IIIIIIIIIIIIIII did not watch the debate. I was actually catching up on The Daily Show at the time. I found it a much more satisfying waste of an evening.
Probably less educational.
Definitely less frustrating.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Doing it differently
"Hey, Mina, I need you to set the table."
She turns around very slowly on the piano bench and eyes me coolly. "Umm . . . you're not my mother." She swivels back to the keys and starts plunking out a tune.
I'm suddenly so angry that I'm shaking. All I did was suggest that she set the stupid table. Was I ordering her around? No. Why the flip did I get the "not my mother" evil eye? I can't stand her.
She's too old to be awed by me anymore. It's been years since those halcyon days, in fact, but I'm several years older, is the point, and that still gives me seniority, dang it. I shouldn't have to tiptoe around her blasted independence; she's still my little sister and I can still call her out when she's not helping out; I can still tell her to stop playing the bleeding piano and set the table for lunch when everyone else is working in the kitchen. No, she doesn't get to ask why I don't do it myself, because she doesn't get to question me; I'm the oldest. I'm not her mother, she says. I've been the one left responsible for her and the rest of us when the parents are gone since I was 10, so, no, I'm not her mother, but I'm not someone she can just ignore, either.
I've slammed into the kitchen and am leaning on the counter, fuming to myself and a bit to my mother, who is chopping lettuce. The water is running in the sink for the juice I was supposed to mix up, so I pull out a pitcher and fill it, muttering to myself about how at least I'm doing something instead of being lazy.
Stirring juice concentrate is cathartic, I find. It helps that the piano goes quiet fairly quickly. Mina's probably clearing up the dining room. Once my beverage concoction in the fridge to cool, I've cooled off a bit myself, and I ask if there is anything else I can do.
"Gravy?" Mum suggests, so I put a pan on the burner and start scraping flour and butter around.
Mum has been half-listening and murmuring things like "just let her be" while I vent my righteous rage, but when I stop talking, she brings up another topic.
"You know that your grandfather has been staying with Aunt Louise in Washington."
"Oh, really? I didn't know she still had him," I reply, pouring water into the rue and whisking it carefully. I didn't know that, really. I lose track of my extended family, for the most part. We never talk to them.
"Yes, he's been there for a while now. Maybe . . . 2 years?" Mum takes a bowl out of the cupboard for the salad. "But apparently, she's got to move out of her house, so she can't keep him for much longer."
I know where this is going. "Pop wants Grandpa to come here, doesn't he?" Mum is nodding, and I spill garlic as I gesture in dismay. "No one is ever home! How are we supposed to take care of him?" I swipe the spicy mess into the trashcan, trying not to sneeze. Grandpa has multiple sclerosis; he's been confined to a wheelchair for as long as I can remember. Also since I can remember, he's been shuttled around between my dad and his siblings, landing with one or the other as long as it takes for another of the seven to pick a fight and cause a problem. I've never thought it was very fair to him, but nothing my dad's family does is very reasonable.
"It's not for certain that he's coming here," Mum says, breaking into my reverie. "Not right away, at least." She disappears through the dining room door with the salad, only to return moments later sans salad and trailed by my sister. Another one, younger than the one I'm mad at. She's getting things to set the table. I'm instantly furious.
"I told Mina to do that," I growl, yanking soy sauce from the fridge. Sophie just shrugs and says she doesn't mind. I slam the bottle down by the stove, sloshing its black-brown contents. I'm about to storm off in search of my nemesis, but the gravy starts to bubble. I have to keep stirring, or it'll burn.
Mum just looks at me, but she picks up where she left off speaking, wringing out a rag to wipe the counter down. "He might be going to your aunt's in Georgia, but I guess she and Louise are on the outs right now."
"When are any of them ever on the ins?" I ask, blowing on a spoonful of brown sauce. I taste it. It needs more salt, which I add.
Sophie is back in the kitchen. "Who are we talking about?"
"Pop and his family," I reply, sailing out with a dish for the table. When I get back, she's laughing.
"I remember how last time we were at Aunt Cathy's, Pop was ready to go after like an hour. He never wants to be around his sisters."
"When we were little," I add, "we always left the family Christmas gatherings two days early, even though we drove ten hours to get there. My proudest moment was telling our awful cousins I was glad to leave." My mouth is twisted in a wry smirk, while my sister still laughs. Thinking on it now, that's the last time I can remember my dad's entire family getting together, and that was probably 15 years ago. I don't know why he and his siblings can't bear to be in the same room for more than an hour or two. It's kind of sad to think about, actually.
