I interrupt regular programming this week to announce a call for stories about love.
Good love, bad love, first love, hearts-ripped-out-of-chests love, hateful love, love lessons, The One, The One That Got Away, betrayal, soul mates, whatever. It just has to be good. Moving, raw, honest, aching, dreamy... whatever tells your story.
My colleagues and I are building an anthology and we're looking for new authors. It can be a blog post you've already written or something you're composing in your head. You can also be anonymous if you'd like. Or not.
Prize: $100 (That's half an iPhone!!)
Deadline: October 31, 2009. (Isn't Halloween a fitting deadline? Better than Valentine's Day....)
Authors will be notified by November 30, 2009 if they've won. A panel of judges will make the decision.
Desired format:
Email your entry with the subject line "LOVE story submission" or something along those lines so I can tell you're not selling me "bigger stick" pills for my manhood.
You can submit more than one entry, but only one entry per author can win.
Must be a true story, not fiction. We're looking for first-person memoir type accounts. Diary entries. Soul rendering on paper. TMI, no holds barred raw emotions.
The story can be in the text of the email, or an attached PDF or Word document (not .docx).
Please include your contact info so we can notify you if you've won.We will respond to let you know we've received your submission, and then again by the first week of December to let you know if you've won or not. If you have won, we will also keep you updated on publishing information.
Let us know if you would prefer to remain anonymous.
Bonus if your piece has a title but it's not absolutely necessary.
Length: no more than, say, 10 pages. No shorter than, say, 1 page. But we're flexible on this.
More details on the panel's selection criteria:
Raw emotion should pour out of the story. What details could you add that you would be embarrassed to share with your family, friends, the public? Writing that makes you cringe and say, "wow, that was TMI and really hard to get out but it's the truth, it's what was happening to me inside." You can tell if you're going in the right direction if you would be embarrassed to share the details pouring out. Diary stuff. And one of the reasons anonymity or refuge under a pen name is offered.
I just found this old letter from sleepaway camp when I was a counselor. Kids didn't always love it when they were dropped off, as you can tell from this little girl's note:
Dear Mom,I hate this camp. I hate the showers, the food, the beds, the people, the bugs, the cabin. And I don't have enough clothes. If you signed me up for horseback riding for Monday 7/20/92, I need more pants and shorts shirts send them. I don't want to stay. PICK ME UP.I'm not eating till you pick me up. I almost through up allready from not eating I'm not taking a shower nether till when you or Dad or sombody picks me up. I'll be dirty you don't care anyway.I HATE THIS CAMP.PICK ME UP.Pamela Lynn.
I'm happy to say she did end up staying and actually enjoying the camp - most kids adjust once we showed them a good time!
When he woke, I knew something was wrong. Normally Dan's ferret would crawl out of his bed and greet me, but now he stayed put, oddly looking at me. I reached out encouragingly. "Hey there, little fella. Cooome here!" I wanted my after-nap hug.
Dan was away on a trip and I was watching his beloved ferret for a week. If you've never gotten to know one, they're kindof like a mixture between dogs and cats. They're curious, playful and, if you handle them frequently as kits, affectionate. Floyd was all of these things, the sweetest bundle of fur you could imagine.
I waited for him to come out of his bed, yet he balked. I called to him again and realized with alarm he couldn't move the back half of his body. He laboriously pulled himself up over the lip of his bed and when his hindquarters appeared, I was horrified to see that they were not only paralyzed but an eery blue color.
"Anoxia" I thought immediately.
It wasn't a stroke but the circulatory system was shutting down.
I knew he was old. I knew he was sick. But he'd been these things for a few years. I didn't know he was on the edge of death. Here Dan was hundreds of miles away on a boat in the middle of the ocean and his beloved pet, in my care, was dying.
I never had an animal put to sleep before. But I knew it had to be done or the poor little guy would continue to suffer. He refused food, a sign of pain.
I rushed to the vet with him enveloped in a soft cushioned box and sped down the road watching the glorious sunset, wondering how could death happen on a day so achingly beautiful? I turned on the radio and heard the soft melody of a song I'd never heard before crooning lyrics that echoed my thoughts.
