Dear You,
It’s been a while since my last update. This is partially a result of the fact that my mood regarding life in Turkey changes nearly everyday, and I seldom have time to sit and write an entire letter. Three or four times, I have nearly completed an e-mail, only to re-read later and think, “No, I don’t feel that way at all anymore!” They are then scrapped. Ideally, I would write a little bit everyday and keep a more up-to-date diary of sorts, but as procrastination is my beast of burden, the chances of this occurring are very unlikely. I’ve been trying to catch up on personal e-mails as well, but even this is difficult, as I don’t have consistent internet access. The only two cafés, within walking distance, that had wireless internet access have closed without warning since my arrival.
In general, I’m okay right now. I feel a little sick but I doubt there is anything physically wrong with me. I’m just really tired. Many of you know I’ve been dealing with a general feeling of exhaustion related to a mystery disease for about three years. I somehow avoided succumbing to it here for a couple of weeks, but my batteries are drained, and my gears are grinding to a halt. I’m a very inefficient machine. Dealing with a four-year-old in such a state is rather unpleasant as, most of the time, I just want to lie on the floor in my room while I read Sassy and fill out photocopied mail-order forms from record labels that disbanded in 1994. Does this sound like anyone you know? If the answer is no, it’s an inside joke. Relax, though - you’re not missing much.
The other day I dragged myself from the apartment to a café where my friend works because I was promised Turkish home remedies, which consisted of six or seven beverages, half of which were unidentifiable. One tasted like liquid crème brule and another seemed similar to a shot glass full of boiled chocolate. I think with my dark under eye circles, shaky hands, rolling tobacco, dirty hair, and pile of beverages, I looked like a bit of a American catastrophe to the casual observer. Additionally, I have a huge bite mark on my forearm as a result of a battle of the wills between Ersin and myself. I’d like to add that I won, thank you very much. I always win. The teeth impressions aren’t really distinguishable from a distance, so I probably appear to be more of a battered housewife than a wounded nanny.
I’ve re-learned several things about myself since I’ve been here, all of which are closely related to a deep personality flaw that can be summarized in one sentence: I really hate being told what to do, and I hate working. As a result, I have no idea what I am going to do with my life when I return to the States. I think I’m going to attempt to craft my writing skills into some kind of occupation. Narrative description seems to be my only talent but even if I were able to find myself a publisher, I’d have to answer to someone. I’ve seriously considered becoming a hobo and riding the rails for the remainder of my days. The only things I’ll need money for are my expensive hair products. I’ve always had a thing for hobo camps. Anyone want to join me? It’ll be an anarchist colony without a president or anyone to tell us what to do. Did I mention that I hate being told what to do?
In less vague “work-related” news, a couple of Fridays ago, Ersin’s normally absentee father made a surprise visit to our humble abode. Evidently, he flew here from Ankara without notice and had a taxi him drop him off at the apartment, which he entered without knocking before proceeding to make himself quite comfortable. Zeynep seemed unfazed, so I’m assuming this happens frequently. Unfortunately, I had no plans for the evening, which was my night off, so this made me rather accessible.
Initially, I found spending time with him to be comparable to chewing glass. He’s overbearing, dominating, and rude, but eventually his demeanor softened and I grew accustomed to interacting with him. This is fortunate because he stayed for nearly a week. Before meeting him, I knew he was older than Zeynep, who’s forty-four, but I had no idea that he would be past retirement age. Zeynep is such a funny, headstrong woman. I find it hard to believe that she was able to tolerate his behavior for even the brief time they were married. I wonder if she truly loved or simply him saw him as a competent sperm donor. After all, he’s very successful and not entirely “squat,” for lack of a better word.
I don’t remember what we did on Saturday, but on Sunday, I awoke early in order to allow myself time to drink plenty of coffee at a local café before being summoned back to the house to work early because of some seemingly dire situation. The situation, however, was not at all dire. Ersin’s father simply wanted to read the paper without interruption, and Zeynep wanted to begin her housework. After an hour or two of entertaining the child, I was informed we would be taking an outing to Alsancak, the neighborhood where my school is located. Normally, I would be ecstatic about the opportunity to leave the apartment and enjoy the gorgeous weather of which all my American friends are so jealous, even if Ersin’s presence is involved, but I knew the day would be tiring to say the least.
Basically, I’ll save you the details and compress the afternoon into an edible nugget: we ate, and Ersin screamed resulting in his parents purchasing two DVDs. I then separated from the pack and drowned my sorrows at a local bar where one of the few friends I have works, and I made a total ass of myself thinking that my Turkish was amazing in the midst of my drunkenness. That’s enough recollection.
When I’ve described Ersin’s behavior to my acquaintances, they usually accredit his lack of direction to an absentee father. Typically, I would agree, but after watching Ersin’s parents interact, I can only imagine him behaving more poorly and being polarized by his father’s presence. For example, the other day, Ersin said the following phrase to his mother: “You’re being so rude, I’m going to fuck you.” When Zeynep relayed the tale to his father, his response was, “Why were you being rude? Don’t be rude to him.”
Ersin’s English has improved significantly since my arrival. My degree in theoretical linguistics did come in handy after all! My “teaching” methods, if you would venture to call them that, have been entirely based on my own asinine ideas regarding pidgins and creoles. Right now, his speech is interesting because he’s beginning to use Turkish structures in English and vice versa, which doesn’t work at all. He’s also developed quite a vocabulary. Here are a couple of sample sentences, in addition to the aforementioned quote, that he’s uttered in the last couple of days: “I want to put boobies in my pants,” and “You’re a fancy girl, did you?” Yes, he’s mildly offensive, but I’m happy he’s no longer simply recycling phrases verbatim. I haven’t heard, “You have it this one at home,” for quite sometime. He’s finally able to construct novel sentences with words, the “building blocks of language!” My work here is done! Hooray! It’s time to go home!
As far as school is concerned, I was very happy with the first month, specifically my teacher and my classmates. The second course, however, has been a bust. I strongly dislike my new teacher. I imagine he sees himself as a Robin Williams, in that movie about dead poets-type. He’s going to destroy the system from the ground up! I hate the way he teaches, and the first two hours of class are a total waste of time. Every night, he gives us the same homework assignment – write a journal entry about the previous day using the structures we’ve learned in class. In theory, this is a great idea, but my teacher is too lazy to grade our entries during his free time. Instead, he walks around the room, corrects each entry and leaves those whom he’s not speaking to directly twiddling their thumbs in wait of their turn. As you can imagine, it’s a very efficient method and well-worth $350 a month. I’m actually going to try to withdraw from the remainder of the course and hire a private tutor to save money and actually learn Turkish. Tomorrow, I plan to attempt to speak to someone in the main office about my plight. If the interaction goes as planned, I’ll emerge from the dreaded cave with an experience better than my last, as well as $150 in hand. I will then immediately buy hair dye, points for my cell phone, black tights, and a cardboard box. I’m not sure if this redhead-thing is working for me.
Well, that’s all I have to write about for the moment. If you’re at all curious about what life in Turkey looks like, I recommend visiting my Flickr account: http://www.flickr.com/photos/stregapez/. Like every project of mine, it is and forever shall be a work in progress, so, visit regularly.
Sincerely,
Me, The Professional Oops
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Letter No. 4 From Turkey
Dear You,
It’s 9:00 a.m. on Saturday, and I’m eating pizza by myself in 23-hour diner next to my apartment. I really want to know which hour they aren’t open, but I don’t know how to ask. I’m not really hungry, but I wanted to come here to see if they would give me the password to the wireless internet connection if I bought a meal and a couple of cups of Nescafe. I ordered the pizza without meat, but I guess beef sausage isn’t considered “meat.” as there is a mountain of it front of me. It won’t go to waste, though. The stray animals will eat it. Last night was the second time I’ve “gone out” since I’ve been here, and my stomach is churning. It just seemed appealing for a moment to fill it with something full of oil and carbohydrates – hangover food. Finding great hangover food and being vegetarian is slightly more difficult than I anticipated. Beef seems to slip into the strangest places, like a sweet pastry I accidentally took a bite of before realizing the pocket was full of minced meat. Also, the names of entrees are really bizarre. It’s nearly impossible to tell what something consists of by its title on the menu. For example, at this restaurant, one of my options was a “demolition” pide. I suppose this is no different than say…”Eggs Benedict.” Sure, if I saw “Eggs Benedict” on a menu, I would know the dish would include eggs, but I have no idea why the sauce deserves the name Benedict. I’ve never met a man named Benedict, so I can’t predict if they are usually orange, fattening, and runny. I digress.
Yesterday was a record breaking cold day in İzmir. It actually dropped to about 0º Celsius. By Indiana standards, this is really warm (32º F). I, however, have begrudgingly adapted to the custom of overdressing for the weather and, as a result, felt as though I had icicles hanging from my eyelashes. Going to an outdoor bar at 9:00 p.m. probably didn’t help. No, I’m not kidding. I went to an outdoor bar that provides complimentary orange fuzzy blankets to customers. Finding a table near the heater was difficult, but my friend was able to either coerce or harass the staff into attaining one. I use this phrasing because my comprehension of casual Turkish is relatively poor, so I couldn’t tell if he was being charming or rude. Really though, I understand why the place is so popular. It’s next to the sea, high on a hill overlooking İzmir, which really is quite lovely at night. My friend, in broken English, said “İzmir most beautiful world place is.” I…do not agree, but last night, sitting outside with a beer in one hand and a dictionary in the other, I didn’t hate it here. I could even imagine for a moment why someone would live here for a lifetime. From far away, the buildings don’t look as if they’ve been removed from a Communist block and colored carelessly by a four-year-old, and the sea is quite beautiful, as are the hills. I think I’ve been too busy being frustrated to notice. I’ve seen some really amazing signs in English, too. I MUST start carrying my camera!
