More Praise…and Tits

From 11/5/06

Remember that praise I mentioned a few days ago?  Well, on Friday morning I ran into my teacher, and he told me he had been reading my workbook for his other class and was really enjoying it.  Later, I got home and checked my e-mail and had the following message from him:

I just got through your memory workbook and very much enjoyed it.  It’s so graceful, smart and charming and it’s written in such a way that it feels like I’m going along on the ride of your discoveries of the various materials.

You really demonstrate your serious and passionate engagement with the writings.

Great job.


Isn’t that grand?

Last night I opened a mini bag of Teddy Grahams that was leftover from Halloween.  I have not eaten Teddy Grahams in years, despite the fact that I always loved them.  They tasted odd, though.  Different.  Not as good as they used to be.  I said so to The Mormon, and he said, “Hmm…they’ve probably changed their recipe.”

“Hm,” I said.  “No Proustian experience for me.”

He laughed and said he loved me, and then he kissed me.

Funny story:  Tonight he laid his head down on my chest, and we just sat there for a moment, and then he said, “I don’t know why that always happens.  My face always ends up in your tits.  I swear I don’t try to do that.”

“My tits don’t mind,” I said.

He laughed.  “I’m not saying I mind; I like your tits.”

“They like you, too,” I said.

“Have you and the girls discussed this in the past?”

At first I thought by “the girls,” he meant my tits, but then it occurred to me that he might mean Michelle and Adrianna, so I said, “No, we have not, but I’m sure if I brought it up, Michelle would say, ‘Why are you telling me this!?'”

There was a short pause.

Then, “You meant my tits, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, actually I did.”

“Well, me, too,” I said.  “Those are their names–Michelle and Adrianna.”

He laughed very hard, as did I, and said, “So which one is which?”

“This one is Adrianna,” I said, pointing to the right one, “it’s a bit smaller.”  (Adrianna is our Betty Boop-sized friend.)

I can’t wait to tell Michelle and Adrianna about this.  He insists on being present for it.


An Ominous Tickle and Some Lovely Praise

From 11/3/18

I had an…incident…*shudder*…at work yesterday.  It was during Rush Hour, and Bob was refilling something, and Sandra was serving, and I was serving, so it was pretty crowded on the line at that moment.  And I felt a hair tickling my arm, probably stuck in my glove.  So I rubbed my arm against my apron, trying to pull out the hair and relieve the tickle.  A second later, however, the tickle started back up.  About three times I repeated this process, and finally I looked down to see where it was and pull it out, and I saw a black speck…crawling.

Without time to think, I flung my arm out, trying to shake off whatever it was.  It was small enough to be an ant, but I was pretty certain that was not what it was.

“Sandra,” I said.

“What?”  She was serving.  She wasn’t really aware of me.

“Sandra…there’s something crawling on me.  I think it might be a spider.  Do you see it anywhere?”

I then felt a hair tickling my arm farther up, and this time, it was a thread.  The thing at the end of it was crawling around my apron, a little above knee-level.

I froze.  Fortunately, I had already set down the plate.

“Sandra,” I said.

“What?”  She was still unaware of what was going on.

“Sandra…there’s a spider on me.”

“What, Ginny?”

Then Greg the Dishwasher walked by.  I don’t talk to Greg the Dishwasher all that much, but he was there, and he was available, so I looked at him pleadingly, still frozen, still trying to keep calm, and said, “Get the spider off me.”

“Where is it?” he said.  He didn’t see it.  And then, to my horror, he took my apron and just shook it really hard, so it could have gone anywhere on me.  I squealed a little.  And then I saw it–it had dropped to the very bottom of the apron, almost to the pants.

“Greg,” I said.  “It’s still there.  Get it off, please.”

I told him it was at the very bottom of the apron, and this time he just took his fingers and flicked it.  I watched it crawl away on the ground.

When I returned to serving, my friend Shawn was standing there, and apparently I still looked horrified, because he said, “Ginny, why do you have that expression on your face?”  I told him he didn’t want to know, and he took my word for it.

I made a point of thanking Greg the Dishwasher again later.  He laughed.

On a better note, one of my favorite teachers made a special point of informing me today that I had made an A- on my paper, which has not been handed back yet.  “I really liked your paper,” he said.

