"Your stuff starts out being just for you… but then it goes out. Once you know what the story is and get it right - as right as you can, anyway - it belongs to anyone who wants to read it. Or criticize it." ~Stephen King
Hello again. I have been away for far too long. For the past two weeks, I cannot say I have lived up to my self proclaimed title of "writer." I apologize for this. I am sorry to any of you reading out there, and to myself. The truth is, I took a little break to heal my ego. After much hesitation and deliberation, I finally posted my blog on Facebook with the intention of acquiring followers. I officially unleashed my words to the world, completely forgetting one of the cardinal rules of writing: always remember your audience.
When I was 18, I learned this rule first hand in a writing class I was taking at Onondaga Community College, OCC, "OCC on the ROCK," "Harvard on the Hill," or whichever misnomer your would like to use. I signed up for a few courses there after graduation, it being the closest and most affordable college in Syracuse. Unfortunately, I didn't know a thing about student loans or tuition, and eventually my professor caught on to the fact that I hadn't yet payed a dime to earn a place in his classroom. He asked to speak to me after class one day, wondering if I had paid to register yet, and if not, when I planned on doing so. I lied, and told him next week, so he allowed me to stay and write with the rest of the students.
Our first assignment was simple. Write a short story. And so I did. It was about a line of people waiting in the falling snowing to get into a warm building. In the line: a teammate, my mom, kids I went to school with. In the end, it is revealed that the line leads to a casket, with my body in it. The story was about my funeral. Obviously that year of my life was pretty angst ridden and dark. I wrote the story so well because I actually had imagined my own funeral on countless occasions. I saw it in my head as vividly as if I was there in person. I was proud of the story, and anxious to have my professor grade it.
After arriving to class on what would be my last day, my professor announced to everyone that he was going to read aloud the story he felt best accomplished the task he assigned. Shifting in my cold, uncomfortable chair in the front row of the room, my heart began quickly palpitating when I glanced upwards to see him holding papers with my words on them. No! He can't read that out loud! Please, don't! I didn't even have a chance to interject. He started with my opening sentence.
Every word was excruciating, melting away pieces of me little by little. I felt twenty pairs of eyes on my back with every description and transition. I stared down at the notebook on my desk, my breathing quick and heavy like I had just done the 50 meter hurdles. When the professor was finally finished, which had to be an eternity later, he opened the room up to discussion and asked the students to speak about my story. To this day, I cannot remember what was said, or even if their critiques were negative or positive. However, what stays with me even today is what the professor said after the comments had finished... "Whenever you write anything, there is always an audience. Do NOT forget that someone is reading what you have written."
For a brief moment, I forgot this lesson when I shared my stories with the rest of the world. I forgot that people will inevitably have an opinion about what I put out there. At first I thought, well - that sucks. I'm trying hard to do something here, for myself, for my future. I am desperately attempting to change my life, to fulfill dreams I have been chasing for too long. Basically, I had a temper tantrum. I was mad that people were mad at me for a silly blog I posted. I was sad that they didn't get my jokes, and that they didn't see my true intentions.
But time has passed since then, and now, I really don't give a crap. I've remembered how Henry David Thoreau holed himself up in a cabin in the woods to write about society. Oh man, he sure pissed people off when Walden was finally published. He was critiquing people, he was expressing his own thoughts and desires, and putting it all down on paper. Of course he was going to be judged. As will I each and every time I have something to say.
I am prepared for this great responsibility now. My tantrum is over, my ego healed, and while I should be outside running in preparation for my spring marathon, I am here, writing again. I have reposted the blog that caused such uproarious controversy, and stand proudly behind it. I am an opinionated woman. And I am a writer. Together, these will make for lengthy rants about relationships, work, friends, society, and so on. Read on if you would like. If not you, someone else will surely choose to do so.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
I hate my stupid day job...
