I was in Wisconsin again this last week (fourth time since Christmas), and as most of you have cleverly discovered in your lives, spending a full week with the same few people gets kind of wearing. By which I mean I wanted to stab people for existing near me. So I went for a long walk through River Falls in the rain.
For some reason I'd had it in my head that rain is just rain, but when I walked through the streets and looked at the grass and trees, I noticed none of the vibrancy I associate with sudden rain. Living in as dry a climate as I do, I can see how rain wakes things up. When it rains here, everything is alive and colorful and drinking in the moisture. The greens are the brightest I've ever seen. But in Wisconsin, where there is more constant moisture (the kind that makes you feel like you're trying to breathe soup after living here), nothing lights up when it rains. I was walking and staring, and it suddenly came to me that the trees just looked complacent. They weren't starving for the water, and it was nothing out of the ordinary for them to receive it. It was like seeing gorged fat people. There was something offensive about it after seeing the way my trees love rain. It's like a sacrament in desert areas.
Of course, I started comparing that to the rains in Oregon too, where it's more or less the same as breathing, but everything is bright and alive regardless of when.
Anyways. Just some quick thoughts I had in relation to my last post, so I thought I may as well publicize them. Not that they're really being read by many people. I had to laugh, because in the space of like a week, I went up like a thousand pageviews solely because of my mention of the fire. It made me laugh at what cause-whores we are here. We're passionate about whatever disaster/cause/tragedy we found out about for about two weeks, and then it disappears and life as usual resumes.
Maybe someday I'll do a real post again, with all kinds of thoughts and pretty pictures for you, but I don't actually have the motivation right now. My bedroom is a rioting hell of junk and displaced furniture, so that takes precedence. And now that you've all forgotten what it was this post was even about, I bid you farewell.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
Rain and Verbal Punctuation
So, have you ever heard those people who, like, use all these little words to umm, kind of fill in all the little, like, cracks in their sentences? I HATE IT! >.<
Verbal punctuation makes me want to stab people. I'm just as guilty of it as lots of other people, but I can actually speak relatively fluidly, so I feel entitled to being annoyed. My usual culprits are "so," "anyways," "umm," "and," "yeah," and so on. It seems silly, because you aren't actually saying anything. Nothing is being contributed with those words and phrases. At best. At worst no one can focus on what you're saying because you can't actually say it without thousands of distracting breaks. It's like when people have some annoying, physical thing. Maybe that's just me.
And on an unrelated note (Isn't it always?), it's raining! I mentioned before that the city was on fire, but that's pretty much irrelevant now. It was basically taken care of a few days ago. I love rain like crazy, thought. And I'm not talking about the light shower, lets get and umbrella and puddle jump rain. I mean the run for cover, say goodbye to your gardens rain. Full lightning storms that beat against your house and terrify your pets (Mine anyway. The dog is afraid of thunder.).
I woke up to one of those yesterday afternoon. I was in a really terrible mood that day. Low on sleep, and yet another job lead had essentially fallen through, and I was really just sick of life and hideously depressed and angry at everyone. I've had a few of those days in the last few months. It's an unavoidable side-effect of being nowhere near where you want to be in life. But not long after I'd slipped into an exhausted doze, there was this huge CRACK of thunder and the rain arrived.
We've had a few light sprinkles in the last week or so, but yesterday it was more or less torrential. I stared out at my backyard and watched the trees bend submissively under the force of the rain and wind, and I could see everything coming back to life. This is part of what I love about rain. It's been really hot and dry recently (Go figure. It's Colorado in July.), and everything in my yard just looks thirsty, so when the moisture hits it, everything lights up, and the grey of the sky just makes it look more vibrant. All the trees and grass in my neighborhood looked full. Glutted with the storm.
But as I was watching the rain, my afternoon tantrum was still on my mind, and my first real thought was that no dry spell can last forever. The rain always comes eventually. Sometimes you just have to wait for it awhile and survive the heat as best you can. It was one of the more comforting and optimistic thoughts I had that afternoon, so I thought I'd share it here. I know I'm the only one in the midst of a drought.