“Oh, that’s good!” I said.

He said, “I know I read your last paper out loud, but I wanted to know if I could read this one aloud, as well.”  I told him that was fine.  And then he told me, “I’d really like for you to revise where I marked it–and they’re very minor revisions (you know how I am)…because, with your permission, I would like to hang onto this one and keep it as a model for future classes.”

This is very flattering for an English major.  Better still, though, I had made it my goal to write a paper that he would want to use as a model when he handed out a model paper from a past student and class.  I can’t believe I actually accomplished that goal.

He said, “It seems like you even got more into this paper than your last one.  Is that true?”

Actually, I’d thought it was worse than my last one (which, incidentally, also received an A-.  And this from a teacher who does not like to give A’s.)  I have come to the conclusion that I am seriously over-critical of myself.  I was always really annoyed by those people who made straight A’s but still worried over every single grade, but I’ve realized I’m like that, in a way.  I am by no means a straight-A student, but I always think I’ve done everything really poorly, and, at least in English classes, I always have, like, the only A, or the highest grade in the class, or the one that the teacher chooses to read out loud…always.  So it’s like…I’m always surprised, because I think I haven’t done well, but them I’m not surprised, because I’ve come to expect that I will excel in my English classes.  Without really over-exerting myself.

He asked me, in fact, if I was surprised, and I don’t remember how I responded.  I wasn’t sure what to say.

I have to include stories like this every now and then, because it reminds me that I’m not as pathetic as I sometimes worry I am.  Although I don’t worry about things like this nearly as much anymore since I have The Mormon.  He makes me feel pretty good about myself.  I am so happy, in fact.  I’m very glad it’s the weekend.

The Padawan At Work and Stupid Christians

There’s this guy who comes through my line at work who has a Padawan braid.  The first time I saw him, I said, “Hey, you have a Padawan braid!”

He said, “No, it’s…well…” and shrugged and kind of nodded.  I grinned and said, “I’m going to call you ‘Padawan’.”  He kind of rolled his eyes and smiled.  And I do, every night.

So the other night, Padawan was in my line, and he sneezed, and I said, “Oh, may the Force be with you!” in this really concerned voice.  He did the same rolling eyes and smiling thing.  Hahaha.

So this random occurrence pissed me off.  I was reading Sandman, and there was this one part where these Bacchante things came out (I guess they’re witches?) and they made the strangest calls:  “Euan, euan, eu-oi-oi-oi!”  That’s the sort of thing that sticks in your mind if you read it once and then see it again, because it’s so odd.  I remembered having read it before, more than once, and more recently, within the past couple of years.  I did a search for it, because I knew some text would have to come up.

It’s from Prince Caspian.  And suddenly I did remember reading it.  But all the sites I found listing it (and you can try it yourself, just the same way I did) were from Christians who were telling people not to let their children read The Chronicles of Narnia because it would turn them into witches–because of this one scene.  Oh, I was furious.  They were calling C. S. Lewis a Pagan and all sorts of shit.

I am not religiously intolerant.  It wouldn’t matter to me what C. S. Lewis was, I’d still read the books, but that is not the point.  The point is all these morons who refuse to look at anything that isn’t directly related to God or may have something in it that they don’t approve of, for really asinine reasons.  (“This is why I don’t go to church!” I told my mom later.  “This is why there are so many stupid Christians!”)

For the record, C. S. Lewis was a once-atheist who set out to disprove Christianity and ended up becoming so convinced by it that he converted.  He was definitely a Christian, and he chose to use Greek elements in his books because they are interesting and because it was a fucking story.

The scene in question, by the way, has these witches worshipping Aslan.  I believe the point, as it is Christian allegory, is that even the witches cannot ignore God’s presence.  It’s supposed to be a happy occasion.  Again, all of this from a Christian perspective, and I realize a lot of you don’t care.  Stay with me; I haven’t yet gotten to what really pissed me off.

Here is one example of one of the sites that I found.  See all of those  “[emphasis added]”s?  Remember those.