I stayed just a little too long Now it's time for me to move on
I pulled into the parking lot and tenderly gathered the box while Floyd looked at me questioningly, his innocent face turned sweetly upward.
Goodbye yesterday, I just can't stay around
He had no idea he was dying and no idea that in a few moments, I was going to hand him to some strangers to "put him out."
Goodbye morning, sorry it had to end
I peered at him for one last look, fat drops falling silently into the box and wetting his soft fur. Then I ran inside.
You see I cried just a little too long Now it's time for me to be strong
I handed the box to the robotic clerk behind the counter. We had no local vet because the ferret usually saw Dan's veterinarian uncle. And so I was not at a place we had any relationship with.
Businesslike, I gulped back tears and handed them the ferret. They asked if I wanted to be there.
I couldn't. I couldn't stand there and watch the life drain out of him.
They say I'm hopeless
I stood in the waiting room, completely and utterly alone, fighting back waves of sadness. Why now? How am I going to break the news?
Fifteen agonizing minutes crawled by where I tried in vain not to think.
An emotionless assistant finally emerged from the back and handed me a shoebox, lid closed. "Here you go," she offered. I silently held out my credit card, a stoic pillar of sand about to crumble any second.
Goodbye yesterday, I can't take you with me
And then I turned to leave.
The face that I presented to the world, the one I thought looked strong, must have been a mask of grief and loss so transparent that a woman, a complete stranger standing in the doctor's office looked at me and kindly opened her arms for a hug. She said gently, "I've had to put a few cats to sleep, I know how it is."
Not usually prone to hugging strangers, I fell into her arms and she surrounded me with warmth. Not a pat-pat hug, but a true hug of comfort. A strangled sob suddenly escaped and I realized I'd been holding my breath. Unable to speak, I nodded to thank her for her kindness. Then I broke away and ran to the car where I could break down in private. I sobbed the whole way home.
I always wanted to thank that woman for being there for me that day when I so badly needed it.
Hello yesterday, remember how it used to be
She'll never see my blog. She'll never know how much that tiny gesture meant. But I'm writing this today as a tribute to that little creature. And to say that the kindnesses you offer strangers may matter more than you could know.
Lyrics to Hopeless by Dionne Farris
Hello morning, now when does the fun begin Goodbye morning, sorry it had to end But see I cried just a little too long Now it's time for me to be strong Hello morning, I sure missed you last night Goodbye morning, you just won't do me right I stayed just a little too long Now it's time for me to move on They say I'm hopeless, as a penny with a hole in it They say I'm no less, no less, no less, no less, no less Than up to my head in it Hello yesterday, I sure need you now Goodbye yesterday, I just can't stay around You see I cried just a little too long Now it's time for me to be strong Hello yesterday, remember how it used to be Goodbye yesterday, I can't take you with me No, no, no I can't You see I stayed just a little too long And now it's time for me to move on
I had a special gig when I was in school to provide notes for the entire class of Intro to Microbiology at the University of Maryland, a class that had so many students -- 300 -- that even the cavernous lecture hall reserved specifically for it still burst at the seams.
There were two businesses in town that each paid me $10 for my typed notes that they then sold to students. Their business philosophy was to provide notes for those who had missed class or just wanted a backup.
Is this even legal?
I have no idea. Maybe not, because neither place is still in business.
But I needed to eat, and so I eagerly tapped away after every class.
Both places told me they normally like to have a few students from each class and also typically do not hire the same person -- they want the students to have some variety. You know, in case the notes suck or something.
They made an exception in my case and thus I became the sole provider of notes for the entire class.
Awesome. I needed the money. I was working 2 other jobs and this was now a third source of income. Sweet.
Now, this happened to be the worst semester of my entire life. I was the most sleep-deprived I'd ever been. (Well maybe except for the time I was a counselor at a sleepaway camp, which is a complete misnomer if I've ever heard one, but I digress.)
I was up until the wee hours almost every night typing up reports and papers and notes after long exhausting hours at work and I dunno, something had to give, right?
I fell asleep one night right in the middle of typing. Sitting up. Fingers still tapping away.
