fireworks

there i am, waiting for the ultimate fireworks of the year. all of the partying (which for me ended in physical disaster), the hooting and hollering, the millions of americans waiting for their moment to say, "hell yeah, go America!" is at hand.

the fireworks display on the fourth of july.

some people love the fireworks- they pre-funk the big city display with their illegal fireworks purchased on a reservation, they might even start a little bonfire on their porch (ask andy), and they give their small children sparklers- because what's better than children running? children running with something on fire.

but i have no bated breath this year, nor have i ever really had bated breath in regards to any fireworks display. i think i got it all out of my system when i went to disneyworld when i was 12. bum deal. and, to make the fireworks display all the worse and truly uneventful- you might even say painful- the organizers this year decided to pump up the patriotic volume by blaring the now classic and much hated american song, "proud to be an american." we've discussed my hatred for country music (see earlier post) and most of you already know that my idea of patriotism is writing about racism in america. not the most "put a boot in 'yer ass" to our "enemies," type of gal.

the only fireworks i like are the ones you can't see. the moment when you're watching the person you've just fallen in love with eat his or her eggs across the table from you, when you realize that there's nothing you want to do more than stay home all day with the same person and talk to them, kiss them, and watch a marathon of top chef. you want those fireworks to go off when you think, on paper, this person should be the one you start a relationship with. everything adds up- the brains, the lifestyle, the personality.

there are no fireworks, though.

some might say, "suck it up, this person's great for you and you're just too picky." others might say, "you're thinking with your gut and not giving this person a chance. see how it turns out." but then, oh then, someone comes and says the thing you wanted- the thing that validates your emotions. the fireworks inside of you telling you to run. "he just has a lot of life inertia. not a lot of spark," the brother tells you. and he's right. there really isn't any fireworks.

and you know what, sometimes you need fireworks in your life. just as long as there isn't an american song attached.

mostly, i am just...

frustrated.

i rarely get frustrated, but my students today put me over the edge. there were good ones- the day started out swimmingly, talking about rhetorical analysis and what a commonplace is in an argument. i was excited. i was amped. then, my new favorite student, kendrick, came in and we talked about intercultural communication. we went through a whole chapter, i taught him a bunch of new words and concepts, and he appreciated what i did for him. i, like most people, enjoy being appreciated.

but sometimes this job is hard. athletes don't want to be in my office. they don't want to be tutored even though they know full well that i am able to help them. complaints and excuses come at me at every angle, and i'm getting a little frustrated by it. but mostly i'm frustrated because for the first time at this job, i've had to teach a white person comparative ethnic studies.

it's not that she's racist- not outwardly so. and it's also not that she doesn't understand the concepts. i could deal with her not understanding the idea of white privilege, or social identity, or something else. if that was the case, i would throw sweet books and articles at her, i would be the best damn teacher she ever had. no no.

she just doesn't care.

she did the age-old white person move when it comes to issues not directly relating to white people- "it's not like anything is going to change...i don't have the power to do anything about racism so there's no point in me caring." ARE YOU KIDDING ME????

that excuse for being ignorant, for choosing to not accept or even attempt to correct others in their stereotypes of others, is why racism happens. it's ignorant, and insulting to all people who are trying every day to open people's minds about issues beyond their little apartment. i felt like i was defending myself- and i pulled out all the stops. theorist after theorist, personal experience after personal experience. but she just gave me this look like she doesn't even want to hear what i'm saying. i just can't believe she doesn't see it. and that, on top of everything else going on in my life now, makes me frustrated.

in the words of my mother, "i just wanted to shake her."

delicate

my blogging group was given this prompt- just "delicate".
immediately i started singing the damien rice song, "delicate," which i absolutely love. one of the main reasons i love the song is because i've ended up crying to it. in fact, i've ended up crying to a lot of songs. that usually leads me to saying or writing something stupid and solely emotionally driven to an ex-boyfriend or to someone who i might have at one time wanted to be my boyfriend. or maybe it just makes me think of really sad stuff. like being lonely. that's sad.
what i started thinking about though is that although i am not a big person, no one has ever described me as delicate. apparently physically i am not delicate. and i didn't used to be as emotionally delicate either. but now, i've embraced the fact that i have become emotionally delicate in certain situations with open arms. most days i shed a tear about something- whether it be a song, something i saw on tv, something i've read, or just the usual sad shit that happens in everyday life. i cry a few tears because i'm not afraid to, and mostly i'm just at home by myself. i don't bawl alone with enya in the background and patchouli candles blazing. just a few during extreme makeover home edition, no biggie. or during "tears in heaven." i believe it's impossible to not cry during that. trust me.