After reading replies to my previous letters, I realize that some of you may be wondering if I am on the verge of returning to Indiana and/or having a nervous breakdown. The answer is no. I was writing for dramatic effect, which was a little too effective for those unfamiliar with my style. The remainder of the week of which I wrote was very difficult, though. I really did think about coming home. I had a pretty intense disagreement with my employer/friend/roommate, and things in general were rough, but luckily, I have since made a few Turkish friends and have grown a little closer to my classmates. It’s funny. Much like Bloomington, the friends I have made are primarily restaurant workers. Old habits die hard, as I tend to skip from one coffee location to the next for studying and online purposes. Making friends has been a little awkward, though. Male/female relations in Turkey are very different than in the United States. Men seem to have generally low opinions of each other, and women generally dislike them as well. I have yet to figure out how people manage to marry and reproduce amidst such animosity. Dating seems to be a necessary evil rather than a choice. Additionally, Turkish women seem to be really negative and judgmental, or, depending upon your perception, helpful in the worst possible way i.e. wanting to give me a Turkish makeover and cut or change my hair because it looks “awful.” I can’t count how many times I have been told my shoes or dresses or whatever aren’t “modası.” If you saw these women in their pancake make-up and baggy pants tucked-into horrible knee high boots made of stiff but wrinkled leather, you would understand why a makeover offer is not a form of flattery. If I dressed Turkish “modası” in the United States, people would stop me on the street to ask me how much a date costs. I try to be polite, but I can’t help chuckling internally. My fashions weren’t necessarily “modası” in Indiana, and I didn’t care, but people respected my stylistic choices. This is not the way of Turkey. Privacy is a nonexistent issue. The first question I’m asked, often before my name, when I meet someone new is, “How old are you?” Men here…are a mixed-bag. I find many to be rather boorish - burping and farting and shouting obscenities as they please. Some, on the other hand, seem instinctively protective of me because they perceive me to be a naïve foreigner. I haven’t decided if this is positive or negative thing as it has led to some bizarre interactions. I was recently asked by an acquaintance to move to another table at a restaurant because I was wearing a skirt, and my legs were too visible. I’m not sure why such rules don’t apply to Turkish women.
I’m finding the Turkish sense of humor to be relatively compatible with my own – dry but not necessarily biting. I’m starting to seem less and less distinctly American and more vaguely foreign. I haven’t really changed my appearance, but the pink coat must go! Seriously! Really, though, I think I just seem more comfortable and am no longer on the verge of tears when I attempt to speak. Having Turkish friends has helped. Recently, one told me a term I was using to describe a guy was “archaic and crude.” Although I actually wished to describe this man as archaic and crude, it was really useful to know that I was accidentally doing just that! He also told me to yell at anyone who tries to pinch my cheeks. I guess it’s similar in nature to having your butt grabbed, but it’s a sign of affection amongst friends. I haven’t really adapted to the cheek-kissing thing, either. That’s going to take a while.
In other news, my cell phone is working! Incoming calls are free, so everyone should drunk dial me at 7:00 a.m. (12:00 a.m., your time) at least once while I’m here. International phone cards can be purchased at you local Target for around $10. Wow. I miss Target.
I’ll write soon. Thanks for the replies and kind words. Keep ‘em coming, but don’t forget to let me know how it’s hanging in your world. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be sure to “eat a lot, sleep a lot, and brush ‘em like crazy.”
Sincerely,
Me, The Professional Oops
It’s 9:00 a.m. on Saturday, and I’m eating pizza by myself in 23-hour diner next to my apartment. I really want to know which hour they aren’t open, but I don’t know how to ask. I’m not really hungry, but I wanted to come here to see if they would give me the password to the wireless internet connection if I bought a meal and a couple of cups of Nescafe. I ordered the pizza without meat, but I guess beef sausage isn’t considered “meat.” as there is a mountain of it front of me. It won’t go to waste, though. The stray animals will eat it. Last night was the second time I’ve “gone out” since I’ve been here, and my stomach is churning. It just seemed appealing for a moment to fill it with something full of oil and carbohydrates – hangover food. Finding great hangover food and being vegetarian is slightly more difficult than I anticipated. Beef seems to slip into the strangest places, like a sweet pastry I accidentally took a bite of before realizing the pocket was full of minced meat. Also, the names of entrees are really bizarre. It’s nearly impossible to tell what something consists of by its title on the menu. For example, at this restaurant, one of my options was a “demolition” pide. I suppose this is no different than say…”Eggs Benedict.” Sure, if I saw “Eggs Benedict” on a menu, I would know the dish would include eggs, but I have no idea why the sauce deserves the name Benedict. I’ve never met a man named Benedict, so I can’t predict if they are usually orange, fattening, and runny. I digress.
Yesterday was a record breaking cold day in İzmir. It actually dropped to about 0º Celsius. By Indiana standards, this is really warm (32º F). I, however, have begrudgingly adapted to the custom of overdressing for the weather and, as a result, felt as though I had icicles hanging from my eyelashes. Going to an outdoor bar at 9:00 p.m. probably didn’t help. No, I’m not kidding. I went to an outdoor bar that provides complimentary orange fuzzy blankets to customers. Finding a table near the heater was difficult, but my friend was able to either coerce or harass the staff into attaining one. I use this phrasing because my comprehension of casual Turkish is relatively poor, so I couldn’t tell if he was being charming or rude. Really though, I understand why the place is so popular. It’s next to the sea, high on a hill overlooking İzmir, which really is quite lovely at night. My friend, in broken English, said “İzmir most beautiful world place is.” I…do not agree, but last night, sitting outside with a beer in one hand and a dictionary in the other, I didn’t hate it here. I could even imagine for a moment why someone would live here for a lifetime. From far away, the buildings don’t look as if they’ve been removed from a Communist block and colored carelessly by a four-year-old, and the sea is quite beautiful, as are the hills. I think I’ve been too busy being frustrated to notice. I’ve seen some really amazing signs in English, too. I MUST start carrying my camera!
After reading replies to my previous letters, I realize that some of you may be wondering if I am on the verge of returning to Indiana and/or having a nervous breakdown. The answer is no. I was writing for dramatic effect, which was a little too effective for those unfamiliar with my style. The remainder of the week of which I wrote was very difficult, though. I really did think about coming home. I had a pretty intense disagreement with my employer/friend/roommate, and things in general were rough, but luckily, I have since made a few Turkish friends and have grown a little closer to my classmates. It’s funny. Much like Bloomington, the friends I have made are primarily restaurant workers. Old habits die hard, as I tend to skip from one coffee location to the next for studying and online purposes. Making friends has been a little awkward, though. Male/female relations in Turkey are very different than in the United States. Men seem to have generally low opinions of each other, and women generally dislike them as well. I have yet to figure out how people manage to marry and reproduce amidst such animosity. Dating seems to be a necessary evil rather than a choice. Additionally, Turkish women seem to be really negative and judgmental, or, depending upon your perception, helpful in the worst possible way i.e. wanting to give me a Turkish makeover and cut or change my hair because it looks “awful.” I can’t count how many times I have been told my shoes or dresses or whatever aren’t “modası.” If you saw these women in their pancake make-up and baggy pants tucked-into horrible knee high boots made of stiff but wrinkled leather, you would understand why a makeover offer is not a form of flattery. If I dressed Turkish “modası” in the United States, people would stop me on the street to ask me how much a date costs. I try to be polite, but I can’t help chuckling internally. My fashions weren’t necessarily “modası” in Indiana, and I didn’t care, but people respected my stylistic choices. This is not the way of Turkey. Privacy is a nonexistent issue. The first question I’m asked, often before my name, when I meet someone new is, “How old are you?” Men here…are a mixed-bag. I find many to be rather boorish - burping and farting and shouting obscenities as they please. Some, on the other hand, seem instinctively protective of me because they perceive me to be a naïve foreigner. I haven’t decided if this is positive or negative thing as it has led to some bizarre interactions. I was recently asked by an acquaintance to move to another table at a restaurant because I was wearing a skirt, and my legs were too visible. I’m not sure why such rules don’t apply to Turkish women.
I’m finding the Turkish sense of humor to be relatively compatible with my own – dry but not necessarily biting. I’m starting to seem less and less distinctly American and more vaguely foreign. I haven’t really changed my appearance, but the pink coat must go! Seriously! Really, though, I think I just seem more comfortable and am no longer on the verge of tears when I attempt to speak. Having Turkish friends has helped. Recently, one told me a term I was using to describe a guy was “archaic and crude.” Although I actually wished to describe this man as archaic and crude, it was really useful to know that I was accidentally doing just that! He also told me to yell at anyone who tries to pinch my cheeks. I guess it’s similar in nature to having your butt grabbed, but it’s a sign of affection amongst friends. I haven’t really adapted to the cheek-kissing thing, either. That’s going to take a while.
In other news, my cell phone is working! Incoming calls are free, so everyone should drunk dial me at 7:00 a.m. (12:00 a.m., your time) at least once while I’m here. International phone cards can be purchased at you local Target for around $10. Wow. I miss Target.
I’ll write soon. Thanks for the replies and kind words. Keep ‘em coming, but don’t forget to let me know how it’s hanging in your world. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be sure to “eat a lot, sleep a lot, and brush ‘em like crazy.”
Sincerely,
Me, The Professional Oops
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Letter No. 3 From Turkey
Dear You,
A few people have looked into shipping Diet Dr. Pepper to me, and it is either a) impossible to mail or b) more expensive than flying to see me! Thanks for trying, though! Also, I bought a coffee pot, but some cardboard cups would be awesome! I put my coffee in a water bottle.
Sincerely,
Me, The Professional Oops
A few people have looked into shipping Diet Dr. Pepper to me, and it is either a) impossible to mail or b) more expensive than flying to see me! Thanks for trying, though! Also, I bought a coffee pot, but some cardboard cups would be awesome! I put my coffee in a water bottle.
Sincerely,
Me, The Professional Oops
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Letter No. 2 From Turkey
Dear You,
Today, I left my classroom at TÖMER feeling a bit overly confident. In retrospect, this resulted in my demise throughout the rest of the day. I had just realized there is very little new material in the course in which I am currently enrolled, so I briefly considered the possibility of moving to a higher level at my teacher’s irritated suggestion, which was made in front of everyone during class. Later she was more civil and quietly told me that I could simply attend an hour of the higher level, and, if I felt it was too advanced, I could return. This sounded reasonable, so I went to the primary office, where only one person speaks English, and requested the necessary information. I was quickly cut down to size, in English, and rattled enough to not only question my foreign language competency but that of my native language. I may throw a “like” or two in now and again, but this man, who speaks English as second language, truly made me feel as if I made no sense. I mentioned that the family I am staying with had registered me and paid for my course. He retorted with a disgusted, “Family? What is this thing you call family. I have no idea what you’re referring to our why you’re telling me this.” Please keep in mind that I am paraphrasing, as I do not walk around with a tape recorder all day, but this is an idea I will keep in mind for the future. Be on your toes!
Afterward, I went to a café. After less than a minute, a bald waiter appeared and requested my order. I attempted to ask him for a moment to look at the menu but later realized that I may have asked in Russian, so he most likely had absolutely no idea what I said. A few minutes later, a longhaired fellow approached me, and in a very harsh tone, proceeded to ask in English why I was unhappy. “Hayır, tamamım,” I said. This translates to something like, “No, I’m okay,” but is entirely grammatically incorrect. We seemed to reach an agreement, but minutes later a young woman approached me, and, in English, asked me what I was complaining about. “Nothing! I’m not complaining! I just wanted to look at the menu! I’m not complaining! I’m sorry!” Eventually the bald man came back to me, and I just pointed at the menu to show him what I wanted. It was easier than attempting to speak in any verbal language.
