In honor of Back-to-School season, here are some reminiscences from my brilliant high school career. So brilliant.
What’s the point of a D+? It’s like a punch in the face followed by an insincere thumbs up. That little plus sign does nothing to ease the crushing blow of the D that precedes it. Getting a D+ on a paper or test sends the message: “You’re almost failing, but at least you’re doing it with pizzazz.”
I have never had any problems with math-as long as I didn’t have to do it. In the first grade my strategy of avoidance was simple: when confronted by homework problems which required any effort I simply wrote on the paper “I don’t know,” and left it at that. I was content to remain aggressively unenlightened throughout my career as a math student, but things changed once I entered high school, where they made me take math classes in which we used calculators that were more sophisticated than I was, and sleeker too. They were the kind of calculators you found yourself apologizing to. I had the suspicion that pressing the right combination of buttons would give you access to classified secrets from the Pentagon. I became well acquainted with the D+ in my first two years of high school. Math test after test came back with the same grade: 69. It was almost funny. Okay, it was funny.
My math teachers tried to reach me. Really they did. I was practically notorious. The department saw me as a challenge. They had never seen anything like me before, and mistook my incompetence for defiance. I was a rebel without a clue. They knew deep down that I was hopeless, and yet couldn’t resist trying again and again to get through to me. But none could tame my wild and ignorant spirit.
Have you ever been the slowest one in a ‘slow’ class? I would say that everyone should have that experience at some point, except that they shouldn’t. The worst part is that when things are going really badly in class you catch yourself saying “Well, I’m dumb, but at least I’m not as dumb as…oh.” Because you’re it, baby. Perhaps my problem lies in the fact that math, in any form, has never struck me as particularly useful or relevant to my life. I’m more interested in the underlying sexual tension between Bob and Maria than in how many pieces they’ll have to cut the pizza into so that she gets three times as much as he does and one slice goes to the dog. My memory is also highly selective. It retains only information that it thinks I will someday have a use for, like all the words to every song in The Little Mermaid. I can recite episodes of the Simpsons word-for-word, but ask me how to find the radius of a circle and I’ll fix you with a glassy stare.
My school did not require more than two years of math, and I dropped it with glee in junior year. I was the only one who did, and I was alone in my freedom during math period every day, but I didn’t care. I was too busy doing a forty-minute victory dance. What did this experience teach me? If you can’t beat ‘em, give up. It’s not worth it. And if you’re going to be dumb, you may as well be really, really dumb, because at least that makes you special. Sort of.
I am well aware that those who produce, direct, and star in bad movies are arguably less reprehensible than the people who gather in living rooms on countless Friday nights with their friends to watch them over and over. I don’t remember exactly when I first began to cultivate an appreciation for the kinds of movies whose boxes display succinct, extremely selective quotes from nameless critics saying, “…Good…movie!” I wasn’t always a connoisseur of incompetence, a lover of the badly acted and worst written. By now though, my habits are well known, and not only by those closest to me, for I’ve accumulated miles of damaging records at the local video store. None of the clerks look me in the eye anymore. It still hurts, sometimes.
Lately, however, my love of films where the font in the opening credits announces the producer in Times New Regret has led me to ask some difficult questions. “Why not try watching a quality picture, perhaps a classic, once in awhile?” I ask myself. “A movie which, when you can’t get it to play, won’t make you suspect that your VCR is malfunctioning on purpose to save you from yourself?” I also wonder whether perhaps having a decent movie or two under my belt might finally grant me the social credibility I crave. Anyone who has ever experienced a delayed and confused response from an acquaintance at a party who is waiting for you to add, “Just kidding, who could possibly think that ‘Grease 2’ is as good as the original, ha ha,” knows my pain.
I really do feel that for sheer entertainment value, you can’t beat the ill-begotten sequel to a campy 80’s classic, a sequel that can’t decide whether it’s striving to be campy, meaningful, or watchable, but which is ultimately none of the three. “Grease 2,” where high-school students are played by thirty-year-olds with tired eyes, receding hairlines and recently fired agents. Where the leading lady, played by Michelle Pfeiffer, is unaware that the lovable geek who pines for her in English class and the leather-jacketed, motorcycling bad ass who has been courting her with his cool riding, are one and the same man, because the bad ass always wears motorcycle goggles. A movie in which one of the liveliest musical numbers takes place in a bowling alley with dancing nuns as extras. You have to wonder how many of those involved mention this movie on their resumes. I wouldn’t be surprised if even the Key Grip let this one slide.
