So tonight I was working on a little blurbity writing thing for my mom. She asked me to write a little farewell thing to her good friend, and my former band director. He actually taught every kid in my family. So at first, I was all “Hmm…I don’t really remember high school all that much. Wait, I WAS in band, wasn’t I?” Needless to say, it was a slow start. But then all of a sudden, I started having these memories of all the things, I guess you could call them LESSONS, I learned in school. And wouldn’t you know it? Apparently TEACHERS had something to do with it.
A few of my friends now are teachers. It. Is. Weird. First off, I always assumed all my teachers (until college) were like 100 years old and had no life outside of ruining my day with tests. I have a distinct memory of imagining my 5th grade English teacher – who was my favoritest teacher ever – grading papers all night every night and perusing the yearbooks to get to know her students in her spare time. But now, I know the truth: some of them sit down with a bottle of wine, and mindlessly assign B’s and D’s to papers while they watch American Idol. But then they also say things like “I need to think of a good way to explain fractions.” And then they brainstorm all these crazy fun things I would have LOVED to have done in my math classes as a kid. I find myself wishing my friends could have been my teachers. That would have ruled.
I had World’s Worst Teacher in first grade who smacked me on the knuckles with a ruler because I colored something wrong (my mom promptly removed me from the class), and then there was Every Single Math Teacher I Ever Had who I hated, but besides them, I’ve totally loved my teachers. Not surprisingly, the best one (mentioned above) was my first English/Writing teacher. She smelled like cigarettes all the time and had these long pointy finger nails that she’d poke into your head if you goofed off. But guess what? No one ever goofed off twice. Anyway, she taught me about prose and imagery and tone and using adjectives effectively. She picked me to read the part of Juliet when we started reading Shakespeare, and then, as if she were my own little Cupid, picked the boy I had a crush on to read Romeo. I just loved her.
In high school, there was my teacher who announced, on the very first day, “About 90% of you will fail my class. If you think you are in that 90%, please get out.” And then like 5 kids dropped the class because they believed him. But he was lying, and he was hilarious, and he was one of my greatest teachers. He taught me AP European History and I think I understood that better than regular ol’ American History.
In college, my writing classes were taught by grad students. One of them was actually a “working writer”, in that she was actually writing for publications on a regular basis. AND GOT PAID! She wrote (under a pseudonym) for various, eh hem, adult magazines. I was like star struck by her. And when she complimented me on the story I wrote about how much I loved my own butt – yup, that’s Big Ten University education right there, folks – I knew she just got me and I loved her ever since.
There's something really comforting about finally realizing that all those teachers who I loved and admired so much actually had lives outside of me. You know, they didn't just sit alone and concern themselves with what I was going to wear to school the next day like I used to assume. And then all day they'd be all inspiring (and a little scary sometimes). After I graduated and told people I got my degree in English, people always asked "So, are you going to be a teacher?" (as if that's all English majors are good for) and I'd be all disgusted and say "Ugh, no way! Work with kids all day?! PUKE." But I don't think very many people sit around and wax nostalgic about how a Sales Coordinator changed their lives as a kid. Consider this my good deed for the day, though: Thanks, teachers. I guess you're pretty okay. Now, if only you'd just shut up about getting summers off...
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Don't Call Us...
Ah, the sweet, sweet taste of rejection. Not since losing the 4th grade spelling bee on the word “tongue” have I felt so…inadequate. I worked on some submissions for these random online freelance writing things this weekend. Yeah, because writing a blog every night just isn’t enough, apparently. I guess I just like the whole “school-y” aspect of it. You know? Writing for a grade or something. That’s probably why I’m not taking the rejections so seriously. I don’t need to work on more writing, but I just kind of want to. I already love writing a blog, and I love that very awesome, yet pseudo-uncomfortable, high when someone I hardly know is like “Oh my God! I love your blog!” It’s kind of like someone reading your diary and being like “Hey, I read it and I liked it. Your shortcomings and unnatural love for making yourself sound like an idiot are really pleasurable to read.” So, I guess that’s why I’m trying to get me some more of that.
Okay, so my first few submissions didn’t go well. For the first one, I got some picture prompt. I was supposed to look at the picture, and write like 100 words about it. My humor doesn’t translate well in that short of space. So, the picture was of a girls fingers hanging on to the sides of a rowboat. I thought it would be positively hilarious to write a quick story about a girl who had to pee in the lake. I submitted it, crossed my arms and sat back to enjoy the acclaim. Unfortunately, after rereading it a couple minutes later, I realized that instead of being funny, it came off gross. Perverted almost. I laughed all over again when I read the “Thanks but not thanks” email from them, because I couldn’t help but imagine some dude reading that and being like “Uh, is this chick serious?”
Then a couple automated rejections later, I found a place that I really thought I had a chance at. I pasted in one of my blog posts under “Writing Samples“, and then really let my hair down in the “Experience” section. I wrote about my college degree in English, my focus on writing, and then ended it with a mockingly elaborate recollection of writing a poem about my grandma in 4th grade, which was chosen to be read in front of the whole school. It seemed super funny at the time. Perfect. You know? Like WHO would write about something from 4th grade under Experience in Writing? No one! Because 1) That’s not actual experience, and 2) it’s NOT ACTUAL EXPERIENCE. So I spent the next 5 blissful minutes laughing at myself, thinking of how funny I think I am, when I got a response from the organization. Apparently, in the time it took me to pat myself on the back, they had read it and been like “Good lord no. Send this person a rejection letter a.s.a.p.” So that rejection was a little hurtful. A little. I found the immediacy of the rejection and vague explanation of my insufficient writing experience a little funny, though.
So I started a new label in my Gmail for all the letters I get from people who don‘t quite appreciate my potty humor and need to sell myself short: “FAN” LETTERS. It’s just a titch less pathetic than “REJECTIONS”. And despite the fact that I’ve been using that label more frequently than I’d like to lately, it’s kind of comforting. It’s like I’m back in school, and I’ve spent like 5 minutes studying for an exam. I mean, do I really expect NOT to get an F? Silly rabbit. Plus, this all fits very nicely into my plan of being a struggling writer. Yup. Ever since like 5th grade, I’ve had a very specific life goal. Struggling Writer. Not an actual writer, or a successful writer. Nope, I wanted the very romantic version. The late nights writing, the jotting down overly emotional thoughts on scraps of paper and then lighting them on fire, the laughing crying over a typewriter - yes, a typewriter - and the constant rejection letters. It’s all a part of the dream, people.
I really like that I’m not at the totally BITTER phase of this writing process (yet). You know, the hurling the computer across the room after getting another “Thanks but no thanks” email. The cursing of names, the screaming at the injustice of a world that doesn’t appreciate my style yet. That part is all so cliché, and very UNromantic. Sheesh, it’s not like I’m Van Gogh or something. I write about how much I hate Angelina Jolie and what I really think about vanity plates. Not exactly Macbeth, folks.
Oh well, the Fan Letter folder is far from full. And until I get more rejections than spam and J.Crew newsletters, I’ll count myself lucky to have no fear of rejection. After that, though, watch out for flying laptops.
Okay, so my first few submissions didn’t go well. For the first one, I got some picture prompt. I was supposed to look at the picture, and write like 100 words about it. My humor doesn’t translate well in that short of space. So, the picture was of a girls fingers hanging on to the sides of a rowboat. I thought it would be positively hilarious to write a quick story about a girl who had to pee in the lake. I submitted it, crossed my arms and sat back to enjoy the acclaim. Unfortunately, after rereading it a couple minutes later, I realized that instead of being funny, it came off gross. Perverted almost. I laughed all over again when I read the “Thanks but not thanks” email from them, because I couldn’t help but imagine some dude reading that and being like “Uh, is this chick serious?”
