bahee ya ee ya....wah wah wah (or the theme music from High Noon)

I needed to get up early this morning to finish some assigned reading, take a quiz, and write a five to seven page paper. I normally get up around 7am, so I set my alarm for 5am, which I knew was going to be brutal when I woke up. This is after going to bed late because I was up reading and then just couldn't fall asleep. I probably fell asleep sometime around 1:30 am at the earliest. So I woke up, looked at my clock, and saw that it was 5:10 already, because I had woken up 15 minutes earlier, seen that it was almost time to get up, and had turned off my alarm. I got up and showered, only to realize halfway through that I had misread my clock, and it was actually 3:10am. I finished my shower and went back to sleep, only to get up at 6am instead of 5am, so I managed to both get up 4 hours earlier than usual and 1 hour later than I had intended.

The thing is, this sort of thing happened to me all last semester. I had both a digital alarm clock and standard wall clock in my room, but because they were across the room I had a hard time making them out. As for the digital alarm clock, it was impossible for me to read its display first thing in the morning. Eyes straining against the darkness and a moderate case of myopia, I would often see things I shouldn't have, like

6, IT IS!
or
the square root of 6 ; the square root of 3 (in mathematical symbols)

On the wall clock, 8:00 looked much like 9:00 and so on, and I was forever getting mixed up. I always had to take a third look to figure out what time it actually was, so I was very much surprised once when after at least five looks the 9:00 wasn't changing back to 8:00 as it should have, only to have it dawn on me that I had actually read the clock correctly for once and was late.

Baconic

I had my cooking lab today and made soup. The best part of the lab was when my teacher was checking to see if each group had picked up all the ingredients to make their salads, so she was yelling out, "Who needs bacon*? Does everyone have bacon who wants it? Who still needs bacon? You all should have gotten some bacon!" All I could think was that she was a married woman who shouldn't have been propositioning us in such a way. Also, I want to say that I'm very proud of my soup, and even prouder of myself for eating some of it. That is all.

*This is a euphemism, but not a terrible one

101

Apparently that last post was my 100th and I didn't even realize it. How very anticlimactic.

Wrapped around my finger

"I've got the world on a string, sitting on the rainbow
Got the string around my finger, what a life, Mama, I'm in love.
Life's a beautiful thing, as long as I hold the string
I'd be a silly so-and-so if I should ever let you go."—Ted Koehler

It's a momentous day folks. I have now had this piece of floss tied around my pinkie for one year. It doesn't really seem possible that so much time has gone by, and yet it has. I can't quite decide what to do in regards to the string, because there's a chance that it may never come off. I thought about cutting it off today on its one year anniversary, because to be quite honest there's no good reason for it being on there. I tied it on and then decided to see how long it would stay. I rarely even notice it's there most of the time. I had better think about it some more.

In recent news, we celebrated Optimistic.'s 25th birthday this weekend with a party on Saturday and a family dinner on Sunday. Each was a success. Sunday I made some lasagna that will have to be eaten as leftovers for several days to come. Saturday we spent some of our gift cards and now own a lot more stuff than we did before. About $400 worth more. I really need to get those thank you cards out.

So like I said, Optimistic. turned 25 yesterday, and that fact kind of hit me in the face last night as I was falling asleep. I'm married to a 25 year old man. I'm married and living in an apartment a thousand miles from where I grew up. I share an apartment with a man. I own a toaster oven with him. Toaster oven nothing, we own a car together. And someday we'll have children. I feel really old and really young at the same time, and sometimes that scares me deep down to my core. He didn't seem to care that he was another year older (and wiser too), maybe because he's at that age where age doesn't matter anymore. I still feel each year as it's added on, feel my youth slipping away, and wonder how I can be not quite twenty one and already married. I haven't played in the snow this year. I haven't played much at all.

That said, I have a fun story from yesterday when we went to our new married ward for the first time. The bishop had all the new couples come and meet in his office during the second hour so we could get to know each other and introduce ourselves. At the end of Optimistic.'s turn the bishop asked if there was anything else Optimistic. wanted to share. He replied that he had a cold. The bishop then said something along the lines of "well, that won't do" and got up to retrieve a tall can from the table across the room. Then he had Optimistic. hold out his hands while he sprayed some foam into them. He'd been sanitized.

