a 96 on my second essay for English 101.
YAHH TRICK YAHH.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
It's a 10-week course and I've lost 4 weeks.
Four years.
That's how long it's been since I've made something less than a B- on a paper.
And then I hit a brick wall.
Not the Berlin Wall. Nor the Great Wall of China. This one is called English 1o1.
Seriously? I've done perfectly fine on each paper I've completed in college. Sociology, psychology, foreign relations, global politics, American lit, biology. All great grades on written work. And English 101 is the course that brings me down?
... Seriously?
If the purpose of 101 is to teach you how to write so you properly complete assignment in your other classes, I don't think it's working.
That's how long it's been since I've made something less than a B- on a paper.
And then I hit a brick wall.
Not the Berlin Wall. Nor the Great Wall of China. This one is called English 1o1.
Seriously? I've done perfectly fine on each paper I've completed in college. Sociology, psychology, foreign relations, global politics, American lit, biology. All great grades on written work. And English 101 is the course that brings me down?
... Seriously?
If the purpose of 101 is to teach you how to write so you properly complete assignment in your other classes, I don't think it's working.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
"Sarah, I love you like a hounddog loves his puppies."
A lesson in pick-up lines: Compare your love to someone to a dog. Think it doesn't work? Take a look at my grandparents, married now for almost 50 years.
They have some amazing stories. My grandfather is a talker. And it's why my grandmother fell in love with him -- or so she says. I think the hounddog similie won her over.
I found out tonight what exactly happened at the Homecoming dance. My grandmother, Sarah, was "dating three or four men at the time. [Looking shocked at our shock.] What? That's how it was done then! It might have been five... or six." She had met my grandfather, John, three years earlier at a gathering put on by their respective churches. She wasn't impressed. According to him, he was -- and, also according to him, so was she. And then, during their senior year at ECU, after three years of having not seen each other since that one unimpressive meeting, they met again. My grandfather "took a number at her dorm -- sometimes I was six, sometimes I was one." He fought to the front of the line one night, after he had delivered her safely to the house mother. She looked out the window at his car. Fourty-five minutes later, it was still there. She later learned he had "met up with Hugh," my grandmother's other man, who had the intentions of taking her to Homecoming. That meeting consisted of my grandfather convincing Hugh to switch dates. "Any man who switches his date is not a real man." Hugh consented and instead took Merle to Homecoming. My grandmother watched them dance from the bleachers as my grandfather was part of the Homecoming band. "You know the term 'twiddling your fingers?'" Weeks later, Hugh asked Sarah to marry him; she declined. Hugh then proposed to Merle, who accepted.
"Hugh was a putz," my grandfather said.
"Hugh was a nice man," my grandmother said. "But you were funny. That's why I married you."
"I'm nice, too."
"You're funny and you've got initiative."
"And that means I can't be nice, right?"
Here they are today, arguing about Hugh the successful banker who wouldn't know how to fish and whether my grandmother was wooed over by the hounddog reference.
They have some amazing stories. My grandfather is a talker. And it's why my grandmother fell in love with him -- or so she says. I think the hounddog similie won her over.
I found out tonight what exactly happened at the Homecoming dance. My grandmother, Sarah, was "dating three or four men at the time. [Looking shocked at our shock.] What? That's how it was done then! It might have been five... or six." She had met my grandfather, John, three years earlier at a gathering put on by their respective churches. She wasn't impressed. According to him, he was -- and, also according to him, so was she. And then, during their senior year at ECU, after three years of having not seen each other since that one unimpressive meeting, they met again. My grandfather "took a number at her dorm -- sometimes I was six, sometimes I was one." He fought to the front of the line one night, after he had delivered her safely to the house mother. She looked out the window at his car. Fourty-five minutes later, it was still there. She later learned he had "met up with Hugh," my grandmother's other man, who had the intentions of taking her to Homecoming. That meeting consisted of my grandfather convincing Hugh to switch dates. "Any man who switches his date is not a real man." Hugh consented and instead took Merle to Homecoming. My grandmother watched them dance from the bleachers as my grandfather was part of the Homecoming band. "You know the term 'twiddling your fingers?'" Weeks later, Hugh asked Sarah to marry him; she declined. Hugh then proposed to Merle, who accepted.
"Hugh was a putz," my grandfather said.
"Hugh was a nice man," my grandmother said. "But you were funny. That's why I married you."
"I'm nice, too."
"You're funny and you've got initiative."
"And that means I can't be nice, right?"
Here they are today, arguing about Hugh the successful banker who wouldn't know how to fish and whether my grandmother was wooed over by the hounddog reference.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Reasons I loathe rubber neckers.
Today, as I was driving back from school, traffic began to slow to snail pace.
Why?
Skipping a long lead-in, which even I expect of myself -- a wreck.
Where?
On the other side of the road.
