Also, before the music fiasco, I could not figure out why my ENTIRE web page wasn't showing up.
I misspelled "style" in the ending < /style > tag.
Fail.
3.10.2010
Under Pressure, part two.
There are some things that make me irrationally angry. Some people yell. Some people hit things. I blog.
Computer Science class is normally what keeps me sane. It is not in the music building, it doesn't have to do with oboe reeds, and no one in that class knows me. Today, I went entirely insane.
Sometimes we play music during class. Normally, this means ONE music source and the rest of the class LISTENS or asks questions about the assignment. This does not mean that you should do any of the following:
-play YOUR music out of YOUR dinky computer speakers*
-hum along to YOUR music
-SING YOUR music OFF KEY
-play a song where the melody is an m2 lower than the song over the big speakers
-tap your foot loudly or beat on the table
-REFUSE TO TAKE HINTS THAT YOU SHOULD TURN YOUR MUSIC OFF.
I wanted to poke him with a fire poker for the following reasons:
1) for singing out of tune
2) for listening to music with TWO CHORDS
3) for playing your music while there is other music on*
4) for making percussive sounds while listening to music,
5) a bonus, for having bad taste in music, which normally I would never tell someone since music is such a personal thing, but at this point...anger.
*indicates that this one is a biggie, and, well, should be obvious.
I don't know why, but this type of sensory overload makes me irrationally angry. Like, violent angry. Now I am sitting in my dorm room, which is dark and quiet. Violent blogging. Internet, hear me roar.
(also, for all you web design people out there, I almost coded this with [sans spaces] < ul > and then the < li > < / li > and < / ul > and < ol > < li > < / li > < / ol >, respectively. Yes, I am a nerd.)
Computer Science class is normally what keeps me sane. It is not in the music building, it doesn't have to do with oboe reeds, and no one in that class knows me. Today, I went entirely insane.
Sometimes we play music during class. Normally, this means ONE music source and the rest of the class LISTENS or asks questions about the assignment. This does not mean that you should do any of the following:
-play YOUR music out of YOUR dinky computer speakers*
-hum along to YOUR music
-SING YOUR music OFF KEY
-play a song where the melody is an m2 lower than the song over the big speakers
-tap your foot loudly or beat on the table
-REFUSE TO TAKE HINTS THAT YOU SHOULD TURN YOUR MUSIC OFF.
I wanted to poke him with a fire poker for the following reasons:
1) for singing out of tune
2) for listening to music with TWO CHORDS
3) for playing your music while there is other music on*
4) for making percussive sounds while listening to music,
5) a bonus, for having bad taste in music, which normally I would never tell someone since music is such a personal thing, but at this point...anger.
*indicates that this one is a biggie, and, well, should be obvious.
I don't know why, but this type of sensory overload makes me irrationally angry. Like, violent angry. Now I am sitting in my dorm room, which is dark and quiet. Violent blogging. Internet, hear me roar.
(also, for all you web design people out there, I almost coded this with [sans spaces] < ul > and then the < li > < / li > and < / ul > and < ol > < li > < / li > < / ol >, respectively. Yes, I am a nerd.)
This is ourselves...under pressure.
I hate midterm week.
That could be a more eloquent sentence.
I loathe, detest, abhor, and all synonyms thereof midterm week.
I'm only getting two hours of practice and one hour of reedmaking per day in. It's this week that my work schedule is deciding to eat my life. It's this week that my fraternity actually meets. It's this week that I really, really need a nap. I haven't left the music building before 11 in days. Tonight it'll probably be later than that.
I'm tired to the point of making stupid mistakes. I went to the reed room, set down my oboe, and got my paycheck to go to the bank. I closed the door...and left my keys and ID in there. I couldn't go to the bank. I couldn't practice. So tired. Screwed. By the time someone came and rescued me, it wasn't worth going to practice. Too tired to practice. Must practice. Guhhh.
In other news, I am declaring a minor in computer science, so I just might escape college with marketable skills.