Then a couple automated rejections later, I found a place that I really thought I had a chance at. I pasted in one of my blog posts under “Writing Samples“, and then really let my hair down in the “Experience” section. I wrote about my college degree in English, my focus on writing, and then ended it with a mockingly elaborate recollection of writing a poem about my grandma in 4th grade, which was chosen to be read in front of the whole school. It seemed super funny at the time. Perfect. You know? Like WHO would write about something from 4th grade under Experience in Writing? No one! Because 1) That’s not actual experience, and 2) it’s NOT ACTUAL EXPERIENCE. So I spent the next 5 blissful minutes laughing at myself, thinking of how funny I think I am, when I got a response from the organization. Apparently, in the time it took me to pat myself on the back, they had read it and been like “Good lord no. Send this person a rejection letter a.s.a.p.” So that rejection was a little hurtful. A little. I found the immediacy of the rejection and vague explanation of my insufficient writing experience a little funny, though.
So I started a new label in my Gmail for all the letters I get from people who don‘t quite appreciate my potty humor and need to sell myself short: “FAN” LETTERS. It’s just a titch less pathetic than “REJECTIONS”. And despite the fact that I’ve been using that label more frequently than I’d like to lately, it’s kind of comforting. It’s like I’m back in school, and I’ve spent like 5 minutes studying for an exam. I mean, do I really expect NOT to get an F? Silly rabbit. Plus, this all fits very nicely into my plan of being a struggling writer. Yup. Ever since like 5th grade, I’ve had a very specific life goal. Struggling Writer. Not an actual writer, or a successful writer. Nope, I wanted the very romantic version. The late nights writing, the jotting down overly emotional thoughts on scraps of paper and then lighting them on fire, the laughing crying over a typewriter - yes, a typewriter - and the constant rejection letters. It’s all a part of the dream, people.
I really like that I’m not at the totally BITTER phase of this writing process (yet). You know, the hurling the computer across the room after getting another “Thanks but no thanks” email. The cursing of names, the screaming at the injustice of a world that doesn’t appreciate my style yet. That part is all so cliché, and very UNromantic. Sheesh, it’s not like I’m Van Gogh or something. I write about how much I hate Angelina Jolie and what I really think about vanity plates. Not exactly Macbeth, folks.
Oh well, the Fan Letter folder is far from full. And until I get more rejections than spam and J.Crew newsletters, I’ll count myself lucky to have no fear of rejection. After that, though, watch out for flying laptops.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Story of a Lifetime WINNER!
Well, I've FINALLY chosen my Story of a Lifetime winner! Thanks so much for all the great submissions (Kim told me her friend Gretchen and her family turned the whole thing into something of a drinking game, which I not only support, I would like to be involved in next time. Call me.) Thanks for all the awesome stories! I laughed, I cried, I ate snacks. But big ups to Liz, Robin and Jessica all from Minnesota for submitting this awesomely cheesy, chock full of Lifetimey goodness!! So, coming soon to Lifetime TV: AMNESIA MOM.
Setting: Minneapolis and South Dakota (Mount Rushmore Area), circa 2010
Characters: Voey (rhymes with Zoe, also we think this will be a hot baby name in 2011 upon the release of this film), a sassy teenager who is suffering from a mysterious nose ring infection that just wont go away. Vanessa, Voey’s "mother" who has an evil way about her. She is hiding the true secret of Voey’s “medical condition” and their true relationship. Violet, Vanessa’s beautiful and kind twin sister born 2 seconds earlier who is currently living with amnesia in South Dakota, following a car accident 15 years earlier that left her with no memory of who she is or any details of her life. She has been working as a waitress to pay off her medial bills. Recently, Violet has been having re-occurring dreams of having a teenage daughter with a rare disease.
Synopsis: Story opens on a car, after it has flipped three times and sits in ditch off dark highway. Violet’s bloody hand reaches out and attempts to wave for help before giving up and falling to her side. She looks at her husband in the passenger seat. Is he dead? She looks behind her at her infant in the back. Is she dead? Feeling certain unconsciousness setting in, Violet focuses all of her remaining strength to look in the rearview mirror at her infant daughter, Voey, strapped in a car seat. She then sees another face staring back at her in the mirror. Is it her own face in the mirror? Where are the wounds that her face surely has after such a horrific car accident? “It can’t be my own reflection,” Violet thought. Could it be… her evil twin sister, Vanessa? Violet watches helplessly as the mysterious stranger in the back unstraps baby Voey and kidnaps her. She tries desperately to scream but only a weak whisper comes out. “Vanessa….” Just then, Violet passes into unconsciousness, never again to remember what she had just experienced.
Cue opening credits…
*** Sixteen Years Later*** A young girl, age sixteen, named Voey is suffering from what she believes is just a sudden nasty nose ring infection. But her doctor and her “mother” Vanessa are being quite secretive about the diagnosis. Fed up with being kept in the dark by her mother (Voey has always sensed an evilness about her) she decides to take matters into her own hands and tears through her mother’s office. She finds a thin accordion file with “Voey” scratched across the top in thick marker. She rips it open and finds only a few pictures from recent years. "Why aren’t there any pictures of me as a baby?" she wonders. She digs a little deeper through boring crap: her first tooth that she lost, a postcard that she sent from summer camp, a receipt for her bike. “Where are all of my important documents? No birth certificate, no social security card?” At the bottom of the file she spots a small blue post-it with the phrase Endomisitisis Psychoeroticitis neatly printed on it. A quick iPhone search (movie to be sponsored by Apple…lots of product plugs periodically) reveals that Endomisitisis Psychoeroticitis, MSP for short, is a rare disease that can only be passed from mother to daughter. MSP causes ugly, hideous, grotesque cancerous spots on your nose and can only be cured by mixing the biological mothers blood with the daughter’s blood. Mixed blood transfusion MUST occur immediately as patients will die within 72 hours of first outbreak without it.
Voey suddenly feels weak. She touches her nose ring. It’s not an infection at all, is it? She runs over to the family Mac (Apple product plug #2) and pulls up the calendar. Her nose has been infected for 2 days. That only leaves her…24 hours to find antidote!!!! Panicked, Voey looks back at the blue post-it. There is something written on the back: MOTHER NOT A MATCH. Zoey vomits. “My mother…isn’t my mother?!?!” she gasps, “I was kidnapped!!!!” Realization hits Voey just as she faints. While unconscious, she has the same dream that her REAL mother, Amesia Mom Violet, has been having for several months. It’s suddenly clear to both of them. They MUST meet and combine their blood to make an antidote! It must be now. And it must be at Mount Rushmore!
Montage of Voey and Violet each rushing to Mount Rushmore. Flash to evil Vanessa arriving home, finding her trashed office and realizing that Voey has learned the truth. She sets out after Voey to prevent her and Violet from meeting and discovering that SHE caused the car crash in the first place. It was all an evil plot of Vanessa’s to steal her sisters baby after learning that she could never have a child of her own. After all, Violet always had the perfect life, she was prettier and more popular with woodland creatures than Vanessa. She had the perfect job and perfect husband. She was the good twin, and Vanessa got all of the “left over” genes. Evil Vanessa wanted Violet to know the pain Vanessa had felt her whole life.