The bishop rubbed some of the foam on his own hands as he extolled its virtues, saying "I just can't stand alcohol, so I found this sanitizer that isn't alcohol based. I love this product. I bought a case of it. It feels great going on and it keeps the germs away for more than three hours." One of the other two women in the room piped up, "well that's great for the two of you, but what about the rest of us?" so the bishop went around and had the rest of us hold out our hands as well. I didn't really want to, but it seemed like there was no way out of it. So that's my little story, that our new bishop sanitized us both before we were let out of his office. What a welcome.

As a point of business, I have names for about half of my family members on this blog. The other half I've just used initials for, so over break I decided on what I'm going to call everyone.

My parents are simply Mom and Dad, although my dad has signed himself as Daddy No Bucks before, and seeing him in his tuxedo at the wedding with his neatly buzzed head made the connection to Annie even more apparent.

Us kids in order are:

-First Draft (Because she's the oldest. Formerly called F2)
-Audrey (because she has her own blog and goes by her own name)
-Bony M (Named after the band. Watch Touching the Void if you have any questions)
-M-Lite (Short for Miller Lite, so named because of the two of us she's the lighter one while I'm a bit stouter. Get it? Stouter?)
-Me. Genuine Draft. Hearty and robust in flavor
-Miller High Life (formerly called H, and now to be abbreviated M-High)
-Rough Draft (my only brother, formerly called F). I don't mean for his name to imply that he's a work in progress or anything like that, just that he's the manliest sibling I have and so deserved a draft moniker worthy of his guyishness. I also thought about Tough Draft, Scruff Draft, Buff Draft, Snuff Draft and Guff Draft. I'm still kind of undecided. Maybe I should ask him what he wants to be called.
-Final Draft (formerly H2), so called because she's the last Draft. I also considered calling her Huff Draft because she's an asthmatic.

And thus concludes this post.

Hugh Laurie/Playing House

This is just a quick update on my life to get me back into the blogosphere before I get really busy. I've just finished up my first week of classes, and I have to say it feels good to be back in school. I hadn't been enrolled since last Winter semester, and just working was starting to wear on me. I'm getting back into the swing of things -the walking, the sitting, the not paying attention -it's like riding a bicycle. Some of the classes I'm looking forward to more than others are Intro to film and Creative writing. I'm even taking a food prep class, which promises to be highly informative, seeing as how I don't really know anything about cooking.

Mostly I've been settling into our new apartment. We spent a good two days unpacking everything and trying to find places to put everything, but we have a lot of closets so it has all worked out beautifully. Our place even has a spare bedroom, so Bony M and A and baby Andy are going to stay with us when they come to town in April. Tomorrow is going to be spent shopping for all the necessities we didn't get as gifts, like dishes, cookie sheets, and pot holders. I went to make a pizza the other day and had nothing to put it on or take it out of the oven with. And we're celebrating Optimistic.'s birthday tomorrow so there's some baking that needs to be done. That's all that's new with me really. I'm back in school and back at work and just trying to make do until we get some real dishes to eat off of.

Was that English?

I'm married. Whee! Also, my brother won the eat off with a total of five fajitas and five glasses of lemonade to his credit. And half an Ooey gooey chewy sundae. I really do love that family of mine.

The Great Escape

My pre-wedding movie countdown might go something like this:

The Wedding Singer
The Corpse Bride
Runaway Bride
Father of the Bride
Four Weddings and a Funeral
My Best Friend's Wedding
The Princess Bride
The Bride to Terabithia
The Bride on the River Kwai
A Bride Too Far

Wallace and Davis

I came home today, took off my shoes, went over to the computer, and opened up the itunes before realizing that I didn't even want to listen to anything except the sound of the rain outside.

Also, I went to the dentist yesterday, and there's a very good chance I'll be having three root canals as well as all of my wisdom teeth taken out. There's nothing ahead for me but blue skies, vicodin, pudding, and vicodin in pudding.

The garbage called in dulcet tones

My last day of restaurant work is fast approaching. Next Wednesday. That means that today was my last day of Friday-type work, and tomorrow will be my last Saturday of working, there or anywhere else. I was a bit apprehensive about today, because weekends at work can be a bit crazy. I usually get completely stressed out and end up crying all over the place once I leave work. A few weeks ago there was some sort of state sports thing going on, and guess where all the teams came to eat afterward? I had a line of 180 people come through, and it was far from pleasant. But today was remarkably peaceful, and I enjoyed myself a lot.

