all my instincts
they return
and the grand facade
so soon will burn
without a noise
without my pride
I reach out from the inside
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Monday, October 1, 2012
Rainy Days and Mondays
A week ago today was one of those mornings. I'm pretty sure that Jim Davis:
and Karen Carpenter:
were thinking of Mondays like last week's when brainstorming and coming up with ideas for their work.
It actually started off great, interestingly enough. I'd woken up at 6:00 am, as per usual, and realizing that because I was just conferencing with students all day and I didn't need to prepare a lesson, I could sleep in a bit more. Unfortunately I slept in a bit more than "a bit more," eventually waking up at 7:42 am. That doesn't seem too bad except that my first student conference was scheduled for 8. I jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom to shower. I showered quick as you like, jumped out of the shower, grabbed my towel and took off for my bedroom.
As I was running past the laundry room, I heard a distinctive snap and I stopped running. Considering the mouse problems we'd been dealing with, I knew what had happened. I peeked into the laundry room and there was the mouse we'd seen prancing about the basement like he owned the place. Except he wasn't prancing; he was writhing on the ground, not quite dead but with a clearly broken neck. (I would include a picture here, but seems a bit macabre.) Unfortunately, considering I was already late, I didn't have time to take care of the problem. I left his twitching body and continued the sprint to my room.
I got to my room, dried and dressed in a flash, and bent down to reach into my closet for my shoes. As I did, I saw a largish black spot on my wall. Not having put my glasses on quite yet, I couldn't see it very clearly. I made a conscious effort to focus my eyes, and in doing so saw that the black spot, mere inches from my outstretched hand, was in fact one of the larger black widow spiders I've ever seen. Now I'm not typically one to be scared of spiders, but ever since I was little, black widows have given me the willies. This mostly stems from the time when, as an 8 year old kid, I went down to the basement of our old house to get some dog food for Keesh, and as I stuck my hand into the dog food bag, a black widow came crawling out onto my hand. I'm sure I shrieked like...well like an 8 year old boy, and ever since that time black widows and I have not been on the friendliest of terms.
So not only did I have to deal with the scene of a twitching mouse corpse replaying over in my mind, but now I was facing a childhood bugbear as well. I killed the spider, leaving a large smear of spider guts on my closet wall, and with a racing heart I hurried off to my student conferences.
Arriving to campus later than I'd hoped, I had to park in the law school parking lot and make the 1/2 mile dash (in jeans) to to carrels. I got to my office sweating mildly and just 5 minutes late to meet with my first student ...who hadn't and never did show. I was a little frustrated that I'd run like mad across campus for no reason, but I was also relieved that I could catch my breath before the next student came in. As I was waiting for the next conference, I checked my email. Sitting there was an email from one of my professors. It was the email I'd been waiting for/dreading; he was returning the paper that I just turned in to him last week.
This is the same professor who I describe here. He is one of the more important men in the department, he intimidates me, and I really, really want him to approve of me as a student and a scholar. Unfortunately, the outcome today wasn't equal to the one from the post I just linked to. Rather than saying I'd done fine work, he gave me a few pointed suggestions and didn't give me a grade but rather asked that I revise. I'm very grateful for his suggestions - they helped me to finally see where I was going wrong in my thinking for that paper - but all the same it was hard to see that this professor, whose good favor I consciously seek and whose approval desperately want, wasn't keen on my work.
So to summarize: I got up late, I watched a mouse writhe and twitch as he died, I had to kill a crazy huge spider whose guts splattered all over my closet wall and who had nearly given me a heart attack, my first appointment of the day didn't show up, my professor didn't like my work, and on top of it all, it had been raining all morning.
As you can see, I was in a rotten mood; that is, I was in a rotten mood until my students started coming in to talk through their opinion editorials. My attitude almost immediately shifted.
It was incredible. As I helped my students talk through the ideas they were writing about and find better, more persuasive and more sophisticated ways of expounding their arguments, and as I saw the excitement in their eyes as they talked about these ideas and topics that (most of them) were genuinely interested in and even passionate about, I got happier and happier. With each student that came in to talk to me the memory of the earlier garbage that had made me somewhat grouchy dissipated more and more until I could barely remember it at all.
At the end of the day I had conferenced with 30+ students for 15 minutes each, and I was exhausted. Exhausted but pleased and content. In thinking back to how awful the morning had been, I was grateful that 1) I've chosen the field that I've chosen because teaching writing and rhetoric is so fulfilling and soul-satisfying, and 2) I have the opportunity to actually participate in my field before graduating and officially joining it by teaching general ed writing classes.
While it started out pretty crappy, it totally redeemed itself in the end. And that makes it all worth it.
and Karen Carpenter:
were thinking of Mondays like last week's when brainstorming and coming up with ideas for their work.