Perhaps the situation wasn’t as horrible as I felt. There’s a possibility that I was feeling a bit sensitive due to the fact that I was already in a bit of a foul mood because I had worn an ill-fitting pair of shoes that I purchased from Zappos shortly before my departure. They’re quite cute, but unfortunately, they are far too wide without the chunky knit socks I had worn during my test walk about the house. After walking to the corner to wait for the mini-bus, I realized wearing them would be a mistake, but I felt I could tolerate the annoyance of stepping out of my right shoe every five feet in exchange for getting a seat on the ultra-competitive but quicker method of transportation. As a result, I was laughed at and very late to class. For a moment, I even considered running along the filthy street with only tights on my feet. Fear of parasites, however - hookworms in particular - prevented me from doing such a thing.
There are no designated stops for the mini-bus. The travel by at entirely random intervals, and most people step out into the street to block them with a body part in order to force them to stop. In most cases, thrusting a leg forward and waving an arm suffice. Usually drivers will honk if they have room or bid you farewell if they do not, but some prospective passengers cannot accept this and will literally do all but pummel the oversized van with their bodies thereby forcing the driver to allow them to stuff their sweaty overbearing selves inside. These people are a joy to ride alongside, especially if you’re an awkward, foreign female. There are no token or change slots on the mini-bus. You simply pass your money to the front and hope change is passed back. When it is time to get off the bus, you yell something like, “I want to go at _____.” Because most streets, unless quite major, are only numbers, landmarks are most useful. Today, when returning to the apartment, I boarded the empty bus at its starting point and took the opportunity to show the driver my address, as he did not recognize the landmark I mentioned, most likely because it was the name of an Italian restaurant that I pronounced in Turkish. Who knew that there were Italian restaurants in Turkey or that the names of those restaurants would be pronounced correctly? He nodded and wadded up my paper as he returned it to me and proceeded to brush me aside. A wave of sadness and discomfort swept over me. I would estimate that at least once a day, everyday in Turkey, I feel as if a stranger has just punched me in the stomach. This was one of those moments.
When I arrived at the apartment, I was upset, but flew into a panic when I was unable to unlock our door. I felt like such a fool, but I swallowed my pride and asked the building grocer to help me. Actually, what I said in my broken Turkish translates literally to, “I want door open/clear.” When I finally made my way inside, I mumbled a dejected “Thanks,” put down my bag, and began sobbing. I’m not sure why. I suppose it was because nearly all of my interactions throughout the day were truly overwhelming. The last time I felt this lonely and distressed was the winter of 2001/2002. I hadn’t lived in Bloomington for very long; my best friend had just moved away; my mom lived in another state; I was living alone; I wasn’t twenty-one and had yet to master the art of small talk. I remember how I would sit around in my apartment, pet my cat, and listen to Belle and Sebastian. I mention this because today, in a fit of madness, I felt nineteen again and I found myself lying face down on my bed listening to “If You’re Feeling Sinister,” my favorite of their records. After I had calmed slightly, I decided to call Zeynep to ask for the night off in exchange for my scheduled Friday evening but quickly realized I had no idea how to make a local call. What if the apartment was on fire? What if Ersin was injured? How the hell would I make a local call, and if I succeeded, what would I say? My heart sank into the pit of my stomach yet again, and I felt truly helpless as I dialed the first two numbers only to hear the recorded gurgle of a Turkish woman’s voice. I have no idea what she was saying, but I’m sure it involved me being foreign and incompetent.
Ersin arrived home at the usual time and greeted me by throwing his coat on the ground and screaming, “Abla, you have it this one at home! I want DVD! Buy chips!” It’s enough to drive a woman mad. I cannot count the times I’ve been told I have something at home. I’ve become convinced that Ersin is a robot with three or four phrases set on an infinite loop, and he has been specifically programmed to drive me insane. Additionally, after reading a bit about his behavior and learning about his difficulty at school, I am almost entirely sure he has Asperger’s Syndrome. I haven’t been around a lot of kids, but I know enough about linguistics and language acquisition to recognize disordered speech progression in children. He converses only in phrases he’s heard in the past. He’s incapable of creating a novel sentence. He’s not confused about pronouns as I initially thought. He just reproduces sentences verbatim. Examples will follow soon. I’m too tired to write about them now, but I have many. Another important note is that English is not his second language. It’s his only language. He speaks less Turkish than I do.
I’m trying to be optimistic but without friends and Diet Dr. Pepper and filtered coffee at my side, it’s becoming very difficult. I’ve never been one to view the glass as half-full, and I’m too removed from my home life to change my entire worldview without uprooting my sense of self. Perhaps, I will work on this when I return and am lying in my own bed with little dogs licking my face.
This is what my life has become. I’m wearily struggling against being dominated by a four-year-old, and I nearly sobbed in front of a grocer I barely know when I couldn’t fit my key in a dimly lit door. The only thing positive thing I have to say at this moment is at least I don’t “have it this one at home.”
Sincerely,
Me, The Professional Oops
Today, I left my classroom at TÖMER feeling a bit overly confident. In retrospect, this resulted in my demise throughout the rest of the day. I had just realized there is very little new material in the course in which I am currently enrolled, so I briefly considered the possibility of moving to a higher level at my teacher’s irritated suggestion, which was made in front of everyone during class. Later she was more civil and quietly told me that I could simply attend an hour of the higher level, and, if I felt it was too advanced, I could return. This sounded reasonable, so I went to the primary office, where only one person speaks English, and requested the necessary information. I was quickly cut down to size, in English, and rattled enough to not only question my foreign language competency but that of my native language. I may throw a “like” or two in now and again, but this man, who speaks English as second language, truly made me feel as if I made no sense. I mentioned that the family I am staying with had registered me and paid for my course. He retorted with a disgusted, “Family? What is this thing you call family. I have no idea what you’re referring to our why you’re telling me this.” Please keep in mind that I am paraphrasing, as I do not walk around with a tape recorder all day, but this is an idea I will keep in mind for the future. Be on your toes!
Afterward, I went to a café. After less than a minute, a bald waiter appeared and requested my order. I attempted to ask him for a moment to look at the menu but later realized that I may have asked in Russian, so he most likely had absolutely no idea what I said. A few minutes later, a longhaired fellow approached me, and in a very harsh tone, proceeded to ask in English why I was unhappy. “Hayır, tamamım,” I said. This translates to something like, “No, I’m okay,” but is entirely grammatically incorrect. We seemed to reach an agreement, but minutes later a young woman approached me, and, in English, asked me what I was complaining about. “Nothing! I’m not complaining! I just wanted to look at the menu! I’m not complaining! I’m sorry!” Eventually the bald man came back to me, and I just pointed at the menu to show him what I wanted. It was easier than attempting to speak in any verbal language.
Perhaps the situation wasn’t as horrible as I felt. There’s a possibility that I was feeling a bit sensitive due to the fact that I was already in a bit of a foul mood because I had worn an ill-fitting pair of shoes that I purchased from Zappos shortly before my departure. They’re quite cute, but unfortunately, they are far too wide without the chunky knit socks I had worn during my test walk about the house. After walking to the corner to wait for the mini-bus, I realized wearing them would be a mistake, but I felt I could tolerate the annoyance of stepping out of my right shoe every five feet in exchange for getting a seat on the ultra-competitive but quicker method of transportation. As a result, I was laughed at and very late to class. For a moment, I even considered running along the filthy street with only tights on my feet. Fear of parasites, however - hookworms in particular - prevented me from doing such a thing.
There are no designated stops for the mini-bus. The travel by at entirely random intervals, and most people step out into the street to block them with a body part in order to force them to stop. In most cases, thrusting a leg forward and waving an arm suffice. Usually drivers will honk if they have room or bid you farewell if they do not, but some prospective passengers cannot accept this and will literally do all but pummel the oversized van with their bodies thereby forcing the driver to allow them to stuff their sweaty overbearing selves inside. These people are a joy to ride alongside, especially if you’re an awkward, foreign female. There are no token or change slots on the mini-bus. You simply pass your money to the front and hope change is passed back. When it is time to get off the bus, you yell something like, “I want to go at _____.” Because most streets, unless quite major, are only numbers, landmarks are most useful. Today, when returning to the apartment, I boarded the empty bus at its starting point and took the opportunity to show the driver my address, as he did not recognize the landmark I mentioned, most likely because it was the name of an Italian restaurant that I pronounced in Turkish. Who knew that there were Italian restaurants in Turkey or that the names of those restaurants would be pronounced correctly? He nodded and wadded up my paper as he returned it to me and proceeded to brush me aside. A wave of sadness and discomfort swept over me. I would estimate that at least once a day, everyday in Turkey, I feel as if a stranger has just punched me in the stomach. This was one of those moments.
When I arrived at the apartment, I was upset, but flew into a panic when I was unable to unlock our door. I felt like such a fool, but I swallowed my pride and asked the building grocer to help me. Actually, what I said in my broken Turkish translates literally to, “I want door open/clear.” When I finally made my way inside, I mumbled a dejected “Thanks,” put down my bag, and began sobbing. I’m not sure why. I suppose it was because nearly all of my interactions throughout the day were truly overwhelming. The last time I felt this lonely and distressed was the winter of 2001/2002. I hadn’t lived in Bloomington for very long; my best friend had just moved away; my mom lived in another state; I was living alone; I wasn’t twenty-one and had yet to master the art of small talk. I remember how I would sit around in my apartment, pet my cat, and listen to Belle and Sebastian. I mention this because today, in a fit of madness, I felt nineteen again and I found myself lying face down on my bed listening to “If You’re Feeling Sinister,” my favorite of their records. After I had calmed slightly, I decided to call Zeynep to ask for the night off in exchange for my scheduled Friday evening but quickly realized I had no idea how to make a local call. What if the apartment was on fire? What if Ersin was injured? How the hell would I make a local call, and if I succeeded, what would I say? My heart sank into the pit of my stomach yet again, and I felt truly helpless as I dialed the first two numbers only to hear the recorded gurgle of a Turkish woman’s voice. I have no idea what she was saying, but I’m sure it involved me being foreign and incompetent.