I saw a man go through the salad bar with his small son. The man went on one side, so his son wandered over to the other side and promptly reached up and grabbed a whole handful of sprouts. My manager saw him do it, but it was too late. The deed was done, and the kid happily munched on his fistful of sprouts all the way back to his table. I got to talk to customers a bit as they came through, which I don't normally do, and I realized that I could have liked these people all along if I hadn't been so busy hating them. I hated everyone who came through my line for a while. They had committed the mortal sin of ordering pasta, and what's more, they enjoyed their pasta enough to come back for seconds and thirds. How dare you love my fresh made fettuccine made lovingly from scratch with the finest ingredients!

There are two people that come through my line often enough that I know who they are, if not their names. One man comes every Monday and chats with me and asks me about my life, and is fairly up to date. He asks me clarifying questions, like "Now, you guys have already found a place to live down here, is that right? And you're getting married in Portland?"
I don't even know his name. He comes every week and orders at least 4 platefuls of pasta. Next week will be my last Monday, so I think I will ask him how he got started coming every Monday, and what his name is.

The second guy is younger, probably around 23, and he's very enthusiastic about pasta. This is what he said to me today, almost verbatim.

"Genuine, I don't think you really appreciate this pasta as much as you could. I mean, I love this pasta. Do you appreciate it? This is my favorite pasta in the world."

I asked him if he liked it better than his mother's pasta. The answer was an emphatic yes. He extolled the virtues of my pasta a while longer, and then asked me for four meatballs.

A woman who came through today and it went like this:

Her: I'd like fresh fettuccine
Me: The fresh made fettuccine? (and I started to scoop out some of the fresh made)
Her: No, I wanted the black pepper, the pasta that I saw you extruding earlier. That pasta. I love my pasta al dente, and everything that's out here has been sitting around for a while.
Me: I haven't cooked that pasta dough yet.
Her: I'll wait.
Me: No, the Garlic and herb fettuccine and the Black pepper rotate, so I'll be cooking the Garlic and herb next. I won't be cooking the Black pepper I made today until tomorrow.
Her: It's just that I love my pasta al dente, you know? There's nothing like eating pasta that's just been tossed in.

I eventually agreed to lay all my other cooking aside, take a small portion of the Black pepper, and spend six minutes cooking it especially for her.

Also, the dish machine was broken for a bit today, as it often is, but I happened to be downstairs in the break room while they were fixing it. The door to the machine room was open and I could see inside to where the pipes are, and it was remarkable. This one set of pipes I was looking at kept jiggling about, up and down, and all over the place, and I realized that it looked for all the world like that one bit in "The Goonies" where they're pulling on the pipes of the country club and they start to go haywire. I ran a scenario in my head of what I would do it that pipe burst.

It's also been a lot nicer at work now that Uffish works there too. Occasionally I'll look over and she'll make a face at me, which is a nice reminder that I take my job too seriously. Just today as I was leaving work I gave her a nice big goose. I suppose I should have waited until I clocked out, but I don't think anyone will sue. Another girl who works there asked me the other day when my last day was, so I told her it was on Wednesday. "Oh sad", she said, and I'm starting to agree with her. As much as I sometimes hate it, I think I'm actually going to miss my job, because the fact is, I've gotten to be pretty darn good at it. But I won't miss working Saturdays, coming home tired and spent and weeping, or smelling like restaurant, so I think it's for the best that I leave. Besides - there's a custodial job I've been sorely neglecting, and piles of trash and vomit calling my name, ever so softly.

All your eggs

I'd say that I've had my laundry basket for as long as I can remember, except I remember getting it. It's green, about ten years old, and very boxy without any of those newfangled curves designed to fit around your hip. One Easter we found that instead of our usual baskets, our mom had bought each of us a laundry basket for the folding table in the laundry room. She sent us on a treasure hunt around the house and yard that ended in the basement where our new laundry baskets were waiting for us.

My candy didn't look like much when it was spread over the bottom of such a huge container. And with these baskets came the news that our mom now expected us to be in charge of our own laundry. At least the folding and sorting of it. And if she was doing laundry, having these baskets would help her to get the right clothes to the right people. There were a few problems with the system, one being that it was hard to know whose clothes were whose. At one point we all had dots on the tags of our clothes. Being the fifth child, I had five dots on mine, and so on and so forth. But another problem was that some people had too many clothes to fit in their basket. H's clothes were always spilling over into F's basket and he didn't much care for that. And there were too many of us for us to all have differently colored baskets. Mine is green, as was Bony M's, so baskets occasionally got mixed up.

