Green

The Day Green Went Away

On the day that green went away, Oliver was swinging in the netted hammock between the two largest oak trees in the yard, repeatedly tossing and catching his favorite ball. The orange ball with green spots that Uncle Seth had given him on his 7th birthday.

Oliver liked to toss the ball in the air and watch the orange blend with the green spots as the ball spun back to his hand under the weight of gravity. His dog, purple, sat, tongue hanging out, tilting his head up and down with the movement of the ball, watching it every time it came down, waiting to retrieve it, should the duty befall him.


This particular day was no particular day at all. One of those days Oliver’s mom called a “lazy day”, which meant that the day had done so much work yesterday, that it took a vacation today. No storms or wind or car accidents or babies being born, or laws being passed. Just a quiet, sunny, pleasant day.

That’s why Oliver couldn’t understand what the day must have been thinking when it took green away. One second there was green, and then it was gone. The trees and grass and even the spots on the orange ball turned different shades of grey like the photographs of grandpa when he had hair. Purple didn’t seem to notice the change, he just continued watching the ball and when Oliver, startled, dropped the ball, purple rose to his duty of fetching it and then running around the yard with it.

Oliver would normally shout for purple to give it back, but he, instead, overcame his fear of stepping on the new grey grass and ran to the kitchen where his mom was washing perfectly yellow dishes. She hadn’t noticed the change, and had no time for Oliver’s silly stories.

“Go outside and play,” she said, and Oliver obeyed.

But when she turned on the news after dinner that night, she went straight outside and bent down to pick a blade of grass. She was pleased that the day had left the color on her flowers. She could do without grass, but the color of her flowers made them the healthiest and most beautiful in the county, and she had a trophy to prove it. She could do without green, green didn’t win trophies.

The day, after spending so much effort on taking away green, decided not to give it back right away. People were still surprised to find it gone when they woke up the net morning, like a dream that should disappear seconds after brushing your teeth. But the day went on. Adults went to work, children to school, and everyone collectively came home for dinner and worried about whether green would ever come back.

People began selling tee shirts and mugs and bumper stickers announcing “Save the Green” or “blue plus yellow does not equal grey”. There were entire shows and newscasts dedicated to discussing the cause and results of the missing green, and where it had gone.

One man in a country Oliver never heard of found a single blade of green grass hidden under his porch, and some other man bought it for a lot of money and put it in a museum where people from all over the world went to see it. People who lived in the desert said that this wasn’t such a big problem, but that’s because they barely had any green to begin with.

Scientists conducted big studies and lots of research to try and solve the green problem, and a few even tried to breed fresh grass from the museum grass.
Some people said it was because the world was going to end, and others said it was because people forgot to turn the lights out when they left a room. Other people thought it was because of the decrease in penguin population, and a few more thought it was a sign from god. Many people knew that it had to be because of the war. But Oliver knew that it was just because the day had decided to play a trick on the world.

Oliver’s mom even tried to scrub the leaves and grass and the green carpet in her bedroom, and Oliver’s ball, and purple’s collar. She said it might be because they were dirty, but even scrubbing couldn’t fix it.

When the day finally went back to work, it brought the first rainstorm in months. It lasted several days, and people were so happy that the water ban was over and they could fill their swimming pools and wash their cars, that green became a thing of the past. Oliver was the only person paying attention when the rain went away and took the grey with it, leaving green in its place. He spent that day in the Hammock between two large trees, throwing his ball in the air and watching the orange and green blend together as the ball spun above his head.

Change is Well

Change is Well

Novelist and Language professor, George Bernard Shaw, complained “The English have no respect for their language, and will not teach their children to speak it” (readprint.com 2006). Shaw may be directly referencing the people of England, but scholars and teachers of American English also identify with Shaw’s feelings about the English language. Educated people share the idea that, by allowing children to use slang, contractions, and “bad grammar”, the English language is being watered down and destroyed. However, linguists understand that this supposed “degradation” of English, or any other language, is a necessary change that all languages must undergo throughout time in order for the language to stay active.

Mario Pei, a linguist, once accused the editors of Webster’s Third New International Dictionary of 1961, of confusing “to the point of obliteration, the older distinction between standard, substandard, colloquial, vulgar, and slang” (Pei 1961) . Upper class and educated speakers of English have developed a system of euphemistic phrases that sound more scientific or pleasant than simple and vulgar words. This practice has existed since the very beginning of the language. English is a “Creole” language; a language composed of other languages. The language was derived from a combination of several dialects of the Germanic tribes of the English isles, the most prominent of which was the Anglo-Saxon tribe. However, when the Normans invaded and conquered those tribes, they enforced a French/Latin government on the people, forcing them to use French-based words. The Anglo-Saxon vocabulary initially consisted of simple, descriptive words like father, land and work, whereas the Latin words represent abstract ideas and education, words like concentrate, crucifix, and primate.

Because the Latin Normans were a more educated and refined culture, their words became the words of the upper class, and the language of the working-class Anglo-Saxons became vulgar and taboo. A perfect example of that distinction is still common today, as modern English speakers prefer the scientific, refined sound of the Latin word vagina to the harsh, Anglo-Saxon word, cunt. The two words have the exact same meaning, but because one sounds better, and was enforced by upper class, the other became taboo, and vulgar. We still look down on lower classes that use simple words in place of scientific, or drawn-out verbiage, even though the difference is nothing more than sound and origin.

Those people who speak “proper” English perceive slang and bad grammar as a threat to the wellbeing of the English language. Educated persons tend to judge others on their accent and ability to use correct grammar, and society labels those people who are not well spoken and grammatically correct as linguistic degenerates. Persons who speak English with a heavy foreign accent are often looked down upon as uneducated and Neanderthal, regardless of their education and intelligence level.