It's nonsensical, you say, for Wendover Avenue to turn into a snail race in the middle of the day because an accident has happened on the other side of the road.
And you say it for good reason. It makes no sense.
What is it about wrecks? People see the flashing police lights and, like really ADD moths, are drawn to the sight? Or are we just programmed to look at someone else's tragedy?
Well, neither. People are just morons.
I got to thinking as I sat in traffic so others could get a nice long look at the fender-bender on the other side of the lane. The reason I hate these people so greatly is because I've seen, first hand, the effects of rubber necking.
It was two years ago, and I was laboriously driving la macchina to high school. IB English 12. Ms. Rozelman. Oh, the days. Anyway, as I was sitting at a light on Friendly Ave, the lady behind me had got it into her head that the light was green, and immediately set her foot on the accelerator. She plummeted into me. She had only one contact in because my car interrupted her in the middle of her morning multi-tasking usual. Anyway, we got out, she was mad (she didn't have insurance, though she worked at an insurance agency), I started crying, my bumper started falling off, et cetera et cetera. All of Friendly was there to see. And that's a damn busy road in the morning.
About 15 minutes into the ordeal, a car in the right-hand lane (we're in the median nearer to the left-hand lane) smashes into two cars in front of it. I get out of the driver's seat to look and, literally a second later, a truck in the left-hand lane -- which is going fairly fast for the morning commute -- runs into the car in front of him, propelling it forward.
Obviously, I started crying again.
Seven cars on the side of the road: Five of which as a result of rubber necking; all of which as a result of drivers directing their attention to someone (or something) else rather than the task at hand. Now, I felt kind of bad for the truck driver; I'd probably be a bit startled for a second, too, if I'd just seen three cars hit each other on my right and a stagnant accident on my other side. The driver of the car he hit seemed to be amiable about the whole thing, which makes me think he wasn't rubber necking, just thrown off.
That situation was ridiculous. My accident wasn't bad. We pulled to the side of the road, in no one's way, and waited until someone came to get all the information. I understand human nature. It's not as annoying when there are multiple ambulances surrounding a wreck that looks awful. You want to see if the people involved are OK. In some cases, you want to see if you can help. I don't know, though, whether slow-moving and highly concentrated traffic would be better or worse for ambulance drivers. But when there's an accident on the other side of the road, or a fender-bender on your side, to slow down to such an extent that traffic is at almost a standstill until the miraculous barrier is lifted once you pass the accident is awful. It's unnecessary. There is a happy medium between gaging your surroundings, settling your natural desire to look, and driving safely.
It's only a slight annoyance.
Obviously.
Why?
Skipping a long lead-in, which even I expect of myself -- a wreck.
Where?
On the other side of the road.
It's nonsensical, you say, for Wendover Avenue to turn into a snail race in the middle of the day because an accident has happened on the other side of the road.
And you say it for good reason. It makes no sense.
What is it about wrecks? People see the flashing police lights and, like really ADD moths, are drawn to the sight? Or are we just programmed to look at someone else's tragedy?
Well, neither. People are just morons.
I got to thinking as I sat in traffic so others could get a nice long look at the fender-bender on the other side of the lane. The reason I hate these people so greatly is because I've seen, first hand, the effects of rubber necking.
It was two years ago, and I was laboriously driving la macchina to high school. IB English 12. Ms. Rozelman. Oh, the days. Anyway, as I was sitting at a light on Friendly Ave, the lady behind me had got it into her head that the light was green, and immediately set her foot on the accelerator. She plummeted into me. She had only one contact in because my car interrupted her in the middle of her morning multi-tasking usual. Anyway, we got out, she was mad (she didn't have insurance, though she worked at an insurance agency), I started crying, my bumper started falling off, et cetera et cetera. All of Friendly was there to see. And that's a damn busy road in the morning.
About 15 minutes into the ordeal, a car in the right-hand lane (we're in the median nearer to the left-hand lane) smashes into two cars in front of it. I get out of the driver's seat to look and, literally a second later, a truck in the left-hand lane -- which is going fairly fast for the morning commute -- runs into the car in front of him, propelling it forward.Obviously, I started crying again.
Seven cars on the side of the road: Five of which as a result of rubber necking; all of which as a result of drivers directing their attention to someone (or something) else rather than the task at hand. Now, I felt kind of bad for the truck driver; I'd probably be a bit startled for a second, too, if I'd just seen three cars hit each other on my right and a stagnant accident on my other side. The driver of the car he hit seemed to be amiable about the whole thing, which makes me think he wasn't rubber necking, just thrown off.