And then there was the extra basket that stayed on the floor next to the washer where the wet clothes were emptied into if there was a wait for the dryer. Mine ended up in that spot in place of the regular basket for a period of time before I managed to rescue it. The basket that had been there three baskets ago had a most unfortunate fate; it was used to carry pieces of wood in from the backyard and I found it one day behind the playhouse, nothing but splinters of plastic, decomposing into the Earth. I wasn't about to let that happen to my basket. I never let it away from me after that realization, that if you don't take care of your basket there are serious consequences.

So I was more than a little miffed when I found a small crack in my basket recently. Right in the top corner where there's a great chance of it expanding into something more serious. I've had this laundry basket for a long time and was planning on having it for many years to come, and then this happened. I don't want another basket, no matter what people are always saying about having more than one basket to put your eggs in. You know what? This laundry basket has been a big part of my life, and it's seen me through a lot of poor fashion decisions. In sickness and in health right? Ten more years laundry basket, you and me!

Ever so goosy, goosy, goosy, goosy.

Also, it's one month until I get married. There will be snacks there will.

Come again? Beg pardon?

Saturday night a group of us were watching Casino Royale, which Uffish had picked up at the grocery store for a fairly good price, and at one point during the movie she informed us that her Dad had built movie sets in the past. We were all pretty impressed, and Mr. Jimbles asked, "Is there anything your dad hasn't been?" Thinking I was funny (how very wrong I was) I responded with "A woman!" This was met with some unpleasant exclamations that let me know I had gone too far this time. I was confused, because to my knowledge Uffish's dad never had been a woman. What had I said that was so offensive? Maybe jokes about gender aren't funny? Apparently I had misheard Mr. Jimbles' question, and he had said "Is there anything your dad hasn't done", instead of "anything your dad hasn't been." Crap. I inadvertently slandered Uffish's Dad, her Mom, and Uffish herself. Stupid ears of mine. I really ought to get some new ones.

American Graffiti

Audrey tagged me to tell six things about myself, so here goes nothing. I'm also supposed to tag 6 other people, but I couldn't think of who to tag, so if you're reading this and want to be tagged, go for it.

(1) I like to clean, but I rarely clean my own house or dust my belongings, because I prefer to clean other peoples' houses. I can spend hours scrubbing a bathtub, and I have no problem cleaning up vomit. Tell your friends if you think they can afford me. Also, I hate it when telephones get covered in ear grease. Seriously, have you looked at your phone recently? It's covered in your face.

(2) I own maybe 10 skirts, but I only wear the plainest of them - the brown, navy, grey, and black ones. For example, I bought a magenta purplish skirt and I've never worn it anywhere. This is the fate of a lot of my clothes, that they go unworn.

(3) Along those same lines, I have a hard time throwing things away. Cardboard food boxes, school papers, "keep this coupon" tickets, receipts, old bits of string - you name it, I tuck it away somewhere. At home I have all sorts of stuff in the attic, including our old doorbell, and the head of a drinking fountain from the park down the street. I recently went through the stuff in my room and threw away a mountain of papers and boxes and all sorts of crap, because it's getting to be ridiculous, the amount of stuff I have, and I certainly don't use any of it. Except I did find some birthday money in some old cards - 15 dollars worth. Makes me wonder if I threw away something I oughtn't, but what's done is done. Also, I love dumps and thrift stores, but I should probably avoid them both, for obvious reasons.

(4) I'm scared of pregnant people. And wrists. And shots/needles/seeing those needles in people. I was eating at the hospital cafe the other week and I caught sight of some pregnant woman walking around with a million IV things stuck in her wrists and arms and it disturbed me quite a bit. She really freaked me out, and I had to look away, because seeing people like that overwhelms me -I start thinking about disease, childbirth, spinal disorders, bone density, hospital gowns, skin cancer, arteriosclerosis, kidney cancer, and contact lenses until I think I'm going to die.

(5) I used to want to be a hermit. I think most children think about being astronauts or ballerinas when they grow up. I mean, I thought about being other normal stuff too, like an author or something, but I also wanted to be a hermit. I used to be something of a Luddite - I put off getting a cell phone for as long as I could, I refused to get braces, and I own a typewriter. My lack of technological know how combined with my general dislike of other people led me to think that I'd be happiest living alone in a cottage somewhere with a rotary phone, writing letters out by hand . I still kind of want to be a hermit.