While language purists fight the losing battle of forcing generation after generation to conform to the rules and anomalies of English, linguistic experts know that the “degeneration” of English is not necessarily a prediction of the language’s downfall, but a necessary change that every language must go through in order to stay active.

One of the most famous lines of a poem comes from Shakespeare’s sonnet116: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” While current speakers of English view Shakespeare’s English as proper and flawless, it is important to understand that Shakespeare wrote plays and sonnets for the poor people of England. He was known as a writer that everyone could enjoy, regardless of education. By that standard, Shakespeare did not use the educated, formal language of the aristocracy. He used common English. It is important also, to notice that His form of English is archaic, meaning is has changed and morphed in order to conform to the word in which it is spoken. For example, several common articles have been replaced, such as thee and thou. Perhaps language purists of the past were made uncomfortable when modern people began to say your instead of thine.

Shakespeare is known by English speakers as one of the most influential persons in the creation and change of the language. Shakespeare alone introduced hundreds of words to the language, including the infamous f-word. Without Shakespeare, the endless synonyms that English utilizes might not exist. What makes Shakespeare different from a modern rap musician? Several words and word modifications have recently been added to the English lexicon via rap songs and artists. The word Bling, recently added to the English lexicon by rap group Cash Money Millionaires, means excessive jewelry. While the word is considered a slang term, it fits the definition of an actual word. A word is a unit of language that carries meaning. Linguists consider a unit of language a word if it has a meaning understood by more than one person. bling is a word just as much as word is a word.

Words must be added to languages in order for a language to continuously adapt to changes in the physical world. For example, the name for an acoustic guitar was not formed until the invention of an electric guitar. With new words come new parts of speech and new ways to use the words that we already have. Few people understand that words do not have a specific part of speech. A noun is only a noun if it is placed in the noun part of a sentence. In other words, for a linguistic purist to correct someone for using a noun as an adjective is pointless. If the word is in the adjective place of a sentence, then that word is an adjective.

While some linguist purists understand and embrace the addition and subtraction of new words to our language, many have a hard time understanding that, like words, grammar and syntax must also change in a living language. English Teachers have spent the past century telling students to say “I am well” in place of “I am good” as if the language police will handcuff the grammatically incorrect children and lock them up for breaking a grammatical rule that the majority of society breaks. Of course teachers and linguistics alike feel that English should be taught properly, and that the rules of the language must be adhered to, but the problem is that students are being taught to use rules that are changing right under their noses.

A major problem with English grammar began, once again, when the Normans invaded the Anglo-Saxon tribes. After years of mixing the Anglo-Saxon vocabulary with French/Latin grammatical systems and vocabulary, the result is an amalgamation of suffixes, infixes, and prefixes—parts added to the beginning, middle, or end of a word to create a new meaning—that are mismatched and make little sense. Unlike classical languages, English does not follow any specific rule for prefixes or suffixes. In fact, in spoken English, the only phonetic rule that always works in every situation is the “mn” rule, which states three rules of pronunciation:

1. Mn placed at the beginning of a word pronounces only the “n” - as in mnemonic.
2. Mn at the end of the beginning of a word only pronounces the “m” - as in hymn and damn
3. Mn in the middle of a word pronounces both letter sounds - as in gymnasium (Yarrison 2006).

In spite of the various rule for writing and pronunciation of the English language, none work for every instance. Children are taught in school that adding un- to the beginning of a word will make it negative, but what about the prefixes a-, dis-, or non-? How about words that simply have an opposite? For example, consider the word do. To make do negative, we add the prefix un- and create undo. A speaker of English, however, cannot create the same meaning by adding the other negative prefixes: ado, disdo, or nondo. We often add not after do to make the word negative, but it still has a different meaning. Observe how, by the rules of English, adding un- should have the same effect as adding not, but undo is not the same as not do or even as do not.

Because of the Creole nature of English, the rules that govern the language are complicated and easily confused. Even native speakers often make fundamental mistakes in their speech. The change, or “degradation” of our language is an attempt to simplify the rules and make the language uniform.

The average person learns to speak through listening and imitating other people. The change in language comes when generation after generation of children learn the same grammatical inconsistencies from their parents and, in turn, pass those inconsistencies on to their own children. This brings about a grass-roots change in the way English is both spoken and written. Language should not be a force to be feared, yet educated people across America seem afraid to break a grammatical rule, lest the language police snatch them up like the child who said good instead of well.

The truth is, however, that grammar is not a set entity. It is not carved in stone like the Ten Commandments. Most linguist experts cannot agree on most of the commonly disputed rules. The good vs. well rule, for example, is almost always used wrong by the very people who feel impressed upon to enforce it. Linguists often argue whether the words do not mean the same thing in the context of describing one’s self. Formally, all of those people who insist that saying I’m good or I feel good is wrong, may be incorrect, depending on what is being described. If someone says, I feel well, that could mean that he or she knows how to feel things skillfully. Rather, one would say I feel good, because good describes I, not feel.

Grammar was not even an issue until the invention of the printing press in the late 1450’s by Johannes Gutenberg. Before the press, written English varied across England as people spoke the language they were taught by their parents. Only after the press made printed language less expensive and time consuming, did the first rules of grammar begin to be enforced as printers attempted to make the language universal. At first, even common words were spelled differently according to the printer who printed them. After the discrepancies between spelling and word order became a problem, rules began to be formed, allowing printers and readers alike to come to a common agreement on the spelling and arrangement of words. The point of the rules was not to create a perfect, unified, pure language, but to prevent each printer from phonetically spelling words and arranging sentences according to his own ideas about the language. Without these rules, the spelling of many of the words we use today might be much different.