Be patient, guys. The rain will come.
Verbal punctuation makes me want to stab people. I'm just as guilty of it as lots of other people, but I can actually speak relatively fluidly, so I feel entitled to being annoyed. My usual culprits are "so," "anyways," "umm," "and," "yeah," and so on. It seems silly, because you aren't actually saying anything. Nothing is being contributed with those words and phrases. At best. At worst no one can focus on what you're saying because you can't actually say it without thousands of distracting breaks. It's like when people have some annoying, physical thing. Maybe that's just me.
And on an unrelated note (Isn't it always?), it's raining! I mentioned before that the city was on fire, but that's pretty much irrelevant now. It was basically taken care of a few days ago. I love rain like crazy, thought. And I'm not talking about the light shower, lets get and umbrella and puddle jump rain. I mean the run for cover, say goodbye to your gardens rain. Full lightning storms that beat against your house and terrify your pets (Mine anyway. The dog is afraid of thunder.).
I woke up to one of those yesterday afternoon. I was in a really terrible mood that day. Low on sleep, and yet another job lead had essentially fallen through, and I was really just sick of life and hideously depressed and angry at everyone. I've had a few of those days in the last few months. It's an unavoidable side-effect of being nowhere near where you want to be in life. But not long after I'd slipped into an exhausted doze, there was this huge CRACK of thunder and the rain arrived.
We've had a few light sprinkles in the last week or so, but yesterday it was more or less torrential. I stared out at my backyard and watched the trees bend submissively under the force of the rain and wind, and I could see everything coming back to life. This is part of what I love about rain. It's been really hot and dry recently (Go figure. It's Colorado in July.), and everything in my yard just looks thirsty, so when the moisture hits it, everything lights up, and the grey of the sky just makes it look more vibrant. All the trees and grass in my neighborhood looked full. Glutted with the storm.
But as I was watching the rain, my afternoon tantrum was still on my mind, and my first real thought was that no dry spell can last forever. The rain always comes eventually. Sometimes you just have to wait for it awhile and survive the heat as best you can. It was one of the more comforting and optimistic thoughts I had that afternoon, so I thought I'd share it here. I know I'm the only one in the midst of a drought.
Be patient, guys. The rain will come.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
A Blinding Flash of the Obvious
I think that phrase entered my world when I was like eight or nine years old. It's awesome.
Anyway. I was reading my aunt's blog earlier (possibly the other day, but she posted again today, s%%o I might be wrong), and I realized something interesting.
It's http://www.journeydancing.com/, if you should be interested. She says some brilliant things, and I basically learn something new about her and about life every few posts.
So I suddenly realized is that I've been so terrible at posting this month because I don't have anything huge to say. Nothing that would take more than a few paragraphs to explore a bit, so it didn't really seem worth posting any of the thoughts I've had of late. For some mysterious reason, I feel like I have to have nine thousand things of interest to say in order to post, and I'm pretty sure that's just crap.
Possibly this is a terrible realization, because it's likely to result in me poster shorter blogs more frequently, which could be either good or bad. At the least, it might make me pay a little more attention to the fluidity and comprehensibility of my writing; I've gotten into the bad habit of simply spewing my word vomit at the internet. And checking Facebook and XKCD while trying to post.
Also, as a total side note: Yes, Colorado Springs is on fire (actually, it's the mountains and a teeny bit of city that's burning). Yes, that's kind of terrible.
BUT, boys and girls, if you live surrounded by miles and miles of city, YOU ARE NOT GOING ANYWHERE. Don't pack up your junk or worry about being evacuated. And don't whine about how terrible everything is unless you've been evacuated and your house may be burning to the ground. Don't shout about what you'll do if this is arson unless you know and have authority. Don't talk about helping if you aren't going to actually help. And we all know about these fires already. It's all over the news and all kinds of social media. We don't need to keep hearing about it every second. 90% of what I've seen in my newsfeed the last week is fire-related, and the only posts I care about are the ones making fun of this, or the ones about people I know being evacuated.
