Grandma Meg

When I was young, I never wanted to leave Grandma Meg’s house. In order to coax me from her side and into the car, my parents would have to appease me with a plush refrigerator magnet that happened to greatly resemble Grandma. I would clutch the magnet, christened Little Grandma Meg, so I would miss her little less on the ride home.

It’s no mystery why I would never want to leave her. Some of my best memories come from simple summer evenings at her house. One of the few times I’ve laughed until I cried was on her back porch playing Yahtzee. I accidentally picked up the dice and put them in my cup of Pepsi instead of the game’s red cup. We laughed so hard at my silly mistake. That was one of the reasons Grandma was so great: she could have fun doing the smallest, simplest things.

I loved going shopping with her. There was never a person more at home perusing the racks at a department store. She could spot a deal as soon as she walked in the door and had eye for the most perfect purchases. Soon after my family moved back closer to home after living for awhile in Texas, Grandma wanted to take me shopping for back to school clothes. I was nervous at first because the distance had made me forget the intricacies of her character. Without the buffer of my parents, I was afraid it would be awkward. That was a foolish fear.

She flitted from rack to rack, holding up a shirt or a dress against my body and seeing immediately whether it was up to par. She chose clothes I would never pick out myself, but they would always end up being my favorite outfits. Soon, my friends at school were following up any compliments on my outfit with “was that a Grandma Meg purchase?” She was the trendiest Grandma anywhere. Soon I remembered the person I was so attached to, hilarious, happy, and loving. Her love and compassion never left any room for awkwardness.

When time for my senior prom rolled around, I knew exactly who to call. We all tried to keep up with her as she searched through hundreds of dresses. Annoyed at my hesitance to try anything on, she heaped my arms with beautiful gowns. Eventually, she draped an amazing black dress over my arms at an expensive specialty store. Of course, I loved it, and so did she. But the price tag was shocking. Still, Grandma had found the dress we were meant to buy, and we were not leaving the store without it. “What about Dad?” I asked, concerned for his cardiac health. “Don’t worry about him,” she said, waving her hand dismissively, “I will take care of him.” And so I got my perfect dress, and I felt wonderful in it all night.

Grandma always knew what would make you happy, and she wouldn’t rest until she did everything she could for it to happen. Compassionate to a fault, she was always worried about everyone else’s welfare before her own. She loved giving. Many times, if we visited her just before the holidays, she wanted to give us our gifts right then. She wanted to work so hard to make us happy, but the truth is she didn’t need to. All she had to do was be there, and maybe give us one of those warm, loving Grandma Meg hugs.

She was always up for anything. How many grandmothers would plunge down a waterslide at maximum speed, her purple swim suiting earning her the nickname “Meg the Missile”? How many would take on the streets of New York City, posing in character with a Dracula double in the wax museum and showering street hustlers with money because she was just that nice? ow mHowHow She would go anywhere, do anything, and always have a good time doing it. She loving traveling and having good stories to tell and spending time with her family.

Now I need my little Grandma Meg more than ever. I don’t know whatever happened to that little magnet, but I have the equivalent with me everywhere I go. I have the memories of her love and laughter preserved forever in my mind and heart. The taste of Pepsi and Mentos, the crinkle of shopping bags, the clean flowery smell of her house, and the sound of shuffling cards about to be dealt in a round of rummy will always remind me of the many cherished memories I’ve made with her. I could fill up a hundred files writing out all the good memories she helped make and those memories will help me and all my family go on living in a world without Grandma Meg. It devastates me that she won’t be there for my high school graduation, but I know she was so proud of me, and I will think of her as I walk across the stage. She always liked to point out the characteristics in me that seemed to come from her: picky and peculiar eating habits, affinity for shiny jewelry, being tight with money. I’m glad to know that I can carry on little bit of her because I know the world was a better place for having my Grandma Meg in it.

Of Blogs and Blogging

Bloggers, on average, are irritating people. They're usually self-absorbed, thinking people care about what they ate for breakfast and saw on the drive to work. They're usually egotistical, thinking their previously under-appreciated writing talents will one day be discovered. They're usually annoying, whiny people who the internet afforded a place to whine annoyingly.

But not all of them. Some just like having an outlet to write in. If you stop writing with an audience in mind, then the writing becomes more worthy of an audience. People can tell when things are thinly veiled attempts at catering to readers who really don't exist. Some people are just passionate about a subject and need a place to pour all the creative energy their hobby or lifestyle creates into something outside of themselves. Others blog to chronicle their own lives; there's something interesting about watching yourself progress, month by month, along the sidebar of the blog.