Centuries after the rules of English were agreed upon, and after English became the primary language of the new America, John Adams proposed a “national academy to be established…to standardize American English, but this view was roundly rejected as not in keeping with the goals of liberty and justice for all” (“National American?” 2005). John Adams was not the first person with ideas about purifying and standardizing a language. According to An Introduction to Lantuage, a popular textbook on Linguistics, the ancient Greek grammarians in Alexandria (200-100 B.C) tried and failed to purify their version of Greek, insisting that it was different, and therefore, less pure than the Greek spoken by Homer. Throughout time, linguists have tried in vain to purify one language or another to its original form, and all have failed. (456).

Regardless of the attempt made by linguists and scholars to enforce and maintain the rules and vocabulary of the English language, if enough people continue to misuse the rules, the rules will change. Language change is not an executive decision. It is a grass-roots change, meaning it changes from the common people and moves its way to the experts. No one person decides one day to add a word to the dictionary and then sends a memo to every English speaking person on the planet to explain the addition. The word must be used commonly enough that it almost adds itself to the lexicon.

The point is, the rules and constant debates over the rules have become so complicated, that the rules are beginning to change and simplify. People who speak English seem to assume that English came pre-packaged like a new laptop with a power cord, wireless card, and mouse, and everything needed, but that is not true, especially, without the constant change of our language, there would be no such words as cord, wireless, card, or laptop, and even mouse has developed a new meaning. No one person opened the box labeled English, read the manual, and found the power chord to plug the language in and use it; the English language evolved over thousands of years, and it is still evolving, simplifying itself as generation after generation of people subconsciously use “bad grammar” that is less complicated and makes more sense.

it came today!

I received my leningrádskoje optiko mechanitschéskoje objediniénie today! My LOMO LC-A. I took a few test shots and sent the roll to Wal-mart for processing. I hate wal-mart, but here they serve a purpose: its not like they can screw up LOMO pictures.


I am a bit worried about my new toy. The counter is not working properly. It does not automatically set itself when the back of the camera is opened like it is supposed to. I checked various LOMO websites, faq’s and forums, but nothing has helped. Perhaps I will take it to a camera shop tomorrow.

Even if the counter never works, I’m sure it will not hurt anything. If nothing else, it will help me keep my shots random and unplanned. That’s the point, right?


Things I want to shoot:
Old neon signs
Bright colors
The male/female sign at Penn Station
A cherry blossom tree in full bloom
Autumn trees
Large groups of people
Clowns
Fire works
Lights. Lots of lights.
Wet paint
Lights reflected on a wet road
People in the lower bar at Brewer’s Art
The Charles.
Paper Moon
The Domino Sugar Sign
Tide Point
Fells
Looking up at Shot Tower
Flowers
Lots of people.
Strangers
My sister in her crazy red dress
Umbrellas
People with cool hats
The best shots are the ones not on that list, though. The more random, the better.

But for now, I’m not shooting anything. I’m going to bed. Hopefully tomorrow will be sunny and LOMO-idealic, and the guy at Penn or Ritz will help me fix my counter.

rearranged

What is the meaning of organization? Is anyone really organized? I doubt it. I could spend the next five years organizing everything I own, and still be disorganized. I have so many Apps on my Mac to keep me organized, and to organize and keep track of time and assignments, yet I don’t use them, use them too much, or use them needlessly.

Would it be better if I lived and worked haphazardly? Chaos theory? I cannot function with my life out of order. If my pencils are mixed with my paints, or the xacto knives are in the card stock/paper drawer, I can’t accomplish anything until I return those items to their proper place.


I have spent all day re-organizing my bedroom. I do this often. Have to, I live in such a crowded space, and have so much stuff. I wonder lately if I should give up on painting and design. Just think of how much space I would have if I got rid of my stacks of canvases and matting, paints, brushes, frames, random scraps of mixed media that I’ll never use, but would need if I ever got rid of them, charcoal, xactos, graphite, erasers, healing mats, countless rulers, and what have you.

not to mention how much dust I would get rid of. Charcoal alone loves to puff clouds of black dust at any opportunity.


I can’t get rid of those items, though. And now, add film and negatives and prints and various cameras to the mix.... oh, and there’s the recent typography obsession...and the books that go with it.


Don't get me started on books.... or I'll have to list all three of my bookshelves that are overflowing with books.


Perhaps organization is not my problem. The problem must be my interests. I love too many things; have too many hobbies. Should I give up my art in its various forms for...I don't know. What is there besides art that someone might collect, create, or love? Do only boring and linear people have space? Is a mathematician organized?

awaiting LC-A

I cannot wait for my camera to arrive. Troy coudn't keep it from me. He ordered it from Sweden, and we are still waiting for it. LC-A Lomo. how exciting. I love my Holga, but there really is nothing like the actual LOMO. Most of the lc-a's are Chinese reproductions, but this one is the actual Russian-made camera. It will be nice to use 35mm instead of having to find, buy, and develop 120. My Holga was a good start. I learned alot about "toy" cameras, but 120 is expensive, and hard to have developed (for those of us without the luxury of a dark room.)

Troy, on the other hand, got a rebel XT. Not quite an LC-A, but I'm pretty sure he is happy. beyond happy.

He is an amazing photographer. don't tell him i said that. I, however, am not. I'll admit it. Thats why i love lomography so much. there is a method, but you don't have to have a method. the less method you follow, the better the shots. troy is just happy to be able to use raw files in aperture. I'm just happy to open and close the shutter and then see what happens.

the lc-a should be here by thursday. we shall see.

why zert zed no longer likes red

Why Zert Zed no longer likes red
(a work in progress, but on hold, pending inspiration, time, and patience)

Zert is a boy.
His last name is Zed.
Zert loves the color red.
His pillow is red,
so is his bed
and also his bear
Whose name is red ted.