Mum is finishing up three different things, and we each take one out to the table. Lunch is ready.
"Your father's family never has gotten along, not since they were young, I'm quite sure," Mum says, wiping her hands on her apron. "Sophie, go call the boys for dinner."
"I'll get Mina," I hear myself saying, a bit to my surprise. As I tread down the hallway to stand by her door, though, I know why I'm here.
I'm still the oldest. She's my little sister, true enough, and what's also true is that she can be mightily annoying.
What's most true of all, though, is that I know where I don't want us to be in twenty years. I knock on the door, apology at the ready.
She turns around very slowly on the piano bench and eyes me coolly. "Umm . . . you're not my mother." She swivels back to the keys and starts plunking out a tune.
I'm suddenly so angry that I'm shaking. All I did was suggest that she set the stupid table. Was I ordering her around? No. Why the flip did I get the "not my mother" evil eye? I can't stand her.
She's too old to be awed by me anymore. It's been years since those halcyon days, in fact, but I'm several years older, is the point, and that still gives me seniority, dang it. I shouldn't have to tiptoe around her blasted independence; she's still my little sister and I can still call her out when she's not helping out; I can still tell her to stop playing the bleeding piano and set the table for lunch when everyone else is working in the kitchen. No, she doesn't get to ask why I don't do it myself, because she doesn't get to question me; I'm the oldest. I'm not her mother, she says. I've been the one left responsible for her and the rest of us when the parents are gone since I was 10, so, no, I'm not her mother, but I'm not someone she can just ignore, either.
I've slammed into the kitchen and am leaning on the counter, fuming to myself and a bit to my mother, who is chopping lettuce. The water is running in the sink for the juice I was supposed to mix up, so I pull out a pitcher and fill it, muttering to myself about how at least I'm doing something instead of being lazy.
Stirring juice concentrate is cathartic, I find. It helps that the piano goes quiet fairly quickly. Mina's probably clearing up the dining room. Once my beverage concoction in the fridge to cool, I've cooled off a bit myself, and I ask if there is anything else I can do.
"Gravy?" Mum suggests, so I put a pan on the burner and start scraping flour and butter around.
Mum has been half-listening and murmuring things like "just let her be" while I vent my righteous rage, but when I stop talking, she brings up another topic.
"You know that your grandfather has been staying with Aunt Louise in Washington."
"Oh, really? I didn't know she still had him," I reply, pouring water into the rue and whisking it carefully. I didn't know that, really. I lose track of my extended family, for the most part. We never talk to them.
"Yes, he's been there for a while now. Maybe . . . 2 years?" Mum takes a bowl out of the cupboard for the salad. "But apparently, she's got to move out of her house, so she can't keep him for much longer."
I know where this is going. "Pop wants Grandpa to come here, doesn't he?" Mum is nodding, and I spill garlic as I gesture in dismay. "No one is ever home! How are we supposed to take care of him?" I swipe the spicy mess into the trashcan, trying not to sneeze. Grandpa has multiple sclerosis; he's been confined to a wheelchair for as long as I can remember. Also since I can remember, he's been shuttled around between my dad and his siblings, landing with one or the other as long as it takes for another of the seven to pick a fight and cause a problem. I've never thought it was very fair to him, but nothing my dad's family does is very reasonable.
"It's not for certain that he's coming here," Mum says, breaking into my reverie. "Not right away, at least." She disappears through the dining room door with the salad, only to return moments later sans salad and trailed by my sister. Another one, younger than the one I'm mad at. She's getting things to set the table. I'm instantly furious.
"I told Mina to do that," I growl, yanking soy sauce from the fridge. Sophie just shrugs and says she doesn't mind. I slam the bottle down by the stove, sloshing its black-brown contents. I'm about to storm off in search of my nemesis, but the gravy starts to bubble. I have to keep stirring, or it'll burn.
Mum just looks at me, but she picks up where she left off speaking, wringing out a rag to wipe the counter down. "He might be going to your aunt's in Georgia, but I guess she and Louise are on the outs right now."
"When are any of them ever on the ins?" I ask, blowing on a spoonful of brown sauce. I taste it. It needs more salt, which I add.
Sophie is back in the kitchen. "Who are we talking about?"
"Pop and his family," I reply, sailing out with a dish for the table. When I get back, she's laughing.
"I remember how last time we were at Aunt Cathy's, Pop was ready to go after like an hour. He never wants to be around his sisters."