That situation was ridiculous. My accident wasn't bad. We pulled to the side of the road, in no one's way, and waited until someone came to get all the information. I understand human nature. It's not as annoying when there are multiple ambulances surrounding a wreck that looks awful. You want to see if the people involved are OK. In some cases, you want to see if you can help. I don't know, though, whether slow-moving and highly concentrated traffic would be better or worse for ambulance drivers. But when there's an accident on the other side of the road, or a fender-bender on your side, to slow down to such an extent that traffic is at almost a standstill until the miraculous barrier is lifted once you pass the accident is awful. It's unnecessary. There is a happy medium between gaging your surroundings, settling your natural desire to look, and driving safely.
It's only a slight annoyance.
Obviously.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Truisms
"The will to blog is a complicated thing, somewhere between inspiration and compulsion. It can feel almost like a biological impulse. You see something, or an idea occurs to you, and you have to share it with the Internet as soon as possible. What I didn’t realize was that those ideas and that urgency — and the sense of self-importance that made me think anyone would be interested in hearing what went on in my head — could just disappear."
Sunday, May 18, 2008
A lesson on overstaying your welcome.
An excerpt from Proper Etiquette, page 23.
Once upon a time, there lived a snake. He was a handsome-looking snake, a King at that!, with a sprightly gate. Black he was, and marked on his stomach. Handsome as can be.
He came upon a house, on Jessup Grove Road, a house directly across from where Ricky Proehl, a washed-up football played from the Carolina Panthers and St. Louis Rams, decided to destroy a naturally green piece of land with a completely unnecessary baseball/soccer/REALLY BRIGHT LIGHTS ON ALL THE TIME park "for the needy kids," and charge $75 a month. Because poor kids can afford $75 a month. And, somehow, get transportation to the edge of Greensboro. OK. There are also a million other baseball and soccer parks around, and they're completely free to use. He dubbed this monstrosity "Proehlific Park," and yeah there's a red line under Proehlific because Mac knows it is neither spelled correctly nor pertinent at all.
Removed from his native lands across the street, King Snake decided to move in with the family across the way. They'd see him scurrying across the drive way, diving playfully into the recycling bins, and curling under their cars. They laughed and frolicked with him, and the youngest sister even named him: Bociefus, a very manly name to fit his manly charge.
And then one day, as the youngest sister was readying herself to visit a beautiful horse on the outskirts of town, Boceifus, upon thinking he had been invited to dine with the family, came "a bit too close for comfort." The sister opened the door and screamed: he was right there.
The elder sister and father, who happened to be standing nearby, came to see how close Boceifus was to the house. The elder sister looked on the ground and under the cars in the car park, but didn't see Boceifus. No, it wasn't until she looked up and saw Bo's head poking halfway up the door frame, and inside it at that. The elder sister screamed, and the elder father also screamed and shut the door in Bo's face. Luckily, his head was not smashed, but just confused at the slight.
Bo skulked back to the cabinet beside the door, on which he was perched and which allowed him such access to the doorway. The elder father ran out the side door, and the two sisters followed him, the elder begging her father not to kill Bo and the younger assuring that he would not.
With much effort on the younger sister's part and not so much at all on the elder's, the trio caught Bo in a box. The younger sister acted in a snake-catching way only Steve Irwin could truly appreciate, and lifted him, situated safely inside the cardboard box, into a large plastic container with a secured lid.
The elder sister and father hopped quickly in the car, with Bo sitting in the trunk; not because he was unwelcome, but because trunks are the preferred sitting places of most snakes (with the exception of pythons, who would rather be situated around your torso eating your head).
The duo took Bo to a location near a lake, four miles away from the homestead. They walked down through a forest in a very secretive manner, hoping no one would mistake the snake inside for a dead body. Once they got far enough in that Bo would most likely not want to slither into the road, they grew wary of Bo's wrath.
"I wish I'd thought to bring a broom," elder father said to his daughter (or the snake), "so we could defend ourselves if he's a bit too feisty."
But elder daughter, accustomed to forests since her early days of Girl Scouts, smartly looked around. What are brooms made of, she thought. And in a forest as they were, with ample amounts of kindle and branches, she grabbed one, breaking off the unnessecary length and twigs, and skillfully tossed it to elder father. Equipped with a weapon, in case Boceifus was too rowdy from his entrapment and uninvitation from the house, he opened the lid. Bo slithered out, quickly, from the case; he stopped for a second, orienting himself to his surroundings; then he climbed on a tree and ate them both.
When Warner Bros. studio learned of the escapade, they decided to make a movie -- one that would both serve as a true-life warning to all, and be a sequel to the Bill Murray movie of the early 90's -- entitled What About Boceifus?
Not really, to both the head-eating and the movie deal (the family would never sell rights to that movie). But the lesson there was: making someone (or some thing) think they would be welcomly invited into your house is just as bad as actually inviting them, even if the whole invitation is a delusion.
As the elder father and daughter climbed the forest's hill and returned to the car, the elder daughter, clutching two plucked flowers in her hands, called out to the handsome intruder.
