been assessed LAST YEAR was in fact a TWO PART FINE and I owed the Michigan Department of Treasury another $200 or they'd SUSPEND MY LICENSE. And I needed to pay it asap. Or else. Yeah, about that-- like I've got that kind of money just to throw at the government. Boo, I say.
And yet, as soon as I'm out of hock regarding the STUPID responsibility fine, I get pulled over for SPEEDING. Me. Speeding. As it was, I was on my way to work from home, and looking around at how GREEN the trees looked in the early morning heat. I came around a curve too fast and there he was-- the cop was actually pretty nice to me, and I'm appealing it in the hope that they'll tell me to pay my fine but not put the points on my license which would jack my insurance through the roof. Why can't I seem to stay out of trouble?
Now I'm working 12 to 13 hour days at the Festival, not just because the Program has hit the Do-Or-Die line, but because the Family Show was short a Stage Manager. Yes, that's right: I was moved by the plight of the kid's show director and said I'd help out. This means that I am at the office from 9:30 or 10 in the morning until at least 10 each night. Monday through Friday. GROSS.
My most recent bit of bad luck is particularly disgusting, so I will officially advise my squeamish imaginary readers to avert their eyes now:
Speaking of eyes, I woke up yesterday morning and realized that they HURT. Now, I'm not shrinking violet when it comes to pain, I don't whine about blisters or paper cuts and I've been known to walk off some serious sprains, so when I say that my eyes hurt, they HURT. I got up and walked to the bathroom, rubbing at them to remove what I thought was sleep-sand. Boy, was I wrong.
Apparently, at some point during the night, my eyes had begun to BLEED. My hand was red as I pulled it away from my face, and my cheekbones and hair were caked with dried blood. I looked like something out of Hunter S. Thompson's flashbacks. I tried to wash out my eyes myself, and then stumbled upstairs to call the doctor. When i pulled down my lower eyelid, my eyes OOZED. [I told you this was gross and not for the weak of constitution.] The bleeding stopped before I left for work, and I had an appointment with the doctor that afternoon.
As it turns out, my body is expressing stress in new and exciting ways. Things are crystallizing in my lymph nodes again, and the blood vessels in the tissues of my eye sockets BURST. Hence, the bleeding. When the nurse asked, "Are you a worrier? Do you have anything big in your life right now that you're worried about?" I lost it-- I had such a laughing fit that I almost fell out of the chair. Seriously.
So, now I look pink and puffy about the eyes, kind of like a mole rat. I'll keep applying the cold compress, but I don't hold out much hope.
I write about the one bright spot in my life next time, I promise. However, I don't feel like such a thoroughly miserable post should be marred by highlights.
I work full-time in the summers for a residential theatre company that does only summerstock, and normally I'd say that I've got it pretty good. I've an unbelievably understanding boss, a solid assistant, I'm comfortable with the duties, and I have a computer with internet access. However, there are a couple weeks which I have learned to rue, and this past has been one of them: the week of move-in for the company. Our actors and technical staff come from all over the place, and we provide housing for many of them. This year, there are six full houses to furnish with beds, tables, chairs, couches, lamps, end tables, vacuum cleaners, coffee tables and everything else their little hearts desire. Every year this is more and more of a headache, not to mention backache. We make use of community service labor, but it's still a helluva day. This year, it didn't start off well.
No, this year, my mother decided that I was an alcoholic the morning of the move.
Now, I do occasionally drink. In fact, I've been known to toss them back with the best of them. I drink red beers and stouts, cheap vodka and expensive scotch. I enjoy the good drink at the end of a long day. However, my mother has gotten it into her head that because I keep a well-stocked alcohol shelf in my living area, I must be an alcoholic. This is supremely unfortunate and resulted in a lot of shouting.
After duking it out with my mother, I proceeded to the U-Haul station here in town to pick up the truck. We were supposed to be getting a 17' hauler, but the one that they had for us had some problems-- the TRANSMISSION had FALLEN OUT when the last customer returned it. So what did they do? They gave us the 24' truck at the same price.