(6) I'm incapable of using cameras. I can't load or unload film, despite having been told how to do so several times now. Digital cameras confuse me with their memory flashcard thinguses, autofocus autoflashes, and red eye reduction capabilities. I only use those Kodak disposable type cameras and I always hesitate when anybody asks me to take a picture for them.

The King of the Sun

Part I: In which I quote a movie

My memory is a funny thing. Thursday as I was getting into the car with H and M-Lite something somebody said reminded me of a movie quote, so I spouted off what James said in James and the Giant Peach, which was something like

James: You saved us from a giant shark, single-handedly

The Earthworm: No-handedly, thank you

James: Exactly. You're a hero!

It's not the exact quote, but I imdb-ed it later and it's pretty close. H looked at me kind of funny and asked how long it had been since I'd seen that movie. I figured it must have been about eight years since I saw it last, why do you ask? Because apparently it's weird that I can see or hear something and remember it later. I forget things about myself a lot of the time - important things, important memories, details that should stay with me, but I remember all sorts of things that aren't useful at all.

Part II: AP European History and how I second guess myself

Krebscout got some paint that she'd ordered and we were talking about brands. Hers was Utrecht, and I said I liked that brand of paint, because in my mind it was the best. She asked me why I thought so, and I said that I liked it because Utrecht was famous. She and Optimistic. said they didn't recall the word Utrecht being of any importance whatsoever. I said that there was a treaty of Utrecht, or a pact, or something, but under their discerning eyes I wavered a bit. At least I thought there was a treaty. Now that they had questioned it I started to doubt. Optimistic. was a history major, and if it didn't ring any bells with him, maybe I was wrong.

We looked it up, and there definitely was a Treaty of Utrecht in 1713 that helped to end the War of Spanish Succession. I knew there had been a treaty, even if I didn't know at the time what it did. I just don't know why that fact from History class stuck with me when so many others did not.

Another thing is that I can memorize long sequences of numbers or letters. I can spell supercalifragilisticexpialidocious forwards as well as backwards (suoicodilaipxecitsiligarfilacrepus) all in one go in under 15 seconds. I also used to know pi to a hundred digits. So when I was a senior in High School and my AP Euro teacher gave us a list of events from the French Revolution to memorize in order, I started by memorizing the first letter of each event on the list. I still know the first 7 letters of that list - CTSGEDP. Why I still know that sequence almost three years after the fact is beyond me.

Part III: We fill the tires

Optimistic. noticed that our car tires were getting too low, so we made plans to spend Thursday morning getting them filled, as well as doing general maintenance work on the car -you know, cleaning it out and checking the fluid levels and such. I'd even bought a tire pressure gauge a couple of days earlier, so we were all set. When confronted with how much to fill the tires, I said that the gauge should read 30, because that's the number I've always associated with tire pressure. I hear "tire pressure" and I think 30. Optimistic. reasoned that it would be much higher, so we consulted the manual, and it said that the rear tires should be at 29 and the front tires should be at 32. So around 30 then. Why did I even know that? I heard my Dad try to explain to Bony M how to use a tire pressure gauge once. He didn't have one on hand, so his explanation consisted of "You press on it and a little dipstick pops out" and it confused her quite a bit. Let's say that they had this conversation (which I wasn't even apart of) when Bony M got her license, which was probably when she was 16 or 17 years old, which would have been 7 or 8 years ago.

I don't know -maybe everyone remembers things like that and it's just H who doesn't. Maybe it is just me. Maybe I've talked too long about this already. It makes no sense to me, but the point of all this is that I'm trying to not second guess myself as much, because it turns out I'm usually right. I just need some confidence. I need to say "Listen to me! I know what I'm talking about!"

(Also, this is the first time I've linked anything ever, and I'm immensely proud of myself, just in case this post couldn't get any more pompous. Look at me, I have a memory. Ooooh.)

Adrian!

I just saw Rocky for the first time, and I'm left in awe.

It is what it is

I'm a pasta chef now. I don't think I've mentioned that on this blog before. I make fresh fettuccine and extrude it out of a pasta machine, I cook pasta, I serve customers, and I do it all in front of a giant oven. It's kind of terrible. It stresses me out and it's physically exhausting. I have blisters on my palms and on most all my fingers right where my top knuckle is, so when I wake up in the morning I can't bend my fingers all the way. All of me hurts.