"Good-bye, Boceifus!"
But the elder father, who discerned that it was the naming of the snake that had made him feel he had an invitation to dine inside the house, cautioned her against it.
"He doesn't know we named him," elder daughter said. "He thinks it's the same as if I'm talking to you."
She thought this was the truth, until one night she awoke to a slithering sound; Boceifus' face inches from her own; his snake mouth was open; his eyes were glaring in the way of the hunter about to catch his prey.
And then he bit her head off.
Once upon a time, there lived a snake. He was a handsome-looking snake, a King at that!, with a sprightly gate. Black he was, and marked on his stomach. Handsome as can be.
He came upon a house, on Jessup Grove Road, a house directly across from where Ricky Proehl, a washed-up football played from the Carolina Panthers and St. Louis Rams, decided to destroy a naturally green piece of land with a completely unnecessary baseball/soccer/REALLY BRIGHT LIGHTS ON ALL THE TIME park "for the needy kids," and charge $75 a month. Because poor kids can afford $75 a month. And, somehow, get transportation to the edge of Greensboro. OK. There are also a million other baseball and soccer parks around, and they're completely free to use. He dubbed this monstrosity "Proehlific Park," and yeah there's a red line under Proehlific because Mac knows it is neither spelled correctly nor pertinent at all.
Removed from his native lands across the street, King Snake decided to move in with the family across the way. They'd see him scurrying across the drive way, diving playfully into the recycling bins, and curling under their cars. They laughed and frolicked with him, and the youngest sister even named him: Bociefus, a very manly name to fit his manly charge.
And then one day, as the youngest sister was readying herself to visit a beautiful horse on the outskirts of town, Boceifus, upon thinking he had been invited to dine with the family, came "a bit too close for comfort." The sister opened the door and screamed: he was right there.
The elder sister and father, who happened to be standing nearby, came to see how close Boceifus was to the house. The elder sister looked on the ground and under the cars in the car park, but didn't see Boceifus. No, it wasn't until she looked up and saw Bo's head poking halfway up the door frame, and inside it at that. The elder sister screamed, and the elder father also screamed and shut the door in Bo's face. Luckily, his head was not smashed, but just confused at the slight.Bo skulked back to the cabinet beside the door, on which he was perched and which allowed him such access to the doorway. The elder father ran out the side door, and the two sisters followed him, the elder begging her father not to kill Bo and the younger assuring that he would not.
With much effort on the younger sister's part and not so much at all on the elder's, the trio caught Bo in a box. The younger sister acted in a snake-catching way only Steve Irwin could truly appreciate, and lifted him, situated safely inside the cardboard box, into a large plastic container with a secured lid.
The elder sister and father hopped quickly in the car, with Bo sitting in the trunk; not because he was unwelcome, but because trunks are the preferred sitting places of most snakes (with the exception of pythons, who would rather be situated around your torso eating your head).
The duo took Bo to a location near a lake, four miles away from the homestead. They walked down through a forest in a very secretive manner, hoping no one would mistake the snake inside for a dead body. Once they got far enough in that Bo would most likely not want to slither into the road, they grew wary of Bo's wrath.
"I wish I'd thought to bring a broom," elder father said to his daughter (or the snake), "so we could defend ourselves if he's a bit too feisty."
But elder daughter, accustomed to forests since her early days of Girl Scouts, smartly looked around. What are brooms made of, she thought. And in a forest as they were, with ample amounts of kindle and branches, she grabbed one, breaking off the unnessecary length and twigs, and skillfully tossed it to elder father. Equipped with a weapon, in case Boceifus was too rowdy from his entrapment and uninvitation from the house, he opened the lid. Bo slithered out, quickly, from the case; he stopped for a second, orienting himself to his surroundings; then he climbed on a tree and ate them both.
When Warner Bros. studio learned of the escapade, they decided to make a movie -- one that would both serve as a true-life warning to all, and be a sequel to the Bill Murray movie of the early 90's -- entitled What About Boceifus?
Not really, to both the head-eating and the movie deal (the family would never sell rights to that movie). But the lesson there was: making someone (or some thing) think they would be welcomly invited into your house is just as bad as actually inviting them, even if the whole invitation is a delusion.
As the elder father and daughter climbed the forest's hill and returned to the car, the elder daughter, clutching two plucked flowers in her hands, called out to the handsome intruder.
"Good-bye, Boceifus!"
But the elder father, who discerned that it was the naming of the snake that had made him feel he had an invitation to dine inside the house, cautioned her against it.
"He doesn't know we named him," elder daughter said. "He thinks it's the same as if I'm talking to you."
She thought this was the truth, until one night she awoke to a slithering sound; Boceifus' face inches from her own; his snake mouth was open; his eyes were glaring in the way of the hunter about to catch his prey.
And then he bit her head off.
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