But the former types of bloggers give bloggers everywhere a bad name. It's easy to dump on the idea, and it's easy for the concept to become another technology-created narcissistic fad. The only real way to save it from being such a thing is to use it in a more meaningful way.

Sure, I could type all these thoughts onto a word document in my computer, but I know I wouldn't write with such regularity (arguably regular, anyhow) without such a specific place to go to write. That date on the blogger dashboard shows me how long it's been since I've sat and thought about where my mind is at (which seems kind of odd... thinking about where your mind is at, but that's truly what it feels like). It's easy to get caught up in the humdrum of life and forget to think about anything at all. I don't think there's anything narcissistic about evaluating life from time to time, and I know I can't do that effectively without writing.

Writing is so, so precious, and blogs are one of the few places on the internet that really allow the good, productive sort of writing. It takes no thought to write a 140-character "witticism," but it takes thought to plan out an entire blog entry. If only people would write thoughtful blogs, and people would give thoughtful blogs a chance, they could be something meaningful. But the internet is not the place for anything meaningful much, and it's overly idealistic to think that could happen.

I follow quite a few blogs and a few them are truly good. The people writing them are the sort of people I might like to know in real life, but since I can't, I can reap the benefits of their thoughts and productivity and insight through blogger. I don't see how that can be anything but good.

When I go off to college, I will probably retire this blog. It only seems fitting to let it sit as the person writing it will invariably be different. I don't know if I will start another one. Part of me thinks I will definitely need to, more than I do now, and part of me thinks it will just seem like something time-consuming and in the way. I guess I will know when I get there. For now, I will keep writing and reading because I can't help but feel there is just something inherently important in it all.

Passionate People

Sometimes, I think there's nothing so great in the world than a person who is passionate about something.

There's something enchanting, attractive, magnetic about a passionate person. They're the people that people gather around. They inspire the groups that inspire change. People want to be where the action is, and sometimes you can just feel potential radiating from people.

That's why local news channels always feature "hometown heroes"--people pursuing passions in their little communities, with captivated local audiences looking to them to see some good in the world. End the newscast on this happy note, and people will associate the station with passionate people.

Maybe my life is just a pursuit of these individuals. By putting yourself in proximity, you can hope for a little of their magic to rub off on you. I attended gifted programs in elementary school taught by passionate people and ended up with a passion for reading. My high school was created by a group of passionate people, and I ended up with a passion for education. I've always been a compulsive club-joiner; I like the feeling of sitting in a room of people with a common purpose and understanding, all working towards the same goal. When everybody comes together to create something successful, each person adding something that wouldn't have been there without them, it sparks little seeds of passion in all the participants.

Every day, I grow a little more sure that I'm supposed to be a teacher. Teachers are in a prime position to notice sparks of passion in students and ignite them. And maybe they'll rub off a little on me, too.

Another Letter

Dad,

You have to know this is ridiculous. You have to. I refuse to believe otherwise.

I'm obviously old enough to know parents aren't perfect, and I can see your faults clearly. But I shouldn't have to see them all at once, and they shouldn't be doing what they're doing to Mom right now. Or me. I don't care what twisted logic is going on in that head of yours; we don't deserve this.

I know you well enough to guess why you're so mad.

You think we're disappointing. We're cramping your style. We can't live up to your standards because we can all only hope to be as efficient and perfect as you are.

You know what you sound like? What you're acting like? A teenager.

I am a teenager, and I know this is stupid and immature. Nothing ever gets worked out by locking your bedroom door and blasting Simple Plan, but you're doing the grown man equivalent right now.

Maybe some of your problems are legitimate. Your mother is slowly dying, and you don't know how to deal with it. Well, it's killing me as much as it's killing you. I think about it all the time. Do you think I can deal with it on my own? Don't you think I need you? Don't you think you might need your family too?

Oh but we're just burdens now. Mom is fat, Zack can't do his homework, and I don't keep the kitchen clean enough for you. If those are really the worst problems you have, shouldn't you feel pretty freaking lucky?

I've been the easiest child to raise. I'm self-motivated, pretty self-sufficient. I'm going to one of the best universities in the state. I respect my parents; I love my brother. I would do anything for any of you. I've never caused a bit of trouble. I don't deserve to be shut out.

I used to attribute a lot of my success to you, but I have to rethink that. It scares me because I'm so much like you, but I never want to be this version of you. I don't want to hurt people who I supposedly love because I'm vain and selfish.

