In the White Mountains of New Hampshire, my husband's family and I have spent hours hiking to waterfalls and exploring the woods. Back at the house, we eat grilled chicken and discuss making s'mores before the kids go to bed. I LOVE making fires. I quickly volunteer, and my 10-year-old niece Rachel begs to help. Rachel gathers the wood, and I find the lighter. Always looking for a teaching opportunity, I ask if she knows what we need to build a fire, and she correctly answers: air, fuel, and something to ignite it. We pile up little sticks with pine needles in the middle, and surround them with larger pieces of firewood. The pine needles don't burn quite as well as I had hoped - they just create lots of smoke - and after I have sent Rachel inside to find some paper, hoping it would make a better fire starter, I am slightly discouraged.
"I sure hope that we'll have this fire going before everyone comes outside to roast their marshmallows," I sigh, as Rachel returns with 3 large sheets of paper. She carefully places some crumpled pieces of paper in the pile of sticks and replies confidently: "Don't worry, we will." Rachel then furrows her brow and begins to wax philosophical. "Fires are like humans you know," she starts. "They start off slow, and then they begin to roar." As she adds more sticks to the now growing flame (the paper worked wonders!), she adds thoughtfully, "And if you don't feed them, they'll die."
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
A Lesson from Mark Twain
When I realized that I was going to say no, I began to cry.
Why would I turn down such an opportunity? Why would I walk away from such an offer? My friend Patti says I have a "Nokay Problem" - that is, that I can't say no. I start to, but I can't hold my ground, and it quickly becomes a yes, and sounds something like this:
Nooooookay.
But this is different. In this case, I wouldn't be saying yes because I feel obligated to, or because I feel bad for someone, or because I lack a pair. I really WANT to say yes. It would be an amazing opportunity that would benefit me directly, and for reasons that are different than the normal ones, I can't believe I'm saying no. But I have to.
A few months ago, I got an email from the DC Theatre Technicians list that I'm on, from a theatre company looking for an Assistant Stage Manager (ASM), some backstage crew, and two followspot ops. I applied for the ASM position. The production manager (we'll call him Bob) gave me a call a few days later and said that he had already filled the ASM position, but he was still in need of backstage crew if I was interested. I happily accepted (when working with people you've never worked with before, sometimes you've got to start at the bottom). A few days in to tech rehearsals, Bob pulled me aside and told me that he realized he should have hired me as the ASM instead. When the show closed, he asked me what I was doing the following month - he was looking for a full stage manager for the group's next production. Unfortunately, I was already committed to working on the opera Shadowboxer, so I couldn't. Bob promised to keep me in mind for future projects.
Then, 3 or 4 weeks ago, I got an email from someone else. He (whom I'm naming Jason) told me that I had been recommended to him as a stage manager by Bob, that same production manager from a couple months before. I was flattered. I had scheduling conflicts with the first couple of small projects he offered me, but there was a 4-month-long major production that he wanted to meet with me about, slotted for the beginning of 2011. I was both nervous and excited about the possibility of stage managing such a show. Jason and I met over coffee (I had hazelnut hot chocolate), and we hit it off right away - he said he had been impressed with me before we even met, because I was the first person he'd ever interviewed who had thought to tell him what colour shirt he should look for her in. The more he and I talked about the show, the more excited I became! Jason and his team had come from New York to start a theatre company in DC, after they got tired of the NYC attitude, and began to grow faster than they had ever anticipated. In the last year and a half, they have had to add 4 board members because their budget has doubled. The show will first be performed in North Carolina, and then come back to DC - to a theatre space that I'm intimately familiar with, having stage managed there before. The fact that the show will be performed in 2 different states would look amazing on my resume. I asked if I would be able to have an ASM, and Jason was completely open to the idea. He said that he doesn't deal with the contracts, so he couldn't offer me anything official, but he was very excited for me to meet the other two founders of the company at preliminary auditions for the show next Saturday. Everything seemed perfect, and I felt so fortunate to have the job practically fall into my lap.
But then I read the script.
Jason had told me that it was a risky play to produce, because it was a heavy drama and audiences don't always like that. They tend to prefer comedies, classics, or plays that make a controversial social point. Jason said that he had talked with other potential stage managers, and it had been evident from the start which ones wouldn't like the play. "But I feel like you're an open-minded person, and we seem to be on the same page," he told me. He still wanted me to read the script before I committed to anything, and promised to email it to me.
