I FRIGGIN HATE SPACE!
Gah!
Everything that could have gone wrong with this last freelance project DID go wrong. I won't detail the wrongness because it'll sound like prepubescent whining. I will not stoop that low.
Instead, I will share a conversation I've had about space today (paraphrased).
JoBiv: i haaaate the soooolar system
Person with whom I should not be speaking: overrated
JoBiv: entirely
JoBiv: space in general, in my opinion
PWWISNBS: so much wasted space
JoBiv: freals
JoBiv: when they could fill it with an IKEA or something
PWWISNBS: or condos
Showing posts with label freelance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label freelance. Show all posts
Monday, November 07, 2005
Monday, September 26, 2005
Mmm... bapples.
Yesterday, despite hourly panic attacks over my freelance work, I went apple-picking with Norah, Melissa, and Chris (the third roomie in that apartment). Ms. Chessman organized the thing, but we barely caught up with her crew. Mostly it was our roving band of four scouring the hillsides for Cortlands, Macs, Spartans, Empires, the occasional Bosc pear...
If you haven't met Chris (and in all likelihood, you haven't, O Cheese Aficianado), you won't have the amusing picture in your head that I have. Y'see, Chris is a giant. He's 6'7, maybe taller. Ducks in doorways. Doesn't fit in his own car. Has to cut his own shorts from pants. He's effing HUGE.
So imagine our glee when Chris agreed to come along on our apple picking trip.
"Wow! We won't have to fight for a ladder!"
"It's like we have the Jolly Green Giant on our side!"
"He can carry a sixty-pound bag of apples with his pinky finger!"
All true, people. All true.
Chris also served his apple-pickin' companions well by eating a total of eleven apples, all for the sake of science.
"Yes, but how do we know it's a Spartan?"
"I dunno. Chris, eat one."
"Okay." Chomp chomp. "Yeah, it definitely tastes different."
Razing the orchard with a giant on hand wasn't actually the highlight of the day, however, and I actually had a moment when I nearly decided that I wanted to get my driver's license. I had another spiritual moment - my second in a matter of weeks - when I bit into the hot heaven of a fresh cider doughnut. I said this out loud, shocking myself into yet another spiritual moment:
"Wow, I should get my license so I can come out here every morning and eat a dozen of these."
Be thankful, O Ye Readers, that I don't have my license, as I'm sure you have some kind of vested interest in my cholesterol levels remaining healthy.
Anywho, we got home, and I told myself I'd get right to work on freelance as soon as I had some food that wasn't apple-y. And then I made Teriyaki chicken sausage (TJ's) with sliced apples, potatoes, and onions cooked in gyoza dipping sauce. And THEN I made apple crisp with too little flour and too much ground clove. And THEN I made tea. And then I thought I'd clean my room a bit. And then I had a panic attack. And then I got to work.
But the bapples were worth it.
If you haven't met Chris (and in all likelihood, you haven't, O Cheese Aficianado), you won't have the amusing picture in your head that I have. Y'see, Chris is a giant. He's 6'7, maybe taller. Ducks in doorways. Doesn't fit in his own car. Has to cut his own shorts from pants. He's effing HUGE.
So imagine our glee when Chris agreed to come along on our apple picking trip.
"Wow! We won't have to fight for a ladder!"
"It's like we have the Jolly Green Giant on our side!"
"He can carry a sixty-pound bag of apples with his pinky finger!"
All true, people. All true.
Chris also served his apple-pickin' companions well by eating a total of eleven apples, all for the sake of science.
"Yes, but how do we know it's a Spartan?"
"I dunno. Chris, eat one."
"Okay." Chomp chomp. "Yeah, it definitely tastes different."
Razing the orchard with a giant on hand wasn't actually the highlight of the day, however, and I actually had a moment when I nearly decided that I wanted to get my driver's license. I had another spiritual moment - my second in a matter of weeks - when I bit into the hot heaven of a fresh cider doughnut. I said this out loud, shocking myself into yet another spiritual moment:
"Wow, I should get my license so I can come out here every morning and eat a dozen of these."
Be thankful, O Ye Readers, that I don't have my license, as I'm sure you have some kind of vested interest in my cholesterol levels remaining healthy.