I'm still hoping for orcs and/or dragons to come pouring out of the foothills to do battle with this city of retirees, stoners, and military families. That would make my summer.
Anyway. I was reading my aunt's blog earlier (possibly the other day, but she posted again today, s%%o I might be wrong), and I realized something interesting.
It's http://www.journeydancing.com/, if you should be interested. She says some brilliant things, and I basically learn something new about her and about life every few posts.
So I suddenly realized is that I've been so terrible at posting this month because I don't have anything huge to say. Nothing that would take more than a few paragraphs to explore a bit, so it didn't really seem worth posting any of the thoughts I've had of late. For some mysterious reason, I feel like I have to have nine thousand things of interest to say in order to post, and I'm pretty sure that's just crap.
Possibly this is a terrible realization, because it's likely to result in me poster shorter blogs more frequently, which could be either good or bad. At the least, it might make me pay a little more attention to the fluidity and comprehensibility of my writing; I've gotten into the bad habit of simply spewing my word vomit at the internet. And checking Facebook and XKCD while trying to post.
Also, as a total side note: Yes, Colorado Springs is on fire (actually, it's the mountains and a teeny bit of city that's burning). Yes, that's kind of terrible.
I'm still hoping for orcs and/or dragons to come pouring out of the foothills to do battle with this city of retirees, stoners, and military families. That would make my summer.
Someone said the Springs looked like Hell, and I laughed.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
A bit on Mexico
I feel kind of obligated to post a blog since I haven't in nearly a month, but I also have a few things swirling around in my head that I'd like to spew at my unsuspecting audience. Which has either gotten much larger, or someone is giving me repeated pageviews to boost my self-esteem.
(It's Taryn, isn't it?)
Not gonna lie, though. I feel like a total winner for reaching over six hundred views.
Anyway, as most of you know, I got back from my annual week in Mexico on saturday (the 16th), and I always come back to the US with a different perspective on a lot of things. And fortunately, this trip fell on one of my more optimistic stints, so I spent a lot of it looking forward to all the amazing things that could happen in the future and enjoying the present. It's a nice way to feel, but I often don't manage it for more than a couple of hours.
The thing about Mexico is that it's a completely different world for me. Everything is so radically different for the single week that I'm there that I can't help but come away with a slight paradigm shift.
For those who don't know, I go every June with a group from my church to Cuidad Juarez, just south of El Paso, Texas.
We work with a sister church on any projects they're currently working on. Which we've been doing for about the last sixteen years, the last five of which I've been on. Temperatures are generally in the hundreds (it was between like 95 and 105 Fahrenheit the entire week this year), and this year we didn't have much in the way of shade. We were helping to start foundation work on a new building in an open lot across the street from the church. For the last couple years, it had been used as a parking area for the church, but since it's grown so much, they wanted to put in a new building.
I don't know if many of you are aware of this, but they speak Spanish in Mexico, and the number of Mexicans that speak English is relatively small. I speak very little Spanish, having taken four years of French in high school and one semester of Spanish in 12th grade, so most of what I know is simplistic and mangled, but one of the things I find constantly amazing is that language is not the main source of communication. I'm reminded of that every year when I enter into a world that I understand very little of.
And make no mistake, boys and girls, South American culture is an entirely different world from the one I live in. I imagine that's true of every culture, and it's something I'll have to get used to as I travel.
But where I was going with that was this: I always have an incredibly fun time and it's become kind of a "home away from home" thing, and this year I made a few friends, only one of whom spoke English. Because with Saras and Mayra and Erick and Antonio, we didn't have to be able to understand every word, you just have to be able to listen to what they're saying.