Knowing only the basic plot of the play I opened the pdf with trepidation, fearing that after reading it I would have to join the other SMs who had said, "Thanks, but no thanks." I wanted so badly for this show to work out! The first time I came across the f-word, I wasn't surprised. The play, after all, is about a man whose wife is raped and murdered on their anniversary, and the story is his journey of healing. The stakes are pretty high. Who wouldn't swear after something like that? But then the swearing became too common. Three times the f-word was scripted. Ten. Twelve. Seventeen? Twenty-three? After about thirty, I lost count. After that, the number didn't matter anymore.
"So there's some bad language," I told myself. "Well, it's only natural when you're dealing with such intense content. The play is so powerful! I can forgive some cursing here and there." I rationalized for the playwright, I rationalized for the theatre company, and I rationalized for myself. I reminded myself of the money, the experience, the connections, the resume-building. I told myself that it would be rude to turn the opportunity down, especially after I had been recommended to Jason personally. What if Jason went to Bob and said, "Boy, she sure didn't work out." Bob might never suggest me to anyone again. DC Theatre is an incredibly small world - people talk. I told myself how silly and juvenile it would sound to say, "Sorry I can't do your play. I don't like bad words." I thought of how fun it would be to work with Jason and the others - they seemed like a great group.
I rationalized and rationalized, all the way up to the point of writing Jason back and saying how much I loved the script (though there was a little bit too much swearing for my taste, but it was okay). I wrote the email, and offered some times for a follow-up meeting. But I didn't send it. I couldn't pinpoint why, exactly, or what it was that stopped me. But I decided to save the draft and send it later. Later came and went, as did the next morning, and still I didn't send the email. What was my problem? I became frustrated with myself because I couldn't figure out what was holding me back. I decided I must be feeling guilty for compromising my standards. "But you've thought through this," I told myself. "It'll be fine. It's a great play otherwise, the swearing isn't really THAT bad - just look at August: Osage County! That play is way worse. Besides, the opportunity is so perfect. It would be stupid to turn it down, and you'll regret it if you do."
But still I left the email in my drafts folder, unsent. I'm not sure what the turning point was for me today, but I found myself actually considering turning the job down. I couldn't believe I was doing that. "You wouldn't," the voice in my head said. "This is DC. Theatre people TALK - if you say no because of something as trivial as a few curse words, no one will want to hire you." But I began to change my mind, a little bit at a time. I came across a quote from Mark Twain this morning, while doing some preparation for the youth camp I'm co-running in a week. The theme for this year is "Courage in Action", and Mark Twain says:
"It is curious...curious that physical courage should be so common in the world, and moral courage so rare."
It was like a slap in the face. How could I teach these teenage girls to exhibit moral courage if I couldn't do just that? I tell you, few people can sniff out hypocrisy faster than teenagers. If I was going to talk the talk, I needed to hike the hike (sometimes a mere walk doesn't cut it). I also realized that if I stage managed this show, I wouldn't allow my husband, my parents, or my friends to come and see it. It's a bad sign if I'm too ashamed to include those closest to me in my work. I had thought about praying to help me make my decision, but kept deciding against it. I was afraid that I already knew what the answer would be, and I didn't want to hear it. Red flag number two.
I went to church today not thinking about the show, and with no intention of asking God what I should do. But He told me anyway. I didn't have a seizure in the middle of the chapel, angels didn't come down from heaven and call my name, and the bishop didn't point to me from the pulpit, saying, "Sister Albrecht, you know what you need to do." None of that happened, but I got my answer all the same. Yes, the one I wasn't looking for. Completely unprompted by any other cognition, I suddenly thought, "I'm going to say no." I was rather taken aback, because the thought came out of nowhere. I didn't just realize what I needed to do, I knew what I was going to do. That's the part where I began to cry.
If only knowing that a decision was the right one made that decision easy - easy to make, and easy to follow through with. If only making the right decision guaranteed one puppies, butterflies, and a life of pure joy. But it doesn't. If having moral courage wasn't so difficult, Mark Twain would have seen a lot more of it. So although I knew that I was doing the right thing, I still cried. I mourned the loss of a lucrative opportunity, and feared the repercussions by those who don't respect my moral boundaries, or respect me for having any.
I don't know how Jason will react to the email I sent him today - perhaps he will applaud my decision to hold my ground and not give up my morals, no matter what worldly advancement I may lose by doing so. But perhaps not. Perhaps he will ridicule me, or even worse, be offended that I would turn him down over such a trivial matter (since he's directing the play, the language obviously doesn't bother him). He may never want to work with me again. I console myself by saying that if that's the case, I suppose he's not the type of person I would want to work with either.
But saying no is still. Hard.
Why would I turn down such an opportunity? Why would I walk away from such an offer? My friend Patti says I have a "Nokay Problem" - that is, that I can't say no. I start to, but I can't hold my ground, and it quickly becomes a yes, and sounds something like this:
Nooooookay.