I am here to bitch. Do not mistake my doing so as whining. In fact, I HATE whiners. To me, whiners are people that complain about everything, and refuse to do absolutely nothing about it. I am bitching because I have every intention to do something about this stupid day job that I have. Not because I have a lot of time on my hands, not because I have nothing better to do, but because I HAVE to so I can stay somewhat sane in this dead end town. I’m hoping if I reach enough of you out there, if my words somehow interest you, if you agree with what I say, if you completely disagree with my thoughts and beliefs, that someday I will be able to finally leave my stupid day job and buy a great hacienda in Mexico where I can see the beach from my bathroom.
My stupid day job is at a restaurant in downtown Syracuse, New York. For those of you not familiar with this horrid place, Syracuse is part of the great snow belt of the Northeast United States. We get inches upon inches of what they call “lake effect snow” dumped on us every winter. I don’t think it is quite fair to even call the season “winter” given that I have trick-or-treated through snowflakes as a child, and run up and down a lacrosse field in slushy white, grey, and brown shit as a young adult. Note: lacrosse is a spring sport around these parts.
At one significant point in history, Syracuse was actually a hot spot. Not hot in the sense of being temperate year round, but meaning “popular” or “chic.” See, in addition to all the white stuff I already talked about, some peeps a long time ago discovered more white stuff, in the form of salt. For this reason, and because my city was built smack dab on top of the Erie Canal, lots of folks moved to Syracuse way back when. They built huge houses that the University’s fraternities have now turned into party pits. Every day on the way to my stupid day job, I pass these once glorious homes, that I imagine were filled with fine china and butlers, only now to be replaced by half naked college girls and homemade water bongs. This makes me sad, as does the ugly sloppy snow everywhere, and it gets worse (depression sinks in) as I near closer to downtown Syracuse, and the “heart” of it – Armory Square.
My stupid day job is one of a handful of small, privately owned restaurants and bars in this square radius, the only section left downtown that provides entertainment to its zombie-like, overly bundled residents. From time to time, aliens to my hometown inquire, “So what’s there to do here? Where should we go tonight for fun?” With which I reply, “If you walk about 25 yards in either direction, and pray to the heavens above that people are drunk enough, you most likely, but not positively, will find something to pass the time.” The problem is, the people that usually ask this question are not interested in the bars and the people that I would be. They want to go somewhere to “go dancing” or somewhere with “a great jazz band.” I’m sorry dude/sweetie/ma'am/sir/douchebag, but you may have to burn this Salt City to the ground, rebuild something much more trendy on top of it, before you ever experience such a rarity in entertainment. However, what I can offer you instead is maybe a house blues band served with brunch, or an over-priced craft beer in a bar playing the entire 3 day long Phish set over a sweet satellite radio. Does that work for you? No? Well get outta my way then. I’m already late for my stupid day job.
Stay tuned. Next post will be equally riveting as we will finally leave the bitter cold and enter the doors to my stupid day job.
My stupid day job is at a restaurant in downtown Syracuse, New York. For those of you not familiar with this horrid place, Syracuse is part of the great snow belt of the Northeast United States. We get inches upon inches of what they call “lake effect snow” dumped on us every winter. I don’t think it is quite fair to even call the season “winter” given that I have trick-or-treated through snowflakes as a child, and run up and down a lacrosse field in slushy white, grey, and brown shit as a young adult. Note: lacrosse is a spring sport around these parts.
At one significant point in history, Syracuse was actually a hot spot. Not hot in the sense of being temperate year round, but meaning “popular” or “chic.” See, in addition to all the white stuff I already talked about, some peeps a long time ago discovered more white stuff, in the form of salt. For this reason, and because my city was built smack dab on top of the Erie Canal, lots of folks moved to Syracuse way back when. They built huge houses that the University’s fraternities have now turned into party pits. Every day on the way to my stupid day job, I pass these once glorious homes, that I imagine were filled with fine china and butlers, only now to be replaced by half naked college girls and homemade water bongs. This makes me sad, as does the ugly sloppy snow everywhere, and it gets worse (depression sinks in) as I near closer to downtown Syracuse, and the “heart” of it – Armory Square.