I learned once that only something like 10% of communication (I could do some research to substantiate that number, but I choose not to.) is based on the actual words coming out of your mouth. Body language, tone, expression, and so on play a much larger role. That's something that I never really consider when having conversations with people, but when you spend half the conversation exchanging questioning looks and laughing at each other's and your own incomprehension in between the exchange of information, you suddenly understand the value of such things.
I find that kind of amazing. It's an incredible learning experience.
And now I've lost motivation to continue this post, so I shall silence myself. Perhaps there'll be more about Mexico later, because I really didn't talk about anything I'd intended to, and I've said basically nothing about the actual trip.
(It's Taryn, isn't it?)
Not gonna lie, though. I feel like a total winner for reaching over six hundred views.
Anyway, as most of you know, I got back from my annual week in Mexico on saturday (the 16th), and I always come back to the US with a different perspective on a lot of things. And fortunately, this trip fell on one of my more optimistic stints, so I spent a lot of it looking forward to all the amazing things that could happen in the future and enjoying the present. It's a nice way to feel, but I often don't manage it for more than a couple of hours.
The thing about Mexico is that it's a completely different world for me. Everything is so radically different for the single week that I'm there that I can't help but come away with a slight paradigm shift.
For those who don't know, I go every June with a group from my church to Cuidad Juarez, just south of El Paso, Texas.
We work with a sister church on any projects they're currently working on. Which we've been doing for about the last sixteen years, the last five of which I've been on. Temperatures are generally in the hundreds (it was between like 95 and 105 Fahrenheit the entire week this year), and this year we didn't have much in the way of shade. We were helping to start foundation work on a new building in an open lot across the street from the church. For the last couple years, it had been used as a parking area for the church, but since it's grown so much, they wanted to put in a new building.I don't know if many of you are aware of this, but they speak Spanish in Mexico, and the number of Mexicans that speak English is relatively small. I speak very little Spanish, having taken four years of French in high school and one semester of Spanish in 12th grade, so most of what I know is simplistic and mangled, but one of the things I find constantly amazing is that language is not the main source of communication. I'm reminded of that every year when I enter into a world that I understand very little of.
And make no mistake, boys and girls, South American culture is an entirely different world from the one I live in. I imagine that's true of every culture, and it's something I'll have to get used to as I travel.
But where I was going with that was this: I always have an incredibly fun time and it's become kind of a "home away from home" thing, and this year I made a few friends, only one of whom spoke English. Because with Saras and Mayra and Erick and Antonio, we didn't have to be able to understand every word, you just have to be able to listen to what they're saying.
I learned once that only something like 10% of communication (I could do some research to substantiate that number, but I choose not to.) is based on the actual words coming out of your mouth. Body language, tone, expression, and so on play a much larger role. That's something that I never really consider when having conversations with people, but when you spend half the conversation exchanging questioning looks and laughing at each other's and your own incomprehension in between the exchange of information, you suddenly understand the value of such things.
I find that kind of amazing. It's an incredible learning experience.
And now I've lost motivation to continue this post, so I shall silence myself. Perhaps there'll be more about Mexico later, because I really didn't talk about anything I'd intended to, and I've said basically nothing about the actual trip.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Some random thoughts and stuff.
You know the quote "I put the 'fun' in 'funeral'"?
It kept running through my head on monday at my grandfather's memorial service, and it made me feel like a terrible person. But since it started with my mother and her siblings giggling uncontrollably through the prelude, I don't feel quite so badly.
I mostly sat there watching my family giggle and whisper in our pews at the front of the church, and I kept thinking (and may have commented to my darling cousin) that we are bad mourners. I've had a really good time at both family funerals I've been to this year, which is kind of boggling, because they were for both my maternal grandparents, the core of all family holidays. I think the world may fall apart this Christmas without Grandmum, the matriarch humming her way about the house, feeding everyone and scolding us goodnaturedly at every opportunity, and Grandpa's sarcasm, wit, and Pall Malls holding court over the livingroom...