A manager at work stopped by the pasta bar for his lunch a week or so ago. He's a bit older and is really very kind and he calls me kiddo. He asked me if I liked my new position, and I was honest for once and said that I didn't, because it was stressful and I wasn't very good at it yet. He told me he's been in this business for most of his life, and sometimes when he's working down in the bakery he still feels like he's mixing the cookie dough with his feet, which was a little reassuring. Last weekend I had a terrible time at work and was completely overwhelmed. Friday I cried standing there behind my pasta counter as I separated fettuccine ribbons. Saturday was a game day and incredibly busy. Every time I turned around we were out of plates or out of bread or some customer changed their mind about their rotini and penne combination, and I was coming completely unglued. So when I went home I couldn't do anything but lay on the floor for awhile clutching an otter pop to soothe the pain of my blistering hands as I counted down the weeks I had left until I could quit this job.

Then Optimistic. came over and rubbed my back and sat with me as I cried, and took my taquitos out of the oven for me, and sat with me some more as I tried to eat them, which was hard because when you cry the back of your throat doesn't let you swallow. And two days ago the same manager stopped by and told me that he'd watched me work on Saturday and said that as a casual observer he noted that I was much more confident behind the counter and that I was doing a good job. I didn't tell him I'd been close to losing my sanity on Saturday, or that I'd gone home and cried that day, or that I think about quitting my job every five minutes I'm at work.

And a week ago Ender said something about my custodial job that I have on campus. It was slightly demeaning and it truly upset me. He tried to backtrack by saying that lots of people have to work as a custodian at some point, but that was really what clinched it. I enjoy being a custodian. I wouldn't be one if I didn't. And because I'm not a student this semester I don't get to work at the Wilk nearly as much as I'd like to. Instead I have a title and a raise and a fancy chef's hat and I hate my life. Yesterday I got off of work in time to get over to the Wilk to do some custodial work, and it's the first time I've been happy in awhile. I got to see my coworkers and tell stories and joke around a bit with my boss. I wish I didn't have to explain that to people, that I'm not looking to be anything more prestigious, like a doctor or an engineer; I just want to be happy.

The Power of

I may or may not have made a voodoo cucumber at work today.

I had to stay until 5 o'clock today despite the fact that the restaurant was mostly dead, so to occupy my time I helped out coring tomatoes and peeling cucumbers. For cucumbers you just peel off four strips, making it striped. Toward the end I got bored, and started peeling them in creative ways instead of just striped. There were some plaid cucumbers, and quite a few with wiggledy stripes, and one very special one with my name written on it. I very meticulously carved the letters of my name into one of the last cucumbers I had, and proudly showed it to my coworker. Then I went down to the bakery and chopped myself into little pieces.

I saved the cucumber that was me for last, and once I had run it through I tried to reassemble it to spell out my name again, but it was a lot more complicated than I ever could have imagined. I took my 30 pounds worth of cucumber slices upstairs and put them into metal pans, wondering as I did so who would end up eating me, and when. And would I feel it? I truly hope not, but then again, I'm curious.

Skin Is, My

This is a picture of my skin, cropped from one of my engagement pictures. I was curious to see just how white I actually am. Now I know.

Eyebrows

I write books in my head a lot of the time. For some reason I think in written form and I don't know why that is. But my thoughts are usually about different subjects for the chapters of my non-existent book. I thought about titles the other day, and the one that stood out to me was One for the Slush Pile (the slush pile being of course that pile of submitted manuscripts that editors wade through) because that's what my non-existent book is - something nobody would really want to read. But there are little vignettes in it about my work, the people I know, vomit, eyebrows, vacuums, my dreams of owning a utility sink, and the proper way to rinse out paintbrushes and flatten cardboard boxes all mixed in with things from my childhood up to the present. Only, the thing is, I tend to write these things as though they happened a long time ago. A bit about my experience working at my current job is always recounted as though I'm already out of college and it's been years since my junior year when I was a pasta chef, and at that time I was engaged, but have since gotten married and so on and so on. I've never seen a book written in the present, so all my mental notes have been changed to at that time when really the time was last Thursday.

Really I just want to write like Nicholson Baker does. I wrote a very short story last year entitled This is not about the Polkersteins which was about an old couple with the last name of Polkerstein. I considered putting it in my book as a footnote, but the story itself has footnotes in it, and the idea of footnotes within footnotes seems complicated and possibly grammatically illegal. And really I just want for my writings to get from my head into written form already without me having to bother about typing it up.

That Spring will come again

I've decided that confidence is what I need, so that's what I'm going to get.