It actually started off great, interestingly enough. I'd woken up at 6:00 am, as per usual, and realizing that because I was just conferencing with students all day and I didn't need to prepare a lesson, I could sleep in a bit more. Unfortunately I slept in a bit more than "a bit more," eventually waking up at 7:42 am. That doesn't seem too bad except that my first student conference was scheduled for 8. I jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom to shower. I showered quick as you like, jumped out of the shower, grabbed my towel and took off for my bedroom.
As I was running past the laundry room, I heard a distinctive snap and I stopped running. Considering the mouse problems we'd been dealing with, I knew what had happened. I peeked into the laundry room and there was the mouse we'd seen prancing about the basement like he owned the place. Except he wasn't prancing; he was writhing on the ground, not quite dead but with a clearly broken neck. (I would include a picture here, but seems a bit macabre.) Unfortunately, considering I was already late, I didn't have time to take care of the problem. I left his twitching body and continued the sprint to my room.
I got to my room, dried and dressed in a flash, and bent down to reach into my closet for my shoes. As I did, I saw a largish black spot on my wall. Not having put my glasses on quite yet, I couldn't see it very clearly. I made a conscious effort to focus my eyes, and in doing so saw that the black spot, mere inches from my outstretched hand, was in fact one of the larger black widow spiders I've ever seen. Now I'm not typically one to be scared of spiders, but ever since I was little, black widows have given me the willies. This mostly stems from the time when, as an 8 year old kid, I went down to the basement of our old house to get some dog food for Keesh, and as I stuck my hand into the dog food bag, a black widow came crawling out onto my hand. I'm sure I shrieked like...well like an 8 year old boy, and ever since that time black widows and I have not been on the friendliest of terms.
So not only did I have to deal with the scene of a twitching mouse corpse replaying over in my mind, but now I was facing a childhood bugbear as well. I killed the spider, leaving a large smear of spider guts on my closet wall, and with a racing heart I hurried off to my student conferences.
Arriving to campus later than I'd hoped, I had to park in the law school parking lot and make the 1/2 mile dash (in jeans) to to carrels. I got to my office sweating mildly and just 5 minutes late to meet with my first student ...who hadn't and never did show. I was a little frustrated that I'd run like mad across campus for no reason, but I was also relieved that I could catch my breath before the next student came in. As I was waiting for the next conference, I checked my email. Sitting there was an email from one of my professors. It was the email I'd been waiting for/dreading; he was returning the paper that I just turned in to him last week.
This is the same professor who I describe here. He is one of the more important men in the department, he intimidates me, and I really, really want him to approve of me as a student and a scholar. Unfortunately, the outcome today wasn't equal to the one from the post I just linked to. Rather than saying I'd done fine work, he gave me a few pointed suggestions and didn't give me a grade but rather asked that I revise. I'm very grateful for his suggestions - they helped me to finally see where I was going wrong in my thinking for that paper - but all the same it was hard to see that this professor, whose good favor I consciously seek and whose approval desperately want, wasn't keen on my work.
So to summarize: I got up late, I watched a mouse writhe and twitch as he died, I had to kill a crazy huge spider whose guts splattered all over my closet wall and who had nearly given me a heart attack, my first appointment of the day didn't show up, my professor didn't like my work, and on top of it all, it had been raining all morning.
As you can see, I was in a rotten mood; that is, I was in a rotten mood until my students started coming in to talk through their opinion editorials. My attitude almost immediately shifted.
It was incredible. As I helped my students talk through the ideas they were writing about and find better, more persuasive and more sophisticated ways of expounding their arguments, and as I saw the excitement in their eyes as they talked about these ideas and topics that (most of them) were genuinely interested in and even passionate about, I got happier and happier. With each student that came in to talk to me the memory of the earlier garbage that had made me somewhat grouchy dissipated more and more until I could barely remember it at all.
At the end of the day I had conferenced with 30+ students for 15 minutes each, and I was exhausted. Exhausted but pleased and content. In thinking back to how awful the morning had been, I was grateful that 1) I've chosen the field that I've chosen because teaching writing and rhetoric is so fulfilling and soul-satisfying, and 2) I have the opportunity to actually participate in my field before graduating and officially joining it by teaching general ed writing classes.