Then I saw, on the list of search results, J. K. Rowling’s name.  (And I just searched for it again and suddenly can’t find it, unfortunately.)  I clicked it.  It was this Christian message board with HP-bashers, one of which had posted an extremely long message explaining how HP is real witchcraft and that their children should not read it.  They had a passage supposedly quoted from the book.  The passage was the exact same one from Prince Caspian, but the names were changed to Dumbledore, Harry, etc.

I was furious.  I can’t believe the depths people will go to to brainwash each other.  I really wanted to respond, but the message was from 2001.  Somebody responded saying that they read HP, and they didn’t want to call the person a liar, but they didn’t recall the passage from the book, and could that person post page numbers?  The other person, of course, never responded, but I so wanted to reply, “I’ll call you a liar, and here are the page numbers from PRINCE CASPIAN, where you stole the passage!”

I’ve calmed down a bit since then; otherwise this would be a lot more heated.  I just wanted to share.

I Would Fight A Minotaur For Love

It is so good to be back!

My parents decided to just not pay our Comcast bill for the last…like two months.

Fortunately, I continued to write my entries like normal, so I have two months’ worth of writing for you in a Word document which I shall gradually unleash upon you in as short a span of time as possible, so be expecting a few entries a day until I’m all caught up.


I got to see L’Owen the other day; I was so excited.  Last Thursday I didn’t have class, so I went to see The Mormon at work (he works at the school), but I met him in his classroom once it was over, and the particular class was taught by L’Owen.

(Oddly, on the way in, I ran into Gary, and I said, “This is weird…neither one of us goes to this school anymore, and yet here we both are.”)

So I walked in and took Dean’s hand, which L’Owen immediately leapt upon.  “OHH, that’s so CUTE!” he said.  And then Dean started blushing, and L’Owen said, “Look at his face; he’s blushing!  His face is the color of his shirt!”

It happened to be the t-shirt I had bought The Mormon for his birthday, and I said so.

We talked to L’Owen for a while, and then, a few minutes later, apparently unable to fully wrap his mind around it, the gleam suddenly came back into his eyes and he grinned at us and said, “You two…that’s just so CUTE, I can’t get over it!”

The Mormon said, “I’m going to hear about this on Tuesday now.”

Sure enough, when he got to class on Tuesday, L’Owen said, the twinkle in his eye, “Dean, that was a great trick you pulled the other day, having Ginny come in and pretend to be your girlfriend.  That was just great.  All that handholding, and saying she bought your shirt, I mean…I’ve gotta commend you, man.”

The Mormon is like, “What?” completely confused, until L’Owen says, “I’m just messing with you.”  That is pretty damned funny.  I miss L’Owen.

Another story–this one from…I can’t remember what day this was.  Monday, perhaps.  I was about to go into work, and I called The Mormon, who did not answer.  A minute or so later, he called me, and I answered, and then I heard a muffled sound that was rather like his voice, and then silence.

Of course, being me, I immediately pictured him bound and gagged somewhere, and somehow he had managed to reach his phone and call me, and then he could not of course speak.  I was instantly in rescue mode.  OMB, somebody’s kidnapped my boyfriend! I thought.  I must call into work right now!

I said, “What’s going on?” very tentatively, and there was more silence, but only briefly, and then he said, “Oh, I’m eating lunch, sorry.”

“Oh,” I said, deflated.  I think I was actually a bit disappointed, because for one thing, that was so much less exciting, and for another, it meant I still had to go into work.

“But I was ready,” I told Michelle and Sandra later, “to go to his rescue.  I didn’t know where I’d have to go or what I’d have to fight, but I was prepared to do it.”

And then I told him the story later and assured him that, if necessary, I would fight a minotaur for him.  He said that was sexy and that he loved me.

Speaking of fighting a minotaur for love, I was sitting in class the other day, unable to concentrate (this has been happening a lot lately) and my mind was wandering to numerous other things.  I’ve known for a while that I am going to spend the rest of my life with The Mormon.  I told him, in fact, (and I may have written this in here before, but I can’t remember) that it’s just like when you ask those older couples who have been married forever how they knew they were supposed to be with the person they chose to marry, and they can’t explain it–they just knew.  And I feel that way now.  I just know.  There is no other explanation than that.  I never quite believed it when I heard things like that as a child, but…it’s true.  Sometimes you just know.