But this is different. In this case, I wouldn't be saying yes because I feel obligated to, or because I feel bad for someone, or because I lack a pair. I really WANT to say yes. It would be an amazing opportunity that would benefit me directly, and for reasons that are different than the normal ones, I can't believe I'm saying no. But I have to.
A few months ago, I got an email from the DC Theatre Technicians list that I'm on, from a theatre company looking for an Assistant Stage Manager (ASM), some backstage crew, and two followspot ops. I applied for the ASM position. The production manager (we'll call him Bob) gave me a call a few days later and said that he had already filled the ASM position, but he was still in need of backstage crew if I was interested. I happily accepted (when working with people you've never worked with before, sometimes you've got to start at the bottom). A few days in to tech rehearsals, Bob pulled me aside and told me that he realized he should have hired me as the ASM instead. When the show closed, he asked me what I was doing the following month - he was looking for a full stage manager for the group's next production. Unfortunately, I was already committed to working on the opera Shadowboxer, so I couldn't. Bob promised to keep me in mind for future projects.
Then, 3 or 4 weeks ago, I got an email from someone else. He (whom I'm naming Jason) told me that I had been recommended to him as a stage manager by Bob, that same production manager from a couple months before. I was flattered. I had scheduling conflicts with the first couple of small projects he offered me, but there was a 4-month-long major production that he wanted to meet with me about, slotted for the beginning of 2011. I was both nervous and excited about the possibility of stage managing such a show. Jason and I met over coffee (I had hazelnut hot chocolate), and we hit it off right away - he said he had been impressed with me before we even met, because I was the first person he'd ever interviewed who had thought to tell him what colour shirt he should look for her in. The more he and I talked about the show, the more excited I became! Jason and his team had come from New York to start a theatre company in DC, after they got tired of the NYC attitude, and began to grow faster than they had ever anticipated. In the last year and a half, they have had to add 4 board members because their budget has doubled. The show will first be performed in North Carolina, and then come back to DC - to a theatre space that I'm intimately familiar with, having stage managed there before. The fact that the show will be performed in 2 different states would look amazing on my resume. I asked if I would be able to have an ASM, and Jason was completely open to the idea. He said that he doesn't deal with the contracts, so he couldn't offer me anything official, but he was very excited for me to meet the other two founders of the company at preliminary auditions for the show next Saturday. Everything seemed perfect, and I felt so fortunate to have the job practically fall into my lap.
But then I read the script.
Jason had told me that it was a risky play to produce, because it was a heavy drama and audiences don't always like that. They tend to prefer comedies, classics, or plays that make a controversial social point. Jason said that he had talked with other potential stage managers, and it had been evident from the start which ones wouldn't like the play. "But I feel like you're an open-minded person, and we seem to be on the same page," he told me. He still wanted me to read the script before I committed to anything, and promised to email it to me.
Knowing only the basic plot of the play I opened the pdf with trepidation, fearing that after reading it I would have to join the other SMs who had said, "Thanks, but no thanks." I wanted so badly for this show to work out! The first time I came across the f-word, I wasn't surprised. The play, after all, is about a man whose wife is raped and murdered on their anniversary, and the story is his journey of healing. The stakes are pretty high. Who wouldn't swear after something like that? But then the swearing became too common. Three times the f-word was scripted. Ten. Twelve. Seventeen? Twenty-three? After about thirty, I lost count. After that, the number didn't matter anymore.
"So there's some bad language," I told myself. "Well, it's only natural when you're dealing with such intense content. The play is so powerful! I can forgive some cursing here and there." I rationalized for the playwright, I rationalized for the theatre company, and I rationalized for myself. I reminded myself of the money, the experience, the connections, the resume-building. I told myself that it would be rude to turn the opportunity down, especially after I had been recommended to Jason personally. What if Jason went to Bob and said, "Boy, she sure didn't work out." Bob might never suggest me to anyone again. DC Theatre is an incredibly small world - people talk. I told myself how silly and juvenile it would sound to say, "Sorry I can't do your play. I don't like bad words." I thought of how fun it would be to work with Jason and the others - they seemed like a great group.
I rationalized and rationalized, all the way up to the point of writing Jason back and saying how much I loved the script (though there was a little bit too much swearing for my taste, but it was okay). I wrote the email, and offered some times for a follow-up meeting. But I didn't send it. I couldn't pinpoint why, exactly, or what it was that stopped me. But I decided to save the draft and send it later. Later came and went, as did the next morning, and still I didn't send the email. What was my problem? I became frustrated with myself because I couldn't figure out what was holding me back. I decided I must be feeling guilty for compromising my standards. "But you've thought through this," I told myself. "It'll be fine. It's a great play otherwise, the swearing isn't really THAT bad - just look at August: Osage County! That play is way worse. Besides, the opportunity is so perfect. It would be stupid to turn it down, and you'll regret it if you do."