While it started out pretty crappy, it totally redeemed itself in the end. And that makes it all worth it.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Strange Fruit, La Marseillaise and French Patriotism
When I'm introducing my students to the rhetorical analysis unit, we start things off by doing a quick rhetorical analysis of the poem "Strange Fruit" by Abel Meeropol, also known as Lewis Allan. So that my students can understand the importance of the poem, I give them a little background. Meeropol was a Jewish man from New York who wrote the poem upon seeing a grisly picture of a southern lynching (this is a link to the picture he saw. I feel I need to warn you; it is a fairly graphic image). The poem was set to music and it is in that format that it is most famously known. Billie Holiday, in particular, made this song big as she would often sing the song at the end of her nightclub act. The owner of the nightclub where she did her act recognized the power of the song, so when she would get ready to sing it he would turn off all the lights in the club and have a single spotlight on Lady Day as she sang. The song was so powerful that when Billie Holiday went to Columbia Records wanting to record the song, the label was so worried about how it would be received in the South that they refused. A writer for the New York Post who witnessed the nightclub act famously said of the song, "If the anger of the exploited ever mounts high enough in the South, it now has its 'Marseillaise.'"
Now most of my students don't really know what that means, so in order for them to understand what it meant for the exploited in the South to "have a Marseillaise," I show them this clip from Casablanca. After I give them a little background on what's happening in the movie, I tell them to focus on how the song inspires and rallies the beleaguered Frenchmen, and then to think about how "Strange Fruit" was said to have the power to do the same for any potential Civil Rights groups.
After they watch this clip, I have them watch a clip of Billie Holiday singing "Strange Fruit" while they follow along with the poem in hand. As they're doing this, I tell them to try and figure out how the poem and song evoke such a powerful reaction, and where in the text they see things that are especially moving. After watching the poem sung, we have a good discussion analyzing the rhetoric of the poem and everyone goes away uplifted.
Now I write all that in order to make a confession of sorts. But first I need to qualify what I'm about to say.
In many circles here in America it's not cool to like or admire France. Wait...that's not an entirely accurate observation; let me rephrase. In terms of culture, and food and style and those things, being a Francophile is fine. But when it comes to respecting them as a country and a system of government and a military force, it's the popular thing to make fun of them. From freedom fries to feats of the French military, we like to poke fun at France and all things French. Now I would be lying if I said I never partake in such humor, or if I said I didn't find it funny to a degree; I do. But this American cultural mindset makes things a bit uncomfortable when I say what I'm about to say.
Now I write all that in order to make a confession of sorts. But first I need to qualify what I'm about to say.
In many circles here in America it's not cool to like or admire France. Wait...that's not an entirely accurate observation; let me rephrase. In terms of culture, and food and style and those things, being a Francophile is fine. But when it comes to respecting them as a country and a system of government and a military force, it's the popular thing to make fun of them. From freedom fries to feats of the French military, we like to poke fun at France and all things French. Now I would be lying if I said I never partake in such humor, or if I said I didn't find it funny to a degree; I do. But this American cultural mindset makes things a bit uncomfortable when I say what I'm about to say.
Sometimes I feel patriotic about France.
I know, I know. I've never been to France, I don't speak French, and as far as I know I don't even have any French ancestors. Frankly (heh heh) there is nothing whatsoever tying me to France or giving rise to these feelings.
But when I show this clip to my students, I get that familiar wetness behind my eyes that usually only comes at the end of Rudy. As this happens I can't help but feel proud of France and wish to some degree that I had more French influence in my life.
It's weird, I know, but this is my life. I just needed for someone to know.
It's weird, I know, but this is my life. I just needed for someone to know.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Avocados and Audrey
So I cut myself today. I was slicing open an avocado to eat for lunch and my knife slipped and slid right into my finger. It hurt. I might have sworn in my mind. The problem was it was a little bit of a deep cut. So I decided to go to the bookstore to buy some super glue. You know, I've heard that it's basically the same thing as stitches. I was a little bugged by the whole turn of events, but not terribly so. It wasn't a day-breaker by any means, just annoying.
Then at the bookstore I saw this:
Then at the bookstore I saw this:
I bought it. It was totally worth getting cut.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Thesis: Round 1
Stress isn't a word I use very often to describe me or my emotional state or how I'm feeling or anything like that. In fact, I feel like I'm kind of an anomaly in the English grad program here at BYU because it is full of people who seem to have a tank of stress-oline that powers them through their lives. Me, I just kind sit back and let it ride. Life kind of comes at me and I just go with it and try not to let things really bug me or get under my skin. I get a little unsettled at times, and it's not like I'm always perfectly balanced and live a life of leisure and happiness. Let's not even talk about the series of physical maladies that seem to be constantly swirling around me. (on that note, I kinda jacked up my foot last night at the football game while jogging down the bleachers. I woke up this morning and couldn't hardly walk. But it's felt better as the day has gone on so no worries.) But on the whole I feel like I'm able to deal with the usual stresses of life fairly well. One might even say that I take the title of this totally awesome Eagles tune as my life motto:
All that said, yesterday afternoon was one of those rare occasion when I was really, truly stressed about my life. Mostly it was due to my thesis. See since school started again I've been meaning to get in contact with my thesis chair and update her on the progress I made over the summer. I was able to get some preliminary research and reading done on my project, but I felt like I hadn't done nearly as much as I ought to have. I'd like to say that I was busy doing fun and exciting things all summer, but I wasn't. Don't get me wrong I did have a lot of fun this summer, but to be perfectly honest I didn't really do anything that should have distracted me from doing my thesis reading. So when I emailed my chair yesterday around noon I was assuming that she would respond saying we should get together some time next week. That way I could do some catchup work and be perfectly fine once we met. I was wrong; she didn't as I'd hoped. Instead she said we should meet at 4 pm, which was in 3 hours. Thus began the stressing.