Ersin arrived home at the usual time and greeted me by throwing his coat on the ground and screaming, “Abla, you have it this one at home! I want DVD! Buy chips!” It’s enough to drive a woman mad. I cannot count the times I’ve been told I have something at home. I’ve become convinced that Ersin is a robot with three or four phrases set on an infinite loop, and he has been specifically programmed to drive me insane. Additionally, after reading a bit about his behavior and learning about his difficulty at school, I am almost entirely sure he has Asperger’s Syndrome. I haven’t been around a lot of kids, but I know enough about linguistics and language acquisition to recognize disordered speech progression in children. He converses only in phrases he’s heard in the past. He’s incapable of creating a novel sentence. He’s not confused about pronouns as I initially thought. He just reproduces sentences verbatim. Examples will follow soon. I’m too tired to write about them now, but I have many. Another important note is that English is not his second language. It’s his only language. He speaks less Turkish than I do.
I’m trying to be optimistic but without friends and Diet Dr. Pepper and filtered coffee at my side, it’s becoming very difficult. I’ve never been one to view the glass as half-full, and I’m too removed from my home life to change my entire worldview without uprooting my sense of self. Perhaps, I will work on this when I return and am lying in my own bed with little dogs licking my face.
This is what my life has become. I’m wearily struggling against being dominated by a four-year-old, and I nearly sobbed in front of a grocer I barely know when I couldn’t fit my key in a dimly lit door. The only thing positive thing I have to say at this moment is at least I don’t “have it this one at home.”
Sincerely,
Me, The Professional Oops
Monday, January 07, 2008
Letter No. 1 From Turkey
Dear You,
If by some miracle you are reading this, please do not be offended by this letter's lack of personal reference. In fact, feel free to be amazed that I have found internet access and/or adapted to the format of the Turkish keyboard.
I arrived in İzmir on Saturday around 5:00 pm only to discover that my "International" phone card works only in the United States. Therefore, if you have time, feel free to call me using its number, which can be requested via e-mail. I then walked to the market where I purchased what I mistakenly called a "telephone calling card" in Turkish. Evidently, this is used to recharge a cell phone. I then returned to my home where I tried to use the card and found later that I should have requested a "telecom" card because the two are completely different. Luckily the shop owner was nicer than his wife from whom I initially asked for a refund, and he returned my sixteen YTL to me when she informed him of my confusion. I then purchased the "telecom" card only to find that it is inserted into city public telephones. I've seen the little abnormally clean and crisp looking booths around the town, but I was unaware of their use.
Speaking of telephones, my home number is this: +90.______________
I'm not entirely sure how to call internationally, although I know it's not possible on most Verizon cell phones. Additionally, I believe there is a seven-hour time difference, so no phone calls after 22:30/10:30 pm (1:30 pm your time). Feel free to call me at midnight (your time), however. This is when I rise in the morning. Ersin is a superhuman four-year-old whose bedtime is 22:30. From 9:00 to 5:00, he attends school, returns home at 5:30 to be greeted by me. He then runs around like a maniac for an hour before eventually settling down to a phonics lesson. For me, he's actually relatively well-behaved. He's a different person around his mother, though. He hits her and screams at her and yells, and she calms him with hugs and candy. He actually had diarrhea today because he ate too much candy yesterday. The poor little guy was sitting on the toilet repeating, "When thee mother told you too much candy, you don't listened." He hasn't grasped pronouns yet. This led to my first child-butt wiping experience, and...it was a killer. I work from 5:00 to 11:00 every weeknight, with the exception of Friday and from 10:00 to 6:00 on the weekends, so I'm sure to have several other equally gnarly experiences ahead of me.
İzmir is really strange. My neighborhood, Bornova, looks more like a meat-packing district of a city than a Mediterranean paradise. Actually, that's not entirely true. It looks rather similar to parts of Daytona Beach, which, of course, technically isn't even in the Mediterranean. It's definitely a city, not a town. I'm sitting in my room typing this, and I hear can hear screaming from several different apartments. The walls are so thin. Additionally, cats constantly mate (or are tortured) outside of my window. I have never seen so many stray animals in my life. Dogs, rather large ones at that, roam freely with no collar or owner in sight. Ersin really, really loves cats, but he's not allowed to touch them. I fight the urge as well. It's so bizarre because we live on one of the busiest streets I have ever seen in my life. It's truly far busier than any street in Indianapolis and is also quite narrow considering the activity level. Many of the streets look as if they were designed to be one way, but instead, have a minimum of two lanes of traffic traveling in opposite directions. Is this typical of Europe? I haven't traveled much.
My apartment is growing on me. At first, I was horrified by the living conditions. Each room has it's own electric heater, attached to the wall at ceiling level, that is controlled by a remote control. I keep mine on 24º C. We have a traditional Turkish toilet (don't ask if you don't know), but, thankfully, we have an American style one as well. The "shower" is kind of a box with a heater attached to a hose. All other heaters must be turned off when it is in use in order to avoid bodily injury. This is a little bit of a hassle. I don't have reliable internet access, a microwave, a bath, etc. Water runs in the kitchen sink when the shower is turned on, and we have to turn the kitchen's gas off manually when we leave the room or go to sleep. The washer is in the bathroom, next to Ersin's timeout stool, and when it runs, we carry the flexible attached pipe to the toilet to let it drain. I'd post a picture of the bathroom, but my parents would be horrified. We'll save that for another day.
Traffic is something else that is really terrifying. I've been almost hit by a car nearly every time I’ve left the house. There are some street signs but too few stoplights. There are, however, many crosswalks, which of course, are deemed rather worthless by the lack of stoplights.
Today, I explored more of the city, outside Bornova, while I registered for school, and I did something very, very American. I asked for black coffee in a to-go cup. NO ONE drinks coffee here, and if you do, it's a social event rather than something that is done while one is making his/her way about town. Also, the only coffee available everywhere I went was "Nescafe." You're probably familiar with it via your local 7-11. You order at a counter, then someone gives you a laminated Nescafe ticket, before you walk to the other end to pick between "Irish Cream" or whatever else there might be. This is not an isolated instance in one restaurant. It is the WAY of İzmir. I'm sure I can find some back alley espresso somewhere, and I plan to look for exactly that tomorrow after my first day of school. Tea, however, is a way of Turkish life. People stop whatever they're doing for pizza and tea, and they eat constantly. I can't keep up. My lack of eating has even inspired Zeynep, my host and employer, to go on a diet, although I'm not on one. Today she informed me she smokes one cigarette a day to help with her digestion and metabolism. She's been doing it for seven years. I haven't decided if I'm going to try that yet.
Ersin, although being terribly hyper, is a darling to me. He's incredibly affectionate and sweet, but unfortunately, screams if I use the restroom without him. He also frequently grabs at my butt and giggles. I'm not sure what is up with that. I mentioned it to his mother, and she is aware of the problem. Today his mother said that if my significant other comes to visit, he'll be quite jealous. What is it with me and four-year-old boys? He's not the first to chase after me. Some of you may know of "The Dane/Brooke Saga."
People here seem to have really positive perceptions of Americans, which is good, because the locals can spot me a mile away, primarily because I'm very tall by their standards. Additionally, I tend to wear colors other than black and brown. Zeynep says that she has had au pairs from Europe, but she finds them distant and cold thus preferring North Americans. I think Turks must be the only nationality to feel this way. Didn't a famous band release a song about how awful it is to be a North American? I believe it's called "North American Scum." Some of you may know it; my grandma probably won't.
I like my host family very much. We have a lot of family time, but I've been informed that my work hours are to be MY time with Ersin, so even if Zeynep is home, I am to punish him. Today I scolded him for hitting his mother, and he actually apologized. It's a strange dynamic. She tolerates far too much. As a result, I'm learning how to conquer his four-year-old craziness with logic. For example, Ersin has four fillings in his teeth. He wouldn't brush his teeth tonight, so I said, "Okay...that's fine. Your next dentist appointment will be like the last. Did you find that to be fun?" He grimaced and began brushing his teeth. I'm finding that either/or questions also work well - shout out to my mom and Andrea for that tip. Additionally, when he screams or throws things I ignore him. I say nothing and turn off the T.V. and stare into space. Eventually he apologizes for whatever DVD he broke, picks it up, and begins acting civilized. I'm not kidding. He breaks a DVD daily. I've demonstrated the technique to his mother, but she said she couldn’t bear to do such a thing, although she encourages my actions. Today, she came home with a comic book-type thing because he didn't scream when she dropped him off at school. She then smothered him with kisses when he cried that he had no chocolate egg and, subsequently, undid all of my evening's doings. She's a very sweet and loving mother, but the child is spoiled rotten. He still sleeps in her bed.
For those of you who wish to send me anything by mail, like a care package filled with Diet Code Red, Diet Dr. Pepper, some favorite clothes I forgot in my flurry, etc., I'll give you my address.
If you want to send me something of value, please e-mail me first. Evidently, all of our neighbors are gossiping thieves and robbers to whom I'm not allowed to speak.
Additionally, there is a difference between I/ı and İ/i. Be sure to put dots in appropriate places.
That is it for my mass update. E-mail me with your goings-on, and I'll do my best to keep in touch individually and set up a blog for the funnier details.
Sincerely,
Me, The Professional Oops
If by some miracle you are reading this, please do not be offended by this letter's lack of personal reference. In fact, feel free to be amazed that I have found internet access and/or adapted to the format of the Turkish keyboard.
I arrived in İzmir on Saturday around 5:00 pm only to discover that my "International" phone card works only in the United States. Therefore, if you have time, feel free to call me using its number, which can be requested via e-mail. I then walked to the market where I purchased what I mistakenly called a "telephone calling card" in Turkish. Evidently, this is used to recharge a cell phone. I then returned to my home where I tried to use the card and found later that I should have requested a "telecom" card because the two are completely different. Luckily the shop owner was nicer than his wife from whom I initially asked for a refund, and he returned my sixteen YTL to me when she informed him of my confusion. I then purchased the "telecom" card only to find that it is inserted into city public telephones. I've seen the little abnormally clean and crisp looking booths around the town, but I was unaware of their use.
Speaking of telephones, my home number is this: +90.______________
I'm not entirely sure how to call internationally, although I know it's not possible on most Verizon cell phones. Additionally, I believe there is a seven-hour time difference, so no phone calls after 22:30/10:30 pm (1:30 pm your time). Feel free to call me at midnight (your time), however. This is when I rise in the morning. Ersin is a superhuman four-year-old whose bedtime is 22:30. From 9:00 to 5:00, he attends school, returns home at 5:30 to be greeted by me. He then runs around like a maniac for an hour before eventually settling down to a phonics lesson. For me, he's actually relatively well-behaved. He's a different person around his mother, though. He hits her and screams at her and yells, and she calms him with hugs and candy. He actually had diarrhea today because he ate too much candy yesterday. The poor little guy was sitting on the toilet repeating, "When thee mother told you too much candy, you don't listened." He hasn't grasped pronouns yet. This led to my first child-butt wiping experience, and...it was a killer. I work from 5:00 to 11:00 every weeknight, with the exception of Friday and from 10:00 to 6:00 on the weekends, so I'm sure to have several other equally gnarly experiences ahead of me.