But still I left the email in my drafts folder, unsent. I'm not sure what the turning point was for me today, but I found myself actually considering turning the job down. I couldn't believe I was doing that. "You wouldn't," the voice in my head said. "This is DC. Theatre people TALK - if you say no because of something as trivial as a few curse words, no one will want to hire you." But I began to change my mind, a little bit at a time. I came across a quote from Mark Twain this morning, while doing some preparation for the youth camp I'm co-running in a week. The theme for this year is "Courage in Action", and Mark Twain says:
"It is curious...curious that physical courage should be so common in the world, and moral courage so rare."
It was like a slap in the face. How could I teach these teenage girls to exhibit moral courage if I couldn't do just that? I tell you, few people can sniff out hypocrisy faster than teenagers. If I was going to talk the talk, I needed to hike the hike (sometimes a mere walk doesn't cut it). I also realized that if I stage managed this show, I wouldn't allow my husband, my parents, or my friends to come and see it. It's a bad sign if I'm too ashamed to include those closest to me in my work. I had thought about praying to help me make my decision, but kept deciding against it. I was afraid that I already knew what the answer would be, and I didn't want to hear it. Red flag number two.
I went to church today not thinking about the show, and with no intention of asking God what I should do. But He told me anyway. I didn't have a seizure in the middle of the chapel, angels didn't come down from heaven and call my name, and the bishop didn't point to me from the pulpit, saying, "Sister Albrecht, you know what you need to do." None of that happened, but I got my answer all the same. Yes, the one I wasn't looking for. Completely unprompted by any other cognition, I suddenly thought, "I'm going to say no." I was rather taken aback, because the thought came out of nowhere. I didn't just realize what I needed to do, I knew what I was going to do. That's the part where I began to cry.
If only knowing that a decision was the right one made that decision easy - easy to make, and easy to follow through with. If only making the right decision guaranteed one puppies, butterflies, and a life of pure joy. But it doesn't. If having moral courage wasn't so difficult, Mark Twain would have seen a lot more of it. So although I knew that I was doing the right thing, I still cried. I mourned the loss of a lucrative opportunity, and feared the repercussions by those who don't respect my moral boundaries, or respect me for having any.
I don't know how Jason will react to the email I sent him today - perhaps he will applaud my decision to hold my ground and not give up my morals, no matter what worldly advancement I may lose by doing so. But perhaps not. Perhaps he will ridicule me, or even worse, be offended that I would turn him down over such a trivial matter (since he's directing the play, the language obviously doesn't bother him). He may never want to work with me again. I console myself by saying that if that's the case, I suppose he's not the type of person I would want to work with either.
But saying no is still. Hard.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Really? Like, really?
Alright, so I'm a few days late. But here's the story anyway.
I went to the copy center at the student union to get Carla's blog printed and bound a couple of weeks ago. There was too much to bind into just one book, so I got it split into 3 - divided by years. I had 2 of them bound, but thought I was missing some pages on the 3rd and took it home printed but unbound.
So I went back last week to finish the job, after realizing that I wasn't missing pages at all; the year 2008 just doesn't have any blog entries until July. All I needed was the last group of pages bound, so it should have been a quick, simple visit. But it wasn't.
When I walked in, the only woman in the copy center was sitting at the very far end of the room, her feet up on the back counter, talking on the phone. She asked whomever she was talking to to hold on a moment. Grabbing a crutch, she hobbled over to me, and I told her that I just needed these pages bound and that was all. "Sure, no problem!" she replied happily. 2 minutes later, I was on my way out the door with the book in hand and $1.25 less in my pocket.
If only.
Her real response: "Do you think you could wait, oh, like an hour for my student to get here, and then he'll do that for you? I hurt my foot real bad and I can't stand on it."
Keep in mind 2 things: 1) It takes less than 2 minutes to tape bind a book (I watched her student do it for me the week before, and all he had to do was put the pages in the machine and it did all the work), during which standing is absolutely not required. 2) She was standing in front of me to tell me this.
I don't know how long I stood there with a blank stare on my face before I managed the words "Really? You ca...really? You really can't?" I had a hard time forming complete sentences, because I was dumbfounded. I just couldn't believe the words I had just heard come out of her mouth. She was really going to stand there in front of me and ask me to wait for an hour because she couldn't stand on her foot.