Zert likes to draw things and color them red.
he drew two fish
and one fat cat.
He drew a dog, a frog,
a mouse and a bat.

He drew them all fast, right before bed
“But tomorrow”
he said,
“I will color you red.”
“you all will be red
red you shall be.
Anything red is just fine by me”

Zert jumped into bed and counted red sheep
In just a few minutes, Zert was asleep
And dreaming red dreams.
But some dreams aren’t as nice
As at first they might seem.

Zert dreamed the whole world was red
Not just his pillow, much more than his bed.
The ground was red, the sky was not blue
He was red, and his house was red too.
In a world colored red
Everything looks the same

Things that crawl and fly
and swim and walk
Look just the same
as things that sing and things that talk.
What a shame!
Things that went and things that came
Everything looks exactly the same.

Zert woke from the dream and jumped out of bed.
And he said,
“If my name isn’t Zert Zed…”
(and Zert Zed is his name)
“I will not allow this, I will not be to blame
for coloring the world red
and making everything the same”

He looked at his drawings,
(the things that he drew)
he thought for a second and knew what to do
“I’ll start with the fish” said Zert Zed
“the first will be purple, the next shall be yellow,
the fat cat will be an orange-ish-colored fellow!”
he made the dog brown and the frog green
not red, but just like others he had seen.
The mouse he colored grey, and the bat he made black
He colored and colored and colored and colored
And never looked back.
“I’m sick of red” said Zert, whose last name is Zed
“Many colors are better than one
when everything is one color the world is no fun”

"So this is Christmas..."

"Happy Christmas" by John Lennon makes me want to cry. I remember, as a child, feeling lucky that my Christmas was not ruined by war and fighting. I was naive. Sadly, that has changed.

War, however, seems distant this holiday season. I have a friend in Iraq, but the lack of in-your-face media coverage makes it seem like he is no further away than college, or the west coast. People all around the world are in constant fear and danger and pain. And all we can do is spend money on gifts, filling stockings with random odds and ends, not because we care, or feel that these gifts will help or please the recipient, but because, as Americans, we must. We, as a whole, have a must-give-many-gifts mentality. Am I a bad person if I do not give a gift to every co-worker, family member, and distant relative. We worry about how much money we spend on each gift, and whether an inexpensive gift will make us look cheap.

Meanwhile, the economy is

P
L
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M
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and our bank accounts are draining, and the housing market is falling quickly, and only the filthy rich can afford the gas and oil price increases. BGE claims that they will help individuals use less electricity this holiday season. That is their gift to those of us who have just faced a 50% price hike, and will find another major price increase in our stocking tomorrow. Happy Holidays from the war in Iraq and your friendly, neighborhood gas and electric company.

People line up at stores to buy things like cameras and ipods and xboxes....items that, in a week, will drop in price significantly. We have created our own price hell. Retailers mark it up before Christmas, then put it on sale for the holiday season, and finally, leave the leftovers on a clearance rack for 50% off. Are we blind, or just that determined to give every gift on the 25th?

Why do we need a gift-giving season? is it because, without a reason to give, we cannot treat those close to us with gifts? Is it wrong to hand a 20$ gift card to a coworker in the middle of June for no reason other than the desire to be nice and show appreciation?


Is it all a ploy to make us spend massive amounts of money? Please tell me there is more to this day than the exchange of money. If thats all there is to it, we are lost.


"So this is Christmas,
And what have you done?"

fish~revision.

fish

Elsa had always been a person of routine. She began every morning of her childhood leaving the house with her Papa just as the sun was rising. She followed him on the half-mile walk to the south end of the city where fishermen stood in groups around piles of the morning’s catch—smoking rich-smelling cigars, and blathering in broken languages.
“Good morning, Mr. Fraust. Good catch! You want for us deliver to it for you?” Every morning was the same question.
“That would be very nice of you” was always the reply. Papa took his time each morning, selecting the best of the catch to sell at his market stall while Elsa wandered between giant mountains of silvery fish, mesmerized by the vibrant colors reflected on their shiny scales by the sun. Some fish looked cool and blue, while others turned bright red like rubies in the sunrise. She imagined that the colors came from the rubies and jewels hidden inside the belly of each fish. Perhaps the foreign fishermen with their dark skin and dark eyes were princes, exiled from exotic lands. They hid their treasures inside the fish incase of a pirate attack. She envisioned beautiful princesses waiting for their lovers to return safe, and dangerous madmen chasing them on the open sea.
“Lets go, Elsa.”
Elsa once asked her Papa where the fishermen came from.
“I’m not ‘zactly sure,” he replied once “I’d magine they come from afar away. Somewhere out near the equator by the looks ‘o their skin. The sun near the equator is so hot that people’s skin turns dark init protects ‘em from the heat.”
Elsa couldn’t imagine a place so hot. She wanted to go and see for herself. The sun sometimes turned her skin red, but the fishermen were brown.
“Maybe you can go to places like that when you’re older. That’s an awful lot of travel’in for someone body yer size.” Her Papa’s voice was always full of warmth and laughter—as if everything was always pleasant. “Come on now, lets us get you to school.”
The morning trip to the docks was Elsa’s favorite part of the day, but the smell of fish and salty water lingered on her skin and clothes, earning her the lonely title of “fish girl”. The other children pinched their noses between their forefinger and thumb to let her know she smelled bad. Lunch and recess were both spent sitting on a rotting log at the far end of the school yard, dreaming about foreign lands and wishing that the fishermen would steal her away in the night and take her home with them where they would give her chocolate and dress her in fine silk and fur and make her a princess. The stories managed to make her forget the jeers and jokes of the other children, but dreams are just dreams, and at the end of the day, Elsa still smelled like fish.