Despite my misgivings, I agreed to meet with her at four and immediately began to feel about like this baby her every time his mom blows her nose except without the uninhibited laughing:
That look of sheer terror is what I was feeling. Now that I'm on this side of the meeting I'm not sure why I was so stressed out. It's probably because I read PhD Comics too much. For whatever reason I envisioned me going up to her office and feeling totally ashamed and humiliated because I hadn't lived up to her expectations. I figured she was going to berate me for being lazy and so on and so forth, and I didn't relish that thought.
Now before I go any further I need to make it clear that my thesis chair is wonderful. She's very accomplished and well-recognized in the field of composition studies, and she is very kind and helpful to her students. So when I say I expected an ego-breaking confrontation I was entirely without reason to think or assume that that was what was coming.
At any rate I began to frantically go over all the books I've checked out from the library dealing with my topic and review all the papers I've written about it. I also decided I should put together a quick bibliography of the things I've actually read, so I could show her some progress. Now you'd think that in doing this I'd have realized that I actually have done a fair amount of work, and I'd be able to calm down some. But for some reason the stress kept mounting and getting worse and worse to the point that I was complaining and venting my frustrations and insecurities to the people who were in my physical as well as internet-mediated presence.
Finally 3:55 pm hit and the time of reckoning had come. I made the long walk over to her office, and as I was climbing the stairs I hit rock bottom. She was going to tell me my project and research was stupid and to figure out something else. I contemplated not even going to her office and quitting the program altogether. Ok that's not true, but I was in a dark place.
I knocked on her door and with a smile and a cough (she had a cold) she let me in. For the next hour I sat across from her in her office and we talked about my project. As the conversation progressed, my anxiety lessened and lessened until it all but went away. I realized that I did have good ideas and that my summer background research, while admittedly not as thorough as I'd have liked it to be, was sufficient for where I am in the process. She gave me some good advice on how to proceed, and actually seemed genuinely interested in the research I'm proposing to do. I left her office feeling excited and encouraged, which thing had been unknowable just an hour previous. That feeling of validation and excitement was as intensely sweet as had been my earlier pain and discouragement.
I left her office with a broad grin on my face and an assurance that I really am in the right field, and that I really am doing the right thing with my life.
I stopped by Meridith's office to tell her how it had gone, and after chatting with her for a while we decided to celebrate surviving my first real encounter with the beast that is the thesis with a little Cafe Rio. So we went down the stairs and left the JFSB and my thesis stresses behind...at least for a while.
All that said, yesterday afternoon was one of those rare occasion when I was really, truly stressed about my life. Mostly it was due to my thesis. See since school started again I've been meaning to get in contact with my thesis chair and update her on the progress I made over the summer. I was able to get some preliminary research and reading done on my project, but I felt like I hadn't done nearly as much as I ought to have. I'd like to say that I was busy doing fun and exciting things all summer, but I wasn't. Don't get me wrong I did have a lot of fun this summer, but to be perfectly honest I didn't really do anything that should have distracted me from doing my thesis reading. So when I emailed my chair yesterday around noon I was assuming that she would respond saying we should get together some time next week. That way I could do some catchup work and be perfectly fine once we met. I was wrong; she didn't as I'd hoped. Instead she said we should meet at 4 pm, which was in 3 hours. Thus began the stressing.
Despite my misgivings, I agreed to meet with her at four and immediately began to feel about like this baby her every time his mom blows her nose except without the uninhibited laughing:
That look of sheer terror is what I was feeling. Now that I'm on this side of the meeting I'm not sure why I was so stressed out. It's probably because I read PhD Comics too much. For whatever reason I envisioned me going up to her office and feeling totally ashamed and humiliated because I hadn't lived up to her expectations. I figured she was going to berate me for being lazy and so on and so forth, and I didn't relish that thought.
Now before I go any further I need to make it clear that my thesis chair is wonderful. She's very accomplished and well-recognized in the field of composition studies, and she is very kind and helpful to her students. So when I say I expected an ego-breaking confrontation I was entirely without reason to think or assume that that was what was coming.