My stupid day job is one of a handful of small, privately owned restaurants and bars in this square radius, the only section left downtown that provides entertainment to its zombie-like, overly bundled residents. From time to time, aliens to my hometown inquire, “So what’s there to do here? Where should we go tonight for fun?” With which I reply, “If you walk about 25 yards in either direction, and pray to the heavens above that people are drunk enough, you most likely, but not positively, will find something to pass the time.” The problem is, the people that usually ask this question are not interested in the bars and the people that I would be. They want to go somewhere to “go dancing” or somewhere with “a great jazz band.” I’m sorry dude/sweetie/ma'am/sir/douchebag, but you may have to burn this Salt City to the ground, rebuild something much more trendy on top of it, before you ever experience such a rarity in entertainment. However, what I can offer you instead is maybe a house blues band served with brunch, or an over-priced craft beer in a bar playing the entire 3 day long Phish set over a sweet satellite radio. Does that work for you? No? Well get outta my way then. I’m already late for my stupid day job.
Stay tuned. Next post will be equally riveting as we will finally leave the bitter cold and enter the doors to my stupid day job.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Torture on a Treadmill
Today was the last day of a 5 week Sculpt class that I have been taking at the YMCA. Every Tuesday and Thursday morning for more than a month, I have dragged myself out of bed and to the gym, only to be physically and mentally pushed by my 2 trainers, Maggie and Dina. Alongside a handful of other women, the "torture duo" as I will call them now, lead us through an hour long, high intensity workout that cycled through various weight training and plyometric exercises, with bursts of cardio in between. Let me give you an example: we'll do a minute of scorpion push ups (one leg in the air), followed by sumo squats in combination with bicep curls, then squat thrusts. The goal is to use our own body weight as much as possible during strength exercises, and to not allow for much of a recovery so your heart rate stays up.
It hurts. A lot. Anyone that knows me can attest to the fact that I am in pretty good shape. I am a runner, and since joining the Y, I am there doing some sort of exercise 4-6 days a week. But for crying out loud, lunges and 5 minute long planks are NOTHING compared to an hour long run in my neighborhood. This month I have been forced to use muscles I didn't even know I had. Did you know there's a muscle surrounding your pelvic bone? I sure as hell didn't until the "torture duo" entered my life. I'm still not sure how a strong pelvis will help me in a fight, but it feels cool to punch myself there and not feel my fist padded by inches of soft, cushiony skin.
As it was the last day for my sculpting group, our trainers moved us extra quickly through each exercise, and pushed us even farther when they saw our bodies shaking. Since the start of this class, I have gradually come to like this physical pain. It's worth it.. after anyways. During the pain, I just want to fall to my knees and cry like a toddler. So when the "torture duo" said "ok ladies, that's it for the day," I found myself asking for more. My "already?" comment was followed by moans and groans from the others in my class. Unlike me, they had taken these sculpt sessions before. So they knew my wish for more pain would indefinitely be granted.
And yes oh yes, it was. They lead us over to the treadmills and told us to run with it off. I thought to myself, "ummm... ok?" and began to jog in place. Easy. Then I was schooled and told to make the belt move without turning the machine on. Hard. Much MUCH more harder. Even worse when you are forced to do it for almost 2 minutes straight, the "torture duo" standing behind you, yelling your name and "FASTER!"
Owie. I challenge any of you out there to attempt this exercise. Please get back to me and tell me what you think. But make sure you're "making that belt move!"
While enduring this and all the other grueling exercises I have put myself through these last 5 weeks, to my left, and to my right, I was always surrounded by a group of women, all of them - mothers. Out of the entire bunch, I was the only one without kids. One has a 2 year old girl, another has 4 children all in school. Going to sculpt class is just one of the many difficult things they do throughout their days. Before they've even thought about getting ready for the gym, they've already made breakfast, packed lunches, cleaned the house, started laundry, and brought their kids to school or daycare. All I did this morning before 10:30 was roll out of bed, make my egg whites and oatmeal, and drive to the YMCA 10 minutes before class started. My life is so simple compared to theirs.