* * *

As she grew older, Elsa began to understand and resent her loneliness. She spent her free time sitting on the front steps of the school watching the clean-smelling pretty girls play jump-rope and dress their lovely porcelain dolls. She began to regret her expeditions to the docks with Papa and blamed him for making her smell like fish.
She surprised her Papa one day by refusing to go to the dock with him. Instead, she sat at the kitchen table with her feet on the chair, hugging her knees, as her Mamma, on all fours, scrubbed the tile floor with a hard brush. The sound of the brush on the tile sent shivers down Elsa’s spine, as she tried not to think about what she might be missing at the docks.
As time wore on, Elsa allowed her morning routine with Papa to fade away.
“Why you wanna break your Papa’s heart?” Papa would ask the same question every morning, and Elsa would tell him that she was growing up—the docks were no place for a lady--but secretly, she knew it was the smell, and she regretted her decision every morning when Papa would smile, put his eyes to the ground, and leave after kissing her on the forehead.
She just wanted to make friends; to have someone to talk to.
“There are more important things to worry about” Mamma said when Elsa finally worked up the courage to ask for advice about making the fish smell go away. Mamma didn’t have time to “waste on silly things to amuse silly girls.”
Elsa even appealed to her next door neighbor who always had a remedy for anything.
“Tomato paste. Tomato paste and salt.” Neighbor Lady said. Elsa couldn’t believe that tomato paste could do anything but make soup, and she told the lady so.
“I had a run-in with a skunk when I was a little girl. I thought it was a kitten, so I tried to pick it up and the little bastard got me. All over my new Sunday dress.”
If tomato paste could get rid of skunk smell, it would surely make fish go away. Maybe there was hope, after all.
She left the woman and ran all the way to the market and asked Papa for some pennies to buy two fresh tomatoes. He looked at her funny, and thought about how little he knew his daughter now, but resolved to let her grow up. He gave her just enough money and told her to be home in time to help Mamma make dinner.
She didn’t waste time in choosing two of the brightest red tomatoes from the Italian man who told her they were the best she would ever see. He even gave her a piece of toffee for free when she promised to mind her Mamma. The sweetness of the toffee helped calm her excitement on the long trek from the market—all the way across town—to home. She hoped the remedy would work and resolved to never visit the docks again. She fantasized about how things would change once she smelled like other girls. Everyone would comment on how nice she smelled; they would line up to be her friend. She would be allowed to play games and amuse her new friends with stories of the foreign fishermen-princes.
When she arrived home, she dropped the tomatoes into her mamma’s stone bowl and used a heavy wooden spoon to crush them into a thick juice. She added some salt and quickly removed her shoes, stockings, and dress. With a deep breath, the smearing began. The neighbor made it clear that the paste must cover everything from her toes to the tips of her long blond braids. She covered everything, careful not to get tomato juice on the floor or Mamma would be angry.
Once everything but the bottoms of her feet was covered, Elsa stood in the middle of the floor wondering what to do next. Should she wait for it to dry? She waited a few minutes and then, impatient to see if the concoction would work, used a damp cloth to scrub the paste off of her body. She had to dunk her head in a bowl of water to clear tomato chunks from her hair. Finally clean, she put her dress and stockings back on and replaced her shoes before running to the yard where her mamma was cleaning the laundry in a tub.
She bounded up to Mamma and, shoving arms, legs, and braids in her face, asked if she smelled better.
“You smell like dinner” her mother said without looking up from the tub of mucky water “What have you been up to?”
Elsa quickly explained the purpose of the tomatoes—and for credibility— added that the neighbor lady promised it would work.
“You smelled good enough before.”
Her excitement fell down around her ankles.
“Shouldn’t be wasting food that’s good enough to eat.” Mamma’s face turned red and she scrubbed a white shirt extra hard.
Elsa deflated back into the house, doing what she could to keep the tears from dripping off her chin and leaving spots on her dress. She sniffed her arms to see for herself if the tomato paste worked, but she didn’t notice anything different. She would have to wait for school the next day to really know if there was a change.
She walked up to the lunch table the next morning with hope and confidence, but the pretty little girls looked at her and pinched their tiny little noses. “Fishy! Fishy!” Elsa turned and went back to the rotting log and covered her face with her hands so the other children wouldn’t see her cry.

* * *

When Elsa graduated from high school, she still couldn’t escape the smell of fish. She moved on to a public university in Pennsylvania where she managed to keep good grades and spent most of the wages she earned as a waitress at a local restaurant on expensive perfume. She often visited the up-and-coming coffee joints and bars, sure the strong smells of coffee beans and cigarette smoke would overpower the fish smell. At least no one ever mentioned the smell—but the maintenance was intense. Every day she washed with special brand-named soap and rubbed expensive lotion and perfume all over her body. Eventually, she developed a routine that, if followed closely every day, allowed her to live free of worry.
She continued the routine for many years, well after she had graduated from university and moved on to a job in a large office building in New York. Every morning she followed a routine of showering twice, brushing her teeth for 5 minutes, rubbing her entire body down with two different scents of lotion, applying the strongest possible deodorant, and spraying a continuous flow of heavy spritzes of perfume from head to foot.
The routine was cumbersome, but she understood that not following every step would cost her the few friends and successful position she had worked so hard to earn. If smelling good was a religion, Elsa was the most devout follower. She spent more money on new scents than clothes, food, and gasoline combined. She was on top of the latest designer scents the way a teenage girl keeps up with the latest happenings in Hollywood. She had a subscription to every major fashion magazine, and usually ripped out the perfume sample-cards and keep them in her dresser drawers, and threw the rest of the magazine in the trash. She spent hours in the cosmetic section of department stores, sniffing in a lungful of each new scent and comparing it to old favorites to decide which worked better. Elsa didn’t mind that she was still lonely; routine and her job filled the spare time, and she even had a few friends to go out with on occasion.
She tried several times to date men, but she could never get past the second or third date. She had a constant fear of letting a man get close enough to smell her. Even more, she could not let a man into her life; she could not let anyone know of her morning routine. She became self-conscious when people noticed any smell in her proximity, whether it be her or popcorn in the employee kitchenette at work. She could be in a chocolate shop, and if somebody commented on the smell, she would run home and take a shower.