The worst part is you'll never understand why this hurts me so much. You'll never understand that you're wrong. Everything you're doing is wrong. You'd probably think I'm silly, over-reacting. Nobody can be right because you're right. Always.

Well, you're not. I'm already losing my grandmother sooner than I'd thought. Please don't make me lose you too, because I don't think I can deal with that. I will always love you, but I don't always have to respect you. Respect is earned, even from children.

My whole world is changing in a few months. I need something to be the same, concrete, dependable. The one thing I thought I could always depend on, my father, suddenly isn't so dependable. That just isn't fair to me.

I didn't do anything wrong. I don't deserve this. Please stop.

Samantha

Live From New York...

Tina Fey is a small contributor to my horrible posting habits. A small one. Most of it can be attributed to laziness and an uninspired existence.

I spent much of this weekend ignoring my homework by watching episode of episode of 30 Rock on Netflix. Though I watched all of these episodes when they originally aired, they're just as entertaining the second time around.

Perhaps it was this Tina-filled marathon that prompted me to further ignore my homework by watching a documentary-ish feature on VH1 (for some reason?) about Saturday Night Live in the years 2000-2010. Knowing Tina was a writer during some of this time, I had to watch it.

I've always kept up relatively with SNL, but haven't been a faithful watcher since Tina departed. I mostly tune in now when there's a host a like (Elton John on April 2nd!); I'll catch the popular sketches on the internet later. But this documentary renewed my fallen interest in the variety show.

SNL, having been around for a bazillion seasons, is much more culturally relevant than jumpstarting the careers of some our most popular comedians. Each episode serves as a time capsule of sorts. The people and events the show parodies weekly are very topical and very temporary. I won't get many of the jokes from the episodes in the 80's, because largely, you had to be there. Even Tina Fey's famous Sarah Palin sketches aren't as funny if you haven't seen the original (and hilarious in their own right) incidents.

Yet, reruns of SNL are a Saturday television mainstay and many of the characters and lines stay in the pop culture conscious long after the events that spawn them.

The documentary suggested that this was because SNL serves as the people's voice. Like my favorite Molly Ivins said, "Satire is traditionally the weapon of the powerless against the powerful."

This is illustrated best by the first episode after the tragedy on September 11th. SNL was particularly affected, being so close to Ground Zero. Nobody felt very funny that week, especially those who were still breathing the smoke on their daily commutes.

But SNL had to go on. The first joke was told by none other than Rudy Guiliani, surrounded by a few firemen (with ashes from the site still clinging to their clothes), and the tension broke, and the funny could happen again. Though the laughter may have felt unnatural for awhile, SNL pushed the nation a little further towards normalcy.

People say SNL sways elections, which they vehemently deny, and they tend to occasionally piss off Mark Walhberg. But there's no denying that it's been on air for so long for a reason. Maybe they don't sway votes, but they get people to google "David Paterson." And in this day and age, that's a pretty good accomplishment.

There Are Places I Remember...

I know this is roughly the same topic I always write about, but hey, it's my life. Whatcha gonna do?

I feel like a baby bird getting tossed out of a nest. It's necessary, and I want to do it, know I have to do it, and know it'll be wonderful being able to fly. But before you can leap, you have to sever connections with everything inside that nest.

My nest is considerably bigger than a baby bird's.

It feels like life sort of makes these disconnects for you. Lately, I've been feeling more disconnected than I used to be from everything and everyone. At first, I was sort of depressed about that feeling, like it indicated some kind of failure on my part to keep in touch. Then I started thinking it was just me being beaten into sad monotony by the same life I've lived for five years. But now I sort of think it's just me subconsciously preparing for leaping out of the metaphorical nest. It's a lot easier to jump if the things that hold you back aren't holding on quite so tightly anymore.

I figured this out when I noticed myself becoming irrationally annoyed at the few things that haven't really changed. It seems as though they're stuck in the past, and they need to hurry up and join us in the future. I couldn't really pinpoint why they became annoying; they just were.

It is still a little depressing though. I don't talk to the same people I used to talk to every day, and if I do, conversation seems superficial, separate, obligatory. It's only natural to miss people, and it's perfectly possible to miss somebody you see every day. It's like my relationships are preparing themselves to downgrade to the Christmas card level they'll soon be reduced to.

Tonight, I sat at my grandma's kitchen table and looked through the photo albums that captured three generations' worth of life. In the pictures of my dad's youth, he was surrounded by people he never talks to anymore. The people are so happy in the pictures, so unaware of the diverging paths they're about to walk down. The closeness of the relationships are captured on the photo album's page even if they don't exist in Dad's current reality.