İzmir is really strange. My neighborhood, Bornova, looks more like a meat-packing district of a city than a Mediterranean paradise. Actually, that's not entirely true. It looks rather similar to parts of Daytona Beach, which, of course, technically isn't even in the Mediterranean. It's definitely a city, not a town. I'm sitting in my room typing this, and I hear can hear screaming from several different apartments. The walls are so thin. Additionally, cats constantly mate (or are tortured) outside of my window. I have never seen so many stray animals in my life. Dogs, rather large ones at that, roam freely with no collar or owner in sight. Ersin really, really loves cats, but he's not allowed to touch them. I fight the urge as well. It's so bizarre because we live on one of the busiest streets I have ever seen in my life. It's truly far busier than any street in Indianapolis and is also quite narrow considering the activity level. Many of the streets look as if they were designed to be one way, but instead, have a minimum of two lanes of traffic traveling in opposite directions. Is this typical of Europe? I haven't traveled much.
My apartment is growing on me. At first, I was horrified by the living conditions. Each room has it's own electric heater, attached to the wall at ceiling level, that is controlled by a remote control. I keep mine on 24º C. We have a traditional Turkish toilet (don't ask if you don't know), but, thankfully, we have an American style one as well. The "shower" is kind of a box with a heater attached to a hose. All other heaters must be turned off when it is in use in order to avoid bodily injury. This is a little bit of a hassle. I don't have reliable internet access, a microwave, a bath, etc. Water runs in the kitchen sink when the shower is turned on, and we have to turn the kitchen's gas off manually when we leave the room or go to sleep. The washer is in the bathroom, next to Ersin's timeout stool, and when it runs, we carry the flexible attached pipe to the toilet to let it drain. I'd post a picture of the bathroom, but my parents would be horrified. We'll save that for another day.
Traffic is something else that is really terrifying. I've been almost hit by a car nearly every time I’ve left the house. There are some street signs but too few stoplights. There are, however, many crosswalks, which of course, are deemed rather worthless by the lack of stoplights.
Today, I explored more of the city, outside Bornova, while I registered for school, and I did something very, very American. I asked for black coffee in a to-go cup. NO ONE drinks coffee here, and if you do, it's a social event rather than something that is done while one is making his/her way about town. Also, the only coffee available everywhere I went was "Nescafe." You're probably familiar with it via your local 7-11. You order at a counter, then someone gives you a laminated Nescafe ticket, before you walk to the other end to pick between "Irish Cream" or whatever else there might be. This is not an isolated instance in one restaurant. It is the WAY of İzmir. I'm sure I can find some back alley espresso somewhere, and I plan to look for exactly that tomorrow after my first day of school. Tea, however, is a way of Turkish life. People stop whatever they're doing for pizza and tea, and they eat constantly. I can't keep up. My lack of eating has even inspired Zeynep, my host and employer, to go on a diet, although I'm not on one. Today she informed me she smokes one cigarette a day to help with her digestion and metabolism. She's been doing it for seven years. I haven't decided if I'm going to try that yet.
Ersin, although being terribly hyper, is a darling to me. He's incredibly affectionate and sweet, but unfortunately, screams if I use the restroom without him. He also frequently grabs at my butt and giggles. I'm not sure what is up with that. I mentioned it to his mother, and she is aware of the problem. Today his mother said that if my significant other comes to visit, he'll be quite jealous. What is it with me and four-year-old boys? He's not the first to chase after me. Some of you may know of "The Dane/Brooke Saga."
People here seem to have really positive perceptions of Americans, which is good, because the locals can spot me a mile away, primarily because I'm very tall by their standards. Additionally, I tend to wear colors other than black and brown. Zeynep says that she has had au pairs from Europe, but she finds them distant and cold thus preferring North Americans. I think Turks must be the only nationality to feel this way. Didn't a famous band release a song about how awful it is to be a North American? I believe it's called "North American Scum." Some of you may know it; my grandma probably won't.
I like my host family very much. We have a lot of family time, but I've been informed that my work hours are to be MY time with Ersin, so even if Zeynep is home, I am to punish him. Today I scolded him for hitting his mother, and he actually apologized. It's a strange dynamic. She tolerates far too much. As a result, I'm learning how to conquer his four-year-old craziness with logic. For example, Ersin has four fillings in his teeth. He wouldn't brush his teeth tonight, so I said, "Okay...that's fine. Your next dentist appointment will be like the last. Did you find that to be fun?" He grimaced and began brushing his teeth. I'm finding that either/or questions also work well - shout out to my mom and Andrea for that tip. Additionally, when he screams or throws things I ignore him. I say nothing and turn off the T.V. and stare into space. Eventually he apologizes for whatever DVD he broke, picks it up, and begins acting civilized. I'm not kidding. He breaks a DVD daily. I've demonstrated the technique to his mother, but she said she couldn’t bear to do such a thing, although she encourages my actions. Today, she came home with a comic book-type thing because he didn't scream when she dropped him off at school. She then smothered him with kisses when he cried that he had no chocolate egg and, subsequently, undid all of my evening's doings. She's a very sweet and loving mother, but the child is spoiled rotten. He still sleeps in her bed.
For those of you who wish to send me anything by mail, like a care package filled with Diet Code Red, Diet Dr. Pepper, some favorite clothes I forgot in my flurry, etc., I'll give you my address.
If you want to send me something of value, please e-mail me first. Evidently, all of our neighbors are gossiping thieves and robbers to whom I'm not allowed to speak.
Additionally, there is a difference between I/ı and İ/i. Be sure to put dots in appropriate places.
That is it for my mass update. E-mail me with your goings-on, and I'll do my best to keep in touch individually and set up a blog for the funnier details.
Sincerely,
Me, The Professional Oops
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Brukbashi Vs. France Gall
Dear Readers,
Due to my obsession with Turkmenistan’s “President for Life” Saparmurat Niyazov, also known to his countrymen as Turkmenbashi ("Leader of all Turkmen"), I’m currently a student of Turkmen language. As a result, I recently began to ponder my own rise to political power. Would I attain my position as leader of a small country through a bloody coup and later submit the masses to my wants? It’s also possible that I would be elected on a platform of reform that happens to coincide with deep-rooted eccentricity. In preparation for this great day, I offer you, dear citizens, a short preview of my decrees:
P.S. Today, I'm listening to:
Due to my obsession with Turkmenistan’s “President for Life” Saparmurat Niyazov, also known to his countrymen as Turkmenbashi ("Leader of all Turkmen"), I’m currently a student of Turkmen language. As a result, I recently began to ponder my own rise to political power. Would I attain my position as leader of a small country through a bloody coup and later submit the masses to my wants? It’s also possible that I would be elected on a platform of reform that happens to coincide with deep-rooted eccentricity. In preparation for this great day, I offer you, dear citizens, a short preview of my decrees:
- Soul patches will be officially banned.
- Sweatpants may not be worn in public without a permit. The permit will be available only to those who have medical conditions that cause their torsos and extremities to spontaneously swell.
- The official language of wider communication will be Esperanto.
- Those who use incorrect grammar in print will be bombarded by fruit in town squares.
- The national anthem will be changed to “Hey, Me I'm Riding,” and Lee Hazlewood will be named the State’s official troubadour.
- The stages of life will be renamed.
Turkmenbashi’s Stages of Life:
Child: 0 to 12
Brukbashi’s Stages of Life:
Adolescent: 13 to 24
Youth: 25 to 35
Mature: 36 to 48
Prophetic: 49 to 60
Inspirational: 61 to 72
Wise: 73 to 84
Old: 85 to 96
Oguzkhan-like: 97 and UpwardUseless: 0 to 12
Serviceable: 13 to 23
Operative: 24 to 35
Purposeful: 35 to 48
Vanquished: 49 to 60
Decomposing: 61 and Upward - Babies will be outlawed. All existing babies will be placed in really cute work camps. An exception will, however, be made for babies named Lyova.
- The birthday of my dog, Lola Piranha, will become a day of national celebration. Parades will be organized.
- It will be illegal to consume whiskey within a hundred feet of my nose.
- An embargo will be placed on Florida. No goods will be imported or exported, and travel will not be permitted. Florida will be the new Cuba!
- My comrade, Fidel Castro, will be asked to publicly address the country regarding the importance of dressing militaristically during times of peace as well as times of revolt.
- The current legal system will be replaced by an elaborate network of ropes and pulleys.
- All citizens will be forced to recite the chorus of “MacArthur Park” while facing the location of the huge, green cake monument, five times a day.
MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark,
All the sweet, green icing flowing down.
Someone left the cake out in the rain.
I don't think that I can take it,
'Cause it took so long to bake it ,
And I'll never have that recipe again!
Oh, no! - The chord progression E minor to F will be forever banned. Sorry, Metallica!
- All television narration will be performed by Bill Kurtis.
- The naming of pets after alcoholic beverages will be prohibited i.e Bailey, Kahlua, Singapore Sling, etc.
- All children’s entertainment not described as psychedelic must be made more psychedelic.
- Chewing tobacco will be illegal. If you want to chew on something, chew on bones. (Turkmenistan Daily Digest, 04.07.04)
- All plastic surgery materials will be made of glow-in-the-dark plastic for easy indentification.
Sincerely,
The Professional Oops
P.S. Today, I'm listening to:
Artist: France GallFrance Gall - 1968
Album: 1968
Label: Polygram International
Year: 1967
Bitrate: Variable Bitrate
- "Toi Que Je Veux"
- "Chanson Indienne"
- "Gare à Toi...Gargantua"
- "Avant la Bagarre"
- "Chanson Pour Que Tu M'Aimes un Peu"
- "Néfertiti"
- "La Fille d'un Garçon"
- "Bébé Requin"
- "Teenie Weenie Boppie"
- "Les Yeux Bleus"
- "Made in France"
- "La Petite (Avec Maurice Biraud)"
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Maury Vs. Gandalf
Dear Readers,
When I’m sick or have an opportunity to stay home for the day, I catch up on society’s ills and fuel my misanthropic tendencies by watching daytime talk shows. I enjoy these shows not only on a purely kitsch level, but as windows into the human soul. On that note, I’m often disgusted by what I observe, yet I continue to watch.
I recently watched an episode of Maury entitled “Burned, Shot, and Blown Up…It’s a Miracle I’m Alive!” The majority of the people on the show were the victims of truly unfortunate situations. For example, there was a three-year-old who had basically been eaten by a dog, as well as a woman who had been splattered with battery acid by an angry family member for no apparent reason. As I said before, these are truly unfortunate situations. I can’t say that I fully understand the guests’ motivations for appearing on the show, but I accept the fact that, for some people, relaying tales of woe may be a part of the healing process. Two guests, however, particularly disturbed me.