the restaurant

finally it's time to unveil the greatest restaurant you might never eat at, mainly because i'm making it up. SWF 21.
this restaurant is not for the pretentious, and the food served might never win awards. but, it gets you from Starbucks trip to Starbucks trip, following the my mother's credo- "i don't live to eat. i eat to live."
the restaurant will be a trip into my world, with only a few items that stand out as staples of my diet. 5 ways to use a can of tuna, variations on quesadillas, and of course the single chicken breast. seasonings will be salt, pepper, and Johnny's Salad Elegance.
the walls would have hanging tapestries from vintage stores, with original framed black and white photos from places i've been, and the guests are invited to put their photos on there too. oh, and a bulletin board for anything. because every college house has some sort of bulletin board. and lots and lots of bookshelves. people will sit on the floor around a coffee table or around a folding card table (that's for joy).
for drinks, beer is served in plastic keg cups (red only) and while our bar has all types of alcohol, they're only mixed with OJ or Diet Coke. no exceptions. beer pong is optional, but customers have to bring their own table.
i choose the music.
as i got farther and farther along in this description a couple of days ago, my friend brought up a very good question, "who the hell would want to eat there, and why?" the answer, friends, is simple: atmosphere and cost.
every dish (including drink) will be $5. even with this ridiculously low price i'll still be making a profit because the ingredients are so cheap. the venue will be a renovated warehouse so there will be virtually no overhead. and quite frankly, i don't care about making a profit. also, i will be in a location where this type of environment is a novelty- i would never dare opening this in pullman because i could haphazardly pick a house on D Street and i would come upon the same thing. nonono. it's gotta be in a town with just a community college because this is the way for those getting ready to go to a 4 year or those who will never leave their hometown get a little bit of the college lifestyle. also, i feel i cater to the needs of middle aged folks yearning for a bit of the nostalgia of their college years. can't you see it- 4 middle aged women with their Sigma Kappa letters around my table. i love it.
and hell, it also is a good place for dieters too, because all the portions will be me-sized. it might help.
mostly though, i'd want to eat there because conversation will always be lively (due to the cheap drinks) and there won't be an obnoxious waitress named Kelly screaming at you about the jalapeno poppers. nothing is more of a buzzkill than that.

don't worry

i just joined a blogging group. check it out on the right hand side of the page. we have prompts that are usually thought provoking. i promise i'll post sometime about the restaurant. i've already discussed my idea with a friend and she agrees. if you want, you can use their blog prompts too. joy, tell james to write about that. it seems like he has nothing on his blog to write about.

knowingly impulsive

there are few things in life that i impulsively do on a regular basis. i know this concept seems like an oxymoron, but let me clarify. impulses on a regular and cautious basis are what i like to do, especially when it comes to money. yes, i spend money, we all spend money. but i usually spend it on other people, specifically buying them drinks or dinner. all of the "fun money" is usually reserved for other people. it is a rare occurence that i walk into a store with the specific purpose of buying something for myself- it's not as though i'm trying to tout myself as the "ultimate giver", but it has been engrained in me for a long time that "we" (assuming my family) just don't spend money on ourselves for fun. my dad doesn't ever buy anything, and only recently has my mother grasped onto the concept of buying things because she wants them.
there are also things that were basically forbidden to buy in my household growing up, as they were deemed a waste of money- most notably DVD's and magazines. little things like nail polish were also cautioned against, as the satisfaction from it is transient at best.
but magazines. that is really my only true impulse buy. once every 2 or 3 months i just buy one. i know that it is basically a waste of five dollars. for many people magazines are something that you read at the bookstore to pass the time- i usually thumb through one while i'm eating a bagel at the bookie and put it back on the shelf for those weaker-willed to be sucked into its glossy pages. i regularly stand my ground. yesterday i gave into to my impulse. you know why? -Andy Roddick.
i will forever have a weak place in my heart for that 6'2" 195-pound beauty of a tennis player, and when i saw his blue eyes and perfectly chiseled jaw on the cover of Outside magazine i couldn't help it. i read his article and meant to put it back- i did. but then i got sucked into a segment written by ben harper, then another about this writer who trained for a triathlon. so i bought it. i also did the core exercise routine written in there yesterday too, so i therefore deem it a worthwhile purchase. i read most of it yesterday, and plan on reading the rest when i'm sick of language diversity (for those of you who don't know, my thesis topic). i took it home in my bag and a sense of joy came across my face as i set it down on my coffee table. now there is something there to read if a stranger stops by. lovely.
now i just have to decide what my impulse will be next.

gone

this is the first summer of my life where i have the opportunity to leave home. just get up and roll out of town. so i do. for the past few weeks i've left the palouse and done some adventuring. some with brelin in seattle, some in the tri, and then some in the couer d'alene area. and, i won't be in town the next three weekends either. i'll be gone.
for me though, being gone is a pretty nice thing. i get a little stir crazy when i have to stay in one place for a long time. i like to spread myself thin, get done doing laundry from the trip before just in time to pack it in my backpack and go somewhere else. what happens, though, is that i leave. and everyone else stays. i've been missing those people that used to make up my every day in pullman. i miss knowing who i was going to sit by in my rhetoric classes (always daniel schafer for four semesters in a row) and i also miss getting my latte every morning from the bookie barista that i have a secret crush on. (oh damn, guess it's not so secret anymore). i continually toe the line between a creature of habit and a frenzied being who can't sit still. maybe that's why my father rocks so much in that damn recliner. hmmm...
those friends though. in my mind they always stay. those friends that you forget about here. they stay, and you think they're going to stay forever. but they leave. it just happened to me.
i showed up at my apartment and erica's stuff was off the walls and gone from the kitchen. no whale painting. no kitchen gadgets. no canadian flag. all in boxes and all taken down. an overwhelming sense of sadness came over me and something like loneliness sunk in for a moment. soon she will leave my apartment and i will be alone in that place for a little while. she will be gone and i will be the one to stay. i never stay. i wonder what it will be like. it's like that part of Close Encounters of the Third Kind with the big pile of potatoes- "This MEANS something!" i think this moment just might mean something.