I mentioned that she had somehow managed to walk over to me, to which she replied something to the effect of, "Yeah, but that's about all I can manage. I really need to sit down right now." The aggrandizement reminded me of the time that my sister walked to just outside of the door to the room my mother was in, laid down on the floor, slowly dragged herself to where she was visible by my mother, collapsed, and pathetically whispered, "Mom...I threw up. *Cough, cough.* " Oh, please.
So I responded with an attitude similar to the one with which I responded to my sister, and said, "Hmmm. Well, dramatic, yes, but unconvincing. Don't ever become an actress." And then I walked out.
It was the meanest thing I could think of.
I went to the copy center at the student union to get Carla's blog printed and bound a couple of weeks ago. There was too much to bind into just one book, so I got it split into 3 - divided by years. I had 2 of them bound, but thought I was missing some pages on the 3rd and took it home printed but unbound.
So I went back last week to finish the job, after realizing that I wasn't missing pages at all; the year 2008 just doesn't have any blog entries until July. All I needed was the last group of pages bound, so it should have been a quick, simple visit. But it wasn't.
When I walked in, the only woman in the copy center was sitting at the very far end of the room, her feet up on the back counter, talking on the phone. She asked whomever she was talking to to hold on a moment. Grabbing a crutch, she hobbled over to me, and I told her that I just needed these pages bound and that was all. "Sure, no problem!" she replied happily. 2 minutes later, I was on my way out the door with the book in hand and $1.25 less in my pocket.
If only.
Her real response: "Do you think you could wait, oh, like an hour for my student to get here, and then he'll do that for you? I hurt my foot real bad and I can't stand on it."
Keep in mind 2 things: 1) It takes less than 2 minutes to tape bind a book (I watched her student do it for me the week before, and all he had to do was put the pages in the machine and it did all the work), during which standing is absolutely not required. 2) She was standing in front of me to tell me this.
I don't know how long I stood there with a blank stare on my face before I managed the words "Really? You ca...really? You really can't?" I had a hard time forming complete sentences, because I was dumbfounded. I just couldn't believe the words I had just heard come out of her mouth. She was really going to stand there in front of me and ask me to wait for an hour because she couldn't stand on her foot.
I mentioned that she had somehow managed to walk over to me, to which she replied something to the effect of, "Yeah, but that's about all I can manage. I really need to sit down right now." The aggrandizement reminded me of the time that my sister walked to just outside of the door to the room my mother was in, laid down on the floor, slowly dragged herself to where she was visible by my mother, collapsed, and pathetically whispered, "Mom...I threw up. *Cough, cough.* " Oh, please.
So I responded with an attitude similar to the one with which I responded to my sister, and said, "Hmmm. Well, dramatic, yes, but unconvincing. Don't ever become an actress." And then I walked out.
It was the meanest thing I could think of.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Carla's blog
I have a professor whose good friend is dying of ALS. I suppose that's a little redundant to say, since it's a fatal disease - everyone who has ALS dies from it, unless another tragedy occurs on top of it all. But I digress. This woman, Carla, has a blog (www.carlamuses.blogspot.com) that she's kept since 2006, about a year before her diagnosis - and it's attracted quite a following. I don't agree with all of her postings or her opinions, but overall the blog is inspirational - and many parts of it are very moving. She now has only a few months to live.
My sweet teacher knows very little about computers, and was concerned that at Carla's passing the blog would disappear into the void of cyberspace, or that after not being used for a while it would be taken down and never be seen again. She seemed so upset about it that I had to do something, even though I knew that blogs don't vanish the moment their owners die. Besides, what if the unlikely event happened that blogspot.com went down? Then Carla's words would be lost forever. Mine too, come to think about it. But mine aren't nearly as poignant or thought-provoking. Unlike Carla, I don't have what could be called a cult following.
So I decided to put Carla's blog into print form, and give it to my professor as a gift. I knew that having her friend's words forever accessible would mean a lot to her, and for days after coming up with the idea I had dreams about the look on my teacher's face when I handed her the book entitled "Carla Muses", and about the tears of joy that I hoped would well up in her eyes. I've only seen her cry once. I set to work copying and pasting each of Carla's blog entries into Microsoft Word, and adding the comments (most posts had more than 10, and many had 20 or more comments. I told you she had a following.). I hadn't anticipated quite the volume of work it was going to be! In the end, I had over 350 pages of text. But I really enjoyed doing it.
I haven't given the gift to my professor yet; our schedules haven't meshed lately and so we haven't been able to meet since the holidays. But I'll post her reaction when I do. This post was actually meant to be a different story; Carla's blog is background information that leads into the intended tale. Now that I've taken the "introduction" and turned it into a full-length post, the rest of the story will have to wait until tomorrow. It involves a phone, a crutch, and an overdramatic woman who should never try her hand at professional acting.
Oh the suspense.