Anywho, we got home, and I told myself I'd get right to work on freelance as soon as I had some food that wasn't apple-y. And then I made Teriyaki chicken sausage (TJ's) with sliced apples, potatoes, and onions cooked in gyoza dipping sauce. And THEN I made apple crisp with too little flour and too much ground clove. And THEN I made tea. And then I thought I'd clean my room a bit. And then I had a panic attack. And then I got to work.
But the bapples were worth it.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Oh you flawed girl, you
Katya, being lovely, lent me her old laptop so I could work on my proposal. It's coming along. It should be finished, actually, but I keep changing my mind about things. It's silly to bother changing my mind now; if I get the fellowship I'll have something like 4 months to change my mind before I even get a key to the office.
Anywho, I had this computer to help me get work done. Even more helpful than simply having this computer was the fact that it does not hook up to internet. Very very good idea to promote work-doing. Of course, I found another way to procrastinate. I went through a few old floppy disks and wondered at their strange contents. There were lots of snippets of writing, piss poor poetry, old papers from as far back as freshman year of college... all kinds of good stuff.
And, at last, I found the disk with the original camp story. The one I re-typed to submit as a writing sample for this proposal. Grr.
On the same disk, languishing in some folder or other, there were two files, one named "Shane" and one named "Shaney Shane Shane." The first was a collection of emails I had saved from my St. Bona's email account before it poofed away forever. Keep in mind, I saved these while Shane was still ticking. He was always that precious. The second file was a mournful, self-pitying, angry and honest reaction to his death. I don't know how both of these files ended up on the same disk, but it was quite the experience to read them over again.
Last night Meera said something about my entry of a few days ago, the one that was a bit testy about college friends writing a chain of emails. I was embarrassed as soon as I posted it. I know I have the power to delete my own posts if I don't like them, but there's another part of me that feels it's necessary to remember these things. Even the embarrassing parts. Especially the embarrassing parts? It's inescapable in real journals. (And by "real" I mean bound paper.) One can't very well rip out every entry that annoys one. The book would fall apart eventually, for one thing.
But also there's something dishonest about deleting those things, like not disclosing a nose-job at the sperm bank. We are all flawed, and that's human. Maybe I hope to read the awkward bits over again until I can react with a sort of calm acceptance of my humanity, rather than embarrassment.
Anywho, I had this computer to help me get work done. Even more helpful than simply having this computer was the fact that it does not hook up to internet. Very very good idea to promote work-doing. Of course, I found another way to procrastinate. I went through a few old floppy disks and wondered at their strange contents. There were lots of snippets of writing, piss poor poetry, old papers from as far back as freshman year of college... all kinds of good stuff.
And, at last, I found the disk with the original camp story. The one I re-typed to submit as a writing sample for this proposal. Grr.
On the same disk, languishing in some folder or other, there were two files, one named "Shane" and one named "Shaney Shane Shane." The first was a collection of emails I had saved from my St. Bona's email account before it poofed away forever. Keep in mind, I saved these while Shane was still ticking. He was always that precious. The second file was a mournful, self-pitying, angry and honest reaction to his death. I don't know how both of these files ended up on the same disk, but it was quite the experience to read them over again.
Last night Meera said something about my entry of a few days ago, the one that was a bit testy about college friends writing a chain of emails. I was embarrassed as soon as I posted it. I know I have the power to delete my own posts if I don't like them, but there's another part of me that feels it's necessary to remember these things. Even the embarrassing parts. Especially the embarrassing parts? It's inescapable in real journals. (And by "real" I mean bound paper.) One can't very well rip out every entry that annoys one. The book would fall apart eventually, for one thing.
But also there's something dishonest about deleting those things, like not disclosing a nose-job at the sperm bank. We are all flawed, and that's human. Maybe I hope to read the awkward bits over again until I can react with a sort of calm acceptance of my humanity, rather than embarrassment.
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
The Postess with the Mostest
I have less to do now. I have nothing to do that will earn me money. I have resolved, however, to write here every goddamn day. Every day writing is possible, I should say, because I'm sure I'll encounter obstacles over the next few weeks.
Stefan, very kindly, tried to help me come up with Things To Do before I leave for Rochacha. If y'all have anything to add I am definitely open to suggestions.
Things To Do:
List A: Do these things today, Jo.
1. Take a shower.
2. Send an invoice for two projects completed in December
3. Get printmaking supplies for the Christmas Card Extravaganza
4. Start cutting plate for aforementioned Extravaganza
5. Get a movie or figure out similar reward for getting off your ass today.
List B: Do these things before you leave for Rochacha, Jo.