* * *

When Elsa was in her late forties, she saw a commercial that would eventually change her life. She was skeptical at first of a product claiming to eliminate odors, but decided that, since she had tried crazier things, maybe it was worth a try. The commercial emphasized that the product worked just by spraying. This was just the answer Elsa had been waiting for her entire life. She debated for a month or so whether she should try the spray, afraid that the people at the grocery store would know that she wanted it for herself, not for her furniture or carpet. She finally elected to go to her local pet store and ask if they knew anything about the product, if it would really take out pet odors. The clerk was a young high school-aged girl who said her mom used it. It was amazing.
Elsa still debated.
She thought about the possibilities of not having to spend whole portions of her day in her routine and imagined the money she would save by not having to buy expensive perfume. But what if it was no different than the tomato paste she tried as a child? The memory of how her high hopes had been crushed when it didn’t work was still fresh. It might work, it might not, but how would she know unless she actually gave it a chance?
She would try the spray.
Elsa told herself not to expect much, but couldn’t stop the excitement welling up inside of her as she slipped invisibly into the big grocery store two streets from her apartment, and browsed a few aisles—purposefully avoiding the cleaning section at first—trying not to draw attention to herself. At the pet aisle, Elsa paused and contemplated buying some cat food. She didn’t own a cat, but since the product could eliminate pet odors, f she pretended to own a cat, the grocer wouldn’t think the product was for herself.
With a single tin of cat food in hand, Elsa forced herself to move in the direction of the cleaning aisle, examining each product as she passed. The periwinkle spray bottle caught her attention. It was exactly like the commercial; even the bottle was attractive and stood out from the other cleaning products. Skimming over the label, her eyes greedily drinking in the guarantees and promises… “No Scrubbing!”… “Eliminates odor with one spray”… “Guaranteed or your money back.” She thought she heard someone approaching and looking out of the corner of her eye. No one there. Her heart jumped in her chest as she thought about putting the product back and running from the store—just dropping the cat food in the middle of the aisle. No. There was no turning back. The product was already in her hand; nothing left but checkout.
She rushed to the cash-out line with a purpose in her step and feigned confidence in her eye. She made it to the line and stood, head down, trying to avoid eye contact. Almost free.
“This stuff is supposed to be amazing!” the clerk said as she passed the bottle over the scanner. The red laser from the price scanner reflected on the blue bottle like the morning sun used to reflect on the piles of fresh-caught fish. Elsa turned just as deep a shade of red at the cashier’s comment and mumbled something about the commercial as she gave exact change and snatched the bag.
At home, she sat the pretty blue bottle in the middle of the table and walked in circles around it, examining it from every angle. Could it really be this easy?

* * *

By the end of the year, Elsa had discarded most of her perfumes and lotions, keeping only her favorite scents. She cleared a cabinet in her kitchen and filled it with the miracle product. She made sure to have exactly forty full bottles in her home at all times. Eventually, as the company expanded, they began selling new scents and different versions specifically designed for individual purposes. She had a shelf organized according to scent: Lilac, Meadows and Rain, Fresh Air, Tropical Citrus, and Extra strength. The shelf below that one was laden with individual rows marked “Antimicrobial”, “Auto”, “Linen” and “Allergen Reducer”. She was pleased when she learned of new scents, and checked the company website daily for news and updates. She was overjoyed when the product was finally sold in portable sized bottles and plug-in air-fresheners.
Her routine changed drastically with the new product. She simply sprayed the magic spray all over her clothes and body every morning, sprayed her car every time she got in, and carried two portable bottles that she used only when she felt she needed it. She kept plenty stocked in her office. She knew that as long as she kept up with the spray, no one would notice the fish smell.