My sweet teacher knows very little about computers, and was concerned that at Carla's passing the blog would disappear into the void of cyberspace, or that after not being used for a while it would be taken down and never be seen again. She seemed so upset about it that I had to do something, even though I knew that blogs don't vanish the moment their owners die. Besides, what if the unlikely event happened that blogspot.com went down? Then Carla's words would be lost forever. Mine too, come to think about it. But mine aren't nearly as poignant or thought-provoking. Unlike Carla, I don't have what could be called a cult following.
So I decided to put Carla's blog into print form, and give it to my professor as a gift. I knew that having her friend's words forever accessible would mean a lot to her, and for days after coming up with the idea I had dreams about the look on my teacher's face when I handed her the book entitled "Carla Muses", and about the tears of joy that I hoped would well up in her eyes. I've only seen her cry once. I set to work copying and pasting each of Carla's blog entries into Microsoft Word, and adding the comments (most posts had more than 10, and many had 20 or more comments. I told you she had a following.). I hadn't anticipated quite the volume of work it was going to be! In the end, I had over 350 pages of text. But I really enjoyed doing it.
I haven't given the gift to my professor yet; our schedules haven't meshed lately and so we haven't been able to meet since the holidays. But I'll post her reaction when I do. This post was actually meant to be a different story; Carla's blog is background information that leads into the intended tale. Now that I've taken the "introduction" and turned it into a full-length post, the rest of the story will have to wait until tomorrow. It involves a phone, a crutch, and an overdramatic woman who should never try her hand at professional acting.
Oh the suspense.
Monday, December 28, 2009
35lbs of Fury
My husband and I finally gave in and for Christmas, we got each other a Wii. We have really been enjoying it. It came with Wii Sports, which includes the exciting games golf, bowling, tennis, baseball, and boxing.
We brought the Wii to Utah for Christmas, to share with the whole family. Scott and I decided to try boxing; everyone wanted to watch us duke it out. The suggestion was made that if we could use Wii boxing to diffuse any arguments between us; we know, however, that would make it much worse. Only friendly boxing rounds are allowed.
My sister-in-law, Laura, brought her dog Charlie to Utah and we've all enjoyed having him. His greatest strength, and greatest weakness, is his protectiveness. He generally likes women better than men, but would probably give his life for Laura. Strangers aren't allowed near the house, and it only takes a small sudden movement in Laura's direction to set Charlie off.
But the other day, during the boxing match, Charlie's protectiveness shifted to me and his anger turned on my husband. As soon as the punching began, so did the barking. Now it must be known that we were standing next to each other but facing forward, looking at our characters on the tv screen. But it didn't matter to Charlie, who went nuts and threw his entire 35lb self at Scott, barking furiously. I suppose he thought that Scott was attacking me; this idea was supremely upsetting. For the rest of the night, Charlie wouldn't go near him.
I don't think Charlie has fully recovered from the trauma yet.
We brought the Wii to Utah for Christmas, to share with the whole family. Scott and I decided to try boxing; everyone wanted to watch us duke it out. The suggestion was made that if we could use Wii boxing to diffuse any arguments between us; we know, however, that would make it much worse. Only friendly boxing rounds are allowed.
My sister-in-law, Laura, brought her dog Charlie to Utah and we've all enjoyed having him. His greatest strength, and greatest weakness, is his protectiveness. He generally likes women better than men, but would probably give his life for Laura. Strangers aren't allowed near the house, and it only takes a small sudden movement in Laura's direction to set Charlie off.
But the other day, during the boxing match, Charlie's protectiveness shifted to me and his anger turned on my husband. As soon as the punching began, so did the barking. Now it must be known that we were standing next to each other but facing forward, looking at our characters on the tv screen. But it didn't matter to Charlie, who went nuts and threw his entire 35lb self at Scott, barking furiously. I suppose he thought that Scott was attacking me; this idea was supremely upsetting. For the rest of the night, Charlie wouldn't go near him.
I don't think Charlie has fully recovered from the trauma yet.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Still an Overachiever
The class wasn't difficult. Too much reading for a fundamentals class, but not hard. Theatre History/Script Analysis (a new class that combined 2 old ones) was more of a nuisance than anything else, filled with Freshman that made stupid comments in class and complained. About. Everything.
Not that I'm complaining, mind you.
Everything was worth 10% of the grade except for the final project (worth 20%). Both the final exam and the midterm were each 10% of the grade. At the end of class, I had received perfect grades on everything except for quizzes (overall grade of 94) and a presentation I gave (97). I had more than an 88 in the class, without the final exam. Knowing that I only needed less than a 20 on the final exam to get an A, I was confident that all it would take is showing up and blindly guessing to get it.