But what occurred to me the other day is the answer to that–why I “just know.”  The reason is simple:  It is a conscious decision on my part.  I have made the conscious decision to commit to him for life, no matter what.  And because I have chosen this, I am able to “just know.”

The thing is, I felt that way about Milo, as well.  Yes, I still love him; I’ve said that before.  I believe that love never dies.  But with every experience comes new knowledge, and being in love again, now, with Dean, I know that it is all a matter of choice and commitment.  I chose him over Milo.  I chose that I would commit to him for life.  If I had been with Milo–if he had changed his mind before I’d fallen in love again–I would have committed to him as well, and then I would have “just known” with Milo.  Yes, you can fall in love multiple times.  You can be in a totally fulfilling relationship and still be tempted.  The difference is in the commitment, in being faithful, and in not caving to temptation.  There will always be temptations.  Every now and then, I do find myself wondering, Well, what if I’d done that differently?  What if I’d been with that guy instead? But the point is that I love Dean, and I want to be with him for the rest of our lives, and that I would never do anything to screw that up, and I trust him to do the same.  Moreover, the key to being happy, I told him, is to keep the other person happy.  If I endeavor to always make him happy, he will continue to want to make me happy.  It’s all about faithfulness.

Every once in a while, I really surprise myself by realizing that I actually have learned something from an experience.  Maybe reality is different for some other people, but all that I have just stated is truth for me.

During the same class, it occurred to me that one of the main reasons I want to move to England is so that I can do something different.  I would be moving to a foreign country–across an ocean.  Every day I would wake up and realize that I was in a totally different country than where I grew up.  I think that would be enough excitement to last a long time.  It would be an adventure–and at the same time, the culture over there is not so different that I would have to change a lot about my lifestyle.  I wouldn’t have to become fluent in a new language to live there.  It would be just different enough.  (Also, traveling, which I would really like to do, would be a lot easier over there than over here.)  But on that “different” tack–no one else in my family has done or is doing this.  It would make me The One Who Moved to England.  That would always be in my family’s minds.  I’m the one who moved to England.  I realized that if Psychobrat were also to move to England, half the appeal would immediately be gone, because I would no longer be different.  I would just be doing the same thing Psychobrat did.  And then I recalled that, my entire life, I always wanted to be known as doing different things than Psychobrat.  That’s why I didn’t want Psychobrat to join drama–she could be known as the soccer star, but I didn’t want her taking away the thing that I had made mine.  She’s everyone’s favorite, so nothing I do matters to them and I basically have no identity in my family’s minds.  I’m only known to them by comparison to their image of her.  Does that make any sense?

The bottom line, I realized, is just that I want to do something different.  I honestly don’t care if I am ever rich or famous.  I just want to be happy.  And I think because I have Dean I always will be.  And moving to England, I believe, would excite the senses enough for quite a while.

Being Stupid

The Mormon is back in town, and he is getting up unusually early for a Sunday (for him) so that we can spend a few hours in the morning together before I go to work.  I’m so excited.

But meanwhile, I had to find other things to do this weekend (as I did not feel like doing my homework).  Today I went to lunch at Seven Bridges with my friend Andrew.  I’d never been there before.  Their blackened mahi-mahi sandwich is amazing!

Then we went to the mall and, while we were walking around, Andrew had the novel idea that we should go up the down escalator.  So of course we had to.  We waited until it was clear and then started running.  He was right in front of me, and I couldn’t see anything but the stairs I was on, so I had no idea how close to the top I was until he tripped on the stable ground.  And I was still running hard, wondering how many people were waiting, and then I tripped and was suddenly at the top, and this girl said in an extremely rude voice, “Excuse you.”  I laughed right in her face.  We both started laughing and then walking, which was difficult for a moment, because it just was, and he was headed in the direction of a cop who’d probably been standing there watching us the entire time, and I grabbed him and said, “No, not that way, there’s a cop that way,” and we walked the other way, still laughing.

A couple minutes later, he said loudly, “Geez, can you believe those people who were running up the down escalator?  I mean, what assholes!”

Screw rude people who don’t know how to have fun.  It was very liberating.  If you’re going to try it, just make sure you don’t walk into a cop right afterward.