1. Visit the Career Center (without panicking or crying).
2. Feed self every day.
3. Figure out Christmas gifts for brothers' girlfriends/wives. (Well, one wife, two girlfriends.)
4. Call friends in Le Victoire and establish Escape From Alcatraz-esque plans for Christmas week.
5. Finish and mail Masshealth application.
6. Print and mail Christmas cards.
I've already bungled my plans. I came straight to the Simmons lab instead of showering, because I was already on the 66 bus and didn't think I'd leave my apartment if I let its inviting, uterine warmth envelope me.
And I can't send the invoice (though I've filled it out) until the latest editor actually manages to open the document I sent him and tell me everything's fantastic. (Which it is. I actually liked this last project.)
I like the word envelope. The envel part sounds kinda swanky and luxurious, and the ope part seems a bit comical on the end. Pop pop pop. Envellopop. Opie dope envelope. Lope... I like that word, too.
Right! Back to (fake) work!
Stefan, very kindly, tried to help me come up with Things To Do before I leave for Rochacha. If y'all have anything to add I am definitely open to suggestions.
Things To Do:
List A: Do these things today, Jo.
1. Take a shower.
2. Send an invoice for two projects completed in December
3. Get printmaking supplies for the Christmas Card Extravaganza
4. Start cutting plate for aforementioned Extravaganza
5. Get a movie or figure out similar reward for getting off your ass today.
List B: Do these things before you leave for Rochacha, Jo.
1. Visit the Career Center (without panicking or crying).
2. Feed self every day.
3. Figure out Christmas gifts for brothers' girlfriends/wives. (Well, one wife, two girlfriends.)
4. Call friends in Le Victoire and establish Escape From Alcatraz-esque plans for Christmas week.
5. Finish and mail Masshealth application.
6. Print and mail Christmas cards.
I've already bungled my plans. I came straight to the Simmons lab instead of showering, because I was already on the 66 bus and didn't think I'd leave my apartment if I let its inviting, uterine warmth envelope me.
And I can't send the invoice (though I've filled it out) until the latest editor actually manages to open the document I sent him and tell me everything's fantastic. (Which it is. I actually liked this last project.)
I like the word envelope. The envel part sounds kinda swanky and luxurious, and the ope part seems a bit comical on the end. Pop pop pop. Envellopop. Opie dope envelope. Lope... I like that word, too.
Right! Back to (fake) work!
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Liar liar pants on fire
Even when I told the H-Bomb that I'd have the text of this Mars project written today, I knew it was a lie. As the words formed in my mind, I knew it was a lie, and as they somehow made it past my lips I nearly laughed out loud.
I don't have a natural interest in Mars. I can't tell you why that is. I have no natural interest in space exploration whatsoever (which makes my affection for Star Trek: The Next Generation all the more misplaced). When I think of humans in space, my innards go all cold with terror and this sense of bewilderment comes over me.
I'd like to take this moment to blame my father for making me watch Important Films as a child. I don't think he noticed that I was only seven when the Very Important Film 2001: A Space Odyssey was on TV for some reason. (I believe I was even younger when I somehow got trapped into a viewing of The Birds.) Cripps and I were particularly vulnerable to my father's Important Film moments. Dan didn't have the stamina. And Tom was high somewhere. I think Cripps and I would try to out-cool each other by watching these movies with my dad. I thought it was doubly impressive that I was a mere tot compared to Cripps.
I'd also like to blame my mother for watching those boring-ass Nova shows on PBS. Again, I would try to show everyone my incredible maturity by sitting through these shows without yawning or fidgeting. It was a matter of pride. I always felt like I had bested some clever enemy if I made it all the way through, as though I'd survived 13 consecutive days of Chinese Water Torture.
I'm trying to summon a bit of that moxie now. When I get these assignments I think, "Oh, I wouldn't choose to research this, but I'm sure I can find something that interests me." I remember opening up the cover sheet for this assignment. I groped for my usual reassurance. I found nothing.
Mars. Hoo boy.