Movie climaxes with all three characters meeting on the nose of Abraham Lincoln. There is a struggle and evil Vanessa falls and is dangling off the tip of nose. Violet and Voey consider letting her fall to her death as they piece together all of the years of torture that Vanessa has put them through. Just then a handsome doctor comes swinging across Washington’s eyebrows. “Stop!” he shouts, “You have to combine your blood and make the antidote now!!” The handsome doctor whips out a petri dish, mixes up antidote and injects Voey. The color suddenly returns to her cheeks and the heinous, gaping sores in her nose begin to heal instantly. Violet walks over to her sister still dangling off the tip of Lincoln’s nose. It's just not in her kind nature to let her sister fall to her death, even if Vanessa was the one who orchestrated a car crash, killing Violet’s husband, leaving her with amnesia while Vanessa kidnapped her only child and fully intended on letting that child die of a rare cancerous nose blister disease all to keep her own past deeds a secret. She pulls her sister to safety and they embrace. Evil murderous plan be dammed. Sisterly love always triumphs.
Fade to last shot of Violet, Vanessa and Voey sharing a picnic in a meadow and swapping stories of the years that they missed of each others lives. Voey’s nose is completely healed and she is carrying an iPad (Apple plug #3). The handsom doctor is waiting in the car for the ladies to finish lunch. He and Violet have fallen in love and are planning a fall wedding. As the screen fades to black, the camera closes in on Vanessa’s face. We see an evil look flash across her eyes as she looks over at the handsom doctor’s car. She glances back to Violet and we see the slight snarling of Vanessa’s lips. Maybe there is still evil jealousy in her after all. Fade all the way to black. Leave open ended for potential sequel.
Roll credits.
Casting-wise we are thinking former Melrose Place actress Daphne Zuniga in the roles of Violet/Vanessa and Selena Gomez as Voey.
Here are photos of us working on original storyboard, as proof that this story is an original:
Congratulations, ladies! Thanks for this awesome story! When you get your shirt, post a photo on the Pharon Square Facebook Page and make all your friends jealous!!
Setting: Minneapolis and South Dakota (Mount Rushmore Area), circa 2010
Characters: Voey (rhymes with Zoe, also we think this will be a hot baby name in 2011 upon the release of this film), a sassy teenager who is suffering from a mysterious nose ring infection that just wont go away. Vanessa, Voey’s "mother" who has an evil way about her. She is hiding the true secret of Voey’s “medical condition” and their true relationship. Violet, Vanessa’s beautiful and kind twin sister born 2 seconds earlier who is currently living with amnesia in South Dakota, following a car accident 15 years earlier that left her with no memory of who she is or any details of her life. She has been working as a waitress to pay off her medial bills. Recently, Violet has been having re-occurring dreams of having a teenage daughter with a rare disease.
Synopsis: Story opens on a car, after it has flipped three times and sits in ditch off dark highway. Violet’s bloody hand reaches out and attempts to wave for help before giving up and falling to her side. She looks at her husband in the passenger seat. Is he dead? She looks behind her at her infant in the back. Is she dead? Feeling certain unconsciousness setting in, Violet focuses all of her remaining strength to look in the rearview mirror at her infant daughter, Voey, strapped in a car seat. She then sees another face staring back at her in the mirror. Is it her own face in the mirror? Where are the wounds that her face surely has after such a horrific car accident? “It can’t be my own reflection,” Violet thought. Could it be… her evil twin sister, Vanessa? Violet watches helplessly as the mysterious stranger in the back unstraps baby Voey and kidnaps her. She tries desperately to scream but only a weak whisper comes out. “Vanessa….” Just then, Violet passes into unconsciousness, never again to remember what she had just experienced.
Cue opening credits…
*** Sixteen Years Later*** A young girl, age sixteen, named Voey is suffering from what she believes is just a sudden nasty nose ring infection. But her doctor and her “mother” Vanessa are being quite secretive about the diagnosis. Fed up with being kept in the dark by her mother (Voey has always sensed an evilness about her) she decides to take matters into her own hands and tears through her mother’s office. She finds a thin accordion file with “Voey” scratched across the top in thick marker. She rips it open and finds only a few pictures from recent years. "Why aren’t there any pictures of me as a baby?" she wonders. She digs a little deeper through boring crap: her first tooth that she lost, a postcard that she sent from summer camp, a receipt for her bike. “Where are all of my important documents? No birth certificate, no social security card?” At the bottom of the file she spots a small blue post-it with the phrase Endomisitisis Psychoeroticitis neatly printed on it. A quick iPhone search (movie to be sponsored by Apple…lots of product plugs periodically) reveals that Endomisitisis Psychoeroticitis, MSP for short, is a rare disease that can only be passed from mother to daughter. MSP causes ugly, hideous, grotesque cancerous spots on your nose and can only be cured by mixing the biological mothers blood with the daughter’s blood. Mixed blood transfusion MUST occur immediately as patients will die within 72 hours of first outbreak without it.
Voey suddenly feels weak. She touches her nose ring. It’s not an infection at all, is it? She runs over to the family Mac (Apple product plug #2) and pulls up the calendar. Her nose has been infected for 2 days. That only leaves her…24 hours to find antidote!!!! Panicked, Voey looks back at the blue post-it. There is something written on the back: MOTHER NOT A MATCH. Zoey vomits. “My mother…isn’t my mother?!?!” she gasps, “I was kidnapped!!!!” Realization hits Voey just as she faints. While unconscious, she has the same dream that her REAL mother, Amesia Mom Violet, has been having for several months. It’s suddenly clear to both of them. They MUST meet and combine their blood to make an antidote! It must be now. And it must be at Mount Rushmore!
Montage of Voey and Violet each rushing to Mount Rushmore. Flash to evil Vanessa arriving home, finding her trashed office and realizing that Voey has learned the truth. She sets out after Voey to prevent her and Violet from meeting and discovering that SHE caused the car crash in the first place. It was all an evil plot of Vanessa’s to steal her sisters baby after learning that she could never have a child of her own. After all, Violet always had the perfect life, she was prettier and more popular with woodland creatures than Vanessa. She had the perfect job and perfect husband. She was the good twin, and Vanessa got all of the “left over” genes. Evil Vanessa wanted Violet to know the pain Vanessa had felt her whole life.
Movie climaxes with all three characters meeting on the nose of Abraham Lincoln. There is a struggle and evil Vanessa falls and is dangling off the tip of nose. Violet and Voey consider letting her fall to her death as they piece together all of the years of torture that Vanessa has put them through. Just then a handsome doctor comes swinging across Washington’s eyebrows. “Stop!” he shouts, “You have to combine your blood and make the antidote now!!” The handsome doctor whips out a petri dish, mixes up antidote and injects Voey. The color suddenly returns to her cheeks and the heinous, gaping sores in her nose begin to heal instantly. Violet walks over to her sister still dangling off the tip of Lincoln’s nose. It's just not in her kind nature to let her sister fall to her death, even if Vanessa was the one who orchestrated a car crash, killing Violet’s husband, leaving her with amnesia while Vanessa kidnapped her only child and fully intended on letting that child die of a rare cancerous nose blister disease all to keep her own past deeds a secret. She pulls her sister to safety and they embrace. Evil murderous plan be dammed. Sisterly love always triumphs.