The mothers in my class, along with the "torture duo" that also belongs in that group, have inspired me today. I almost want to go back and slap myself every time that I bitched about how "hard my life is." The reality is, taking care of little ole me is nothing in comparison to providing for an entire family. And further, to have the motivation to do something for yourself, to get to the gym and test your physical limits, is even more admirable. As I whine through shoulder raises and mountain climbers, these women buckle down and do it like all the rest of the things they are responsible for in a day. I feel humbled to have met them, and fortunate to have been there to hear about their lives while we sweat, tremble, grunt, and collapse alongside each other.
Working out is hard work, as I'm sure you are all well aware of. But next time you are feeling unmotivated to get your heart going, I hope you think of the mothers at my gym that do it every day in between diaper changes and feedings. They are the strongest women I have met to date.
It hurts. A lot. Anyone that knows me can attest to the fact that I am in pretty good shape. I am a runner, and since joining the Y, I am there doing some sort of exercise 4-6 days a week. But for crying out loud, lunges and 5 minute long planks are NOTHING compared to an hour long run in my neighborhood. This month I have been forced to use muscles I didn't even know I had. Did you know there's a muscle surrounding your pelvic bone? I sure as hell didn't until the "torture duo" entered my life. I'm still not sure how a strong pelvis will help me in a fight, but it feels cool to punch myself there and not feel my fist padded by inches of soft, cushiony skin.
As it was the last day for my sculpting group, our trainers moved us extra quickly through each exercise, and pushed us even farther when they saw our bodies shaking. Since the start of this class, I have gradually come to like this physical pain. It's worth it.. after anyways. During the pain, I just want to fall to my knees and cry like a toddler. So when the "torture duo" said "ok ladies, that's it for the day," I found myself asking for more. My "already?" comment was followed by moans and groans from the others in my class. Unlike me, they had taken these sculpt sessions before. So they knew my wish for more pain would indefinitely be granted.
And yes oh yes, it was. They lead us over to the treadmills and told us to run with it off. I thought to myself, "ummm... ok?" and began to jog in place. Easy. Then I was schooled and told to make the belt move without turning the machine on. Hard. Much MUCH more harder. Even worse when you are forced to do it for almost 2 minutes straight, the "torture duo" standing behind you, yelling your name and "FASTER!"
Owie. I challenge any of you out there to attempt this exercise. Please get back to me and tell me what you think. But make sure you're "making that belt move!"
While enduring this and all the other grueling exercises I have put myself through these last 5 weeks, to my left, and to my right, I was always surrounded by a group of women, all of them - mothers. Out of the entire bunch, I was the only one without kids. One has a 2 year old girl, another has 4 children all in school. Going to sculpt class is just one of the many difficult things they do throughout their days. Before they've even thought about getting ready for the gym, they've already made breakfast, packed lunches, cleaned the house, started laundry, and brought their kids to school or daycare. All I did this morning before 10:30 was roll out of bed, make my egg whites and oatmeal, and drive to the YMCA 10 minutes before class started. My life is so simple compared to theirs.
The mothers in my class, along with the "torture duo" that also belongs in that group, have inspired me today. I almost want to go back and slap myself every time that I bitched about how "hard my life is." The reality is, taking care of little ole me is nothing in comparison to providing for an entire family. And further, to have the motivation to do something for yourself, to get to the gym and test your physical limits, is even more admirable. As I whine through shoulder raises and mountain climbers, these women buckle down and do it like all the rest of the things they are responsible for in a day. I feel humbled to have met them, and fortunate to have been there to hear about their lives while we sweat, tremble, grunt, and collapse alongside each other.
Working out is hard work, as I'm sure you are all well aware of. But next time you are feeling unmotivated to get your heart going, I hope you think of the mothers at my gym that do it every day in between diaper changes and feedings. They are the strongest women I have met to date.
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