So I did something new for me. I failed it. On purpose.
I did study, but only for 3 hours. Max. I decided that it wasn't worth my time during finals week to really put forth the effort or stress over it. I studied other things, worked my butt off at my job, and even relaxed a little. I know, what a concept.
The nice thing about this is that I went into the final yesterday afternoon with not a drop of stress in me over it. The only anxiety I felt was to start the exam so I could finish it as quickly as possible and get out of there. When I got the test, I scanned it briefly. I answered 1 of 5 short answer questions, answered 2 of 3 extra credit questions, and then began at the beginning. If I knew the answer right away, without having to think about it, I answered it. Otherwise I skipped it. The matching sections I put a little bit of effort into. But even some of those I skipped. Then I counted them all up, assuming I had gotten them right if I had answered them, and came up with a number of about 50. So I stopped there. That was plenty high of a score to keep my A, even if in my haste I had accidentally circled the wrong answer on a few that I knew. I turned it in and walked out (and then kind of freaked out later that I had just failed an exam on purpose). I needed about a 15 percent, and I got about a 50.
I'm still an overachiever.
Not that I'm complaining, mind you.
Everything was worth 10% of the grade except for the final project (worth 20%). Both the final exam and the midterm were each 10% of the grade. At the end of class, I had received perfect grades on everything except for quizzes (overall grade of 94) and a presentation I gave (97). I had more than an 88 in the class, without the final exam. Knowing that I only needed less than a 20 on the final exam to get an A, I was confident that all it would take is showing up and blindly guessing to get it.
So I did something new for me. I failed it. On purpose.
I did study, but only for 3 hours. Max. I decided that it wasn't worth my time during finals week to really put forth the effort or stress over it. I studied other things, worked my butt off at my job, and even relaxed a little. I know, what a concept.
The nice thing about this is that I went into the final yesterday afternoon with not a drop of stress in me over it. The only anxiety I felt was to start the exam so I could finish it as quickly as possible and get out of there. When I got the test, I scanned it briefly. I answered 1 of 5 short answer questions, answered 2 of 3 extra credit questions, and then began at the beginning. If I knew the answer right away, without having to think about it, I answered it. Otherwise I skipped it. The matching sections I put a little bit of effort into. But even some of those I skipped. Then I counted them all up, assuming I had gotten them right if I had answered them, and came up with a number of about 50. So I stopped there. That was plenty high of a score to keep my A, even if in my haste I had accidentally circled the wrong answer on a few that I knew. I turned it in and walked out (and then kind of freaked out later that I had just failed an exam on purpose). I needed about a 15 percent, and I got about a 50.
I'm still an overachiever.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
When one cannot breathe, one cannot eat.
I'm in the first mainstage show of the season at the University of Maryland - The Dead, based on the short story by James Joyce by the same name. It's called a musical, but is really a play that happens to have music. This is a subtle, but very important difference. It takes place in January of 1904 in Dublin, and the majority of the show is a Christmas party. The best part is we all get to speak in Irish accents!
Rehearsals began last Tuesday. We worked almost entirely on music for the first 2 days, with some jig practice thrown in. On the 3rd day, we added my bodhran (Irish drum), and it sounds awesome. That same day the costume shop gave us our corsets. Trying to sing when I could hardly breathe was quite the feat! (Eating is tough as well - no wonder those Victorian women ate like birds!) I never knew that my waist could ever get that small - it's rather disgusting. When I touch my thumbs in the back, there is only about a 3-inch gap between my middle fingers around the front. And I haven't even been cinched up as tight as it can go yet. Though my ribs now feel very bruised (I wore the blasted thing for 4 hours on Friday night and 6 hours on Saturday), I'm glad for the chance to practice with the corset now instead of having to wait until dress rehearsal.
Watch for pictures! Coming soon. :)
PS. Name the quoted movie? Anyone?
Rehearsals began last Tuesday. We worked almost entirely on music for the first 2 days, with some jig practice thrown in. On the 3rd day, we added my bodhran (Irish drum), and it sounds awesome. That same day the costume shop gave us our corsets. Trying to sing when I could hardly breathe was quite the feat! (Eating is tough as well - no wonder those Victorian women ate like birds!) I never knew that my waist could ever get that small - it's rather disgusting. When I touch my thumbs in the back, there is only about a 3-inch gap between my middle fingers around the front. And I haven't even been cinched up as tight as it can go yet. Though my ribs now feel very bruised (I wore the blasted thing for 4 hours on Friday night and 6 hours on Saturday), I'm glad for the chance to practice with the corset now instead of having to wait until dress rehearsal.
Watch for pictures! Coming soon. :)
PS. Name the quoted movie? Anyone?