At any rate I began to frantically go over all the books I've checked out from the library dealing with my topic and review all the papers I've written about it. I also decided I should put together a quick bibliography of the things I've actually read, so I could show her some progress. Now you'd think that in doing this I'd have realized that I actually have done a fair amount of work, and I'd be able to calm down some. But for some reason the stress kept mounting and getting worse and worse to the point that I was complaining and venting my frustrations and insecurities to the people who were in my physical as well as internet-mediated presence.
Finally 3:55 pm hit and the time of reckoning had come. I made the long walk over to her office, and as I was climbing the stairs I hit rock bottom. She was going to tell me my project and research was stupid and to figure out something else. I contemplated not even going to her office and quitting the program altogether. Ok that's not true, but I was in a dark place.
I knocked on her door and with a smile and a cough (she had a cold) she let me in. For the next hour I sat across from her in her office and we talked about my project. As the conversation progressed, my anxiety lessened and lessened until it all but went away. I realized that I did have good ideas and that my summer background research, while admittedly not as thorough as I'd have liked it to be, was sufficient for where I am in the process. She gave me some good advice on how to proceed, and actually seemed genuinely interested in the research I'm proposing to do. I left her office feeling excited and encouraged, which thing had been unknowable just an hour previous. That feeling of validation and excitement was as intensely sweet as had been my earlier pain and discouragement.
I left her office with a broad grin on my face and an assurance that I really am in the right field, and that I really am doing the right thing with my life.
I stopped by Meridith's office to tell her how it had gone, and after chatting with her for a while we decided to celebrate surviving my first real encounter with the beast that is the thesis with a little Cafe Rio. So we went down the stairs and left the JFSB and my thesis stresses behind...at least for a while.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Driving Slow
Quick disclaimer: I realize that "correct" American usage rules would dictate that that title read "Driving Slowly," but I feel like turning "slow" into an adverb paints a different image in the reader's mind than the one I intend. So there.
Saturday I woke up at the ungodly hour (for a college student on a Saturday) of 7:30 am in order to make my 8:30 am dentist appointment. It was just a bit too early for me, so instead of getting up and into the shower like a good boy, I reset my alarm for 7:45 am and rolled over. I don't know what I was thinking. My appointment was in Riverton, and since I live in Provo, I really should have been getting in the car to leave at 7:45 am in order to make it in plenty of time. But in my sleep-addled state I believed myself Superman and didn't worry about being on time. I eventually got out of bed at 7:50 am and realized the predicament I'd put myself in. Shamefully I admit that when I'm late in the morning I'll sometimes forgo the brushing of teeth, and instead I chew gum until I can get around to it later. I know, I'm disgusting. Unfortunately this wasn't an option since I was going to the dentist. So I showered quickly, brushed my teeth thoroughly (twice) and by the time I ran out to my car it was 8:10 in the am.
Needless to say I drove rather quickly up the interstate. Luckily it was still early enough on a Saturday that there wasn't too much traffic, and I arrived at the office of Dr. B. Charles Push, D.D.S. at 8:40 in the am. The drive, while relatively traffic-less, was kind of stressful for me. See, I don't really like driving too fast. Generally I don't really like driving at all, but I especially hate it when I'm late to something that's pretty important, like a dentist appointment I guess, and I feel pressure to drive more aggressively and quickly than I'm comfortable. Maybe it's the fact that I've been in 4 accidents in the past 4 years, 3 of which totaled the car and none of which was my fault, but I tend to be a fairly cautious driver.
As you're reading this you're probably thinking to yourself, "Sam's such a square. I mean, what 26 year old man doesn't love to drive fast? That's the kind of thing that's written on the Y chromosome, isn't it?" Well, the fact is I haven't taken a science class for several years now, and I barely scraped by with a B in Biology so I can't tell you the answer to the chromosome bit of that question. As for being a square, I guess that I'll have to own up to that one. I mean, I do go faster than the speed limit on a regular basis, and I even got a speeding ticket once. But I'm nothing like my buddy Rob who once, at 6:30 pm on Thursday, got us from my place in Provo to a concert in Salt Lake in some ridiculous amount of time like 35 minutes or so. He definitely was going over 100 mph at one point. It was a thrilling ride, an enjoyable ride even, but in that moment I knew that it was something I'd probably never do were I in the driver's seat, even if my car could do that.
Anyway, The dentist appointment went off without a hitch -- no cavities -- and I got back in my car for the drive home. As I pulled out onto Redwood Road, I started thinking about my earlier drive that had brought me up to Riverton. I really hadn't driven all that fast. I mean, I probably topped out at 85 mph, but even so it had been fairly stressful. So I decided to try something unheard of in today's society. On the drive back to Provo I decided that I was going to obey the speed limit very strictly both on the freeway and surface streets.