No, my head didn't loll, my fingers didn't fall away from the keys, my shoulders and arms didn't drop. I just kept typing. I fell asleep typing, woke up typing, and continued to type until I was done and then collapsed. I never re-read the notes and so I never knew I'd fallen asleep. I handed in my notes, got my $20 and went my merry way.
Then, months later, the night before the final, I pulled out the notes. I'd thrown out my originals (what was good enough to sell was good enough to study) and saw the following:
Sleep-writing. (Click to enlarge.)
1. Transformation 2. Conjugation 3. Transduction
artificial protoplanst. Fusion and electro poradion and gun & micro injection. Profus kindks memeebrane stick and DNA transfer, elec open pores in cell sideface, gene gun -- coat projectile w/DNA & shot into cell. & hiccp injection pucure cell walls.
Know the basis of how genes are transferred (figure 9.16, pg. 261 for example).
WTF?
I typed this?
How did I not realize I'd fallen asleep? What was I trying to say?? I couldn't even make sense of it using the book.
Two o'clock in the morning and I just discovered the world's most jumbled notes ever. (Along with 299 other poor slobs, all of us probably banging our heads in a hellish synchronized solitude within a 10-mile radius from campus.)
I took the exam and got a "B" -- not bad for screwing up an entire essay question on artificial protoplansts. But is it any wonder that I still don't understand this concept?
Time for WTF Wednesday, wtf news from around the globe. I am actually flying to Seattle now so have scheduled today's posting to bring you weird news even while I travel!
This past weekend, we also went to Sedona to see the beautiful red rock formations. The city is named after the postmaster's wife, Sedona Schnebly, population around 12,000.
Sedona, AZ at the golden hour (sunset) -- look how the rocks come alive!
But even when the rocks are dull, they're beautiful. Here, monsoon clouds peak over this sandstone formation.
A tree branch arches off.
Another rock formation stark against the bruised sky.
I saw this yesterday -- the Taylor fire, about 10,000 acres have burned and about 110 people are fighting to put it out. Forest officials are not yet sure what caused it.
So, Dan is helping to build a new telescope. And he took us to go see it yesterday.
I love science. I built a website on the history of early cosmology for the American Institute of Physics a while back and so learning about Dan's work has been extremely captivating. But never having been to a telescope before, I had no idea what all that big stuff* was.
*Big stuff: [n] complex big things outside even bigger buildings consisting of large humming shapes, ductwork, wires and gnarled cabling. Origin: my beloved friend Stephanie, who inquired of our building engineer, "What's all that big stuff??" while pointing to our work's HVAC system. Or basically anything that looks like it belongs in a big laboratory with a hunchback laboring over it.)
So, here's some big stuff for you. (NO, not your genitals -- you'll have to rely on your email for those opportunities. Sorry.)
Telescope BEFORE the dome panels were added. (June 7, 2009)
And AFTER. Sunday August 16, 2009 (yesterday).
Doesn't it look like someone's house? You'd almost not know that a big 4-meter diameter telescope will be living here one day.
These are pictures inside the dome before the telescope is added.
Steve, taking a picture of the scaffolding and other big stuff.
Dan cranks open a side door.
Dan, explaining an architectural drawing of the interior.
Mirror-coating chamber.
The mirror-coating chamber is in the accessory building, a huge secondary lab where people will work on instrumentation and where the mirror will be coated with aluminum and made shiny.
Right now, the mirror's in Tucson. Eventually some nervously sweating trucker is going to have to carefully load and haul an enormous and very fragile 14 foot convex piece of glass five hours up the interstate to this room, where it will be aluminized and lifted into its rightful place as a telescope reflector.
The neat thing about this telescope is that it will be the largest in the continental U.S. and one of the largest in the world (listed in the Wikipedia in the list of telescopes under construction).
So I've been cleaning. Came across some old "WTF?" files and found this:
Can someone please explain this to me? I have a pretty good sense of humor but I do NOT get this joke. I could appreciate it if the cartoon were drawn by the editor's 3 year old but this actually looked like a publication that was trying to take itself seriously (the Funny Papers of Philadelphia and published in October/November 2001).
Help? Free spleen to the first person who can figure this out!
