by George Bilgere
Someone's taken a bite
from my laptop's glowing apple,
the damaged fruit of our disobedience,
of which we must constantly be reminded.
There's the fatal crescent,
the dark smile
of Eve, who never dreamed of a laptop,
who, in fact, didn't even have clothes,
or anything else for that matter,
which was probably the nicest thing
about the Garden, I'm thinking,
as I sit here in the cafe;
with my expensive computer,
afraid to get up even for a minute
in order to go to the bathroom
because someone might steal it
in this fallen world she invented
with a single bite
of an apple nobody, and I mean
nobody,
was going to tell her not to eat.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Ode to Chocolate
by Barbara Crooker
I hate milk chocolate, don't want clouds
of cream diluting the dark night sky,
don't want pralines or raisins, rubble
in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee
black, my beer from Germany, wine
from Burgundy, the darker, the better.
I like my heroes complicated and brooding,
James Dean in oiled leather, leaning
on a motorcycle. You know the color.
Oh, chocolate! From the spice bazaars
of Africa, hulled in mills, beaten,
pressed in bars. The cold slab of a cave's
interior, when all the stars
have gone to sleep.
Chocolate strolls up to the microphone
and plays jazz at midnight, the low slow
notes of a bass clarinet. Chocolate saunters
down the runway, slouches in quaint
boutiques; its style is je ne sais quoi.
Chocolate stays up late and gambles,
likes roulette. Always bets
on the noir.
I hate milk chocolate, don't want clouds
of cream diluting the dark night sky,
don't want pralines or raisins, rubble
in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee
black, my beer from Germany, wine
from Burgundy, the darker, the better.
I like my heroes complicated and brooding,
James Dean in oiled leather, leaning
on a motorcycle. You know the color.
Oh, chocolate! From the spice bazaars
of Africa, hulled in mills, beaten,
pressed in bars. The cold slab of a cave's
interior, when all the stars
have gone to sleep.
Chocolate strolls up to the microphone
and plays jazz at midnight, the low slow
notes of a bass clarinet. Chocolate saunters
down the runway, slouches in quaint
boutiques; its style is je ne sais quoi.
Chocolate stays up late and gambles,
likes roulette. Always bets
on the noir.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Stairs Stairs Stairs
Total number of falls since Tuesday: 5
Total number of near misses since Tuesday: Infinite
I have mostly changed my attitude about this whole foot thing. I prayed a lot about it and I honestly don't feel that bad. I got the job which is a huge relief and the pain is kept at bay by a plethora of highly skilled pain meds and mostly I am optimistic about life and feet related issues. The stairs in Chicago threaten to undue all of this.
I HATE STAIRS! Crawling up them is degrading. Sliding down them on my butt means dirty clothes and letting the taxi driver gawk at my underwear. Hobbling down them on crutches caused fall #1 and 4. Waiting for Matt to carry me up and down is not practical and not fair to Matt. THERE IS NO WAY TO WIN! Mostly, I would like to hire someone to carry me up and down stairs... and drive my car... and hold me upright in the shower... and do my dishes, though that is not foot specific.
If you would like to be considered for the job, please submit resume/the amount you can bench.
Total number of near misses since Tuesday: Infinite
I have mostly changed my attitude about this whole foot thing. I prayed a lot about it and I honestly don't feel that bad. I got the job which is a huge relief and the pain is kept at bay by a plethora of highly skilled pain meds and mostly I am optimistic about life and feet related issues. The stairs in Chicago threaten to undue all of this.
I HATE STAIRS! Crawling up them is degrading. Sliding down them on my butt means dirty clothes and letting the taxi driver gawk at my underwear. Hobbling down them on crutches caused fall #1 and 4. Waiting for Matt to carry me up and down is not practical and not fair to Matt. THERE IS NO WAY TO WIN! Mostly, I would like to hire someone to carry me up and down stairs... and drive my car... and hold me upright in the shower... and do my dishes, though that is not foot specific.