Fade to last shot of Violet, Vanessa and Voey sharing a picnic in a meadow and swapping stories of the years that they missed of each others lives. Voey’s nose is completely healed and she is carrying an iPad (Apple plug #3). The handsom doctor is waiting in the car for the ladies to finish lunch. He and Violet have fallen in love and are planning a fall wedding. As the screen fades to black, the camera closes in on Vanessa’s face. We see an evil look flash across her eyes as she looks over at the handsom doctor’s car. She glances back to Violet and we see the slight snarling of Vanessa’s lips. Maybe there is still evil jealousy in her after all. Fade all the way to black. Leave open ended for potential sequel.
Roll credits.
Casting-wise we are thinking former Melrose Place actress Daphne Zuniga in the roles of Violet/Vanessa and Selena Gomez as Voey.
Here are photos of us working on original storyboard, as proof that this story is an original:
Congratulations, ladies! Thanks for this awesome story! When you get your shirt, post a photo on the Pharon Square Facebook Page and make all your friends jealous!!
Friday, January 7, 2011
Quick Reminder / Nag-a-thon
Hey guys, I just wanted to give you a quick, and FINAL, reminder that I'll finally be choosing my Lifetime/Cheesy Movie Premise winner this weekend! Get your submissions in for your chance to be have the story published on pharonsquare.com AND a radical Pharon Square t-shirt!
Methods of Submission: Your best bet is to email your synopsis/outline/etchings/summary/one-liners to me at pharonsquare@gmail.com. I guess you could also POST it on the Pharon Square Fan Page on Facebook (which you BETTER be a Fan of, or I'll sneak into your house and rearrange all your cupboards, making you think you've gone insane, thereby catapulting you into a long, slow descent towards a massive psychotic break), but that could give away your bomb ideas.
Deadline: I'll be choosing the winner this weekend. If you're a rebel/outlaw, you could wait until Sunday night to submit, but that could be too late. If you want to play it safe, I'd send it in before then. Either way, I'm too flaky to give a specific time, so hedge your bets and get 'em in early.
Good luck!
Methods of Submission: Your best bet is to email your synopsis/outline/etchings/summary/one-liners to me at pharonsquare@gmail.com. I guess you could also POST it on the Pharon Square Fan Page on Facebook (which you BETTER be a Fan of, or I'll sneak into your house and rearrange all your cupboards, making you think you've gone insane, thereby catapulting you into a long, slow descent towards a massive psychotic break), but that could give away your bomb ideas.
Deadline: I'll be choosing the winner this weekend. If you're a rebel/outlaw, you could wait until Sunday night to submit, but that could be too late. If you want to play it safe, I'd send it in before then. Either way, I'm too flaky to give a specific time, so hedge your bets and get 'em in early.
Good luck!
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
(Hopefully Not) The Best Part of Waking Up
Welp, it's official. I'm THAT GIRL. I've allowed Geo to drag me to a coffee shop to sit next to each other, while we both stare at our own computers. I'm like a wannabe-writer from 5 years ago. Geo convinced me to come by saying "J.K. Rowling used to sit at a coffee shop and write all day every day. Then she wrote a little book called Harry Potter." I dismissed him and said I'd never heard of the woman, but secretly, I wondered if Spyhouse Coffee would give me free coffee all day if I promised to sit here and write something really good.
So, I'm sitting at Spyhouse Coffee. Writing. I'm that jerk. My first attempt at putting together some writing samples for a couple little side projects went, um, not well. I came up with nothing. I just kept thinking "Man, I just wanna write my blog". So, I'm doing just that. Whatever works, right?
Sanna works at Spyhouse and she has told me that THE Josh Hartnett is kind of a "regular" here. I warned Geo, as we left the house, that if Josh Hartnett is here, I'm leaving him for Josh. Geo took one look at me, in my giant full-length down coat, carrying my 1,700 pound computer bag and he laughed right in my face. He then commented that maybe I should brush my hair first.
Alas, there is no Josh Hartnett. Just me and a bunch of other jerks sitting, typing, and drinking coffee. So cliche. Honestly, I don't know how people come to write anything, even an email, at these places. The music is LOUD. And it's music I hate. So, I've also got my iPod on, blaring the new T.I. album. I couldn't be more distracted. And yet, the blogging continues.
When I was home during college, I used to sit at this hipster coffee shop in Uptown with my friends all night. We weren't old enough to go to bars, so we'd drink Italian sodas as if they were cocktails, and cram ourselves into the back corner of Pandora's Coffeehouse while we'd talk about, like, how we couldn't stand living with out parents. We literally spent HOURS there at least 4 nights a week. I'm so glad I turned 21. Bars are far superior to coffeehouses. But, I guess, it's not totally awesome to be sitting at a bar for hours upon hours during the day. It would get pretty expensive, and people start wondering if you have a problem with the booze.
Anyway, I'm halfway through with my coffee, I'm growing more and more distracted by the people around me. There is a table of four people, each sitting in front of their own computer, each not speaking to each other. There is a line of people who ordered coffee and then drowned it in sugar and flavored creamer - why order coffee in the first place? There's a lot of hipster facial hair on the guys, and lots of layered scarves on the girls. Also, I don't know who ever said the newspaper business is dying, because apparently every person who comes to a coffee shop during the day reads a paper. Not even on a computer. That's one trend I definitely support. What's old is kitsch again...thanks, Hipsters. You very well may be keeping The New York Times in business.
I gotta hand it to the people here, though. No one has bugged me. No one expects me to leave my seat anytime soon. And, let's keep it real, I'm sitting here during the day writing a BLOG. To the other patrons here, I'm just a girl who probably doesn't have a job, who writes a blog about her feelings or other random crap, and who is probably wearing an Old Navy sweater to be ironic. Little do they know, though, I'm a girl who DOES have a job, who writes a blog about her feelings or other random crap, and is wearing an Old Navy sweater because she thinks it's cute and it was only $5. Suckers.
Okay, time to pack up and head out. I've successfully finished a blog, edited an essay for Geo, wrote some random writing projects, and checked in on Twitter for the first time in like a week. I feel both productive and relaxed. However, I've gotten nowhere on my novel about child wizards. Oh well, you win some, you lose some.
So, I'm sitting at Spyhouse Coffee. Writing. I'm that jerk. My first attempt at putting together some writing samples for a couple little side projects went, um, not well. I came up with nothing. I just kept thinking "Man, I just wanna write my blog". So, I'm doing just that. Whatever works, right?
Sanna works at Spyhouse and she has told me that THE Josh Hartnett is kind of a "regular" here. I warned Geo, as we left the house, that if Josh Hartnett is here, I'm leaving him for Josh. Geo took one look at me, in my giant full-length down coat, carrying my 1,700 pound computer bag and he laughed right in my face. He then commented that maybe I should brush my hair first.
Alas, there is no Josh Hartnett. Just me and a bunch of other jerks sitting, typing, and drinking coffee. So cliche. Honestly, I don't know how people come to write anything, even an email, at these places. The music is LOUD. And it's music I hate. So, I've also got my iPod on, blaring the new T.I. album. I couldn't be more distracted. And yet, the blogging continues.
When I was home during college, I used to sit at this hipster coffee shop in Uptown with my friends all night. We weren't old enough to go to bars, so we'd drink Italian sodas as if they were cocktails, and cram ourselves into the back corner of Pandora's Coffeehouse while we'd talk about, like, how we couldn't stand living with out parents. We literally spent HOURS there at least 4 nights a week. I'm so glad I turned 21. Bars are far superior to coffeehouses. But, I guess, it's not totally awesome to be sitting at a bar for hours upon hours during the day. It would get pretty expensive, and people start wondering if you have a problem with the booze.