The first guest was a man named Benji, thirty-one. Benji weighed eight hundred fifty-one pounds. Before he arrived on the set, the show featured a montage of what his life was like. He was on disability, and he could barely get out of bed. He wanted to appear on Maury to share his story. When he arrived, he had great difficulty walking but managed to make it to his chair next to the host. The audience applauded as he entered the room, but they did so with understandably marked trepidation. When he was seated, he began to relay the saga of what it was like to be him. Evidently, he had a girlfriend once, and she dumped him. Maury was empathetic, and the man was rewarded for his condition. Usually when I have seen morbidly obese people on talk shows, they are there to ask for assistance with losing the weight. Perhaps they can’t afford gastric bypass surgery, or they need the emotional support of an anonymous group of people to successfully diet. I have no problem with this. I do, however, have a problem with the aforementioned man’s motivations for appearing on the show. He wasn’t asking for assistance in changing his life threatening condition. He simply had the desire to share his situation with the world. Despite his doctor’s recommendations to lose the weight, he had stubbornly survived. He had overcome his doctor’s suggestion that death was very near, and now he wanted to be rewarded.
The second guest that disturbed me was a young woman of about twenty. She was on the show because she had fallen victim to a Blair Witch Project inspired prank. People she thought were her friends blindfolded her and told her she was going to die. They also filmed the whole ordeal. In the video, the woman seemed relatively calm and perhaps a participant in the rouse. At the end of the tape, her friends placed her in a makeshift grave and pretended to slit her throat. She went along with this act and pretended to be dead, which leads me to believe she was not an innocent bystander in the prank. That’s irrelevant, though. She went on Maury to discuss the fact that she almost died. I’m not saying that she wasn’t frightened. If she wasn’t a participant, I’m sure the entire ordeal was very stressful. As stressful as it may have been, she did not almost die. She was never in any true danger, but she felt the need to share her story on the show.
There are obviously a lot of problems in America today, but three minor annoyances come to mind at the moment: the sweat pantification of our society, poor grammar, and the glorification of victimization. There is no such thing as a hero anymore. When was the last time that a hero was in the news? The answer, my friend, is 9/11. Everyone else featured in contemporary news stories has had something happen to them. The concept of the hero is dead. People who perform death-defying deeds and acts of bravery are no longer rewarded. Instead, victims of circumstance are celebrated rather than merely supported by society. (See Jessica Lynch)
When I refer to “victims,” I want to make it clear that I’m not referencing victims of abuse or violent crimes. There are many circumstances in which a victim uses his or her plight to raise awareness about important issues i.e. sexual assault. I also want to reiterate that I understand that part of overcoming life changing events may include sharing, and coming to terms, with personal experiences. This isn’t what I have a problem with. I have a problem with an eight hundred fifty-one pound man lamenting that his lost love made him fat. I have a problem with a teary-eyed girl who wants attention sitting on the same stage as a victim of sexual assault. Call me a misanthrope (although “empathetic humanist” is really more appropriate), but I’m incredibly disappointed in people and the lack of responsibility that our society condones. There’s one point I would like to make, though. It’s that my pessimistic view of the world doesn’t stem from a hatred of humankind. It’s a result of a belief that people, in general, are truly capable of more.
P.S. Today, I'm listening to:
When I’m sick or have an opportunity to stay home for the day, I catch up on society’s ills and fuel my misanthropic tendencies by watching daytime talk shows. I enjoy these shows not only on a purely kitsch level, but as windows into the human soul. On that note, I’m often disgusted by what I observe, yet I continue to watch.
I recently watched an episode of Maury entitled “Burned, Shot, and Blown Up…It’s a Miracle I’m Alive!” The majority of the people on the show were the victims of truly unfortunate situations. For example, there was a three-year-old who had basically been eaten by a dog, as well as a woman who had been splattered with battery acid by an angry family member for no apparent reason. As I said before, these are truly unfortunate situations. I can’t say that I fully understand the guests’ motivations for appearing on the show, but I accept the fact that, for some people, relaying tales of woe may be a part of the healing process. Two guests, however, particularly disturbed me.
The first guest was a man named Benji, thirty-one. Benji weighed eight hundred fifty-one pounds. Before he arrived on the set, the show featured a montage of what his life was like. He was on disability, and he could barely get out of bed. He wanted to appear on Maury to share his story. When he arrived, he had great difficulty walking but managed to make it to his chair next to the host. The audience applauded as he entered the room, but they did so with understandably marked trepidation. When he was seated, he began to relay the saga of what it was like to be him. Evidently, he had a girlfriend once, and she dumped him. Maury was empathetic, and the man was rewarded for his condition. Usually when I have seen morbidly obese people on talk shows, they are there to ask for assistance with losing the weight. Perhaps they can’t afford gastric bypass surgery, or they need the emotional support of an anonymous group of people to successfully diet. I have no problem with this. I do, however, have a problem with the aforementioned man’s motivations for appearing on the show. He wasn’t asking for assistance in changing his life threatening condition. He simply had the desire to share his situation with the world. Despite his doctor’s recommendations to lose the weight, he had stubbornly survived. He had overcome his doctor’s suggestion that death was very near, and now he wanted to be rewarded.
The second guest that disturbed me was a young woman of about twenty. She was on the show because she had fallen victim to a Blair Witch Project inspired prank. People she thought were her friends blindfolded her and told her she was going to die. They also filmed the whole ordeal. In the video, the woman seemed relatively calm and perhaps a participant in the rouse. At the end of the tape, her friends placed her in a makeshift grave and pretended to slit her throat. She went along with this act and pretended to be dead, which leads me to believe she was not an innocent bystander in the prank. That’s irrelevant, though. She went on Maury to discuss the fact that she almost died. I’m not saying that she wasn’t frightened. If she wasn’t a participant, I’m sure the entire ordeal was very stressful. As stressful as it may have been, she did not almost die. She was never in any true danger, but she felt the need to share her story on the show.
There are obviously a lot of problems in America today, but three minor annoyances come to mind at the moment: the sweat pantification of our society, poor grammar, and the glorification of victimization. There is no such thing as a hero anymore. When was the last time that a hero was in the news? The answer, my friend, is 9/11. Everyone else featured in contemporary news stories has had something happen to them. The concept of the hero is dead. People who perform death-defying deeds and acts of bravery are no longer rewarded. Instead, victims of circumstance are celebrated rather than merely supported by society. (See Jessica Lynch)
When I refer to “victims,” I want to make it clear that I’m not referencing victims of abuse or violent crimes. There are many circumstances in which a victim uses his or her plight to raise awareness about important issues i.e. sexual assault. I also want to reiterate that I understand that part of overcoming life changing events may include sharing, and coming to terms, with personal experiences. This isn’t what I have a problem with. I have a problem with an eight hundred fifty-one pound man lamenting that his lost love made him fat. I have a problem with a teary-eyed girl who wants attention sitting on the same stage as a victim of sexual assault. Call me a misanthrope (although “empathetic humanist” is really more appropriate), but I’m incredibly disappointed in people and the lack of responsibility that our society condones. There’s one point I would like to make, though. It’s that my pessimistic view of the world doesn’t stem from a hatred of humankind. It’s a result of a belief that people, in general, are truly capable of more.
Sincerely,
The Professional Oops
P.S. Today, I'm listening to:
Artist: GandalfGandalf - Gandalf
Album: Gandalf
Label: Capitol
Year: 1969
Bitrate: 160
- "Golden Earrings"
- "Hang on to a Dream"
- "Never Too Far"
- "Scarlet Ribbons "
- "You Upset the Grace of Living"
- "Can You Travel in the Dark Alone"
- "Nature Boy"
- "Tiffany Rings"
- "Me About You"
- "I Watch the Moon"
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Paternity Vs. Donovan
Dear Readers,
I’ve given you a couple of examples of what it means to be a “professional oops,” but I haven’t yet elaborated on the primary trait that defines this variety of individual. A professional oops has many interests, all of which are frequently only loosely related. Because of this abundance of interests, it can be quite difficult for the professional oops to focus his or her energy on one specific subject. With this in mind, when delegating tasks, I’m frequently forced to ask myself, “What is it that I’m truly passionate about?” I have a lot of hobbies, but what are my real interests? A few things come to mind:
A friend of mine recently applied to a Ph.D. program for biology, and I asked her what she wanted to do with her degree. She proceeded to explain a bunch of technological mumbo jumbo to me, and I think I heard “medical research” and the acronym D.N.A. in there somewhere. Whatever. My question to her, which I’m sure yours would be, too, was, “Why not get involved in paternity testing? It’s a thriving field. People are having babies everyday, and they’re having unprotected sex with multiple partners at the time those babies are conceived. It’s a necessary industry.”
One would think that she would have taken my advice into consideration. After all, I watch a lot of trash t.v. I’m very familiar with the subject. Instead, she looked at me like I was crazy, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m only trying to help her succeed in life. This is why I approached yet another biology student with the same thought. He, however, didn’t think I was being serious.
I’m sure biologists regard paternity testing in a way similar to many linguists’ views of translation. I personally have no opinion of translation because I’m not fluent in any foreign languages, but I can understand the frustration of something possibly innovative and theoretical being used for mundane purposes. The first question that a student of linguistics is always asked is, “How many languages do you speak?” In conclusion, I’m sure biologists must be asked something equally uninformed i.e. “What’s the cure for cancer?” or “Is there a god?” Perhaps a genuine interest in paternity testing is boring to the recent college graduate, but I digress.
My point, if I have one, is, why not unite families if you have the ability? Why not legally force men to take responsibility for their children if you’re scientifically able? Tell me. I want to know.
P.S. Today, I'm listening to:
Donovan - Sunshine Superman [US]
I’ve given you a couple of examples of what it means to be a “professional oops,” but I haven’t yet elaborated on the primary trait that defines this variety of individual. A professional oops has many interests, all of which are frequently only loosely related. Because of this abundance of interests, it can be quite difficult for the professional oops to focus his or her energy on one specific subject. With this in mind, when delegating tasks, I’m frequently forced to ask myself, “What is it that I’m truly passionate about?” I have a lot of hobbies, but what are my real interests? A few things come to mind:
- Paternity Testing.
- Negative Population Growth (regarding reproduction as opposed to immigration)
- Cheese
A friend of mine recently applied to a Ph.D. program for biology, and I asked her what she wanted to do with her degree. She proceeded to explain a bunch of technological mumbo jumbo to me, and I think I heard “medical research” and the acronym D.N.A. in there somewhere. Whatever. My question to her, which I’m sure yours would be, too, was, “Why not get involved in paternity testing? It’s a thriving field. People are having babies everyday, and they’re having unprotected sex with multiple partners at the time those babies are conceived. It’s a necessary industry.”