Allow me just one more moment to spread blame, if you can muster the patience. I find the NASA websites unimpressive. The information is scattered and written with deadpan exactness. I have no personalities to draw on, no stories from which to elaborate, no thrill of discovery to propel me forward. I somehow can't force a chipper tone while telling 4th graders that we've sent rovers to Mars because scientists are pretty sure we've ruined our planet and we might need a back-up plan as Armageddon approaches.
Anyone else I can blame? Ah yes! I blame The Yankees and El Nino, and the Bush administration. Will alla y'all get off my back so I can write this ding-danged thing? Christ in a bucket...
Saturday, October 16, 2004
JoBiv impersonates Martha Stewart
Click above for beautiful page that doesn't do anything.
Good Things
Kon-Tiki salt and pepper shakers that have NOTHING to do with the actual Kon-Tiki god. But look at the buns on this guy! So pinchable.
Laughing so hard that stir-fry almost spurts out my nose when Kate tells me the following story: Kate and her sister Bea were in a waiting room somewhere, sitting near a lady who told them, "I'm knitting a sweater out of my cat's hair!" Made funnier by the fact that Bea thought, "That's so cool! I wanna do that!"
Chestnuts on the sidewalk near the St. Mary's stop. I love how they're that red-brown color on the outside and a violent spring-green on the inside. The crushed ones, I mean.
Letters from Sus, who is living happily in Denver. Yay for Sus! And yay for the fact that she reads this stuff! And yay for the cool wax seal on the envelope, despite it's upside-down-ness.
A card with PHOTOS from jLiz - I finally switched out the black and white came-with-frame photo for a startlingly cute picture of the Norster.
Light-blue fine wale cordoroy skirt weather.
A conversation with an old lady with octagonal tortoise shell glasses and fuschia lipstick, during which she tells me that only men would have thought of the Kon-Tiki voyage. (She's one of the "what are you reading? Okay, now I'm going to talk to you so you can't ACTUALLY read it" types.) I tell her that in 1947, women hardly had the option. She said that a woman doesn't have the same urge to explore and strike out for new territory. I said something like, "That lack of urge must have really annoyed the women who have participated in space missions." Her response: "Women in space???" (As though I'd suggested elephants.)
Good Things
Kon-Tiki salt and pepper shakers that have NOTHING to do with the actual Kon-Tiki god. But look at the buns on this guy! So pinchable.
Laughing so hard that stir-fry almost spurts out my nose when Kate tells me the following story: Kate and her sister Bea were in a waiting room somewhere, sitting near a lady who told them, "I'm knitting a sweater out of my cat's hair!" Made funnier by the fact that Bea thought, "That's so cool! I wanna do that!"
Chestnuts on the sidewalk near the St. Mary's stop. I love how they're that red-brown color on the outside and a violent spring-green on the inside. The crushed ones, I mean.
Letters from Sus, who is living happily in Denver. Yay for Sus! And yay for the fact that she reads this stuff! And yay for the cool wax seal on the envelope, despite it's upside-down-ness.
A card with PHOTOS from jLiz - I finally switched out the black and white came-with-frame photo for a startlingly cute picture of the Norster.
Light-blue fine wale cordoroy skirt weather.
A conversation with an old lady with octagonal tortoise shell glasses and fuschia lipstick, during which she tells me that only men would have thought of the Kon-Tiki voyage. (She's one of the "what are you reading? Okay, now I'm going to talk to you so you can't ACTUALLY read it" types.) I tell her that in 1947, women hardly had the option. She said that a woman doesn't have the same urge to explore and strike out for new territory. I said something like, "That lack of urge must have really annoyed the women who have participated in space missions." Her response: "Women in space???" (As though I'd suggested elephants.)
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
No more teachers' dirty looks
"Um, like, where are the bathrooms?"
"Oh, you didn't know?"
"Um, know what?"
"We dig holes here at Simmons. In that grass over there."
I've always wanted to say that.
Okay okay, so I didn't.
This marks the first First Day of School in which I am not invited to participate as a student in twenty years. TWENTY YEARS, PEOPLE! I miss the new notebooks, the new eraser smell, the new shoes, the where-the-hell-will-I-sit anxiety, the endless stream of similar "how was your summer" conversations.
I haven't quite escaped those, however. I'm here at Simmons workin' away at the ol' job search, as the freelance well has run a bit dry of late. Oh, and I don't have a computer, remember? So all the new students run amok and I just sit here pluggin' away and hoping they don't get too close lest I feel threatened and start to bite.