Monday, February 02, 2009
Update
My computer arrived, but shut down 5 minutes after I turned it on. It's been sent back to the repair shop again. I'm going crazy...
Friday, January 16, 2009
Frustrated
December 2008: It's finals time, and my laptop begins to have problems. It shuts itself down randomly, sometimes when I'm working on it and sometimes when it is sitting untouched. I take to saving my work every 10 seconds.
Early January 2009: I jump through all the hoops to get my laptop sent into the repair center (luckily it's still under warranty). I miss my computer greatly.
Wednesday, 14 Jan 2009
4:30 pm:
I arrive home from a 3-day to visit family in Massachusetts. On my front door, I find a notice informing me that a package arrived for me, and the final delivery attempt was made at 12:56 that afternoon. I call UPS, input my tracking number, and am told that the box will be held at the customer center for 5 days after the final delivery attempt. I decide to pick up the box first thing in the morning.
7pm:
I recieve a phone call from UPS, and a computer voice tells me that my box will be delivered to my house the following day. I think this is strange, because the paper on my front door said that the "final delivery attempt" was already made. I phone UPS and input my tracking number again, and get the same information as that afternoon: 12:56 pm was the final attempt, and the box will be held for 5 days.
Thursday, 15 Jan 2009
8:20am
I call UPS again just to see what they say, input my tracking number, and to my surprise, am told that they tried to deliver my package at 8:53pm the previous evening (during which time I was at home, enjoying a quiet movie). I phone back and talk to a real person this time, explaining to her the mixed messages I'm getting. All I want to know is where my box is. She assures me that it's at the customer center, waiting to be picked up.
9am
I drive 20 minutes out to Laurel, and hand over my delivery notice. The box is nowhere to be found. The woman at the desk figures the driver must not have turned the package in the night before, which means that it's still on the truck. Perhaps it will be delivered today, she tells me. Since I recieved a phone call the night before to that effect, I figure that it's likely. I go home, and Scott and I take turns running errands so that one of us is home all day. No box.
Friday, 16 Jan 2009
8:30am
I call the UPS customer center and ask if they would look for my box so that I won't have to drive all the way out to Laurel only to be disappointed again. The woman can't find it. She asks for my phone number and promises to look in all the wrong places (since the box obviously isn't in the right place) and call me back. She finally calls back with the good news that the package had been found.
The bad news? The box contains only my power cord.
Oh laptop, where are you?
Early January 2009: I jump through all the hoops to get my laptop sent into the repair center (luckily it's still under warranty). I miss my computer greatly.
Wednesday, 14 Jan 2009
4:30 pm:
I arrive home from a 3-day to visit family in Massachusetts. On my front door, I find a notice informing me that a package arrived for me, and the final delivery attempt was made at 12:56 that afternoon. I call UPS, input my tracking number, and am told that the box will be held at the customer center for 5 days after the final delivery attempt. I decide to pick up the box first thing in the morning.
7pm:
I recieve a phone call from UPS, and a computer voice tells me that my box will be delivered to my house the following day. I think this is strange, because the paper on my front door said that the "final delivery attempt" was already made. I phone UPS and input my tracking number again, and get the same information as that afternoon: 12:56 pm was the final attempt, and the box will be held for 5 days.
Thursday, 15 Jan 2009
8:20am
I call UPS again just to see what they say, input my tracking number, and to my surprise, am told that they tried to deliver my package at 8:53pm the previous evening (during which time I was at home, enjoying a quiet movie). I phone back and talk to a real person this time, explaining to her the mixed messages I'm getting. All I want to know is where my box is. She assures me that it's at the customer center, waiting to be picked up.
9am
I drive 20 minutes out to Laurel, and hand over my delivery notice. The box is nowhere to be found. The woman at the desk figures the driver must not have turned the package in the night before, which means that it's still on the truck. Perhaps it will be delivered today, she tells me. Since I recieved a phone call the night before to that effect, I figure that it's likely. I go home, and Scott and I take turns running errands so that one of us is home all day. No box.
Friday, 16 Jan 2009
8:30am
I call the UPS customer center and ask if they would look for my box so that I won't have to drive all the way out to Laurel only to be disappointed again. The woman can't find it. She asks for my phone number and promises to look in all the wrong places (since the box obviously isn't in the right place) and call me back. She finally calls back with the good news that the package had been found.
The bad news? The box contains only my power cord.
Oh laptop, where are you?
Friday, November 28, 2008
At Least I Didn't Catch it on Fire
I cooked my first Thanksgiving turkey today! I realized during dinner that I should have taken a picture of the (perfectly browned) bird as proof, but I didn't.
Just know that it was beautiful.
Just know that it was beautiful.
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