Being Selfish

I am so losing my drive.

I was doing so well with my homework, every single night, I’d come home, do it, and go to sleep.  That’s how every day went—wake up, get ready to go, go to class, go to work, do my homework, go to bed, start over.  I’m still doing that, but I screw around with my homework more and more now.  I keep thinking, Oh, I can just do that tomorrow, and then do.

Last week I couldn’t even concentrate in class.  I just sat through all my classes, for all those hours and fifteen minutes, staring off into space, thinking about goodness knows what.

Tomorrow I have to know what I’m going to be writing my five-page essay on for my Makings of Memory class.  I’ve had a week to figure this out.  I still have no clue.

I’d been kind of working on a rewards system—I kill myself every day of every week and then the weekend comes and everything is wonderful for two days, and now I just found out that I will only have one weekend with The Mormon for this entire month.  (And let me reiterate–weekends are the only times that I see him at all.)  So now I’m doing all of this work and there is nothing at all to get me through it or console me.  Just the promise of a weekend where I’m stuck at home with my angry father and with nothing to do.  I am so depressed.  Why does being so busy make me depressed?  It’s always like this.  Nobody else gets like this.  Other people are just like, yeah, I’m busy, whatever, life goes on.  It doesn’t work that way for me.

I’m being so selfish.  I’m always so selfish.  Why am I so selfish?  Fuck.

This entry is completely depressing.

Saturday nights are just so sad because I know the week is starting again the next day.  I am literally so busy these days that this is the first opportunity I have had to update this thing since a week ago.  And it isn’t bad being busy really; but being too busy has always made me depressed.  I can’t decide if I’m too busy or not; I don’t have any free time during the day, but my weekends are not completely used up, either.  If they were, then I would certainly be too busy.  No, what is really depressing is that I am so busy during the week and it isn’t physically possible for me to even see The Mormon any day except Friday and Saturday.  And even that is only for part of the day.  He has class until 2:30 on Fridays, and today I only got to see him between 5:30 and 9:30, and that was it.  Next weekend I will not see him because he will be out of town with the debate team that he joined for the sole purpose of getting grant money.  (He found out today that he will not be getting the $2000 grant money because he still lives with his parents, but he’s going to see this thing through to the end because he isn’t a quitter.)  If I knew that I could see him at night when I wanted to, it would make everything better.  But I can’t.  I hardly have time to talk to him at night.  So every Saturday when I say good-bye, I feel like crying because I feel so suffocated and the weekend is so miserably short.  It’s exactly like in Proust (which I detest, so I can’t believe I’m making this comparison) when Marcel lies in bed at night and waits for his mother to come and kiss him good-night, and it is the highlight of his day, but as it’s happening, he feels depressed because he knows in just a moment it will be over again.  There’s that burden on Saturday night that it will so quickly be over and then it will again be six days before I will see him.

So next weekend he’ll be out of town, and then the following weekend, I have to be at school from 7:30 to 9:30 for a horrendous long piano recital which I will not be able to escape from mentally because it is required that I pay attention.  I’m going to be so depressed for the next couple of weeks.  I hate this.  I just hate being too busy to spend time with him.  That is too busy.

The piano recital:  It’s a performance of Morton Feldman’s “Triadic Memories”.  It actually does last for two hours, and it has no melody the entire time.  The point is that you will not remember what you hear, so that, twenty minutes later, when he plays something nearly identical except for perhaps one note, you suddenly remember that you have heard it before, because now it is slightly different.  If that wasn’t enough to drive me insane, I’m going to be sitting there the entire two hours freaking out because of course my mind will be wandering, and it will inevitably wander again and again to the fact that this is what I am wasting one of the two days I get to see him doing.  It’s almost like we have a long-distance relationship.  It’s so depressing.  And it’s really getting to me.  Obviously.  I’ve now written three paragraphs about it.

There’s been a lot of stuff during the week I’ve felt like writing about, but because I have honestly not had the chance, it’s too much now to attempt to sort out, so…I guess I’ll just close this thing.  By now I feel like I’m wasting my precious time.  Not that I have any other ideas of what to do, but…yeah.