Perhaps my taste in movies is an indication of a more serious personality disorder. Rather than spending my time on intelligent, well-made movies that allow me to sit back and appreciate the art of filmmaking, I prefer to watch movies that, although I have no experience in the field of lighting, costumes, or set design, invariably have scenes that make me roll my eyes and sniff, “Look at that back-lighting. You can barely see his face. And the bathrobe Shelley Long is wearing is completely inappropriate considering her character’s insecurity with her own wealth and status. Shameful.” The feelings of superiority one experiences upon watching a Bad movie remain heady and potent; even when the movie is one in which Steve Guttenberg woos and finally wins a feisty journalist with a heart of gold by pretending to be a sexy, mysterious motorcycling stranger from New Zealand. Note how the theme of motorcycling appears to be particularly prevalent in Bad movies. The social implications are staggering.
In our new apartment in North Carolina, my desk is in the dining room. Its shelves hold our cookbooks and our drink mixing books, along with my laptop. This may have been a bad call. Now, whenever I grow restless while on the computer, I look them over and occasionally leaf through one, which leads me down roads I probably don’t need to be traveling, since they are likely to end with either a pile of warm chocolate chip cookies or a dry martini.
On second thought, this was a great idea! I’ll be right back…
Finding a job is kind of like finding a boyfriend. That is, it’s a lot more fun to talk about how you don’t have one, and how hard they are to find, than it is to send out resumes (or lurk in coffeehouses). And not having a job, like being single, definitely has its perks. Both can be enormously thrilling. The world seems full of possibility! Nothing is tying you down or regulating your habits. There is no need to call home if you’re going to be out late; no reason to set your alarm for 6:45am and crawl out of bed in the weekday morning darkness searching for a button-down shirt and office-casual pants.
But this exhilarating feeling of freedom comes at a price, particularly for the unemployed. After all, you don’t need a boyfriend. But, if you lack a trust fund, you probably need a job. And when you’re between jobs, at every moment lurks the fear that you will never find another one, or that you will never again find a job you enjoy. It is very easy, in these moments, to let panic set in. The giddy thrill of wondering if today is Wednesday or Sunday; the joys of shopping in a deserted supermarket on a weekday afternoon, can dissipate all too easily with one glance at a dipping savings account, or a moment’s consideration of anything related to health care.
Harder still, jobs are often treated all too casually by those who already have them. Your employed friends may sigh wistfully when you relate in great detail what happened to Marlena on Days. They may mention at least once per conversation how brave you were to leave your job in search of a new adventure, and how much they wish they were brave enough to do the same thing. However, deep down, you both know that they have a steady income, and you don’t. That awareness kind of puts a damper on things. Similarly, no one who is single ever really feels like hearing how lucky they are to be single from someone with a live-in boyfriend. Trust me, they know. Unless you are also single, keep those sentiments to yourself, except when they are followed by, “but I have to introduce you to my adorable friend Bob who is also lucky enough to be single.”
I have moved my blog over to WordPress.com! Welcome on my new blog. Big things are moving and shaking here. Big things!
Last night Brian and I went to our third wedding of the summer. Interestingly enough, all three weddings were for couples that had been together for around seven years. I think that seems like a good length of time to be together before you tie the knot. My parents were together for at least 5 years before they got married, thirty years ago. I’d much rather it be something where everyone says, “Oh, you’re finally getting married, good.”
Anyway! I always have fun at weddings, because I like to DANCE. That’s right, I am one of those wedding guests. I will do the bump with your grandma, I will spin your 5 year old niece around, I will slow dance with your weird uncle (probably only once though). I will take my shoes off if they hurt and keep dancing. I will do the electric slide, the Twist; I will YMCA.
And that’s the great thing about weddings, is that they are perhaps one of the few times when you are encouraged, nay REQUIRED to get out on the dance floor and shake it like no one’s watching. Nobody wants to throw a wedding where no one dances. I am just doing my part. My gift might not be pricy, but my funky chicken will be priceless.
After my last move, into Brian’s house, ten minutes away, I swore I would never move again. Well, that was a lie. I am moving in approximately a week. This time not across town, but across coast! Along coast. Something.
Brian and I are moving to Garner, which is just outside of Raleigh, NC. I am excited about this change. Excited and terrified. I go back and forth between two extremes. Moving somewhere new, starting over and making new friends and finding your way in a new city and state, is fun and scary. Quitting your job without a new job lined up is inadvisable, but it’s what I’m doing. My last day at work is Friday, and my next day of work after that is up for debate. On the one hand, I enjoy having time off of work. On the other hand, I also enjoy eating. Which of these enjoyable things will be in my future the most? We shall see!
I have begun a small side-blog.