"When we were little," I add, "we always left the family Christmas gatherings two days early, even though we drove ten hours to get there. My proudest moment was telling our awful cousins I was glad to leave." My mouth is twisted in a wry smirk, while my sister still laughs. Thinking on it now, that's the last time I can remember my dad's entire family getting together, and that was probably 15 years ago. I don't know why he and his siblings can't bear to be in the same room for more than an hour or two. It's kind of sad to think about, actually.
Mum is finishing up three different things, and we each take one out to the table. Lunch is ready.
"Your father's family never has gotten along, not since they were young, I'm quite sure," Mum says, wiping her hands on her apron. "Sophie, go call the boys for dinner."
"I'll get Mina," I hear myself saying, a bit to my surprise. As I tread down the hallway to stand by her door, though, I know why I'm here.
I'm still the oldest. She's my little sister, true enough, and what's also true is that she can be mightily annoying.
What's most true of all, though, is that I know where I don't want us to be in twenty years. I knock on the door, apology at the ready.
this is a post about posting to follow.
It's that time again...and by 'that' I mean 'class submission'.
'Nother piece due. I am trying to suss out what it is I want to do. Got a couple of ideas, but I don't know if I can do them justice. Perfectionist is me. When it matters.
Anywho.
Here goes.
'Nother piece due. I am trying to suss out what it is I want to do. Got a couple of ideas, but I don't know if I can do them justice. Perfectionist is me. When it matters.
Anywho.
Here goes.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Circadian rhythms and how not to have them
It's past time for her to be asleep if she actually wants to correct her sleeping habits, and she's sick of being exhausted come 9 in the morning, but right now, she's not tired at all. This time is hers, when no one is going to interrupt her or invade her space, and everything is so quiet. It's perfect, really. Why would anyone sleep through the night hours?
Or so she thinks right now. She is going to be cursing her stupidity in about 5 hours.
Or so she thinks right now. She is going to be cursing her stupidity in about 5 hours.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Pox.
What with him being who he is, and her being who she is, it's all extremely unfair.
This situation, right here, this one that she is in right now, is precisely the one she was very much trying to avoid. All of her efforts to the contrary up to this point have just been proven entirely futile, and the heck of it all is that there is really nothing she could have done differently.
It's been an accidental honeytrap, laid unwittingly and obliviously successful. She's caught, and struggling only makes it worse.
With him being who he is, and her being who she is, she has no intention of drowning.
But she's stuck. And it's all extremely unfair.
Not twelve anymore
Three years is a long time to wait.
Stranded alone on a rock with salamanders and slime-sister and ghost-bro for company, he is exhausted. Their games have been great, sure. He's okay with the movie collection, too, even if he can't appreciate what he used to as much as he used to, much as he wants to.
See, he hasn't just been waiting, is the problem. He's been learning to wait, to try, to fight, to cry. To live. He's been growing up, stranded on the flying rock with salamanders and slime-sis and ghost-bro for company. Now it's time to do something, and after all that waiting...
he is definitely ready.
Stranded alone on a rock with salamanders and slime-sister and ghost-bro for company, he is exhausted. Their games have been great, sure. He's okay with the movie collection, too, even if he can't appreciate what he used to as much as he used to, much as he wants to.
See, he hasn't just been waiting, is the problem. He's been learning to wait, to try, to fight, to cry. To live. He's been growing up, stranded on the flying rock with salamanders and slime-sis and ghost-bro for company. Now it's time to do something, and after all that waiting...
he is definitely ready.
what. a homestuck query.
When reading a hugely enormous thing, one starts to get fuzzy on earlier details.
I am reading an enormously huge thing
and i am so confused.
WHY IS HE ALIVE, THO?
HOW IS HE FIGHTING THIS WORLD-DESTROYING ENTITY WITHOUT INSTA-DEATH?
WASN'T HE JUST ELSEWHERE?
THIS ISN'T A DREAM BUBBLE SITUATION HERE GUYS
WHATTTTT
the thing is homestuck.
I heard not long ago that AH is winding the series down, which makes me intensely sad, but also I am elated, because maybe he will explain some of his screwery?
I am wise enough to his ways to not expect that outcome, though.
I am reading an enormously huge thing
and i am so confused.
WHY IS HE ALIVE, THO?
HOW IS HE FIGHTING THIS WORLD-DESTROYING ENTITY WITHOUT INSTA-DEATH?
WASN'T HE JUST ELSEWHERE?
THIS ISN'T A DREAM BUBBLE SITUATION HERE GUYS
WHATTTTT
the thing is homestuck.
I heard not long ago that AH is winding the series down, which makes me intensely sad, but also I am elated, because maybe he will explain some of his screwery?
I am wise enough to his ways to not expect that outcome, though.
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