Anyways, as we were all laying claim to pieces of their home (pieces of their lives, I think), the thought kept returning that we're kind of horrible at all this, and as I took my turn driving a few hours on the long trip back home, it occurred to me to connect this experience--having fun and enjoying my family even as we were together to mourn the death of another superhero--to a conversation my little sister and I had a few months ago. It actually began in the context of relationships, but quickly expanded to take in more facets of life.
Someone told me not long before that conversation, that if they were told that they could never fall in love, never be a parent or a spouse, they wouldn't really see the point in living, and that was utterly inconceivable to me
(Admit it, we're all thinking it.
Or maybe just me..)
because there's nothing in my life I can say that about. I was telling Becca this, and she agreed with me.
If someone told me that I would never be published, never paint again, never be a parent, never travel the world, never get married, etc., yes, I would be crushed. I'd spend a few minutes in the mental fetal position wondering why I should even bother, but then I'd get up, and find something else to do with my life. If there's one thing I intend to do with my life, it's to survive it. And if I can't do that, I'm dead and my life is over anyway, so no problem.
Becca and I came to the conclusion that unless the world actually ends, it's not the end of the world.
This is an attitude that I've seen repeatedly in my family, though never actually named by any of us until my sister and I discussed it. We are a clan of survivors, and we've survived a fair share of crap. Some of the strongest, most amazing people I've met are related to me.
So maybe we're not bad mourners. Maybe we just understand that life goes on. Yes, we mourn. Yes, we appreciate what's been lost, but we don't lose sight of everything else in the face of that either, which I find to be a virtue rather than a flaw.
It kept running through my head on monday at my grandfather's memorial service, and it made me feel like a terrible person. But since it started with my mother and her siblings giggling uncontrollably through the prelude, I don't feel quite so badly.
I mostly sat there watching my family giggle and whisper in our pews at the front of the church, and I kept thinking (and may have commented to my darling cousin) that we are bad mourners. I've had a really good time at both family funerals I've been to this year, which is kind of boggling, because they were for both my maternal grandparents, the core of all family holidays. I think the world may fall apart this Christmas without Grandmum, the matriarch humming her way about the house, feeding everyone and scolding us goodnaturedly at every opportunity, and Grandpa's sarcasm, wit, and Pall Malls holding court over the livingroom...
These, theoretical readers, are two of the coolest people you'll never meet.
Anyways, as we were all laying claim to pieces of their home (pieces of their lives, I think), the thought kept returning that we're kind of horrible at all this, and as I took my turn driving a few hours on the long trip back home, it occurred to me to connect this experience--having fun and enjoying my family even as we were together to mourn the death of another superhero--to a conversation my little sister and I had a few months ago. It actually began in the context of relationships, but quickly expanded to take in more facets of life.
Someone told me not long before that conversation, that if they were told that they could never fall in love, never be a parent or a spouse, they wouldn't really see the point in living, and that was utterly inconceivable to me
(Admit it, we're all thinking it.
because there's nothing in my life I can say that about. I was telling Becca this, and she agreed with me.
If someone told me that I would never be published, never paint again, never be a parent, never travel the world, never get married, etc., yes, I would be crushed. I'd spend a few minutes in the mental fetal position wondering why I should even bother, but then I'd get up, and find something else to do with my life. If there's one thing I intend to do with my life, it's to survive it. And if I can't do that, I'm dead and my life is over anyway, so no problem.
Becca and I came to the conclusion that unless the world actually ends, it's not the end of the world.
This is an attitude that I've seen repeatedly in my family, though never actually named by any of us until my sister and I discussed it. We are a clan of survivors, and we've survived a fair share of crap. Some of the strongest, most amazing people I've met are related to me.
So maybe we're not bad mourners. Maybe we just understand that life goes on. Yes, we mourn. Yes, we appreciate what's been lost, but we don't lose sight of everything else in the face of that either, which I find to be a virtue rather than a flaw.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
A quick, ranty ramble on Beauty and the Beast.