Anyway, time for web development and more caffeine.
That could be a more eloquent sentence.
I loathe, detest, abhor, and all synonyms thereof midterm week.
I'm only getting two hours of practice and one hour of reedmaking per day in. It's this week that my work schedule is deciding to eat my life. It's this week that my fraternity actually meets. It's this week that I really, really need a nap. I haven't left the music building before 11 in days. Tonight it'll probably be later than that.
I'm tired to the point of making stupid mistakes. I went to the reed room, set down my oboe, and got my paycheck to go to the bank. I closed the door...and left my keys and ID in there. I couldn't go to the bank. I couldn't practice. So tired. Screwed. By the time someone came and rescued me, it wasn't worth going to practice. Too tired to practice. Must practice. Guhhh.
In other news, I am declaring a minor in computer science, so I just might escape college with marketable skills.
Anyway, time for web development and more caffeine.
3.08.2010
Woo, Ithaca.
Be it known that I fail at updating blogs.
I'm finally back in Ithaca, despite all of my complaining. To be honest, I can't remember the first half of this semester. It's a blur of rehearsals and practicing and making reeds and the fact that on a normal day I do five hours of practicing/reed making and then do homework. Oh right, and that whole "Class Piano" thing. My major is for masochists. Between practicing piano, three hours with my face to an oboe, two hours of making something for my face to connect with, sight-singing, music theory and music history homework, and...oh yeah, rehearsal...majoring in music is not for the feint of heart.
Or those who like sleeping.
In other news, Ithaca, NY is cold...and warm...and redefining my definitions of both. Since I have been here, I have woken up, seen the temperature read -5 degrees (yes, Fahrenheit), and gone straight back to bed. There's seriously no reason to be awake when it's that cold. By that point, waking up to 17 degree weather was "ehh, it's kinda chilly out" and the mid twenties began to feel like "hey, it's actually kind of warm." There is definitely something inherently wrong with that statement. I've come to the conclusion that given a good enough jacket, you will survive!
I had my first snow fight last weekend. We got dumped with nineteen inches of snow and school didn't even close. I was so confused. But that night we attacked each other with snowballs and tackled each other into the snow and ended up entirely soaked, bruised, and happy. Then there was hot chocolate and massive cuddling orgies. It was a good time.
This weekend it was 42 degrees. I went outside in a blue jean jacket. What the crap, Ithaca?
I also went to see the ICSO play the Firebird Suite today. I've had that stuck in my head since 6pm. It makes me feel like everything is triumphant. Triumphant cane gouging. Triumphant stair-climbing. Triumphant printing. Triumphant laundry. Triumphant theory homework.
Eventually, triumphant sleep!
I'm finally back in Ithaca, despite all of my complaining. To be honest, I can't remember the first half of this semester. It's a blur of rehearsals and practicing and making reeds and the fact that on a normal day I do five hours of practicing/reed making and then do homework. Oh right, and that whole "Class Piano" thing. My major is for masochists. Between practicing piano, three hours with my face to an oboe, two hours of making something for my face to connect with, sight-singing, music theory and music history homework, and...oh yeah, rehearsal...majoring in music is not for the feint of heart.
Or those who like sleeping.
In other news, Ithaca, NY is cold...and warm...and redefining my definitions of both. Since I have been here, I have woken up, seen the temperature read -5 degrees (yes, Fahrenheit), and gone straight back to bed. There's seriously no reason to be awake when it's that cold. By that point, waking up to 17 degree weather was "ehh, it's kinda chilly out" and the mid twenties began to feel like "hey, it's actually kind of warm." There is definitely something inherently wrong with that statement. I've come to the conclusion that given a good enough jacket, you will survive!
I had my first snow fight last weekend. We got dumped with nineteen inches of snow and school didn't even close. I was so confused. But that night we attacked each other with snowballs and tackled each other into the snow and ended up entirely soaked, bruised, and happy. Then there was hot chocolate and massive cuddling orgies. It was a good time.