Anyway, I'm halfway through with my coffee, I'm growing more and more distracted by the people around me. There is a table of four people, each sitting in front of their own computer, each not speaking to each other. There is a line of people who ordered coffee and then drowned it in sugar and flavored creamer - why order coffee in the first place? There's a lot of hipster facial hair on the guys, and lots of layered scarves on the girls. Also, I don't know who ever said the newspaper business is dying, because apparently every person who comes to a coffee shop during the day reads a paper. Not even on a computer. That's one trend I definitely support. What's old is kitsch again...thanks, Hipsters. You very well may be keeping The New York Times in business.
I gotta hand it to the people here, though. No one has bugged me. No one expects me to leave my seat anytime soon. And, let's keep it real, I'm sitting here during the day writing a BLOG. To the other patrons here, I'm just a girl who probably doesn't have a job, who writes a blog about her feelings or other random crap, and who is probably wearing an Old Navy sweater to be ironic. Little do they know, though, I'm a girl who DOES have a job, who writes a blog about her feelings or other random crap, and is wearing an Old Navy sweater because she thinks it's cute and it was only $5. Suckers.
Okay, time to pack up and head out. I've successfully finished a blog, edited an essay for Geo, wrote some random writing projects, and checked in on Twitter for the first time in like a week. I feel both productive and relaxed. However, I've gotten nowhere on my novel about child wizards. Oh well, you win some, you lose some.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
The REAL Christmas Story
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the home
This blogger sat quietly, writing this poem.
The TV was muted, my phone was on vibrate,
The silence was wonderful, peaceful, and great.
My roommates were gone, at work or with friends,
“I live alone in this castle“, this blogger pretends;
I nibbled on grapes and sipped on some wine,
Which I generously poured into a big beer stein,
When all of a sudden, I heard a loud "S@*#"!
I ran to the window, to yell at the culprit
I tripped on a shoe, the rug, and a purse ,
I reached the window before things got any worse.
The streets below were quiet, and still, and dark
Cars badly lined up, because people can‘t parallel park,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature man, falling over and drinking a beer,
He relieved himself in the snow bank out front,
I knew in a moment he was totally drunk.
He dug out his phone and drunk dialed his friends,
And he called and he texted, clearly to no ends
"Now, Jason! now, Tony! Just answer, you jerks!
Hey, Sarah! Yo Becky! I know not one of you works!”
The man fell face first in the 3-foot snow bank,
Just by looking at him, I could tell that he stank
As the winds blew hard, he swayed as he stood,
he tried to walk straight, as best as he could,
Eventually I saw as he climbed our front steps,
He slipped and he slid, but eventually crept.
And then, in a moment, I heard on the stairs
The man coming up, and muttering swears.
Before I got to the door to lock it up tight,
The man walked in and was a horrible sight.
He was dressed all in camo, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all covered in beer that was not root;
He reached in his pocket, took a swig from his flask,
And suddenly turned into a jolly man, no longer was crass.
His eyes -- they started twinkling like glitter!
I picked up my phone and signed on to Twitter.
I wanted to tweet about what I was seeing,
He was now fully jolly, no longer publicly peeing;
He lit up a pipe and held it firm in his teeth,
A fluffy moustache, his pearly whites were beneath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
His odor was now pleasant, and not at all smelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
“Could this lush be Santa?“ I thought to myself;
With a friendly high five and a wink of his eye,
The messy drunk was now Santa, and was quite a guy;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his task,
And held out his hand, presenting the flask,
I drank and was magically filled with holiday cheer,
And giving a nod, he announced “My cab is here“;
He sprang to the car, and gave the driver directions,
And away they drove, (he put his seatbelt on for protection)
But I heard him exclaim, ere he rode to Nicollet Mall,
"Have a wonderful weekend, and Merry Christmas to all!"
This blogger sat quietly, writing this poem.
The TV was muted, my phone was on vibrate,
The silence was wonderful, peaceful, and great.
My roommates were gone, at work or with friends,
“I live alone in this castle“, this blogger pretends;
I nibbled on grapes and sipped on some wine,
Which I generously poured into a big beer stein,
When all of a sudden, I heard a loud "S@*#"!
I ran to the window, to yell at the culprit
I tripped on a shoe, the rug, and a purse ,
I reached the window before things got any worse.
The streets below were quiet, and still, and dark
Cars badly lined up, because people can‘t parallel park,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature man, falling over and drinking a beer,
He relieved himself in the snow bank out front,
I knew in a moment he was totally drunk.
He dug out his phone and drunk dialed his friends,
And he called and he texted, clearly to no ends
"Now, Jason! now, Tony! Just answer, you jerks!
Hey, Sarah! Yo Becky! I know not one of you works!”
The man fell face first in the 3-foot snow bank,
Just by looking at him, I could tell that he stank
As the winds blew hard, he swayed as he stood,
he tried to walk straight, as best as he could,
Eventually I saw as he climbed our front steps,
He slipped and he slid, but eventually crept.
And then, in a moment, I heard on the stairs
The man coming up, and muttering swears.
Before I got to the door to lock it up tight,
The man walked in and was a horrible sight.
He was dressed all in camo, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all covered in beer that was not root;
He reached in his pocket, took a swig from his flask,
And suddenly turned into a jolly man, no longer was crass.
His eyes -- they started twinkling like glitter!
I picked up my phone and signed on to Twitter.
I wanted to tweet about what I was seeing,
He was now fully jolly, no longer publicly peeing;
He lit up a pipe and held it firm in his teeth,
A fluffy moustache, his pearly whites were beneath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
His odor was now pleasant, and not at all smelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
“Could this lush be Santa?“ I thought to myself;
With a friendly high five and a wink of his eye,
The messy drunk was now Santa, and was quite a guy;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his task,
And held out his hand, presenting the flask,
I drank and was magically filled with holiday cheer,
And giving a nod, he announced “My cab is here“;
He sprang to the car, and gave the driver directions,
And away they drove, (he put his seatbelt on for protection)
But I heard him exclaim, ere he rode to Nicollet Mall,
"Have a wonderful weekend, and Merry Christmas to all!"
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Wednesday Winner (For Real! There are Prizes!)
Well, I promised a big ol’ announcement, right? I had this big plan to do something FUN for a change, you know? Shake things up. Light a fire under everyone’s, well, you know what I mean…I wrote a bunch of words that eventually added up to something like “Something cool is about to happen, and you have to be a part of it or you’ll regret it on your death bed”. So, I’m kind of stuck with going through with it.
Hopefully I’ve piqued your interest. Because I’m taking a leap of faith here. I’m putting my hopes and dreams of a Lifetime movie-making career in your hands, Readers. I’m hereby holding a Lifetime (a.k.a. Cheesy) Movie Story Writing Contest!!!! That’s right, guys. For the next week, I’m going to hand the reigns of bad TV storyline writing over to you. I know you guys have the creativity, talent, and 5-10 minutes it takes to write a masterpiece.