A good deal? Sure. However, a 24' truck is basically a TRANSPORT. A Semi-trailer. A BEAST. And I got to drive it. Oh, be still my beating heart. I not usually an easily-daunted individual. There is not much that I will generally shrink from due to intimidation, but this truck was ENORMOUS. However, there was nothing doing other than to climb up into the cab and throw the old beast into gear. The workers were all decent, and the moving went well enough. The crew from community service, the friendly felons, if you will, could only work until 4 pm. That was fine, most of the heavy lifting was done by that point. After we released them, my assistant, let's call him Eeyore due to his general attitude and standard vocalization, and I picked up four more couches and a couple arm chairs from the local St. Vinny's and hit the road again.
Of COURSE there was significant construction on the roads leading to one of the houses, but I only picked off one construction barrel-- I consider this to be a badge of honor in a truck of such ungodly proportions. After that, we came to discover that one of the houses has the most narrow doors in all of America, and there was NO WAY we were getting a couch into the living room. So, we threw the couch back into the cargo bay and I put the key in the ignition. Turn the key.
Nothing happens.
Let me repeat that-- NOTHING HAPPENED. The giant-ass truck DID NOT START.
The battery had died. Eventually a neighbor who somehow knew Eeyore offered to give us a jump. Luckily that worked out, and we continued distributing our remaining couches. I was so flabbergasted that I had a laughing fit. What U-Haul dies on the road? Apparently, the one I touch.
We finally returned the U-Haul to its home on the lot, and I headed home myself. I was pretty proud of myself for driving the damned thing, and I wanted to preen a little for the family and have them acknowledge my automobile superiority. However, it was not to be. Not only was my mother still fixated on my supposedly-doomed liver, but my sister wasn't home, my father was busy with something, and my brother could best be described as an asshat. After a disgustingly humid day of hauling mattresses and couches, at least I could take a soothing bath, right? WRONG. My brother had decided to replace the shower head in the downstairs bathroom, and so I was thoroughly thwarted. I came back to work the next day feeling bruised and abused, but the work didn't end the day before. No, there were still dishes to distribute and lightbulbs and shower curtains and regular curtains and ironing boards. I basically worked the weekend and into Monday getting things around, and the actors attempted to arrive on Sunday.
I say "attempted" because the splatter pattern of their arrival times was a work of postmodern art. It stipulated in their contracts that they arrive between 1 and 5 on Sunday. This TOTALLY did not happen. Which brings us to Monday...
Monday was the company picnic. Monday morning, somebody needed to be checked in at 9. After that, is was to the rental place to pick us a 20' by 30' tent and tables and chairs for 60 people. We managed to fit this all in a minivan, and off to the back yard of a certain board member to set it all up. The people at the rental place said that setting up the tent would be no big deal, that children put up this tent all the time. I don't know who those children are, but I'm guessing they can trace a straight line to Attila the Hun. The tent spikes were easily TWO FEET LONG. When I asked the previously mentioned board member for a sledge hammer with which to drive these spikes into his year, he rummaged around in his three car garage and eventually gave me not a sledge hammer, but a MALLET HAMMER. For those of you unfamiliar with the Hammer family, the Mallet is the wimpy, rubbery illegitimate cousin of the Sledge. This mallet hammer had an 8 inch handle and a hard rubber head. Riiiight. If I were a CLOWN, I might have been able to drive a spike with it. As it was, I can only say that Eeyore did an amazing job driving those spikes.
Two-thirds of the way through driving spikes in 90-degree+ heat, my boss called and ORDERED me to abandon the tent and go out to housing to Lysol some beds, kill some mold, and greet two of our big-time actor/director types. Fine, fine. Eeyore soaked the beds in Lysol, and I swept. We welcomed our peoples and headed back out to the picnic site to assemble the tent.
I think I'm the only campfire girl left in the universe. Or at least the only one who remembers how to tie a barrel knot. My legs and arms hurt from carrying the tables, my back hurt from the beds and couches, and the rope made short work of my hands. By the time I finished the tent and my boss finished yelling about how none of this was my job and I needed to be working on assembling the program, I noticed that the aforementioned board member's THREE GROWN CHILDREN were sitting in his living room WATCHING Eeyore and I struggle in the oppressive heat to get everything set up. Just SITTING THERE.