This weekend it was 42 degrees. I went outside in a blue jean jacket. What the crap, Ithaca?
I also went to see the ICSO play the Firebird Suite today. I've had that stuck in my head since 6pm. It makes me feel like everything is triumphant. Triumphant cane gouging. Triumphant stair-climbing. Triumphant printing. Triumphant laundry. Triumphant theory homework.
Eventually, triumphant sleep!
1.22.2010
iPod Armbands: Only for People with Limbs Like Tree Trunks
Everyone who knows her admits it: my mother is an exercise fiend.
She loves it. She gets to the gym at 8am and works out for two hours, comes home, and continues her day. On the days when she can't make it to the gym, she works out on the two pieces of exercise machinery she bought before her days of gym membership. She can't rope me or my father into sweating it out with a bunch of other middle-aged women in a group cycling class or "relaxing" in a posh yoga class, so she uses the word "exercise" at least seventeen times in each conversation until we finally go treadmill or use the elliptical. She has great intentions. I kind of wish I could get as jazzed about cardio workouts as I do about Beethoven. Her enthusiasm makes my love of Beethoven look like a kindergarten valentine.
Anyway. My mother is always trying to find something that will encourage a lazy-ass like me to exercise. If I'm home, usually I just watch an episode of Law and Order SVU and I'm fine. It's when I'm at the gym at 8am and there's an exceedingly peppy instructor yelling at me and a pumped-up exercise rendition of Linkin Park's In The End playing (I kid you not) and I know I'm stuck there sans-coffee for two hours...then we have a problem.
Luckily, iPods were invented. Probably for this purpose.
If you haven't already, download the Decemberist's newest album, The Hazards of Love. I know I'm, what, nine months late on this album, but OH MY G-D. It's seriously the best album I own. It tells the story of William (Colin Meloy) and his love for Margaret (Becky Stark) and various abductions and mishaps happening to Margaret by The Queen of the forest (also William's mother, sung by Shara Worden) and...argh, I can't possibly describe the storyline or the musical amazingness that accompanies it. Regardless, this made me want to extend my stay on the crossramp trainer to 58.6 minutes. I felt cheated when I had to hit pause on my iPod and get off after half an hour.
If Ithaca ever buys a crossramp trainer and I can figure out how to prevent my iPod from tumbling across the gym floor, I am going to have the best ass ever. Thank you, Decemberists. But within my 30 minute, 275-calorie-burning stay, I saw at least three iPods tumble from the unstable ledges of various treadmills and elliptical trainers and...whatever the hell those other things are. Luckily, numerous brand names have attempted to fix this malady with the iPod arm band. Great idea? Yes. In practice?
Not so much.
I'm a relatively normally-sized female, height notwithstanding. I'm not small. I took Tae Kwon Do for nine years, and thus my upper arms are relatively strong. Why then, can I not tighten the armband of this wonderous device so that it will stay on my arm?
The reason is this: here's the length of the arm band and the tiny splotch of velcro at the very, very end:
And here's the smallest the armband can be tightened:
Really. I'm all for New Years Resolutions (if anyone still remembers theirs) and trying to get down to a healthy weight and yadda yadda yadda, but really?
Thank you, Belkin, for catering to New Years Weight Loss Resolutions. Now pardon me while I go eat more, so my limbs can become tree trunks...and then I can listen to the Decemberists while working out.
And thank you, Decemberists...now I want to go work out. I guess it's not so bad after all.
She loves it. She gets to the gym at 8am and works out for two hours, comes home, and continues her day. On the days when she can't make it to the gym, she works out on the two pieces of exercise machinery she bought before her days of gym membership. She can't rope me or my father into sweating it out with a bunch of other middle-aged women in a group cycling class or "relaxing" in a posh yoga class, so she uses the word "exercise" at least seventeen times in each conversation until we finally go treadmill or use the elliptical. She has great intentions. I kind of wish I could get as jazzed about cardio workouts as I do about Beethoven. Her enthusiasm makes my love of Beethoven look like a kindergarten valentine.