You know those mornings when you wake up with a song playing in your head you haven't heard in a while? That totally happened to me today. Not that that's in any way relevant to what I was going to write about. I just thought I'd bring that up briefly. I can't be relevant all the time. You might get suspicious and stop reading. And let's not pretend. Half the reason you keep reading is because you have no idea what I'll say next, regardless of what the title of the post is.
I'm really in the mood for some painting again, but I don't think I'll get round to it until after I get back from Wisconsin.
Anyways. I was just putting laundry away and singing obnoxiously loud when I started thinking about Beauty and the Beast. It's one of my favorite Disney movies. That transitioned into the other adaptations of the story that I've seen and read. And you know what I noticed?
How exactly does getting with some gorgeous chick cure the prince of being a shallow douchebag? There's no guarantee there that he learned anything. Because it's easy to hold a double standard. Why didn't the curse make him love someone ugly? I feel like that would've accomplished more in the way of correcting his personal flaws.
Which is really the main message there. Magic can fix people who suck.
Wouldn't that be awesome? I want to be a vengeful fairy enchantress thing that goes around cursing all the stupid people.
So I think a much better curse would have been to just take everything from the prince until he fell in love with someone not traditionally lovely. Or maybe blinding him. Then he couldn't base anything on someone's appearance. That would free the entire population of the castle from being collateral too. I always thought it was unfair that all the servants and such got cursed as well, because they really had nothing to do with this. What were they gonna do? Rebel against the aristocracy and take off? That way lies starvation, boys and girls.
I feel like I need to write something like this sometime. Prince Hobo. No Beauty, no Beast. At least not at first glance. Monsters come in all forms, and beauty can be in unexpected places. That seems like it should be the real message to that story.
Has anyone tried role reversal? What about a sweet, hapless prince cursed by a random witch or whatever and saddled with a psychotic wench? That'd be a fun revision of Beauty and the Beast.
I'm really in the mood for some painting again, but I don't think I'll get round to it until after I get back from Wisconsin.
Anyways. I was just putting laundry away and singing obnoxiously loud when I started thinking about Beauty and the Beast. It's one of my favorite Disney movies. That transitioned into the other adaptations of the story that I've seen and read. And you know what I noticed?
Also, someone should really explain to me how he's cursed. Because he looks awesome,
much better than when he's not.
Which is really the main message there. Magic can fix people who suck.
Wouldn't that be awesome? I want to be a vengeful fairy enchantress thing that goes around cursing all the stupid people.
So I think a much better curse would have been to just take everything from the prince until he fell in love with someone not traditionally lovely. Or maybe blinding him. Then he couldn't base anything on someone's appearance. That would free the entire population of the castle from being collateral too. I always thought it was unfair that all the servants and such got cursed as well, because they really had nothing to do with this. What were they gonna do? Rebel against the aristocracy and take off? That way lies starvation, boys and girls.
I feel like I need to write something like this sometime. Prince Hobo. No Beauty, no Beast. At least not at first glance. Monsters come in all forms, and beauty can be in unexpected places. That seems like it should be the real message to that story.
Has anyone tried role reversal? What about a sweet, hapless prince cursed by a random witch or whatever and saddled with a psychotic wench? That'd be a fun revision of Beauty and the Beast.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Anecdotal Adventure!
So this weekend I'm running deliveries for Edible Arrangements (apparently Mothers' Day is a big deal for them), and two of them today were at this hotel in town...
I've been driving all over this stupid parking lot for ages, and I'm already irritated because it's taken me far too long to find such a painfully obvious building--I didn't see before that the order ticket has a small memo at the bottom stating that the address is in the hotel--and I can't find a parking place remotely near the entrance. As I have two large, fruit bouquets with foot-wide, cardboard bases, I don't relish the idea of carrying the things across a huge expanse of windy parking lot. I've circled it too many times already, and I'm ready to be finished.