Most of the pictures had a story behind them. These are the parts that truly matter. All of these people left some sort of impression on Dad, whether it's an anecdote he still tells from time to time or a life lesson learned hard. I suppose the people, for the most part, are making the transition from my reality to my photo album. They're anecdotes and lessons learned. Through that, they'll always exist at their full intimacy in my life. I will remember them for what they were then, and only partially for what they are now and what they will become.

I'm sad, but I'm happy. I know I'll find a new set of people to make their own invaluable impressions and create their own memories; I know the ones I've got now are permanent and strong. A successful life, perhaps, should be measured by weight of the photo albums stacked in the bottom drawer of the bureau in the living room.

Don't Bother Reading This

Whenever my not-posting-in-forever guilt sets in, but I still don't have anything I feel inspired to write about, I go find a self-indulgent writing exercise on the internet and post it here for my own enjoyment.

This seemed interesting, so I shall use it. It comes in five parts. It wants you to pick a real person "you have strong feelings for," but mine will probably be a fictional person. That's much more fun.

Part one: Describe the person's hands.

The evenly colored, soft skin gave away the hands' secret--they'd never plunged into the depths of dirty dish water or scrubbed the rim of a convenience store toilet. They hadn't been washed the customary twenty times a day like a single mom or toiled away in the topsoil of a garden. They simply sat, politely crossed, in her lap. Expertly applied, subtly colored creamy clear nail polish shined on the tip of each finger, projecting cleanliness and efficiency, with a smallest hint of luxury. The ring finger on the left hand bore the brunt of a brilliant diamond ring, almost too big for the dainty hand to carry. Barely visible beneath the monster ring was a small circle of slightly paler flesh. The hands were young and beautiful but maybe slightly naive.

Part two: Describe something he/she is doing with his/her hands.

A little smear of ink smudged off the paper she was writing on with a calligraphy pen. The hands glided across the paper, effortlessly leaving behind a series of perfectly balanced loops and lines that spelled out "You're Invited." Beneath, in simpler script, the hands scribbled the details of forthcoming nuptials. The hands folded the elegant stationary with a sharp crease and slid each invitation into its envelope. Suddenly, the left hand jerked to her mouth as a small dash of blood pooled on the ring finger. To nurse the papercut, she slid the engagement ring off and put a bandaid on the wound.

Prompt three: Use a metaphor to say something about some exotic place. (It must know me well--there is a note that says not to worry about it coming together, just write it. Will do, prompt, will do.)

The private beach in the Bahamas is something of an old hole in the wall. People pool there looking to show off their impressive physiques or hook up with other hot singles. There are vacationers trying to get away from it all, to forget the monotony of their lives for awhile and have fun. Or perhaps they sit seaside to meditate on their lives and the points that brought them to that beach at the moment. Maybe they just like the scenery--the familiarity of the waves crashing over and over, the consistency of the bar's regulars ordering their usual poisons. The waves crash methodically, reassuringly, toppling expertly crafted sandcastles, like the bartender's rag routinely wipes away the remainders of bar patrons past.

Part Four: Ask this person a question somehow involving Part 2 and 3 from above.

While she nursed her hand, the girl noticed a colorful brochure poking out from under the pile of wedding invitation carnage. "Enjoy the romantic beachside view from your deluxe Honeymoon Suite!" it commanded.
"Are you going there immediately after the wedding?" a voice asked from behind her.

Part Five: The person looks up, notices you there, and gives an answer that shows he or she only knows part of what you were asking.

"I think so. Jack makes most of the decisions..."she trailed off.


Then it tells you go to make a short story out of it. Mine was shaping up to be something of soap opera... the girl is marrying some rich dude, but she doesn't actually want to cause she just broke off her engagement with a poor guy cause he's poor. (As evidenced by the smaller ring from the poor guy's tan line being overshadowed.) The guy that enters could easily be the ex-fiancee.
But that is horrible and includes themes I don't really want to write about. Since I made her good at calligraphy, she could work as a person who makes wedding invitations, and she keeps getting engaged and breaking it off, which results in a huge pile of wedding invitations she's made for herself stacked up in her closet. And all of that most culminate in the bar/beach comparison, which I actually rather like. Perhaps she could actually marry one of the guys, get the honeymoon part, and realize on the beach why she's been so indecisive, in a rather Edna Pontellier-esque scene.

What do you know, this exercise provided lots of fodder. Sorry for thinking out loud all over the internet.