One would think that she would have taken my advice into consideration. After all, I watch a lot of trash t.v. I’m very familiar with the subject. Instead, she looked at me like I was crazy, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m only trying to help her succeed in life. This is why I approached yet another biology student with the same thought. He, however, didn’t think I was being serious.
I’m sure biologists regard paternity testing in a way similar to many linguists’ views of translation. I personally have no opinion of translation because I’m not fluent in any foreign languages, but I can understand the frustration of something possibly innovative and theoretical being used for mundane purposes. The first question that a student of linguistics is always asked is, “How many languages do you speak?” In conclusion, I’m sure biologists must be asked something equally uninformed i.e. “What’s the cure for cancer?” or “Is there a god?” Perhaps a genuine interest in paternity testing is boring to the recent college graduate, but I digress.
My point, if I have one, is, why not unite families if you have the ability? Why not legally force men to take responsibility for their children if you’re scientifically able? Tell me. I want to know.
Sincerely,
The Professional Oops
P.S. Today, I'm listening to:
Artist: DonovanWhat can I say about Donovan that you don't already know? He's secretly an elf!
Album: Sunshine Superman [US]
Label: Epic
Year: 1966
Bitrate: 192
- "Sunshine Superman"
- "Legend of a Girl Child Linda"
- "Three King Fishers"
- "Ferris Wheel"
- "Bert's Blues"
- "Season of the Witch"
- "The Trip"
- "Guinevere"
- "The Fat Angel"
- "Celeste"
Donovan - Sunshine Superman [US]
Rita Cosby Vs. Arthur Brown
Dear Readers,
I recently read in the The New York Daily News that my third favorite news host’s show is being cancelled. Yes, it’s true. "Rita Cosby: Live & Direct" is in its final days and will be terminated in early July. What’s a girl obsessed with cable news to do?
I realize that some of you may not be familiar with Rita or her work, so, please, allow me to tell you about her.
Rita Cosby is the husky-voiced, surly lot-of-woman host of MSNBC’s aforementioned show. The public first took notice of her as a anchor on Fox News where “she hosted The Big Story Weekend Edition and Fox News Live With Rita Cosby. At the time of the disappearance of Chandra Levy, Ms. Cosby broke the story about the stewardess lover, Anne Marie Smith, of Gary Condit and interviewed her for Fox. This almost definitely led to increased suspicion of Condit and the end of his political career. She ultimately left Fox after being unable to agree on a contract” (Rita Cosby).
Although her picture on Wikipedia is flattering, I don’t feel like it captures the tenacity of “Rita” in action. That’s why I’m including this picture of her that I took via television while she was covering Hurricane Katrina.
You may ask yourself why I adore this woman. The answer is: B.T.K. I found her coverage of Dennis Rader’s murder trial to be invigoratingly insensitive, a term which may require defining.
Call me overly sentimental, but I think that murder can be a sensitive subject, particularly when the topic is addressed in the presence of survivors of violent crimes. During Rita’s coverage of Dennis Rader’s arraignment, she interviewed a few of the family members of his victims. In one interview (I can’t provide an exact quote here), she said something along the lines of, “Wow. This must be the worst day of your life. Well, maybe not the worst day.” Ouch.
How is it that I find such a blatant disregard for human emotion to be invigorating? Well, you see, dear reader, I am a self-proclaimed misanthrope, but my life is usually pleasant and stable. Because of this, I sometimes require a subtle reminder as to why I have sealed my fate in such a way. Although Rita Cosby is a perfectly competent journalist, she is no humanitarian. She could, however, be the poster child for the general self-serving nature of humankind. In short, Rita Cosby and daytime talk show hosts reaffirm my misanthropic nature. No matter how grand my life may seem at any given moment, it’s important to remember that someone in some corner of the world is being exploited. Yes, I realize that this is an entirely pessimistic view of the world, but really, can you blame me?
P.S. If you’re wondering who my favorite news show host is, wonder no more. It’s Keith Olbermann, and what does he think of Rita Cosby? "Rita's nice," Olbermann wrote to a fan from his MSNBC e-mail account, "but dumber than a suitcase of rocks."
P.P.S. Today, I'm listening to:
Arthur Brown - The Crazy World of Arthur Brown
I recently read in the The New York Daily News that my third favorite news host’s show is being cancelled. Yes, it’s true. "Rita Cosby: Live & Direct" is in its final days and will be terminated in early July. What’s a girl obsessed with cable news to do?
I realize that some of you may not be familiar with Rita or her work, so, please, allow me to tell you about her.
Rita Cosby is the husky-voiced, surly lot-of-woman host of MSNBC’s aforementioned show. The public first took notice of her as a anchor on Fox News where “she hosted The Big Story Weekend Edition and Fox News Live With Rita Cosby. At the time of the disappearance of Chandra Levy, Ms. Cosby broke the story about the stewardess lover, Anne Marie Smith, of Gary Condit and interviewed her for Fox. This almost definitely led to increased suspicion of Condit and the end of his political career. She ultimately left Fox after being unable to agree on a contract” (Rita Cosby).
Although her picture on Wikipedia is flattering, I don’t feel like it captures the tenacity of “Rita” in action. That’s why I’m including this picture of her that I took via television while she was covering Hurricane Katrina.
You may ask yourself why I adore this woman. The answer is: B.T.K. I found her coverage of Dennis Rader’s murder trial to be invigoratingly insensitive, a term which may require defining.
Call me overly sentimental, but I think that murder can be a sensitive subject, particularly when the topic is addressed in the presence of survivors of violent crimes. During Rita’s coverage of Dennis Rader’s arraignment, she interviewed a few of the family members of his victims. In one interview (I can’t provide an exact quote here), she said something along the lines of, “Wow. This must be the worst day of your life. Well, maybe not the worst day.” Ouch.
How is it that I find such a blatant disregard for human emotion to be invigorating? Well, you see, dear reader, I am a self-proclaimed misanthrope, but my life is usually pleasant and stable. Because of this, I sometimes require a subtle reminder as to why I have sealed my fate in such a way. Although Rita Cosby is a perfectly competent journalist, she is no humanitarian. She could, however, be the poster child for the general self-serving nature of humankind. In short, Rita Cosby and daytime talk show hosts reaffirm my misanthropic nature. No matter how grand my life may seem at any given moment, it’s important to remember that someone in some corner of the world is being exploited. Yes, I realize that this is an entirely pessimistic view of the world, but really, can you blame me?
Sincerely,
The Professional Oops
P.S. If you’re wondering who my favorite news show host is, wonder no more. It’s Keith Olbermann, and what does he think of Rita Cosby? "Rita's nice," Olbermann wrote to a fan from his MSNBC e-mail account, "but dumber than a suitcase of rocks."
P.P.S. Today, I'm listening to:
Artist: Arthur BrownI truly believe that this is one of the darkest, most psychedelic records of the 1960s. Although it’s not overtly Satanic, the devil was surely conjured up to influence its creation. Unfortunately, though, Arthur Brown was a one-trick pony, and the rest of his records are truly disappointing, especially when compared to this moody, soulful release.
Album: The Crazy World of Arthur Brown
Label: Polydor/Track
Year: 1968
Bitrate: 320
- "Prelude/Nightmare"
- "Fanfare/Fire Poem"
- "Fire"
- "Come and Buy"
- "Time/Confusion"
- "I Put a Spell on You"
- "Spontaneous Apple Creation"
- "Rest Cure?"
- "I've Got Money"
- "Child of My Kingdom"
Arthur Brown - The Crazy World of Arthur Brown
Friday, June 23, 2006
My Arch Nemesis Vs. The United States of America
Dear Readers,
A large part of being a “professional oops” includes doing mundane things to pass time and fill the void within one’s soul. I have found four things that consistently aid me in this perpetual struggle: drinking, immersing myself in my studies, writing, and having arch nemeses. The first three are relatively self-explanatory, but the last item listed may require a bit of explanation.
I’ve been developing arch nemeses for about three years now, and their characters have been quite diverse. My first arch nemesis was rather playful. He didn’t really go against everything I stand for in this world, but he did talk a lot. You see, I can be a rather soft-spoken young woman (or, as one of my friends recently described me, “a mousy brunette”), and I'm not adept at competing for the opportunity to express my thoughts. As a result, I’m easily overwhelmed, and my pseudo-arch nemesis overwhelmed me on occassion.
Overtime, I began to realize that if I’m choosing to comically despise an individual, the person should be truly abhorrent and worthy of such an energy expenditure. Although my first arch nemesis was loud, I genuinely liked him. It just didn’t make any sense to consider him to be my arch nemesis. As a result, I began observing those around me and attempted to pinpoint one specific trait that caused me to instantly dislike people. I will now elaborate upon my finding.
I don’t like people who enjoy intentionally making other people feel uncomfortable. I spend seventy-five percent of my day in a state of discomfort. It’s not that I’m just incredibly awkward, although I am. I frequently have headaches and am tired, therefore I enjoy my six hours that are free from general anxiety. Granted, I’m usually asleep, but that’s beside the point. The point, in case I’m not making myself clear, is that I really don’t need some jackass who thinks he’s the lead in “Waiting for Godot” to ruin my day.
Now, I would like to introduce you to “Exhibit A,” a description of my third to last arch nemesis, and I must say, my most worthy opponent thus far.
It all started last spring. I had a film class with him, and he sat behind me one day and proceeded to babble incessantly in my general direction. I listened at first but later chose to ignore him in favor of listening to my curmudgeonly professor who happens to be very irritable when full attention is not directed toward her. When he realized that I was ignoring him, he intentionally threw a pencil on the ground next to my desk. Our conversation went something like this:
After class, I relayed the story to my acquaintances. Most laughed and agreed that his actions were annoying and proceeded to tell me to lighten up. I did not lighten up. My soul only darkened with anger.
A few days later, I was sitting at a local coffee shop studying when I heard a hearty laugh and a bellowing voice that I immediately recognized from my film class. I looked up, and there he was, standing with a man who looked very similar to him. They talked loudly and moved their hands about emphatically as if they were trying to impress upon the world what interesting conversationalists they were. After they exited the coffee shop, I approached Daniel, a fellow to whom I was attached, who is an employee, and proceeded to tell him that the man who had just left was the same fellow who annoyed me so much in my film class. He then informed me of two facts that would add fodder to my developing disdain:
You may ask yourself why I dislike this man with such ferocity. It’s simple, really. He thinks that his life is a Woody Allen movie. Woody Allen’s life is not a Woody Allen movie. “Bananas” may be amusing, but a life story it does not make. He finds himself so hilarious that he intentionally places others in situations that will make them feel awkward for his own amusement. When people don’t find his sense of humor to be uproarious, he shrugs off their seriousness with the belief that he is of superior intellect. This makes him my arch nemesis. Being of the state of mind that I am a superhero, he goes against everything I stand for, and I intend to fight him for the good of mankind. Now you may be wondering what I “stand for.” I stand for individuals across the land with dry senses of humor who do not feel the burning urge to force their wit upon others.