Today we visited Wupatki, an ancient Indian pueblo about 800-900 years old. If you're going to the Grand Canyon, stop by. This is right on the loop with Sunset Crater. Wupatki is a modern Hopi word for "big house." (So, you kickin' back in your wupatki??)
Dan photographing the pueblo ruins. About 300 people were thought to live at Wupatki.
A sunflower hangs its head at the end of its blooming season.
Isn't it amazing to imagine how many spleens lived here so long ago? It's thought that the people left when a volcano (now Sunset Crater) erupted 900 years ago. I looked at the lava fields and tried to imagine what that must have been like. And now, cozily tucked into bed posting these photos, I'm very grateful for a warm house and no need to evacuate suddenly into the night.
And my favorite: A Pennsylvania man allegedly tried to rob a retired police chief at a convention of police officers -- and was, not surprisingly, arrested. Former Chief John Comparetto, 56, had just emerged from a men's room stall when Jerome Blanchett, 19, brandished a gun and demanded cash, police said. Blanchett was promptly swarmed by roughly 300 narcotics cops at the conference. "He actually walked past a great big poster that said, 'WELCOME NARCOTICS OFFICERS,'" said Comparetto. "This is probably the dumbest guy in the state of Pennsylvania." --The Week
Fashion critic Cara and I flanking a particularly ugly shirt. No, it's not a curtain but I don't blame you for wondering.
Why are the clothes so ugly this year? Have you noticed this? Hideous, loud, obnoxious colors, maternity shapes (good god, why would we want to look pregnant if we weren't?), baggy waistlines blousing out from under the chest and patterns that shouldn't even be on bedding. Have we learned nothing from the 60s and 70s??
I need to remember this. When I am 80 and wondering was it really that bad? I want to whip out my extra-large iPhone for arthritic fingers, find proof and say yes, it really was that bad.
So because I was feeling extremely judgmental, I went undercover to assemble a collage of the ugliest clothes I could find.
It wasn't hard. I may have spent all of 20 minutes finding enough fashion blog fodder.
To compensate you for the damage you'll undoubtedly do to your eyes by feasting them on this psychedelic crap, I'm offering a free belt giveaway. To enter, post a comment and I'll have the very large and vocal doves roosting outside my window peck out the winner.
Important note: when you see the ugly clothes ON someone (besides me, because I'm just horsing around), know that these examples stood out because of their ability to transform a willowy figure into a shapeless lump. Heck, if a shirt can make an anorexic plastic torso look fat then I don't know who could pull it off!
Fashion critics, Steve and Dan on part of our mission. uglyuglyuglyuglyuglyuglyuglyuglyuglyuglyuglyuglyugly
Ugly clothes hideous clothes and ugly AND hideous clothes:
Me at left: ready to command a Spleenizistan marching band. Right: I think I just wanted to look fat and ugly. Mission accomplished!
Not only do the waistlines in these ugly dresses begin right under the boob, but the huge sashes are still not large enough to actually encircle the waist. End result? You will look pregnant.
WTF is that on the left? It's definitely not the right shape for a shower curtain. And I couldn't find the hem for a curtain rod so it definitely doesn't belong on a window. But this can't possibly be made to fit over a human body. Or at least a human body that wanted to appear attractive or professional. And seriously?? I don't think Barney would even wear the, um, thing on the right.
Rule #1. Where is the waist? A woman's waist does not begin under her breasts.
Even Maddox, manly man and creator of the best site on the internet, says:
Not sure whether you want to look fat OR pregnant?
No worries! You can have BOTH! Look fat AND pregnant in our special ladies wear.
I can't decide whether it's the "THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON DRUGS!" patterns or the shapelessness of these ugly dresses that get me. In Walmart, these would be fru-frus but here they're sold as high fashion. I'm not fooled.
You can also look thin and ugly too.
Left: wrapping paper. Middle: plastic picnic tablecloth? Right: the tablecloth that can't make up its mind whether it's celebrating July 4th or St. Patty's Day. You might get your ass kicked though for not being sure.
Is shapeless is your goal? Got it covered.
I don't understand the one on the left. Which side is up? At right: better than zebra stripes to ward off, um, EVERYONE. If you're terrified of meeting people, this is the perfect dress to activate their flight instinct and effectively render a 5-foot NO TOUCH zone around your entire body.