I know, you're probably rolling your eyes right now thinking, "So Sam's one of those idiots that's always making me late to things," and images like this are being conjured up in your mind:
I'm flattered at your depiction of me as an old man, and apparently yes I am one of those idiots. Or at least I was Saturday morning. But let me tell you, it was one of the most liberating experiences of my life. I'm not even joking. See, I knew what my limit was on the freeway, and I knew that no one else was going to drive as slow as I was, so I was able to set my cruise at 65 mph while in the rightmost lane and away I went. It was wonderful. Where usually while driving the freeway I'm thinking about how I can get around the car in front of me or worrying about the car behind me that's clearly approaching at a rate of travel much faster than my own, I was at peace with myself not worrying about others. I'm always trying to negotiate how fast is too fast and how fast is too slow and how can I strike a good balance without making everyone around me angry. But on Saturday, I just set the cruise, put on a podcast and enjoyed the ride. That's not to say I was completely oblivious to traffic around me, but the thing was I didn't feel any pressure to adjust to the outside conditions of traffic because everyone else was driving faster than me and they all either went around me or matched my speed behind me.
As I reached the construction in Pleasant Grove and I reduced my speed to 55 mph, I realized another thing. Not only was I not having to stress about the traffic around me and how I fit in to the crowd, I also didn't have the stress of knowing that if I were to be pulled over by a cop, they would have every right in the world to write me a ticket because I was inarguably going over the speed limit. My conscience was clear and I could just sit back and allow the sweet sound of Ira Glass' voice to wash over me. It was one of the most enjoyable drives ever.
Now don't get me wrong here. I wasn't driving down the road thinking to myself that I was all superior to the rest of the drivers who were passing me, or anything like, "Those crazy lunatics are going to get us all killed if they don't slow down." Rather I recognize that everyone has to drive however they're comfortable. If, like my buddy Rob, that means screaming down the road as fast as you can, so be it. If it means puttering along like an old grandpa, by all means.
I got back to my apartment in Provo and couldn't believe how wonderfully stress-free I felt. I decided that I was going to drive slow more often. And I kept that resolution right up until the next morning when I was late to church and had to go 40 in a 25 just to get there without being too late.
Saturday I woke up at the ungodly hour (for a college student on a Saturday) of 7:30 am in order to make my 8:30 am dentist appointment. It was just a bit too early for me, so instead of getting up and into the shower like a good boy, I reset my alarm for 7:45 am and rolled over. I don't know what I was thinking. My appointment was in Riverton, and since I live in Provo, I really should have been getting in the car to leave at 7:45 am in order to make it in plenty of time. But in my sleep-addled state I believed myself Superman and didn't worry about being on time. I eventually got out of bed at 7:50 am and realized the predicament I'd put myself in. Shamefully I admit that when I'm late in the morning I'll sometimes forgo the brushing of teeth, and instead I chew gum until I can get around to it later. I know, I'm disgusting. Unfortunately this wasn't an option since I was going to the dentist. So I showered quickly, brushed my teeth thoroughly (twice) and by the time I ran out to my car it was 8:10 in the am.
Needless to say I drove rather quickly up the interstate. Luckily it was still early enough on a Saturday that there wasn't too much traffic, and I arrived at the office of Dr. B. Charles Push, D.D.S. at 8:40 in the am. The drive, while relatively traffic-less, was kind of stressful for me. See, I don't really like driving too fast. Generally I don't really like driving at all, but I especially hate it when I'm late to something that's pretty important, like a dentist appointment I guess, and I feel pressure to drive more aggressively and quickly than I'm comfortable. Maybe it's the fact that I've been in 4 accidents in the past 4 years, 3 of which totaled the car and none of which was my fault, but I tend to be a fairly cautious driver.
As you're reading this you're probably thinking to yourself, "Sam's such a square. I mean, what 26 year old man doesn't love to drive fast? That's the kind of thing that's written on the Y chromosome, isn't it?" Well, the fact is I haven't taken a science class for several years now, and I barely scraped by with a B in Biology so I can't tell you the answer to the chromosome bit of that question. As for being a square, I guess that I'll have to own up to that one. I mean, I do go faster than the speed limit on a regular basis, and I even got a speeding ticket once. But I'm nothing like my buddy Rob who once, at 6:30 pm on Thursday, got us from my place in Provo to a concert in Salt Lake in some ridiculous amount of time like 35 minutes or so. He definitely was going over 100 mph at one point. It was a thrilling ride, an enjoyable ride even, but in that moment I knew that it was something I'd probably never do were I in the driver's seat, even if my car could do that.
Anyway, The dentist appointment went off without a hitch -- no cavities -- and I got back in my car for the drive home. As I pulled out onto Redwood Road, I started thinking about my earlier drive that had brought me up to Riverton. I really hadn't driven all that fast. I mean, I probably topped out at 85 mph, but even so it had been fairly stressful. So I decided to try something unheard of in today's society. On the drive back to Provo I decided that I was going to obey the speed limit very strictly both on the freeway and surface streets.