If you would like to be considered for the job, please submit resume/the amount you can bench.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Captain Ahab strikes
I should have seen it coming all year. The unemployment, inclement weather, multiple traffic incidents and the numerous other spiteful acts that Chicago has committed in a desperate attempt to destroy my will and kill my drive. All of those things would have made a lesser woman quit altogether, but not me! They have glanced off my glistening white back. Until today, when I was brutally harpooned by my apartment.
I had a dream last night that both of my feet were chopped off. The dream was much more convoluted and twisted than simply that but suffice it to say, it disturbed me enough that I decided to tell my roommate Amy this morning. Literally, the moment I finished telling her, I pivoted in my dining room to go get dressed and impaled my right foot on a 6 inch piece of floor board that had decided to permanently lodge itself in my foot.
This post is not for the faint of heart.
I promptly started screaming "I am not okay!" as Amy had the presence of mind to slap my hand away from trying to pull the thing out. It's hilarious now but I can't properly articulate the physical and mental anguish of seeing that puppy burrowed in my delicate alabaster. Anyway, we decide to go to the ER, well Amy decides and I, still hollering, start towards the door. To those of you who don't know, I live on the third floor of a building with no railings. So using Amy as a crutch, I haphazardly hop down the three flights and free-hop (should be an Olympic sport) to the car. 10 blocks and a billion hysterical sobs later, I am admitted to the ER and start getting pumped with morphine and that stuff.
Honestly, everyone was so nice, and Amy was a total rockstar. The only thing I hated, besides the excruciating pain, long wait before surgery, nausea and IVs, were the LAME med students who were so excited to see this piece of wood protruding from my foot that they almost wet themselves. That is hardly an exaggeration. Every 5 minutes or so, a med student would pop my curtain open, delightedly exclaim how bad it looked and give me their prognosis based on their 2 semesters of med school.
The morphine was great but I didn't get into surgery until 5 hours later. The surgery went great-- they cut me open and gave me 20 lovely stitches on the bottom of my foot, all of which I was oblivious to, thanks to the killer anesthesia. It made me nauseous and I freaked them all out by developing chills and puking but hey, you can't have everything. I was released 3 hours later with a bulky, numb and useless foot, instructions not to drive for 3 weeks, and equally useless crutches.
All of this time I was missing my second day of work and thanking God that I purchased health insurance this month.
Ok ok. I know that all hipster blog cred stems from the ironic, insincere and banal but I must be honest in admitting that I am so frustrated, scared and in pain. I'm frustrated because I don't know how in the world I will survive on crutches when I live on the top floor. My boss met me at my house to give me the stuff I missed and Matt had to literally carry me up the steps to meet him. It was frustrating, humiliating and I am miffed as to how I am going to do it myself. I am scared because I don't know how I'm going to pay for the taxi I will have to hire everyday to take me to and from work, not to mention my hospital bills. I am in pain because my effing foot was impaled and all they gave me was Tylenol with codeine. I want to leave and not look back.
Eff you Chicago.
I had a dream last night that both of my feet were chopped off. The dream was much more convoluted and twisted than simply that but suffice it to say, it disturbed me enough that I decided to tell my roommate Amy this morning. Literally, the moment I finished telling her, I pivoted in my dining room to go get dressed and impaled my right foot on a 6 inch piece of floor board that had decided to permanently lodge itself in my foot.
This post is not for the faint of heart.
I promptly started screaming "I am not okay!" as Amy had the presence of mind to slap my hand away from trying to pull the thing out. It's hilarious now but I can't properly articulate the physical and mental anguish of seeing that puppy burrowed in my delicate alabaster. Anyway, we decide to go to the ER, well Amy decides and I, still hollering, start towards the door. To those of you who don't know, I live on the third floor of a building with no railings. So using Amy as a crutch, I haphazardly hop down the three flights and free-hop (should be an Olympic sport) to the car. 10 blocks and a billion hysterical sobs later, I am admitted to the ER and start getting pumped with morphine and that stuff.