Once at the picnic, one of our directors who I'd greeted earlier in the day informed me that he was ALLERGIC to the bed Eeyore had so recently lysol'd. In fact, he'd broken out in hives. Well, shit. I don't exactly have beds here there and everywhere, but I would see what I could do. This resulting in spending $160 that we DO NOT HAVE to buy him and new bed. But what you do for one child, you must do for the next, and the actor who lives near him decided that his bed must have been soaked in urine at some point and he needed a new mattress. FINE. I understand not wanting to sleep on those beds, but by this point-- I'm never touching a mattress with the intention of moving it for the REST OF MY LIFE. From here on out, I'll sleep in a hammock like a good little pirate.
Then, on Wednesday, I found out that the Driver's Responsibility Fine that I had been assessed LAST YEAR was in fact a TWO PART FINE and I owed the Michigan Department of Treasury another $200 or they'd SUSPEND MY LICENSE. And I needed to pay it asap. Or else. Yeah, about that-- like I've got that kind of money just to throw at the government. Boo, I say.
And yet, as soon as I'm out of hock regarding the STUPID responsibility fine, I get pulled over for SPEEDING. Me. Speeding. As it was, I was on my way to work from home, and looking around at how GREEN the trees looked in the early morning heat. I came around a curve too fast and there he was-- the cop was actually pretty nice to me, and I'm appealing it in the hope that they'll tell me to pay my fine but not put the points on my license which would jack my insurance through the roof. Why can't I seem to stay out of trouble?
Now I'm working 12 to 13 hour days at the Festival, not just because the Program has hit the Do-Or-Die line, but because the Family Show was short a Stage Manager. Yes, that's right: I was moved by the plight of the kid's show director and said I'd help out. This means that I am at the office from 9:30 or 10 in the morning until at least 10 each night. Monday through Friday. GROSS.
My most recent bit of bad luck is particularly disgusting, so I will officially advise my squeamish imaginary readers to avert their eyes now:
Speaking of eyes, I woke up yesterday morning and realized that they HURT. Now, I'm not shrinking violet when it comes to pain, I don't whine about blisters or paper cuts and I've been known to walk off some serious sprains, so when I say that my eyes hurt, they HURT. I got up and walked to the bathroom, rubbing at them to remove what I thought was sleep-sand. Boy, was I wrong.
Apparently, at some point during the night, my eyes had begun to BLEED. My hand was red as I pulled it away from my face, and my cheekbones and hair were caked with dried blood. I looked like something out of Hunter S. Thompson's flashbacks. I tried to wash out my eyes myself, and then stumbled upstairs to call the doctor. When i pulled down my lower eyelid, my eyes OOZED. [I told you this was gross and not for the weak of constitution.] The bleeding stopped before I left for work, and I had an appointment with the doctor that afternoon.
As it turns out, my body is expressing stress in new and exciting ways. Things are crystallizing in my lymph nodes again, and the blood vessels in the tissues of my eye sockets BURST. Hence, the bleeding. When the nurse asked, "Are you a worrier? Do you have anything big in your life right now that you're worried about?" I lost it-- I had such a laughing fit that I almost fell out of the chair. Seriously.
So, now I look pink and puffy about the eyes, kind of like a mole rat. I'll keep applying the cold compress, but I don't hold out much hope.
I write about the one bright spot in my life next time, I promise. However, I don't feel like such a thoroughly miserable post should be marred by highlights.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
You can't go home...
I graduated from college last Saturday. I never thought I'd see the day, but the day finally saw me. I wasn't ready, I didn't feel like I'd gotten everything done, and in truth I still haven't. I still need to submit a final draft of my PHIL 490 Independent Study paper on the concept of tragedy in Miguel de Unamuno's work The Tragic Sense of Life and sit my CLEP exam. Despite all this, they conferred my degree on me.
The ceremony was nicely done, and while I didn't really think I was going to cry, I did. I didn't weep, but I distinctly cried. Particularly when my friend Lisa's parents accepted her degree for her. (Lisa was killed in a car accident coming home from the bar this past fall, and it shocked all of campus.) Her parents are wonderful, and I spoke at her candlelight vigil on campus. It was just so heart-wrenching, and Bill Crawford, the admin who was announcing the names of the graduates, read a short statement about Lisa written by Dr. Swedene, which only added to the crying. And bagpipes always choke me up, I'm not sure why. When the faculty spontaneously and unifromly rose to their feet to applaud the graduating class, it finally hit me-- this wave of pride and gratefulness I hadn't counted on feeling.