I know, you're probably rolling your eyes right now thinking, "So Sam's one of those idiots that's always making me late to things," and images like this are being conjured up in your mind:
I'm flattered at your depiction of me as an old man, and apparently yes I am one of those idiots. Or at least I was Saturday morning. But let me tell you, it was one of the most liberating experiences of my life. I'm not even joking. See, I knew what my limit was on the freeway, and I knew that no one else was going to drive as slow as I was, so I was able to set my cruise at 65 mph while in the rightmost lane and away I went. It was wonderful. Where usually while driving the freeway I'm thinking about how I can get around the car in front of me or worrying about the car behind me that's clearly approaching at a rate of travel much faster than my own, I was at peace with myself not worrying about others. I'm always trying to negotiate how fast is too fast and how fast is too slow and how can I strike a good balance without making everyone around me angry. But on Saturday, I just set the cruise, put on a podcast and enjoyed the ride. That's not to say I was completely oblivious to traffic around me, but the thing was I didn't feel any pressure to adjust to the outside conditions of traffic because everyone else was driving faster than me and they all either went around me or matched my speed behind me.
As I reached the construction in Pleasant Grove and I reduced my speed to 55 mph, I realized another thing. Not only was I not having to stress about the traffic around me and how I fit in to the crowd, I also didn't have the stress of knowing that if I were to be pulled over by a cop, they would have every right in the world to write me a ticket because I was inarguably going over the speed limit. My conscience was clear and I could just sit back and allow the sweet sound of Ira Glass' voice to wash over me. It was one of the most enjoyable drives ever.
Now don't get me wrong here. I wasn't driving down the road thinking to myself that I was all superior to the rest of the drivers who were passing me, or anything like, "Those crazy lunatics are going to get us all killed if they don't slow down." Rather I recognize that everyone has to drive however they're comfortable. If, like my buddy Rob, that means screaming down the road as fast as you can, so be it. If it means puttering along like an old grandpa, by all means.
I got back to my apartment in Provo and couldn't believe how wonderfully stress-free I felt. I decided that I was going to drive slow more often. And I kept that resolution right up until the next morning when I was late to church and had to go 40 in a 25 just to get there without being too late.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
On Disney Princess SpaghettiOs and Being a Cheap Food Foodie
Yesterday I posted a status on Facebook about how Disney Princess SpaghettiOs are better than regular type. I think there was a little bit of misunderstanding as to my intentions, so let me explain.
First of all, so that we're all on the same page, here is a picture of the SpaghettiOs in question:
I'm sure that many people read my status and thought that I was trying to be cute or hipster-ironic. You know, because a self-respecting 25/26in20days year old man can't genuinely like princess SpaghettiOs unless it's some kind of a joke, right? I completely understand the confusion here because this kind of ironic humor is an aspect of hipster culture that I readily participate in. I definitely don't consider myself cool enough to be a hipster, but some of my tastes intersect with that world and I'm comfortable with that.
That said, I can unequivocally put to rest the idea that I was trying to be funny; what I said about Disney Princess SpaghettiOs had nothing to do with irony or pop culture or hipster humor at all. Incidentally it also had nothing to do with the cultural subjugation of women, though it would seem that many of my grad school friends have but that one lens through which to see the world and feel the need to point out and rail against anything that gets their uber feminist hackles up. Seriously guys, it gets old.
Anyway, when I said, "Disney Princess spaghetti-ohs [sic] are way better than regular," what I meant to say was that as a food item and in terms of quality and taste, they are much, much better than the regular O's. Allow me to explain.
See, I see myself as kind of a foodie when it comes to incredibly cheap, packaged, processed and heavily industrialized foods. I know the best frozen burritos, I can whip up a mean pot of boxed mac and cheese, I consider corn dogs and ramen to be basic food groups, and I have a special knowledge of anything "spaghetti-related." Now I put the last item on that list in quotation marks because I realize many people wouldn't consider the spaghetti that I eat to be actual spaghetti. More often than not it's nothing more than noodles with butter on them, but that "nothing more" is fantastically delicious and if you haven't indulged in such a meal since you were a child I'd encourage you to do so. Along with my expansive knowledge of spaghetti comes a thorough understanding of the intricacies of spaghettiOs and other canned spaghettis.
Here is where I have to admit that I'm not a fan of canned spaghetti in general. I love the idea with every fiber of my clothing. I mean, I love spaghetti, so what could be better than easy access and rapidly available-to-eat spaghetti in a can? Well, I'll tell you what could be better, easy access and rapidly available-to-eat spaghetti in a can that is actually edible. I know, I know, I just claimed to be a cheap food foodie, but even I have a hard time downing canned spaghetti. Regular SpaghettiOs are an exception to my anti-canned spaghetti rule, and I usually enjoy them quite a bit, but even with SpaghettiOs the sauce to noodle ratio is too imbalanced on the side of the sauce. So when I get to the last few spoonfuls that are especially saucy I usually find myself enjoying the meal less and less and I end up straining off the sauce with my spoon to make for a more palatable food experience. For a long time this has been a frustration of mine. And that's where the Disney Princess SpaghettiOs come in.