When I get inside, one arrangement tucked against either hip, I search for the front desk, which is not, as one would expect, at the front. In fact, it rests inconspicuously behind a large pillar (really more like a section of wall, not unlike the ones they often have in Starbucks) in the far corner of the central hub. I stroll over, trying valiantly to maintain the illusion that I am remotely cheerful and personable, and spend a moment making small talk about how amazing pineapples are with a middle-aged woman also waiting at the desk. When the guy actually working comes to see if he can assist me--warning me in comedic tones that he hasn't had lunch yet, and it may not be safe to leave those with him--I discover that I must actually bring these monstrosities to the rooms they're meant to be sent to, and so lose all hope of just dropping them off and leaving.
I have to go the eleventh floor of the A wing and the fourth floor of the C wing. Deciding that it'll be simpler to start with the higher floor, I set out in search of the elevators, which are not placed anywhere painfully obvious to my sleep-deprived eyes. After struggling through a set of double doors with my burdens and stumbling on an area of mysterious shops and offices in the A wing, I realize that I must have passed the elevators already. I've barely made my way back down the hall toward the lobby when--Aha, elevator!
The button with the UP arrow is abnormally high on the wall, and I'm forced to perform an impressive and absurd balancing act rather than simply craning my hand around to hit it; I stand on one foot, bracing my left knee against the wall and setting one box-stabilized bouquet atop my thigh, then hurriedly punch the button to call the elevator. It arrives with a slightly jittery bounce that doesn't inspire much confidence. I stare at it for a moment, weighing my desire to finish the last two deliveries and leave without taking the stairs up eleven flights against the possibility that I am inevitably going to die in this elevator. The walls are covered in some material that looks as though it's meant to cover up repairs or remodeling or something, and if I've learned anything from movies, it's that scary elevators never lead anywhere good. Unless you happen to be a vengeful spirit, blood-thirsty psycho, or a peckish zombie.
Holy crap. I'm going to die.
I step dubiously inside and do my button-pushing trick again, peering anxiously about the empty elevator and listening to the workings take me up, floor by floor. The line of numbers above the sliding doors light up as I pass each floor with a slight click, and it's like the tic-toking of a very slow clock.
2...3...4...5...
I keep wondering what happens if it stops suddenly and I'm stuck in here.
6...7...
It's hard to ignore the knowledge that every second I'm in here, there's another few feet of empty elevator shaft underneath me.
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8...9...
Would I even survive that fall?
10...
When 11 lights finally lights up and the doors open (with a slightly terrifying bounce), I breathe a sigh of relief and step out.
I'm in a small triangular area created by the intersecting halls. It's completely dark. All I can see outside of the small half-circle of light spilling out of the elevator behind me is a few dark corners and the shadowy walls, and my hands are full.
Wouldn't Star-Gauges Guy have told me at the front desk if they were remodeling or something? Why isn't this area off limits, or marked or anything? I'm distinctly unsettled, and I clutch the heavy fruit arrangements, hoping that the elevator doors aren't going to close behind me and leave me trapped alone in the dark. I'm uncomfortably aware of how defenseless I would be if something were to happen.
I've seen the movies. I know how this goes. I have two choices.
One: walk cautiously down that dark hallway in hopes of finding A1101, meet some blood-hungry terror, and die horribly in a deserted hotel room strewn with dusty tools and chunks of drywall.
Two: get my paranoid ass back down to the lobby and find a different way to the room.
That's not even a choice. I turn abruptly and search for the correct button, pushing it a little harder and faster than I might normally have done. I watch the darkness through the closing elevator doors, not quite convinced something isn't going to flash through at the last second and either leave me trapped in a creepy elevator with a murderous something, or stop the doors from closing and leave me face to face with whatever was just out of sight when I stepped out the first time.
The ride down is slower than the ascent somehow, and I spend it half-waiting for the theatrical lurch and creak one always sees in films. Stepping out, back into what suddenly seems like an alternate world on the ground floor, is slightly frightening, because the elevator jerks again as it comes to a stop.
I'm slightly jumpy when I finally make it to the designated rooms, and I wonder to myself when I developed this irrational fear of riding in in elevators.