If I were a clothes buyer, I would kill the career of whatever fashion designer made the one on the left as sexy beach wear. Guideline: if it wouldn't appear on the cover of the Sports Illustrated bikini edition, it's not something men are fantasizing about seeing.
The NJ part of me (my roots go deep) actually does like the garish striped thing on the right. But I don't have the right fingernails to pull it off.
Someone was actually wearing the skirt on the left. It looks like a dishrag. The ugly dress in the middle looks like it belongs on June Cleaver. I thought we agreed that lime green & polka dots were better left in the 60s?
The ugly dress on the left has a bit of "bling" attached to it, what with the bone-like neckline. I could see how the middle might work if you had a huge bust, but again, the waist is made for preggers. The hideous monstrosity on the right, however, is tailored for measurements which I'm not sure actually exist on any real people. Can someone really be that large and, ahem, small, at the same time?
Um, don't answer that. I'm probably the first in line. lol. Word of advice: baby, if you've got back, like me, these are DEFINITELY not complimentary. (Perhaps that's why I'm enraged enough to devote an entire post to this meaningless and shallow subject.)
Shoes are not exempt! Look at these hideous things! I might understand the visual appeal for cruel shoes -- you want your feet to look hot (a gene I am apparently missing) -- but I'll never understand why anyone would want UGLY cruel shoes. Can someone please explain?
BTW I took an unofficial poll of the male population and 100% (both of them) agreed that a hot woman wearing a hideous shirt is still attractive. "She's just a pretty woman in an ugly shirt, is all," one said. "Clothes do come off," said the other. So maybe this enables the mistaken notion that these clothes might actually be desireable, I dunno.
I originally started this collection of toilet humor in my head. I am the pickiest freak on the planet with food. Meat on the salad bar? No. All-u-can-eat buffets? No. Deli meat 4 days old? Forget it. (Heck, deli meat in general is just gross.) Second serving of chicken an hour after dinner? Too many people breathed on it? Just bought it, not expired for a month but it smells weird anyway? I didn't see you wash your hands before touching it after you pet the dog? Wilted, slightly slimy lettuce? Rejected!
I'm not this way on purpose. I would love to eat off the floor. Life would be so much simpler if I didn't need to mentally calculate the location of every acceptable emergency bathroom within a 50-mile radius of my person. See, I was blessed with an extremely sensitive digestive system that, when challenged, exacts a revenge so complete that it will cause several deaths before allowing me to emerge reborn just a tiny bit wiser.
I am embarrassed to admit I have snuck away with my laptop to the, um, facilities. And there I would seek comfort by looking for stories of the similarly afflicted -- tales of abject misery, utter woe and deep regret over poor food choices realized too late. I've bookmarked my favorites but hell, I was inspired by LivitLuvit's TMI Thursday earlier today, "straight from the control room," (below) so I thought heck, why don't I just make a list so y'all can share.
I mean, dues WILL, and have been, paid by us all.
I should mention two important things:
1. I didn't write these. 2. They're extremely graphic. You've been warned!
"The devil came to me last night and asked what I wanted in exchange for my soul. I still can't believe I said pizza." — Marc Ostroff
So I found a bunch of old diary entries that I've been storing in a "journals" folder. These don't have dates but I can tell they're pretty old. I remember the incidents though. Much has changed but I still hate olive paint.
Tuesday
I hate everything and everybody. I hate school, I hate work, I hate being an advertising assistant for the shitty school newspaper, men suck and someone stole my jacket.
Friday
A few days ago I tried to introduce two of my friends to eachother. They both hate eachother now.
I'm sitting here in a dirty, grungy gas station where it looks like all the employees are ready to kick someone's ass. I hope it's not mine. My car failed inspection this morning and a big fat guy thrust the FAIL card in my face and boomed, "Ya FAILED 'cause ya pollutin' the environment!!" Great.
Monday
Someone at work's been requesting the free newsletter but they just can't seem to respond with the info I need when I ask. Well, they're obviously annoyed. Today they wrote, "I already sent you my address! DON'T ASK FOR IT AGAIN: 4312 Mhaghl z."