As you can see in the above image, Disney Princess SpaghettiOs mix traditional SpaghettiOs with the Disney Princess ones. Now while I have absolutely no idea what allows for those seemingly random shapes to be considered Disney Princesses, that's not what's important here. What's important, as you can see, is that these shapes have a much tighter pattern which doesn't allow the sauce ready access to the full noodle. The result of which being there is a much better noodle to sauce ratio which allows for a much more enjoyable overall SpaghettiOs experience.
The biggest problem I see with Disney Princess SpaghettiOs is the knowledge that they won't last forever. After a few weeks, maybe months, the Campbell Soup people will get sick of paying Disney's licensing fees, and we'll be left with plain old O's once again. But until that time I will continue buying and consuming Disney Princess SpaghettiOs. I will savor every bite of that canned perfection, never knowing which will be my last.
First of all, so that we're all on the same page, here is a picture of the SpaghettiOs in question:
I'm sure that many people read my status and thought that I was trying to be cute or hipster-ironic. You know, because a self-respecting 25/26in20days year old man can't genuinely like princess SpaghettiOs unless it's some kind of a joke, right? I completely understand the confusion here because this kind of ironic humor is an aspect of hipster culture that I readily participate in. I definitely don't consider myself cool enough to be a hipster, but some of my tastes intersect with that world and I'm comfortable with that.
That said, I can unequivocally put to rest the idea that I was trying to be funny; what I said about Disney Princess SpaghettiOs had nothing to do with irony or pop culture or hipster humor at all. Incidentally it also had nothing to do with the cultural subjugation of women, though it would seem that many of my grad school friends have but that one lens through which to see the world and feel the need to point out and rail against anything that gets their uber feminist hackles up. Seriously guys, it gets old.
Anyway, when I said, "Disney Princess spaghetti-ohs [sic] are way better than regular," what I meant to say was that as a food item and in terms of quality and taste, they are much, much better than the regular O's. Allow me to explain.
See, I see myself as kind of a foodie when it comes to incredibly cheap, packaged, processed and heavily industrialized foods. I know the best frozen burritos, I can whip up a mean pot of boxed mac and cheese, I consider corn dogs and ramen to be basic food groups, and I have a special knowledge of anything "spaghetti-related." Now I put the last item on that list in quotation marks because I realize many people wouldn't consider the spaghetti that I eat to be actual spaghetti. More often than not it's nothing more than noodles with butter on them, but that "nothing more" is fantastically delicious and if you haven't indulged in such a meal since you were a child I'd encourage you to do so. Along with my expansive knowledge of spaghetti comes a thorough understanding of the intricacies of spaghettiOs and other canned spaghettis.
Here is where I have to admit that I'm not a fan of canned spaghetti in general. I love the idea with every fiber of my clothing. I mean, I love spaghetti, so what could be better than easy access and rapidly available-to-eat spaghetti in a can? Well, I'll tell you what could be better, easy access and rapidly available-to-eat spaghetti in a can that is actually edible. I know, I know, I just claimed to be a cheap food foodie, but even I have a hard time downing canned spaghetti. Regular SpaghettiOs are an exception to my anti-canned spaghetti rule, and I usually enjoy them quite a bit, but even with SpaghettiOs the sauce to noodle ratio is too imbalanced on the side of the sauce. So when I get to the last few spoonfuls that are especially saucy I usually find myself enjoying the meal less and less and I end up straining off the sauce with my spoon to make for a more palatable food experience. For a long time this has been a frustration of mine. And that's where the Disney Princess SpaghettiOs come in.
As you can see in the above image, Disney Princess SpaghettiOs mix traditional SpaghettiOs with the Disney Princess ones. Now while I have absolutely no idea what allows for those seemingly random shapes to be considered Disney Princesses, that's not what's important here. What's important, as you can see, is that these shapes have a much tighter pattern which doesn't allow the sauce ready access to the full noodle. The result of which being there is a much better noodle to sauce ratio which allows for a much more enjoyable overall SpaghettiOs experience.
The biggest problem I see with Disney Princess SpaghettiOs is the knowledge that they won't last forever. After a few weeks, maybe months, the Campbell Soup people will get sick of paying Disney's licensing fees, and we'll be left with plain old O's once again. But until that time I will continue buying and consuming Disney Princess SpaghettiOs. I will savor every bite of that canned perfection, never knowing which will be my last.
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