* * *

With the advent of the miracle product, Elsa became less uptight about her smell. She trusted the product because it did more than cover up the fish smell, it actually eliminated it; made it go away. She was smell free. The spray gave Elsa the confidence to not be afraid of offending people with her smell so that, when asked on a date by a very attractive coworker, she readily accepted.
They met at a local Italian restaurant for dinner. Elsa was surprised how easy she could talk to him. He was laid-back and confident. It was clear that he was looking for a good time—not an excuse to make fun of her. He told her how his son was graduating from college and showed her some pictures of his dog that he keeps in his wallet. By the time her fettuccine alfredo arrived, she was already looking forward to future dates.
Halfway through the meal, Elsa’s whole body broke into torrents of sweat and her heart pounded in her ears. She stopped mid-sentence and closed her mouth. Her date just stared at her, wondering what was wrong. She was sure he could smell the garlic on her breath—that he was trying to think up a polite excuse to leave her at the table alone. Something must be done. She excused herself as graciously as she could manage and hurried, stumbling, to the restroom.
She looked in the mirror and saw her panic covering her face. She would have to go home. No, she couldn’t be so rude. She rummaged in her purse for a solution and found it in the small blue spray bottle. She quickly darted her eyes across the label and let them rest on “do not ingest”. Surely a small amount would not harm her. It was an emergency, after all. Just a drop would fix the problem; she could finish the date, and then go home immediately to brush her teeth. Either that or she could just leave. She didn’t want to leave, she was having such a good time.
The choices smeared themselves across the mirror in front of her as the room started to spin and her heart pounded so hard her chest hurt.
“Just this once” she breathed the words out slowly as her shaky hand held one finger on the trigger pointed straight in her mouth. She sprayed the magic spray into the back of her throat, winced at the sour taste, and then breathed heavily to smell the results. Not satisfied, she took the cap off, almost dropping it to the hard tile floor, and held the lip of the bottle to her mouth. She swallowed a mouthful of the sour liquid, letting it linger over her tongue before dripping down her throat. That was better. She replaced the cap, put the bottle back in her purse, dabbed at her mouth with a tissue, and made her way back to the table.
When she sat down again she took a deep breath and made a comment about forgetting to take some medicine. He had been making rings on the table with the condensation dripping from his glass. He looked up and reassured her with a bright smile.
“Is that all? I was afraid you were looking for an excuse to leave.” His slight Mediterranean accent was pleasant and charming, and the light from a candle on the table danced in his eyes.
She let herself laugh, sure now that he had not even noticed the smell. After a few minutes Elsa regained her composure and comfort. She managed to finish the meal, well aware that there was a second bottle of the spray in her purse and two or three in her car. Conversation started up again and after the dinner plates were taken away, he invited her back to his apartment for desert and coffee. Apparently he baked in his free time, what a remarkable man he was. She could not turn him down. They made arrangements for her to follow him in her own car.
She misted herself and her car with the spray as soon as she got in, and took another gulp for good measure before getting out and going into the apartment.
“Welcome to my little place in the world” he said with a nervous smile as she walked in and regarded the neat and clean over-sized studio apartment with its leather couch, dark-wood coffee table, and black and white photography framed across the walls. Masculine but classy. He invited her to have a seat and disappeared into the kitchen to prepare some desert and coffee. She sat silent and stiff, afraid to spoil his obviously expensive furniture. When he returned, he had hand-made clay mugs full of steaming hot coffee and some sort of chocolate-covered pastry. He sat the tray on the table and settled himself on the couch, inches from her.
She picked up the coffee and let it warm her hands before taking a sip. It was delicious, but scolding hot so she sat it back on the tray and, looking around, made a comment about the photography on the walls.
“All mine” he said with pride “I have a lot of hobbies…have to now that I live alone.”
She caught him looking at her and blushed as he diverted his eyes. He tried to cover it up by asking what she thought about the coffee, but Elsa was too busy trying to figure out why he had looked at her that way. Was it her breath again? She breathed deep and realized that her breath smelled like rotten fruit. She panicked again and asked where his restroom was.
Once inside, she fumbled with her purse to find the second little blue bottle. Her stomach tied itself in knots as she unscrewed the cap and dumped half of the clear liquid into her mouth, swished, and swallowed. Immediately, she felt sick. Her chest burned and she felt light-headed and nauseated. The mirror reflected a ghostly-white image. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall trying to recompose herself. The nausea only got worse. She felt a stinging in her throat and leaned over the toilet just in time to watch her date splash into the porcelain bowl. Now she smelled like vomit, but she felt better. One more sip of the spray would make the vomit smell go away and she would just have to make up an excuse to leave. She should have just gone home and brushed her teeth after the first incident.
She sprayed some of the miracle spray into her mouth this time and wiped it with a tissue. She opened the door and told her date that she was not feeling very good, that she thought it best to go home and maybe they could get together next weekend.
“You should have a seat and relax before you go,” his voice revealed sincere concern, “just for a minute to collect yourself and calm down.”
She sat back down, keeping her mouth closed, and tried to look calm.
“Would you like a glass of water?”
She nodded and watched his tall frame stand up and walk into the kitchen. Before she knew it, he was leaning over her, calling her name.
“Elsa, are you okay? I called an ambulance”
He was too close to her face, he would smell the vomit, but she couldn’t open her mouth. Her whole body hurt. She tried to lift herself up and fell back down, hitting her head hard against the wooden floor. She raised her hand to her head to feel if it was bleeding, but she couldn’t tell because her whole head was wet. The floor was wet. What was all over her? The vomit smell was intense. She needed to find the bottle—she couldn’t let him notice the smell.
“Can you hear me, Elsa? How do you feel?”
He was inches from her face but she could barely hear him, he sounded far away, like he was in the next room. How could he stand to be so close to her face? Didn’t the smell bother him? She tried to wipe the wet hair off her face, but only succeeded in smearing the red sticky paste across her eyes. She felt the burning in her throat and chest again but she couldn’t worry about that. She had to figure out how to make the smell go away and how to clean the tomatoes out of her hair before Mamma came into the kitchen and saw the messy puddles of tomato paste all over the clean floor.

terps basketball

I went to my first Terps game ever. Actually, it was my first basketball game too! I'm a football kind of gal, so it was not a really big deal, but I had fun. Being on a real college campus with sports and school spirit made me sad. Sometimes I regret going to UB. We have no sports teams, no school colors or mascots, no spirit or sense of unity. UB is a school for the busy, working, parenting, trying to rush through a degree kind of student. The few events we have are usually dead, unless you count the welcome week block party. (which is when they bring beer to campus and charge us a dollar. surprise, the turn out for the block party is always staggering)

The Terps lost. Not normal. As we were leaving our seats, a young guy was yelling toward the court: "What is going on? You're the Terps. You just lost to American. Come on!" I do not follow the Terps, but even I know that this was a strange loss. They just could'nt get into a rhythm. I've seen it in football all season: the Ravens simply cannot get it together.