Um, what country? City? Zip? You can't just send me your street address! I guess they'll never see the newsletter.
Sunday
My benadryl itch stick leaked out all over my bag's contents on the plane. Now everything smells like sweet & sour medicine and I probably have dimenhydrinate (sp?) all over my fingers.
Saturday
I thought it was universally agreed upon that dark olive was a hideous choice in paint. Didn't we learn anything from the 60s & 70s? Yesterday in Home Depot, these people next to me poring over these hideous paint chips turned to me for my opinion. "We have a tiny room we're trying to brighten up. What do you think of this?" Um, I think you deserve to sit in a vomit-colored cell for even THINKING this hue would work.
Monday
This day could not have gone worse: 1. woke up when I was supposed to leave 2. lost my glasses and was even later 3. dumped bottle of water over in my backpack soaking checks for the bank deposit, notebook for important meeting, passenger side seat, new contract, forms, newspaper articles and phone numbers written on little slips 4. slouched too much 5. bit my tongue while eating lunch with a new staff member but they didn't see and I couldn't do anything but talk like I was brain-damaged the rest of the meal. And the day's not even over!!
Heh. These bring up a lot of memories. But aren't I right about the paint?
If you are going to pounce on some targeted thing in your workplace, please at least be hot. Otherwise, the ensuing nightmares of erasing the feel of your grisly lips are not worth the $75 of soap needed to sufficiently scrub away a month's worth of epidermal cells.
If you are attracted to someone, try to use their body language to see if they return the feelings. Note: polite eye contact is an insufficient marker of reciprocity, especially as it is a desireable trait in today's American work force. (e.g.: Someone looking at you while you are speaking does not mean they are ready to rip off their clothes, in case you missed that in social skills 101.)
If you were rejected the last 10 times you did this, think twice about the next 10 times.
If there are multiple generations between you and your object of desire, there's a good chance she will not think of you as dating material.
If you hope that your advance will ignite an animalistic well of passion deep within your target, looking like Brad Pitt puts one notch in your favor. Looking like Brad Pitt's great grandfather does not.
Having bad breath, especially if you plan to slime someone's face, is also extremely unhot. At least pop a breath mint before your predatory leap.
If you hold a position of prestige and power and will be ashamed if you are found out, maybe it's not a good idea to repeatedly throw yourself at scores of the unwilling.
If you are found out, it's your own damn fault. Stop doing it.
If you are being let go because of your predatory ways, maybe you shouldn't be snagging one last victim as you're tripping out the door.
It is unwise to mistake empathy and compassion for passion if none of the other signals mesh (also usually covered in social skills 101).
Even though I had corks stuffed up my nose this weekend, we still managed to get out and about. Here we're exploring the Coconino National Forest. (I know, I know -- wasn't that hot? Blame the sexy image unwillingly seared onto your brain by the delirium brought on from my sinus infection.)
Fire in the distance
A fire had just started. Fire's an ever-present danger in dry Arizona (and Northern Arizona, where I am -- Flagstaff -- is actually much better than the rest of the state).
Dan snaps a photo of the smoke.
Fire also visible at the Grand Canyon.
You can actually see fires at the Grand Canyon in the distance (about 70-80 miles away) -- one at the North Rim and one at the South Rim (separated by about 13 miles).
Lightning strike scars a tree.
The Coconino National Forest in & surrounding Flagstaff, Arizona is one of the largest contiguous ponderosa pine forests in North America. Lightning scarred trees line the landscape. If there's any doubt as to whether lightning strikes or how often, just wander into the mountains and just look around -- trees like this abound. (Watch the forecast AND the sky though! You don't want to see it firsthand!)
Macro shot of a downed tree.
I love the symmetrical lines of wood.
Me photographing pretty yellow flowers.
The fruits of my labor!
Another bud reaches up for the sun.
Flagstaff is lousy with these gorgeous yellow flowers. They're all over the place -- in the woods, on the side of the road, everywhere.
Leaning against a burnt trunk stump, the casualty of another fire.
Dan next to the impressive root system of a downed pine.
I interrupt regular programming this week to announce a call for stories about love.