After graduation and snapping a few pictures, the family and I packed up my apartment and loaded up the minivan. If I hadn't been taking the siblings home in my car, I would have been able to fit everything. As it was, I had to leave a fair number of things in the Honors House storage shed. I'll pick it up on the way back from the wedding I'm driving to over Memorial Day weekend up in Timmins. I might also head up there for the CLEP testing date in July, and then I would definitely be able to pick it all up.
So... now I'm back working at the same job I've had for the past SIX YEARS. It's a good job, it pays well considering how much I could expect to make in a summer, but when you break down the number of hours, I'm making something like $2.50 an hour. And it's office work, nothing backbreaking or too difficult. I like my boss, she's wonderful, but the job is high-stress all the time, and if I screw up, EVERYBODY knows it. However, she's really good about letting me take time off during May for weddings and other commitments.
Regardless, I'm back at my desk and answering phones and trying to find housing for the world's largest Shakespeare company. Already the whole damn season feels off-kilter somehow. This may be the year to go out on, but I don't know because I still haven't heard from Grad Schools about them wanting me to come study with them.
I won't lie-- I've got my heart set on the University of St. Andrews. I know that it will cost me an ungodly amount, that the exchange rate will bend me over the desk, that I'm going into a narrow field, but I DO NOT CARE. They have a one-year Shakespeare Studies masters program that takes 50 weeks and I'll walk away with my MLitt. They were just accepted into the Folger Institute, they're in SCOTLAND, and I want to go! I check my e-mail compulsively, hoping to find a letter from their PG department telling me that they want me. Please, dear God, let them want me.
Until then, I get to live in my parents basement, listing books for sale on amazon.com to help ease my living expenses, watching bad cable television until I fall asleep at 11 pm. It's a life.
The ceremony was nicely done, and while I didn't really think I was going to cry, I did. I didn't weep, but I distinctly cried. Particularly when my friend Lisa's parents accepted her degree for her. (Lisa was killed in a car accident coming home from the bar this past fall, and it shocked all of campus.) Her parents are wonderful, and I spoke at her candlelight vigil on campus. It was just so heart-wrenching, and Bill Crawford, the admin who was announcing the names of the graduates, read a short statement about Lisa written by Dr. Swedene, which only added to the crying. And bagpipes always choke me up, I'm not sure why. When the faculty spontaneously and unifromly rose to their feet to applaud the graduating class, it finally hit me-- this wave of pride and gratefulness I hadn't counted on feeling.
After graduation and snapping a few pictures, the family and I packed up my apartment and loaded up the minivan. If I hadn't been taking the siblings home in my car, I would have been able to fit everything. As it was, I had to leave a fair number of things in the Honors House storage shed. I'll pick it up on the way back from the wedding I'm driving to over Memorial Day weekend up in Timmins. I might also head up there for the CLEP testing date in July, and then I would definitely be able to pick it all up.
So... now I'm back working at the same job I've had for the past SIX YEARS. It's a good job, it pays well considering how much I could expect to make in a summer, but when you break down the number of hours, I'm making something like $2.50 an hour. And it's office work, nothing backbreaking or too difficult. I like my boss, she's wonderful, but the job is high-stress all the time, and if I screw up, EVERYBODY knows it. However, she's really good about letting me take time off during May for weddings and other commitments.
Regardless, I'm back at my desk and answering phones and trying to find housing for the world's largest Shakespeare company. Already the whole damn season feels off-kilter somehow. This may be the year to go out on, but I don't know because I still haven't heard from Grad Schools about them wanting me to come study with them.
I won't lie-- I've got my heart set on the University of St. Andrews. I know that it will cost me an ungodly amount, that the exchange rate will bend me over the desk, that I'm going into a narrow field, but I DO NOT CARE. They have a one-year Shakespeare Studies masters program that takes 50 weeks and I'll walk away with my MLitt. They were just accepted into the Folger Institute, they're in SCOTLAND, and I want to go! I check my e-mail compulsively, hoping to find a letter from their PG department telling me that they want me. Please, dear God, let them want me.
Until then, I get to live in my parents basement, listing books for sale on amazon.com to help ease my living expenses, watching bad cable television until I fall asleep at 11 pm. It's a life.
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