Anyway. My mother is always trying to find something that will encourage a lazy-ass like me to exercise. If I'm home, usually I just watch an episode of Law and Order SVU and I'm fine. It's when I'm at the gym at 8am and there's an exceedingly peppy instructor yelling at me and a pumped-up exercise rendition of Linkin Park's In The End playing (I kid you not) and I know I'm stuck there sans-coffee for two hours...then we have a problem.
Luckily, iPods were invented. Probably for this purpose.
If you haven't already, download the Decemberist's newest album, The Hazards of Love. I know I'm, what, nine months late on this album, but OH MY G-D. It's seriously the best album I own. It tells the story of William (Colin Meloy) and his love for Margaret (Becky Stark) and various abductions and mishaps happening to Margaret by The Queen of the forest (also William's mother, sung by Shara Worden) and...argh, I can't possibly describe the storyline or the musical amazingness that accompanies it. Regardless, this made me want to extend my stay on the crossramp trainer to 58.6 minutes. I felt cheated when I had to hit pause on my iPod and get off after half an hour.
If Ithaca ever buys a crossramp trainer and I can figure out how to prevent my iPod from tumbling across the gym floor, I am going to have the best ass ever. Thank you, Decemberists. But within my 30 minute, 275-calorie-burning stay, I saw at least three iPods tumble from the unstable ledges of various treadmills and elliptical trainers and...whatever the hell those other things are. Luckily, numerous brand names have attempted to fix this malady with the iPod arm band. Great idea? Yes. In practice?
Not so much.
I'm a relatively normally-sized female, height notwithstanding. I'm not small. I took Tae Kwon Do for nine years, and thus my upper arms are relatively strong. Why then, can I not tighten the armband of this wonderous device so that it will stay on my arm?
The reason is this: here's the length of the arm band and the tiny splotch of velcro at the very, very end:
And here's the smallest the armband can be tightened:
Really. I'm all for New Years Resolutions (if anyone still remembers theirs) and trying to get down to a healthy weight and yadda yadda yadda, but really?
Thank you, Belkin, for catering to New Years Weight Loss Resolutions. Now pardon me while I go eat more, so my limbs can become tree trunks...and then I can listen to the Decemberists while working out.
And thank you, Decemberists...now I want to go work out. I guess it's not so bad after all.
1.03.2010
Update: it won't stop!
Also, I continue to be unable to go anywhere in middle Georgia without seeing someone I know, except tonight it was in astonishing quantities. At Ingleside Village Pizza alone, I managed to see:
-someone from my high school academic bowl team
-one of Maxine's childhood friends
-the above's very tiny compatriot
-the woman who cuts my hair*
-Katy Newcomer's mother
*She's about 65 and always seemed too proper for pizza. I'll bet she dabs it with her napkin. And eats it with a fork. Classy.
-someone from my high school academic bowl team
-one of Maxine's childhood friends
-the above's very tiny compatriot
-the woman who cuts my hair*
-Katy Newcomer's mother
*She's about 65 and always seemed too proper for pizza. I'll bet she dabs it with her napkin. And eats it with a fork. Classy.
Friends, coffee, and all the single ladies...
I keep expecting my life to either turn into Sex and the City or some really terrible romantic comedy.
First of all, I am in this group of three friends that I hang out with in Macon--Shannon, Maxine, and myself. We frequently meet in coffee shops, go bargain shopping (or just trying on ridiculous outfits) together, and basically gallivant around middle Georgia. Shannon, I suppose you could say, is like Charlotte. Eventually she is going to meet a nice Jewish boy and get married. Maxine is a writer, so now I suppose she has to be Carrie. I'm an irascible person terrible at functional relationships who's a lesbian in real life. I suppose this makes me Miranda. Okay, so we don't fit the character stereotypes, but the idea is still there: we're a group of single ladies drinking coffee, eating classy salads, and basically just tearing apart the streets of middle Georgia looking for something to do. And despite what relationship situations may or may not befall us, we've got each other.