I've been driving all over this stupid parking lot for ages, and I'm already irritated because it's taken me far too long to find such a painfully obvious building--I didn't see before that the order ticket has a small memo at the bottom stating that the address is in the hotel--and I can't find a parking place remotely near the entrance. As I have two large, fruit bouquets with foot-wide, cardboard bases, I don't relish the idea of carrying the things across a huge expanse of windy parking lot. I've circled it too many times already, and I'm ready to be finished.
Seriously hard to miss. I was annoyed.
I have to go the eleventh floor of the A wing and the fourth floor of the C wing. Deciding that it'll be simpler to start with the higher floor, I set out in search of the elevators, which are not placed anywhere painfully obvious to my sleep-deprived eyes. After struggling through a set of double doors with my burdens and stumbling on an area of mysterious shops and offices in the A wing, I realize that I must have passed the elevators already. I've barely made my way back down the hall toward the lobby when--Aha, elevator!
The button with the UP arrow is abnormally high on the wall, and I'm forced to perform an impressive and absurd balancing act rather than simply craning my hand around to hit it; I stand on one foot, bracing my left knee against the wall and setting one box-stabilized bouquet atop my thigh, then hurriedly punch the button to call the elevator. It arrives with a slightly jittery bounce that doesn't inspire much confidence. I stare at it for a moment, weighing my desire to finish the last two deliveries and leave without taking the stairs up eleven flights against the possibility that I am inevitably going to die in this elevator. The walls are covered in some material that looks as though it's meant to cover up repairs or remodeling or something, and if I've learned anything from movies, it's that scary elevators never lead anywhere good. Unless you happen to be a vengeful spirit, blood-thirsty psycho, or a peckish zombie.
Holy crap. I'm going to die.
I step dubiously inside and do my button-pushing trick again, peering anxiously about the empty elevator and listening to the workings take me up, floor by floor. The line of numbers above the sliding doors light up as I pass each floor with a slight click, and it's like the tic-toking of a very slow clock.
2...3...4...5...
I keep wondering what happens if it stops suddenly and I'm stuck in here.
6...7...
It's hard to ignore the knowledge that every second I'm in here, there's another few feet of empty elevator shaft underneath me.
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8...9...
Would I even survive that fall?
10...
When 11 lights finally lights up and the doors open (with a slightly terrifying bounce), I breathe a sigh of relief and step out.
I'm in a small triangular area created by the intersecting halls. It's completely dark. All I can see outside of the small half-circle of light spilling out of the elevator behind me is a few dark corners and the shadowy walls, and my hands are full.
Wouldn't Star-Gauges Guy have told me at the front desk if they were remodeling or something? Why isn't this area off limits, or marked or anything? I'm distinctly unsettled, and I clutch the heavy fruit arrangements, hoping that the elevator doors aren't going to close behind me and leave me trapped alone in the dark. I'm uncomfortably aware of how defenseless I would be if something were to happen.
I've seen the movies. I know how this goes. I have two choices.
One: walk cautiously down that dark hallway in hopes of finding A1101, meet some blood-hungry terror, and die horribly in a deserted hotel room strewn with dusty tools and chunks of drywall.
Two: get my paranoid ass back down to the lobby and find a different way to the room.
That's not even a choice. I turn abruptly and search for the correct button, pushing it a little harder and faster than I might normally have done. I watch the darkness through the closing elevator doors, not quite convinced something isn't going to flash through at the last second and either leave me trapped in a creepy elevator with a murderous something, or stop the doors from closing and leave me face to face with whatever was just out of sight when I stepped out the first time.
The ride down is slower than the ascent somehow, and I spend it half-waiting for the theatrical lurch and creak one always sees in films. Stepping out, back into what suddenly seems like an alternate world on the ground floor, is slightly frightening, because the elevator jerks again as it comes to a stop.
I'm slightly jumpy when I finally make it to the designated rooms, and I wonder to myself when I developed this irrational fear of riding in in elevators.
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