Now, in an effort to persuade you to follow my reasoning, I will describe the instance that solidified his status as my arch nemesis.
One day, I was in a Mac lab at school when I heard and recognized a familiar bellowing voice. I looked up, and there he was, standing in the doorway with his bosom buddy, gesticulating wildly and complaining about how we, the people in the computer lab, didn’t “have any culture.” The pair then preceded to walk toward the dry erase board at the front of the room. After a minute or two of conferring, the annoying man produced a note card and, looking at the note card, began to write what follows on the board:
Here’s where things get a little odd. After I declared him to be my arch nemesis, I began seeing his best friend, sans arch nemesis, everywhere. Perhaps he’s always been there - alone, and I’d just never been conscious of his presence. Two things are weird about this. The first is that until recently, I had never seen them apart, and the second is that I only frequent four places in my fair town: two bars, a cafeteria-style restaurant, and the aforementioned coffee shop. He frequents all of them. I can’t get away from him or my arch nemesis and their bellowing voices. He’s everywhere, everyday. I wish they would both just stay at home watching Monty Python movies, quoting Absurdist authors, and waxing philosophically, but alas, they cannot be contained.
Arch Nemesis Update:
A few weeks ago, my friend Adam and I were imbibing at our favorite bar when my arch nemesis’s best friend came in. I’m not sure what happened, but I lost control. I don’t know what came over me, but I couldn’t take it any more. I had to talk to him. Our conversation went something like this, although I’ve withheld his name to prevent mobs from attacking him in the street:
You may ask yourself, “Is this man still her arch nemesis?” The answer is no. The man and his best friend have gradually faded from my life due to the fact that it is no longer the school year. They have not, however, shriveled in my memory.
Due to the fact that I find it necessary to channel my hatred toward something, I’ve moved on to abstract concepts and enactors of those ideas. In conclusion, I have a new arch nemesis. Its name is “Magic.” I will elaborate on my hatred of it in a future entry. I don’t want to keep you any longer.
P.S. Today, I'm listening to:
The United States of America - The United States of America
A large part of being a “professional oops” includes doing mundane things to pass time and fill the void within one’s soul. I have found four things that consistently aid me in this perpetual struggle: drinking, immersing myself in my studies, writing, and having arch nemeses. The first three are relatively self-explanatory, but the last item listed may require a bit of explanation.
I’ve been developing arch nemeses for about three years now, and their characters have been quite diverse. My first arch nemesis was rather playful. He didn’t really go against everything I stand for in this world, but he did talk a lot. You see, I can be a rather soft-spoken young woman (or, as one of my friends recently described me, “a mousy brunette”), and I'm not adept at competing for the opportunity to express my thoughts. As a result, I’m easily overwhelmed, and my pseudo-arch nemesis overwhelmed me on occassion.
Overtime, I began to realize that if I’m choosing to comically despise an individual, the person should be truly abhorrent and worthy of such an energy expenditure. Although my first arch nemesis was loud, I genuinely liked him. It just didn’t make any sense to consider him to be my arch nemesis. As a result, I began observing those around me and attempted to pinpoint one specific trait that caused me to instantly dislike people. I will now elaborate upon my finding.
I don’t like people who enjoy intentionally making other people feel uncomfortable. I spend seventy-five percent of my day in a state of discomfort. It’s not that I’m just incredibly awkward, although I am. I frequently have headaches and am tired, therefore I enjoy my six hours that are free from general anxiety. Granted, I’m usually asleep, but that’s beside the point. The point, in case I’m not making myself clear, is that I really don’t need some jackass who thinks he’s the lead in “Waiting for Godot” to ruin my day.
Now, I would like to introduce you to “Exhibit A,” a description of my third to last arch nemesis, and I must say, my most worthy opponent thus far.
It all started last spring. I had a film class with him, and he sat behind me one day and proceeded to babble incessantly in my general direction. I listened at first but later chose to ignore him in favor of listening to my curmudgeonly professor who happens to be very irritable when full attention is not directed toward her. When he realized that I was ignoring him, he intentionally threw a pencil on the ground next to my desk. Our conversation went something like this:
Him: Will you get my pencil for me?Five minutes passed, and I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Me: No. You threw it. Leave me alone.
Him: Please…
Me: (silently grabbing the pencil and handing it to him) Here.
Him: Hey, I feel bad. I took these off your desk (handing me a stack of papers that was previously on my desk), and now I feel kind of bad because you didn’t notice. You can have these back, if you want. Do you want them back?I angrily snatched the papers from his hand, gave him a dirty look, and made an effort to ignore him ever since. He, however, made it very difficult.
After class, I relayed the story to my acquaintances. Most laughed and agreed that his actions were annoying and proceeded to tell me to lighten up. I did not lighten up. My soul only darkened with anger.
A few days later, I was sitting at a local coffee shop studying when I heard a hearty laugh and a bellowing voice that I immediately recognized from my film class. I looked up, and there he was, standing with a man who looked very similar to him. They talked loudly and moved their hands about emphatically as if they were trying to impress upon the world what interesting conversationalists they were. After they exited the coffee shop, I approached Daniel, a fellow to whom I was attached, who is an employee, and proceeded to tell him that the man who had just left was the same fellow who annoyed me so much in my film class. He then informed me of two facts that would add fodder to my developing disdain:
- The annoying man, not yet my arch nemesis, had just ordered a “bowl of steam.” He then stared blankly at Daniel, who did not respond to his searing wit, and eventually proceeded to order coffee.
- The two men are regulars who happen to be vehemently disliked by some, not all, of the staff. They always come in together, never alone, and they consistently flirt with the female baristas as they try to astonish the staff with their riotous behavior. An example follows.
You may ask yourself why I dislike this man with such ferocity. It’s simple, really. He thinks that his life is a Woody Allen movie. Woody Allen’s life is not a Woody Allen movie. “Bananas” may be amusing, but a life story it does not make. He finds himself so hilarious that he intentionally places others in situations that will make them feel awkward for his own amusement. When people don’t find his sense of humor to be uproarious, he shrugs off their seriousness with the belief that he is of superior intellect. This makes him my arch nemesis. Being of the state of mind that I am a superhero, he goes against everything I stand for, and I intend to fight him for the good of mankind. Now you may be wondering what I “stand for.” I stand for individuals across the land with dry senses of humor who do not feel the burning urge to force their wit upon others.
Now, in an effort to persuade you to follow my reasoning, I will describe the instance that solidified his status as my arch nemesis.
One day, I was in a Mac lab at school when I heard and recognized a familiar bellowing voice. I looked up, and there he was, standing in the doorway with his bosom buddy, gesticulating wildly and complaining about how we, the people in the computer lab, didn’t “have any culture.” The pair then preceded to walk toward the dry erase board at the front of the room. After a minute or two of conferring, the annoying man produced a note card and, looking at the note card, began to write what follows on the board:
How to Use a Keyboard:He then drew the first row of the keyboard. When he finished, he passed the note card to his partner in crime, and he proceeded to write the following:
- Press keys.
How to Protect Against Identity Theft:After a few minutes of watching them giggle profusely, I left. I could no longer tolerate the merriment.
- Protect your identity in public places.
- When someone asks for your social security number, give them one you’ve already stolen.
Here’s where things get a little odd. After I declared him to be my arch nemesis, I began seeing his best friend, sans arch nemesis, everywhere. Perhaps he’s always been there - alone, and I’d just never been conscious of his presence. Two things are weird about this. The first is that until recently, I had never seen them apart, and the second is that I only frequent four places in my fair town: two bars, a cafeteria-style restaurant, and the aforementioned coffee shop. He frequents all of them. I can’t get away from him or my arch nemesis and their bellowing voices. He’s everywhere, everyday. I wish they would both just stay at home watching Monty Python movies, quoting Absurdist authors, and waxing philosophically, but alas, they cannot be contained.
Arch Nemesis Update:
A few weeks ago, my friend Adam and I were imbibing at our favorite bar when my arch nemesis’s best friend came in. I’m not sure what happened, but I lost control. I don’t know what came over me, but I couldn’t take it any more. I had to talk to him. Our conversation went something like this, although I’ve withheld his name to prevent mobs from attacking him in the street:
Me: Hey, you! What’s your name?My reaction may seem a bit odd to you, dear reader, but I was overcome with terror and joy. I say “terror” because, frankly, this kid really freaks me out. I also mention “joy” because, in my spare time I had spent months crafting a carefully constructed co-impression of these two characters (the same impression was used for both), and all of my friends severely doubted its accuracy. According to them, it was too flamboyant and over the top to represent living, breathing human beings. Only Daniel had witnessed their utter ridiculousness. However, when Adam laid eyes on this individual and heard his voice, my credibility soared through the roof. I was no longer an exaggerator; I became a keen observer of human kind.
Him: (arms flailing, shoulders shrugging, voice bellowing)_____, but I can change it if you want me to. What do you want it to be?
Me: (confused and horrified)No! That’s it! That’s all I wanted to know. Goodbye!
You may ask yourself, “Is this man still her arch nemesis?” The answer is no. The man and his best friend have gradually faded from my life due to the fact that it is no longer the school year. They have not, however, shriveled in my memory.
Due to the fact that I find it necessary to channel my hatred toward something, I’ve moved on to abstract concepts and enactors of those ideas. In conclusion, I have a new arch nemesis. Its name is “Magic.” I will elaborate on my hatred of it in a future entry. I don’t want to keep you any longer.
Sincerely,
The Professional Oops
P.S. Today, I'm listening to:
Artist: The United States of AmericaThis was the only l.p. released by this female-fronted, California outfit. Allmusic describes them as being "...grounded equally in psychedelia and the avant-garde." I would have to agree.
Album: The United States of America
Label: Columbia
Year: 1968
Bitrate: 128
- "The American Metaphysical Circus"
- "Hard Coming Love"
- "Cloud Song"
- "The Garden of Earthly Delights"
- "I Won't Leave My Wooden Wife for You, Sugar"
- "Where Is Yesterday"
- "Coming Down"
- "Love Song for the Dead Che"
- "Stranded in Time"
- "The American Way of Love"
The United States of America - The United States of America
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