...yeah, cue the cheesy friendship music.
I have to admit, though--it's nice to have a group of currently-single friends that you can go around town with and complain about how complicated (or non-existent) your love life is with. It's kind of nice to know that I can still have fun with friends now that everyone is pairing off. Which brings me to my next point:
Single people seem to be a dying breed.
Seriously. Nearly everyone in my life has had a relationship in the past three months or is currently in one. Or is about to be in one. Regardless, there are options there and experiences to be had. I hate to complain, but why am I not a part of this statistic?
Yeah, yeah, yeah, eventually it'll happen. But in the meantime, where'd the single ladies go? I'm not just trying to find ones to date (though that'd be nice), but ones to be friends with on group date nights. I'm not saying my friends are going to abandon me--they're excellent and already plan not to do so--but sitting at that coffee table with two other members of that dying population, the three of us joked about our lives turning at that moment into a cheesy romantic comedy. You know, Shannon, who is tied with me in clumsiness, would spill coffee on someone and end up dating him after she nursed his second degree burns. Hipster boy would notice Maxine's Swedish-winter-prostitute boots and it'd be love at first sight. The other middle Georgia lesbian would walk into Barnes and Noble--
Oh wait, that happened. She was with her girlfriend.
Regardless, here's the point: it'll happen when it happens, but in the meantime, it's nice to have your single friends to make it easier. As Sex and the City dictated, your friends are the ones that'll get you through the both being single and the soap opera that is being in a relationship. End cheesy post here.
That being said, I'm calling for an endangered species list for single people.
First of all, I am in this group of three friends that I hang out with in Macon--Shannon, Maxine, and myself. We frequently meet in coffee shops, go bargain shopping (or just trying on ridiculous outfits) together, and basically gallivant around middle Georgia. Shannon, I suppose you could say, is like Charlotte. Eventually she is going to meet a nice Jewish boy and get married. Maxine is a writer, so now I suppose she has to be Carrie. I'm an irascible person terrible at functional relationships who's a lesbian in real life. I suppose this makes me Miranda. Okay, so we don't fit the character stereotypes, but the idea is still there: we're a group of single ladies drinking coffee, eating classy salads, and basically just tearing apart the streets of middle Georgia looking for something to do. And despite what relationship situations may or may not befall us, we've got each other.
...yeah, cue the cheesy friendship music.
I have to admit, though--it's nice to have a group of currently-single friends that you can go around town with and complain about how complicated (or non-existent) your love life is with. It's kind of nice to know that I can still have fun with friends now that everyone is pairing off. Which brings me to my next point:
Single people seem to be a dying breed.
Seriously. Nearly everyone in my life has had a relationship in the past three months or is currently in one. Or is about to be in one. Regardless, there are options there and experiences to be had. I hate to complain, but why am I not a part of this statistic?
Yeah, yeah, yeah, eventually it'll happen. But in the meantime, where'd the single ladies go? I'm not just trying to find ones to date (though that'd be nice), but ones to be friends with on group date nights. I'm not saying my friends are going to abandon me--they're excellent and already plan not to do so--but sitting at that coffee table with two other members of that dying population, the three of us joked about our lives turning at that moment into a cheesy romantic comedy. You know, Shannon, who is tied with me in clumsiness, would spill coffee on someone and end up dating him after she nursed his second degree burns. Hipster boy would notice Maxine's Swedish-winter-prostitute boots and it'd be love at first sight. The other middle Georgia lesbian would walk into Barnes and Noble--
Oh wait, that happened. She was with her girlfriend.
Regardless, here's the point: it'll happen when it happens, but in the meantime, it's nice to have your single friends to make it easier. As Sex and the City dictated, your friends are the ones that'll get you through the both being single and the soap opera that is being in a relationship. End cheesy post here.
That being said, I'm calling for an endangered species list for single people.
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