Here’s the dealio: Go ahead and put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, rather) and put together your best bad movie script. It can be a quick synopsis, a lengthy outline, a paragraph, or an entire story. Whatever. Just give me your best cheesy movie premise. Include character backgrounds, plot twists and a happy or horribly depressing ending. When you think you’ve got the best submission, send an email to me at: pharonsquare@gmail.com
>Make sure you put “Story of a Lifetime“ in the subject line, so I don‘t dismiss it as more fan mail, which I’m still anxiously awaiting to receive. (You can also submit it as on the Pharon Square Facebook page.) Send it anonymously or attach your name - I can‘t guarantee I won‘t hold it against you, though. The winner will be notified by email and will be able to start planning their parade at that time.
NOW: FOR THE PRIZES!! Okay, so first and foremost, your story (or at least a version of it, should I choose to do some creative editing) will appear as a guest feature on pharonsquare.com. Direct your friends to your genius! Put it on your resume! Scan it onto a t-shirt! Do whatever you want!
Secondly you’ll ALSO win some crazy awesome Pharon Square swag! Impress your friends when you show up to your next party with your very own, one-of-a-kind, Pharon Square t-shirt! (Disclaimer: the shirt is not one-of-a-kind. Others will be able to buy/win their own in the future.)
I’m expecting some crazy good stories here, people. Don’t let me down. This time next week, I’ll choose the winner, and they will enjoy the eternal fame and adulation that come with being featured on this prestigious blog. If you have any questions, post a comment or send an email.
Good luck, everyone!
Hopefully I’ve piqued your interest. Because I’m taking a leap of faith here. I’m putting my hopes and dreams of a Lifetime movie-making career in your hands, Readers. I’m hereby holding a Lifetime (a.k.a. Cheesy) Movie Story Writing Contest!!!! That’s right, guys. For the next week, I’m going to hand the reigns of bad TV storyline writing over to you. I know you guys have the creativity, talent, and 5-10 minutes it takes to write a masterpiece.
Here’s the dealio: Go ahead and put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, rather) and put together your best bad movie script. It can be a quick synopsis, a lengthy outline, a paragraph, or an entire story. Whatever. Just give me your best cheesy movie premise. Include character backgrounds, plot twists and a happy or horribly depressing ending. When you think you’ve got the best submission, send an email to me at: pharonsquare@gmail.com
>Make sure you put “Story of a Lifetime“ in the subject line, so I don‘t dismiss it as more fan mail, which I’m still anxiously awaiting to receive. (You can also submit it as on the Pharon Square Facebook page.) Send it anonymously or attach your name - I can‘t guarantee I won‘t hold it against you, though. The winner will be notified by email and will be able to start planning their parade at that time.
NOW: FOR THE PRIZES!! Okay, so first and foremost, your story (or at least a version of it, should I choose to do some creative editing) will appear as a guest feature on pharonsquare.com. Direct your friends to your genius! Put it on your resume! Scan it onto a t-shirt! Do whatever you want!
Secondly you’ll ALSO win some crazy awesome Pharon Square swag! Impress your friends when you show up to your next party with your very own, one-of-a-kind, Pharon Square t-shirt! (Disclaimer: the shirt is not one-of-a-kind. Others will be able to buy/win their own in the future.)
I’m expecting some crazy good stories here, people. Don’t let me down. This time next week, I’ll choose the winner, and they will enjoy the eternal fame and adulation that come with being featured on this prestigious blog. If you have any questions, post a comment or send an email.
Good luck, everyone!
Monday, December 13, 2010
Next on Lifetime TV: Snowplows of Hope
I watched a LOT of Lifetime TV this past weekend when I was snowed in. Like, so much that I should be embarrassed, but I don’t have the dignity to warrant such emotion. And to all you boys? I know. You don’t watch Lifetime. But I highly suggest you get in touch with this channel, as everyone needs a little Valerie Bertinelli in their life. Based on my newfound expertise on this channel, I’m thinking about submitting the following piece for production.
Place/Time: A nondescript Midwest town, after a heavy snowfall, circa 2010
Characters: Hope Rudetude, a bright young woman who has recently been undergoing therapy to deal with her complete emotional bankruptcy, and her childhood kidnapping and subsequent raping. And Chad Sadman, a snowplow driver whose work has suffered lately due to his chronic emotional breakdowns in light of the passing of his dog, Chance, and the infidelity of his ex-wife with his own father.
Cue narrator, James Earl Jones.
“What happens when a young, unemotional girl finds herself at the mercy of a mysterious, snowplowing stranger? Hope Rudetude is about to learn that sometimes, it’s okay to cry, and the mysterious stranger will find out that not every tear shed needs to be from sadness.”
Synopsis: Hope Rudetude is stuck in a snow bank outside her posh downtown apartment. She throws her hands in the air and exclaims, “OF COURSE! It just HAD to snow on the day I’m late to my mixed martial arts class!” She kicks the air around her in a frenzy of “haiYAHs!” Seeing this strange woman attack empty air, Chad Sadman feels a tear slip down his rough cheek. “She must feel so alone". He sniffs a little, wipes his dewy eye, and maneuvers his heavy snowplow through the treacherous snow. He pulls up next to her, “Can I help you out there, miss?” Their eyes lock. He, afraid of being rejected, starts to cry and looks away. She, overcome by the windy air, bats her damp eyelashes.
Cut to a montage of scenes where Chad and Hope are getting to know each other. Out for coffee, laughing at the museum, getting close at the movies, Hope teaching Chad some mixed martial arts moves, Chad sharing pictures of his beloved and dead companion Chance, and crying on Hope’s shoulder. His eyes are perpetually glassy and wet, her hands forever clenched in fists. They are a mismatch. Music is happy, light, jovial. Slowly, the music quiets. The scene fades out.
All of a sudden, the music swells up, and we see Hope throw a vase at Chad’s head, just barely missing him. The glass shatters in slow motion. Chad crumbles and sobs, “I just, I can’t go on without Chance! And I can’t stop being so sad because everyone will leave me, just like my ex-wife!” She yells “I love you, Chad Sadman, but I can’t BE who you want me to BE!” Quieter now, she says, “Not only was I kidnapped and raped by our mailman as a child, but I had all my emotional nerve centers removed so I could donate them to my twin sister who was about to die from apathy! I can’t FEEL because I LOVED HER TOO MUCH.” Hope crumbles to the ground, face red and eyes dry. Chad kneels by her side. He tilts her head up with his finger. “Then I will have to cry for the both of us, and you will need to be strong for both of us.” They embrace. Chad blinks away the tears. Hope wonders what is for dinner.
The next scene: A lovely Winter wedding. The newly married Mr and Mrs. Chad Sadman exchange their vows, share a kiss, and when they pull away, Chad smiles and dabs his eyes. He, finally, is happy and leans down to pet his new dog, Lucky. But as we close-up on Hope’s face, we see a single tear slip down her cheek. She touches the unfamiliar wetness, and looks up at Chad. She smiles, and at that very moment Hope realizes that though she cannot feel enough and Chad may feel too much, together, they feel perfectly. They ride off together in Chad's snowplow into the rest of their lives. Roll Credits, Cue Taylor Swift song.
OMG, sobfest! I’m going to try and line up Jodie Sweetin for the role of Hope Rudetude, and I think that guy from the last Bachelor (Jake Pavelka) would be a perfect Chad Sadman. I'd also like to throw in an unplanned pregnancy, temporary amnesia, and some sort of hilarious miscommunication. Once I get all those kinks worked out, if someone could pass this on to the fine folks at Lifetime, I’ll give you 5%.
***IMPORTANT!*** Make sure you "Like" Pharon Square on Facebook to take part in a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!!