Okay, as I was saying... those conversations have only been postponed until tomorrow night, when I am supposed to join the Children's Lit. Masters of the Future for drinks after their first Victorian Lit. class. I donwannago. I have to admit that I feel out of place among the younger set. They don't seem to like to do work, and they seem delighted to complain about the load, and they seem to think I'm some kind of saint for making it through already, mostly in tact. My job is to say, "don't worry, you'll get through it, you'll just get it done, you'll enjoy it, the professor is brilliant so try to appreciate her, et cetera." Except I don't SAY et cetera. (And by the way, I spell it out in hopes that people will read it and think, "Oh... et CETera... not ECKsetera. I'm so lame! I can't believe I was such a moron as to say it that way! Thank goodness JoBiv spelled it out and guided me back to the path of righteousness!")
Where was I? OH! As I was saying, I don't like being Ye Olde Sage of Children's Literature much. I miss the camaraderie of my old pals as we slugged through it together, slaving ever onwards toward our non-professional degrees...
Those were good times.
Here's my long overdue lash-out to the new class (whom I suppose I love anyway, somewhere in my blackened heart): YOU CANNOT REPLACE MY OLD FRIENDS, DAMMIT! There. That's better.
Speaking of old friends, I talked to K-Dawg last night. She got a job! Whoohoo, yay for K! And she was NOT watching the Sox vs. A's - Shocking! (It was a good game, Sox schooled 'em!) But she reminded me about a Very Important Book: Giraffes? Giraffes! by Dr. and Mr. Haggis-On-Whey. Look it up on www.haggis-on-whey.com. If I had any internet suavity, I'd make that a link. I don't, so deal with it. Anyway, brilliant book. Brilliant, I say. Look at it.
P.S. - I don't remember noticing that new dye jobs were a part of the Back to School flurry. Hmm.
"Oh, you didn't know?"
"Um, know what?"
"We dig holes here at Simmons. In that grass over there."
I've always wanted to say that.
Okay okay, so I didn't.
This marks the first First Day of School in which I am not invited to participate as a student in twenty years. TWENTY YEARS, PEOPLE! I miss the new notebooks, the new eraser smell, the new shoes, the where-the-hell-will-I-sit anxiety, the endless stream of similar "how was your summer" conversations.
I haven't quite escaped those, however. I'm here at Simmons workin' away at the ol' job search, as the freelance well has run a bit dry of late. Oh, and I don't have a computer, remember? So all the new students run amok and I just sit here pluggin' away and hoping they don't get too close lest I feel threatened and start to bite.
Okay, as I was saying... those conversations have only been postponed until tomorrow night, when I am supposed to join the Children's Lit. Masters of the Future for drinks after their first Victorian Lit. class. I donwannago. I have to admit that I feel out of place among the younger set. They don't seem to like to do work, and they seem delighted to complain about the load, and they seem to think I'm some kind of saint for making it through already, mostly in tact. My job is to say, "don't worry, you'll get through it, you'll just get it done, you'll enjoy it, the professor is brilliant so try to appreciate her, et cetera." Except I don't SAY et cetera. (And by the way, I spell it out in hopes that people will read it and think, "Oh... et CETera... not ECKsetera. I'm so lame! I can't believe I was such a moron as to say it that way! Thank goodness JoBiv spelled it out and guided me back to the path of righteousness!")
Where was I? OH! As I was saying, I don't like being Ye Olde Sage of Children's Literature much. I miss the camaraderie of my old pals as we slugged through it together, slaving ever onwards toward our non-professional degrees...
Those were good times.
Here's my long overdue lash-out to the new class (whom I suppose I love anyway, somewhere in my blackened heart): YOU CANNOT REPLACE MY OLD FRIENDS, DAMMIT! There. That's better.
Speaking of old friends, I talked to K-Dawg last night. She got a job! Whoohoo, yay for K! And she was NOT watching the Sox vs. A's - Shocking! (It was a good game, Sox schooled 'em!) But she reminded me about a Very Important Book: Giraffes? Giraffes! by Dr. and Mr. Haggis-On-Whey. Look it up on www.haggis-on-whey.com. If I had any internet suavity, I'd make that a link. I don't, so deal with it. Anyway, brilliant book. Brilliant, I say. Look at it.
P.S. - I don't remember noticing that new dye jobs were a part of the Back to School flurry. Hmm.
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