It’s about sandwiches, because who doesn’t love sandwiches?
A few weeks ago a group of friends and I emailed back and forth for several hours about different sandwiches we had loved and eaten, and I got to thinking. I decided to start collecting a list of these different sandwiches, in order to inspire the creation and digestion of yet more new and wonderful sandwiches.
Please, email me your favorite sandwiches, to molly.schoemann@gmail.com, and I will list them here:
www.mmmsandwiches.wordpress.com
May it serve as a sanctuary for lovers of bread, cheese, and everything in between.
Hi! I’ve been away! It’s been awhile! I am sorry.
Holy Bat Museum!
I spent the last week in Louisville, KY for a conference. I have to admit that I LOVE traveling for work. At least, the traveling I have done for this job, which is the extent of my traveling-for-work experience. The only conference I go to lasts almost a week long, and the last two years, it’s been in a neat city that I never would have visited otherwise. Last year it was Minneapolis, and this year it was Louisville. Last year I ended up having dinner with a friend of the family who convinced me to start this blog, and thus was born I Heard Tell. I also toured the Walker Art Center’s Sculpture garden, home of Spoonbridge and Cherry:
Spoony spoon spoon
And visited the Mall of America. There were a total of FOUR “Lids” stores in the Mall of America. That’s right, four of the same chain of baseball hat stores in one mall. It boggled the mind. In response, I bought a Mall of America shotglass.
Conference also means a week of high-class hotel living. This year my room had two beds in it! On the first night I started out in one bed, and then hopped into the other in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. I awoke in the morning confused, but somehow smug. This room also had two sinks, but no closet or fridge.
Which leads to the downside. Hotel living is not perfect. I don’t love eating out for every meal, because I miss planning my own meals, cooking, and having a refrigerator. There is something bizarrely rustic about buying a bottle of cranberry juice and keeping it cold by storing it on a frigid air conditioning vent. And by rustic, I probably mean wasteful. You’re kind of roughing it, but not really, but you’re still not really comfortable.
You do get to expense your meals, which is exciting, although it still makes me feel guilty, because I work for a small nonprofit. Although last week one of my dinners consisted of cookies and pretzels, so I don’t think the lifestyle to which I am accustomed was really a serious drain on my company’s bank account.
During the one-week trip I suffered a fever and sinus infection. (Another thing I love about hotels is that you can pick up the phone in the dead of night and someone on the other end will tell you where you can buy Tylenol at 2am. ) I also endured a harrowing late-night illness after dinner at Joe’s Crab Shack (perhaps I should have known that I was tempting fate by ordering the crab-stuffed shrimp; in any event I’m glad I didn’t also buy a t-shirt from there because I now have enough memories from Joe’s Crab Shack).
Despite all this, I had a fun time in Louisville. It seems like a city that’s working hard to attract tourism. There were all sorts of cool museums that my convention-booth hours did not permit me to visit– although I did get a chance to peer into the windows of the bat factory at the Louisville Slugger Museum. I think I gained about as much insight and entertainment by doing that as I would have by actually going on the tour, because they’re bats.
Under the right circumstances, I get really excited about being locked out of my house.
The right circumstances mean:
-I’m wearing pants
-I have at least $5 on my person
Being locked out forces you to be spontaneous, and to fend for and entertain yourself with little more than the $5 in your pocket and the pants on your legs. Suddenly the day is full of unknowns. Anything could happen.
This happened to me the other night. I had planned on relaxing at home after a long day at work. Perhaps I’d make a martini, and see if I could cobble together a salad from the herbs I’ve been growing on the back porch (parsley, chives, oregano, basil…that salad would probably have been gross). I was even considering mowing the lawn, which is as high as an elephant’s eye. Then I realized I didn’t have my keys, and no one else was home.
It’s weird not being able to get into your own house. It makes you feel like a drifter, or a ghost, peering in the window at your unreachable possessions, freaking the dog out because he sees you and doesn’t know why you won’t come in.
After skulking around the perimeter of the house looking for an easy way in (i.e., a wide-open window with a ladder in front of it or an unlocked back door), I wandered back down the road and waited for a bus. Not THE bus, but really, any bus that would take me somewhere more interesting.
Waiting for any bus to come along and take you anywhere feels different than waiting for a specific bus to take you somewhere scheduled. It feels awesome! There you are; the wind in your hair, time on your side, destination unknown. For the first twenty minutes. Then it’s boring and annoying, just like waiting for the regular bus.
I ended up in Sullivan Square, where I drank beer, ate Indian food, and watched So You Think You Can Dance. It beat mowing the lawn.
I Heard Tell 