Place/Time: A nondescript Midwest town, after a heavy snowfall, circa 2010
Characters: Hope Rudetude, a bright young woman who has recently been undergoing therapy to deal with her complete emotional bankruptcy, and her childhood kidnapping and subsequent raping. And Chad Sadman, a snowplow driver whose work has suffered lately due to his chronic emotional breakdowns in light of the passing of his dog, Chance, and the infidelity of his ex-wife with his own father.
Cue narrator, James Earl Jones.
“What happens when a young, unemotional girl finds herself at the mercy of a mysterious, snowplowing stranger? Hope Rudetude is about to learn that sometimes, it’s okay to cry, and the mysterious stranger will find out that not every tear shed needs to be from sadness.”
Synopsis: Hope Rudetude is stuck in a snow bank outside her posh downtown apartment. She throws her hands in the air and exclaims, “OF COURSE! It just HAD to snow on the day I’m late to my mixed martial arts class!” She kicks the air around her in a frenzy of “haiYAHs!” Seeing this strange woman attack empty air, Chad Sadman feels a tear slip down his rough cheek. “She must feel so alone". He sniffs a little, wipes his dewy eye, and maneuvers his heavy snowplow through the treacherous snow. He pulls up next to her, “Can I help you out there, miss?” Their eyes lock. He, afraid of being rejected, starts to cry and looks away. She, overcome by the windy air, bats her damp eyelashes.
Cut to a montage of scenes where Chad and Hope are getting to know each other. Out for coffee, laughing at the museum, getting close at the movies, Hope teaching Chad some mixed martial arts moves, Chad sharing pictures of his beloved and dead companion Chance, and crying on Hope’s shoulder. His eyes are perpetually glassy and wet, her hands forever clenched in fists. They are a mismatch. Music is happy, light, jovial. Slowly, the music quiets. The scene fades out.
All of a sudden, the music swells up, and we see Hope throw a vase at Chad’s head, just barely missing him. The glass shatters in slow motion. Chad crumbles and sobs, “I just, I can’t go on without Chance! And I can’t stop being so sad because everyone will leave me, just like my ex-wife!” She yells “I love you, Chad Sadman, but I can’t BE who you want me to BE!” Quieter now, she says, “Not only was I kidnapped and raped by our mailman as a child, but I had all my emotional nerve centers removed so I could donate them to my twin sister who was about to die from apathy! I can’t FEEL because I LOVED HER TOO MUCH.” Hope crumbles to the ground, face red and eyes dry. Chad kneels by her side. He tilts her head up with his finger. “Then I will have to cry for the both of us, and you will need to be strong for both of us.” They embrace. Chad blinks away the tears. Hope wonders what is for dinner.
The next scene: A lovely Winter wedding. The newly married Mr and Mrs. Chad Sadman exchange their vows, share a kiss, and when they pull away, Chad smiles and dabs his eyes. He, finally, is happy and leans down to pet his new dog, Lucky. But as we close-up on Hope’s face, we see a single tear slip down her cheek. She touches the unfamiliar wetness, and looks up at Chad. She smiles, and at that very moment Hope realizes that though she cannot feel enough and Chad may feel too much, together, they feel perfectly. They ride off together in Chad's snowplow into the rest of their lives. Roll Credits, Cue Taylor Swift song.
OMG, sobfest! I’m going to try and line up Jodie Sweetin for the role of Hope Rudetude, and I think that guy from the last Bachelor (Jake Pavelka) would be a perfect Chad Sadman. I'd also like to throw in an unplanned pregnancy, temporary amnesia, and some sort of hilarious miscommunication. Once I get all those kinks worked out, if someone could pass this on to the fine folks at Lifetime, I’ll give you 5%.
***IMPORTANT!*** Make sure you "Like" Pharon Square on Facebook to take part in a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!!
Monday, October 11, 2010
CONcast
Boy howdy, it’s an exciting Monday indeed! Besides the obviousness of the awesome Monday Night Football game on tonight between the Jets and the Moss-infused Vikings (you’ll pay for the whole seat, but you’ll only need the edge of it!) I’ve also officially sent out my birthday invites on Facebook! I apologize if you didn’t receive it, but trust that all who are interested are invited. On top of all that, I got to write a scathing letter of disappointment to the fine (read: horrible) people at Comcast. I’m pretty good at scathing letters, though I reserve my abilities for those who truly warrant it. In this case, Comcast, you have fallen into the pits of Those Who Truly Warrant It. (It’s an ugly place populated by the likes of the eBay seller who failed me, census takers, Federated Insurance, and whoever is responsible for those horrible Quiznos commercials. Not everyone gets a scary letter, but they all deserve one.)
So here's the sitch. Up until a few months ago, my three roommates and I had been blissfully unaware of our sky-rocketing cable/internet bill. We have long since lost the privileges of the “introduction fees” that sucked us in in the first place. So for years, we just kind of paid it, because we were happy. Then comes the dreaded scrolling messages on all our TVs. We are being told that, in order to maintain the same service, for which we’ve been paying the obscene full price, for over 3 years, we have to buy some converter boxes. And lest we lose over half our channels, we’d better high-tail to the cable place and scoop up the 4 that we need a.s.a.p.
So, that makes us take a look at our bills. We sort of re-remember how much we’ve been paying, and are now hell-bent on remedying the situation, especially because each box costs about $3 extra a month. Not a ton of money, but it’s the PRINCIPLE of it, people. Alas, there is little to be done. Don't you just love a monopoly? So we get the dumb boxes. But then the internet doesn’t work all of a sudden. I get to spend a good 7-10 minutes on hold with their “superior customer service” peeps, then Geo spends another good 30 minutes trying to get the internet back online. Finally: Success.
Or so I thought. We hook up the ridiculous boxes to each of our TVs, call up Comcast (again!) and they push some, like, giant red GO button or something. Our main TV and 2 others appear as though nothing has changed. I guess it worked? (I can't be sure, because it's exactly what we had before.) But it’s a different story for the TVs upstairs. Most importantly, MY TV.
All of a sudden half my channels don’t work and the ones that DO “work” are interrupted every single 40 seconds – yes, I counted – with some screen from Comcast saying “Thanks for your patience while we do something really stupid which won’t affect you at all except for right now, and every 40 seconds after this. You’ll thank us later.” Uh. Whaaaa? I’ll thank you later? No, I’ll thank you very much when you give me back my sanity.
Enter: Scathing Letter. Let’s just say I may or may not have used the phrases “Highway Robbery” and “Egomaniacal Marketing Department with No Knowledge of the Technicalities of Your Product”. After I hit “Send” I felt better. Then I get a message back from them. In short, they say “Welp, sounds like a technical problem (duh). You’ll have to schedule a time for one of our cable guys to come into your home.” No apology, no “Wow, thank you for drawing our attention to this obvious lack of quality”, no nothing. Just another step I need to take to, that’s right, GET THE EXACT SAME THING WE HAD BEFORE.
Well, as of now, I’m stuck with the problem (and a second remote to use my own TV, which totally bites). The good thing about this is that our main TV works just fine, and that’s where the Vikings game will be on. Phew! And our internet is back on track, so I’ll be able to obsessively check how many people are coming to my party. And those really are the most important things, right?
So here's the sitch. Up until a few months ago, my three roommates and I had been blissfully unaware of our sky-rocketing cable/internet bill. We have long since lost the privileges of the “introduction fees” that sucked us in in the first place. So for years, we just kind of paid it, because we were happy. Then comes the dreaded scrolling messages on all our TVs. We are being told that, in order to maintain the same service, for which we’ve been paying the obscene full price, for over 3 years, we have to buy some converter boxes. And lest we lose over half our channels, we’d better high-tail to the cable place and scoop up the 4 that we need a.s.a.p.