Honestly, everyone was so nice, and Amy was a total rockstar. The only thing I hated, besides the excruciating pain, long wait before surgery, nausea and IVs, were the LAME med students who were so excited to see this piece of wood protruding from my foot that they almost wet themselves. That is hardly an exaggeration. Every 5 minutes or so, a med student would pop my curtain open, delightedly exclaim how bad it looked and give me their prognosis based on their 2 semesters of med school.
The morphine was great but I didn't get into surgery until 5 hours later. The surgery went great-- they cut me open and gave me 20 lovely stitches on the bottom of my foot, all of which I was oblivious to, thanks to the killer anesthesia. It made me nauseous and I freaked them all out by developing chills and puking but hey, you can't have everything. I was released 3 hours later with a bulky, numb and useless foot, instructions not to drive for 3 weeks, and equally useless crutches.
All of this time I was missing my second day of work and thanking God that I purchased health insurance this month.
Ok ok. I know that all hipster blog cred stems from the ironic, insincere and banal but I must be honest in admitting that I am so frustrated, scared and in pain. I'm frustrated because I don't know how in the world I will survive on crutches when I live on the top floor. My boss met me at my house to give me the stuff I missed and Matt had to literally carry me up the steps to meet him. It was frustrating, humiliating and I am miffed as to how I am going to do it myself. I am scared because I don't know how I'm going to pay for the taxi I will have to hire everyday to take me to and from work, not to mention my hospital bills. I am in pain because my effing foot was impaled and all they gave me was Tylenol with codeine. I want to leave and not look back.
Eff you Chicago.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
SSGT BABY!
Effective April 1, 2010, Senior Airman Allison Morris of the 133rd Air National Guard Logistics Readiness Squadron is promoted to the level of SSgt. She acknowledges and swears to uphold the duties and responsibilities consummate with her rank. We think she's kick ass.
Or something like that.
I haven't read the official order, but I doubt it will read quite like that. However, while I haven't had my official promotion ceremony yet, my promotion is official and I'm a STAFF SERGEANT! No longer will I cow-tow to obnoxious NCO's and do menial grunt work. Actually, I will most likely still do both of those things but I will get paid better to do them and that's all we can really ask for, right?
Today was my "Outstanding Airman of the Year for the State of MN" awards ceremony. While there are many things I have disliked about this award: the increased pressure, the spotlight, dry cleaning my dress blues, wear my dress blues, worrying worrying worrying; today was special. Pictures to follow but it was really wonderful to see all the hardware (i.e the big wigs) lining up to reward me and a few nco's for simply working hard. That is cool. Go Air Force. It was really cool to have my dad and supervisors there. For a crappy year where every move feels cemented in failure, this was a neat day. Plus, I got a kick ass medal: the Minnesota Commendation Medal. Wikipedia doesn't have a picture of it but believe me, it adds a nice touch to the fruit salad.
AND I GOT PROMOTED! My commander handed me a folder with all of the individual letters that constituted my awards package. In it was a handwritten note. "Dear SSgt Morris"...
she had me at hello.
PLUS, I think I have figured out "The Next Step". Stay tuned, preferably with baited breath to hear how this mid western, red headed, SSGT (!), pulls herself out of the muck yet again and finds a way out of this place.
Or something like that.
I haven't read the official order, but I doubt it will read quite like that. However, while I haven't had my official promotion ceremony yet, my promotion is official and I'm a STAFF SERGEANT! No longer will I cow-tow to obnoxious NCO's and do menial grunt work. Actually, I will most likely still do both of those things but I will get paid better to do them and that's all we can really ask for, right?