The crowd was the real show. I was amazed that all of the students remained standing throughout the entire game. That is spirit. And the rituals! I do not know what the newspaper thing means, but while the other team was being announced, every student shook a newspaper until the lineup was finished, then they crumpled the papers up and threw them into the air. After half-time, the cheerleaders brought out spinning discs, and the crowd spun them when the other team took penalty shots. The discs were meant to be a distraction, but it didnt do much good tonight.

I would like to go to a real college for Grad school. I am thinking about Georgetown. I know, big goals, but I think I could do it. I have always assumed I would not get into the schools I like, but after two years of straight 4.0 at UB, and national honor societies, I have new confidence in myself. I am only half joking when I say that I would like to take the L-Sat blindly, and see how I do. If I do well, I will abandon writing for Law School. If I do not do well, I will go to Emerson and continue writing. I guess I feel as though I have to prove myself to the world. I see someone wearing a Harvard Law or Georgetown, or other ivy league hoodie, and I want to tell them that I, too, could get in if I so chose.

But for now, I will just focus on graduating. And then on getting a job. Harvard material or not, the job market is scarce these days. People should just pay me for my opinion, I'm full of those.

The Wait

“You told us it would be about 45 minutes and we have already been here for an hour,” a broad woman with a rigid grin says to the hostess, her teeth clicking together, annunciating each syllable carefully.
“I’m sorry ma’am. Your name is up next.” The short hostess looks up at the massive shoulders and forces a smile.
“How long will it be?”
“As soon as a table for eight clears, we’ll clean it and seat you.”
“Are we talking hours or minutes?”
“Probably only minutes.” She turns her smile on again, larger this time, showing her bright teeth.
The woman walks sour-faced back to her husband, four kids, and in-laws.
“She says we’re next.”
She returns to her spot against a wooden table where she places the round pager down and continues watching her youngest daughter twirl in circles around the center of the lobby, knocking into passersby and forcing the people gathered on the perimeter of the room to push their backs against the walls to avoid being hit. She doesn’t even notice when the pager lights up in a pattern of alternating red lights. People near her watch as the pager reflects in a wine bottle. No one calls her attention to it. They want her table.
“Is there a Parker party of eight?”
The woman snaps out of her reverie. “It’s about time!”
“Do you have your pager?”
“Little good it has done me.” She gropes around the table and picks up the disk. She narrows her eyes and clenches her jaw at the flashing lights.
“Ma’am, we’ve been paging you for five minutes. We almost gave your table up.”
It is nearing 6p.m. on a Friday night , and the lobby at this popular Italian restaurant is overflowing with people. Children are running in circles, babies crying, parents talking, the front door is opening and closing as those coming and going maneuver among people standing or sitting on benches and chairs, all hunkering down to sit out the hour wait for a table and dinner.
As soon as “Parker party of eight” is swooped away, an older woman with silver hair and matching earrings steals a glance at the chair where the older Mr. Parker had been sitting. She makes a lady-like dash for the chair and is narrowly beaten by two teenage girls who plop into the bench as if the music had just stopped in a particularly competitive game of musical chairs. The silver-haired lady redirects herself past the chair, pretending that she has no interest in it, and leans against a wall near the dimly lit bar where a little boy with freckles is pulling leaves from a plant on the floor and counting them.
“One, three, eight, severnneen, twenny, fives, three, six” He counts each one as he stacks them on top off one another. He smiles up at the silver-haired woman, who smiles back an angry, forced sort of smile before looking for an excuse to ignore him. Not affected, the little boy starts his counting game over, taking each leaf from the pile, folding it neatly, and dropping it in the woman’s purse that hangs conveniently at his eye level.
Meanwhile, a little girl in orange crocs and a purple dress is staring at the freckled boy between adult legs from across the room. She breaks away from her mom and clunks over to him, upsetting a new mother and her baby carrier.
“Hannah, be careful. Come back here,” a voice calls from the other end of the lobby. “Frank, go get Hannah, please!”
A hand reaches down from the sky and grabs Hannah by the back of her lilac dress. She is yanked up from the floor, and just in time; a man swollen with pasta and bread and sporting a marinara stain on his crisp blue shirt has almost stepped on her fingers. He smiles a big toothy grin at Hannah who starts bawling back at him from over her father’s shoulder. She inspects the pager in her father’s hand before snatching it away and putting it in her mouth.
Pasta Man holds the door for three women peacocking in from outside. They form a line by the hostess’ stand.
“Hello, how are you tonight?” the hostess asks.
The woman with the largest hair answers, “Three, non-smoking.”
“Can I have a name please?”
“Sherman.”
“It’ll be about 50 minutes. This will blink when we page you.”
“An hour? Are you serious? I’m not waiting an hour.”
The three women tromp out the door, but are immediately replaced by two elderly gentlemen in suits and ties. The first, a slightly balding, skinny man in a too-big suit makes a dash for the hostess.
“How long a wait for two?” he asks, out of breath
“50 minutes or so.”
“That’s not bad.”
Again, the exchange of pager and instructions, and the men survey the lobby in search of a place where two men might sit or stand comfortably together. The people who have already been sitting in the lobby for 40 or so minutes understand the surveying look and spread their legs, move their purses, and lean at a wider angle.
The men eventually find a small nook by a window just in time to hear two old women with penciled eyebrows complain about the wait. “You know, Barry and I were at Texas Road House two days ago, and the wait wasn’t this long. We got in and got sat real quick. I don’t know why this place takes so long,” the first woman wheezes to her friend who nods in agreement.
“They’re always slow here.”
“Maybe it has to do with the fact that the tables have people sitting at them. They can’t kick people out,” the oldest and biggest of the two men interjects good-naturedly.
“Well,” one of the women huffs. Both arch their indignant eyebrows and turn their backs to the man, unable to argue with common sense.