So, that makes us take a look at our bills. We sort of re-remember how much we’ve been paying, and are now hell-bent on remedying the situation, especially because each box costs about $3 extra a month. Not a ton of money, but it’s the PRINCIPLE of it, people. Alas, there is little to be done. Don't you just love a monopoly? So we get the dumb boxes. But then the internet doesn’t work all of a sudden. I get to spend a good 7-10 minutes on hold with their “superior customer service” peeps, then Geo spends another good 30 minutes trying to get the internet back online. Finally: Success.
Or so I thought. We hook up the ridiculous boxes to each of our TVs, call up Comcast (again!) and they push some, like, giant red GO button or something. Our main TV and 2 others appear as though nothing has changed. I guess it worked? (I can't be sure, because it's exactly what we had before.) But it’s a different story for the TVs upstairs. Most importantly, MY TV.
All of a sudden half my channels don’t work and the ones that DO “work” are interrupted every single 40 seconds – yes, I counted – with some screen from Comcast saying “Thanks for your patience while we do something really stupid which won’t affect you at all except for right now, and every 40 seconds after this. You’ll thank us later.” Uh. Whaaaa? I’ll thank you later? No, I’ll thank you very much when you give me back my sanity.
Enter: Scathing Letter. Let’s just say I may or may not have used the phrases “Highway Robbery” and “Egomaniacal Marketing Department with No Knowledge of the Technicalities of Your Product”. After I hit “Send” I felt better. Then I get a message back from them. In short, they say “Welp, sounds like a technical problem (duh). You’ll have to schedule a time for one of our cable guys to come into your home.” No apology, no “Wow, thank you for drawing our attention to this obvious lack of quality”, no nothing. Just another step I need to take to, that’s right, GET THE EXACT SAME THING WE HAD BEFORE.
Well, as of now, I’m stuck with the problem (and a second remote to use my own TV, which totally bites). The good thing about this is that our main TV works just fine, and that’s where the Vikings game will be on. Phew! And our internet is back on track, so I’ll be able to obsessively check how many people are coming to my party. And those really are the most important things, right?
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Titles are Hard
(Quick Prologue: This has GOT to be fate! As I was writing my blog tonight, I got an email from Kate Spade alerting me that they now have BOOK OF THE MONTH clutches. PURSES, shaped like NOVELS. Seriously. It simply doesn't get better than Book Clutches.) Okay, continuing on...
Should I be writing a memoir? I learned today that Justin Bieber has a memoir coming out (First Step 2 Forever. Um…okay). Really? Really, Justin Bieber? Okay, well, it seems that I too am qualified to pen a memoir.
First thing’s first. I have to have a great title. It should be punny, as I just really love puns. Pharon Nuff (say it fast)? I could also name it something really heavy and serious to totally mess with the readers. The Tragedy of Misfortune – and it’d be, like, hilarious. Or maybe something like Eat Drink Love (Then Eat Again…and Probably Drink Again)? I don’t know. Okay, let’s not start with the title. Titles are hard.
Now, what’s happened in my life that warrants a good memoir? My sister Prinna is working on hers. She’s one of those pesky “legitimate writers” who has all this "talent" and “material” to put down onto paper that actual people will want to “read”. Annoying.
The problem is, I haven’t learned any great truths in my life (yet), and I’m not a multi-millionaire, platinum-record selling, international superstar (yet). If I were to write a memoir right now, it’d be about what I’m having for lunch today and what my lunch may consist of tomorrow. Not exactly page-turning stuff, folks.
Yes, I realize there is irony in blogging daily about things that basically boil down to things like “what I had for lunch”, and then writing about how I’d have nothing to write about if someone actually asked me to write about something. I get it. But penning an actual BOOK, on paper, that has a binding and sticker price slapped on it seems so different to me. I’ve always had a love affair with books. I love the smell of the binding, I’m one of those hated – and misunderstood – “page-folders” who turns down a corner of the page to mark my spot, and I love running my fingers over books on the shelf and feeling their rough, tangible covers.
So, to put something together that would sit on someone’s bookshelf seems like such an incredible feat to me. I wonder if people think about this when they write their memoirs. Did Paris Hilton take note of the texture of the pages as she signed the zillions of copies she sold? I doubt it.
But I started reading a memoir tonight called The Glass Castle (which I HIGHLY recommend!) and I caught myself remembering the way my mom’s top dresser drawer always smelled just like her Estee Lauder perfume, and I couldn’t stop myself from writing down all the contents of that drawer. Which led me to write about her pair of black patent leather high heels with leaf-shaped cut-outs that I used to put on and pretend I was at a gala of some sort. I loved those shoes. And I loved that drawer. And I really loved writing about them.
But, if I end up putting those things on paper, printing the pages out and binding them, I should probably rethink the possibility of a title like Getting’ Drunk and Bein’ Irresponsible.
Should I be writing a memoir? I learned today that Justin Bieber has a memoir coming out (First Step 2 Forever. Um…okay). Really? Really, Justin Bieber? Okay, well, it seems that I too am qualified to pen a memoir.
First thing’s first. I have to have a great title. It should be punny, as I just really love puns. Pharon Nuff (say it fast)? I could also name it something really heavy and serious to totally mess with the readers. The Tragedy of Misfortune – and it’d be, like, hilarious. Or maybe something like Eat Drink Love (Then Eat Again…and Probably Drink Again)? I don’t know. Okay, let’s not start with the title. Titles are hard.
Now, what’s happened in my life that warrants a good memoir? My sister Prinna is working on hers. She’s one of those pesky “legitimate writers” who has all this "talent" and “material” to put down onto paper that actual people will want to “read”. Annoying.
The problem is, I haven’t learned any great truths in my life (yet), and I’m not a multi-millionaire, platinum-record selling, international superstar (yet). If I were to write a memoir right now, it’d be about what I’m having for lunch today and what my lunch may consist of tomorrow. Not exactly page-turning stuff, folks.
Yes, I realize there is irony in blogging daily about things that basically boil down to things like “what I had for lunch”, and then writing about how I’d have nothing to write about if someone actually asked me to write about something. I get it. But penning an actual BOOK, on paper, that has a binding and sticker price slapped on it seems so different to me. I’ve always had a love affair with books. I love the smell of the binding, I’m one of those hated – and misunderstood – “page-folders” who turns down a corner of the page to mark my spot, and I love running my fingers over books on the shelf and feeling their rough, tangible covers.
So, to put something together that would sit on someone’s bookshelf seems like such an incredible feat to me. I wonder if people think about this when they write their memoirs. Did Paris Hilton take note of the texture of the pages as she signed the zillions of copies she sold? I doubt it.
But I started reading a memoir tonight called The Glass Castle (which I HIGHLY recommend!) and I caught myself remembering the way my mom’s top dresser drawer always smelled just like her Estee Lauder perfume, and I couldn’t stop myself from writing down all the contents of that drawer. Which led me to write about her pair of black patent leather high heels with leaf-shaped cut-outs that I used to put on and pretend I was at a gala of some sort. I loved those shoes. And I loved that drawer. And I really loved writing about them.
But, if I end up putting those things on paper, printing the pages out and binding them, I should probably rethink the possibility of a title like Getting’ Drunk and Bein’ Irresponsible.
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