Today was my "Outstanding Airman of the Year for the State of MN" awards ceremony. While there are many things I have disliked about this award: the increased pressure, the spotlight, dry cleaning my dress blues, wear my dress blues, worrying worrying worrying; today was special. Pictures to follow but it was really wonderful to see all the hardware (i.e the big wigs) lining up to reward me and a few nco's for simply working hard. That is cool. Go Air Force. It was really cool to have my dad and supervisors there. For a crappy year where every move feels cemented in failure, this was a neat day. Plus, I got a kick ass medal: the Minnesota Commendation Medal. Wikipedia doesn't have a picture of it but believe me, it adds a nice touch to the fruit salad.
AND I GOT PROMOTED! My commander handed me a folder with all of the individual letters that constituted my awards package. In it was a handwritten note. "Dear SSgt Morris"...
she had me at hello.
PLUS, I think I have figured out "The Next Step". Stay tuned, preferably with baited breath to hear how this mid western, red headed, SSGT (!), pulls herself out of the muck yet again and finds a way out of this place.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Things I Have Learned this Year
Today, while griping about the frustrations of this past year, my bff (no really) encouraged me to list the top three things I have learned this year. I'm not sure if these are the top three things I have learned, but they are the top three that came to mind.
1) Invest in cheese
As superfluous as this sounds, I am absolutely serious. Before this year, I had been content with kraft singles, jewel brand mozzarella and powdered Parmesan. No longer. The first week I moved in, my roommate Laura brought home a block of fresh Parmesan. The moment it touched my lips, I was a believer. Since then, I invest in fresh mozzarella balls, circles of brie and gouda of all shapes and sizes. Not only does it transform my meals, it is a really small way of feeling like I am taking care of myself and somehow, investing in myself.
2) There are times when it is ok to disregard the advice of my friends and family since I am the one who has to live with my decisions.
Yeah, this is a hard one for me. I love having options and hate making decisions. Too often I allow my friends and family to overly influence my decisions. At times, I forget that I'm the one who has to live with them so I need to consider them for myself.
3) I can't rule out options until I've first identified my fears and decided whether or not they are rational.
Another hard one for me. But, in order not to get permanently blocked by my fears, I have to consider all of my options. This year has felt like such a disaster... but it's forcing me to consider things I had never thought possible such as joining the military as an Arabic translator, and trying to find a way to join a PRT in Iraq. These things could be the very things I need to be considering but I've been trapped by my fear of not being in control.
1) Invest in cheese
As superfluous as this sounds, I am absolutely serious. Before this year, I had been content with kraft singles, jewel brand mozzarella and powdered Parmesan. No longer. The first week I moved in, my roommate Laura brought home a block of fresh Parmesan. The moment it touched my lips, I was a believer. Since then, I invest in fresh mozzarella balls, circles of brie and gouda of all shapes and sizes. Not only does it transform my meals, it is a really small way of feeling like I am taking care of myself and somehow, investing in myself.
2) There are times when it is ok to disregard the advice of my friends and family since I am the one who has to live with my decisions.
Yeah, this is a hard one for me. I love having options and hate making decisions. Too often I allow my friends and family to overly influence my decisions. At times, I forget that I'm the one who has to live with them so I need to consider them for myself.
3) I can't rule out options until I've first identified my fears and decided whether or not they are rational.
Another hard one for me. But, in order not to get permanently blocked by my fears, I have to consider all of my options. This year has felt like such a disaster... but it's forcing me to consider things I had never thought possible such as joining the military as an Arabic translator, and trying to find a way to join a PRT in Iraq. These things could be the very things I need to be considering but I've been trapped by my fear of not being in control.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Country Music and Patty Griffin
The other night, I was spewing my normal diatribe against country music when one of my guests indignantly challenged me to increase my exposure, and then try to hate country music. While I have no doubt that Keith Urban will always cause the little hairs on the back of my neck to raise in protest, Patty Griffin may be changing my mind. What a voice! What a song!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)