When do you feel impatient?
Saturday afternoons, waiting for Dean to arrive. He's always, always, always later than he says he'll be on Saturday afternoons.
How many times in your life have you had a broken heart?
Name a book you would like to see made into a movie.
* The Man Who Wrote the Book, by Erik Tarloff.
* About the Author, by John Colapinto (OMG, that would be fucking hilarious. It's one of the best--it's on my favorites shelf--and it would be magnificent on screen.)
* I'd pay a lot to see one of Jennifer Crusie's books done well on film. Like Anne Tyler, there might be just too much 'there' to make sense in the visual format of the motion picture, as opposed to the 'mental' format of the books. But she writes so well, and I've enjoyed her books so much, that it is a wish nonetheless.
If you could thank one teacher for what they taught you, who would it be and what would you thank them for?
Because it's me, of course, there has to be more than one. Prehaps I can choose one from each school?
* From W-K: Ms. Cy*rt, the "temporary" substitute teacher who was forced to put up with 20-some rowdy 5th graders for 3/4 of a year when our "regular" teacher's pregnancy became high-risk and she was hospitalized. We treated her so poorly, and with such disdain, but I remember learning a great deal that year. She was the definition of grace under pressure, and I respect her for it.
* From WJHS: My lovely science teacher from 9th grade, Mr. D*ffy. He had me removed from his class because I was miles ahead of the rest of the class. I kept reading ahead in the text and asking questions that they weren't ready for. I'd stay after school and help with lab stuff and take the late-bus home after. After only a couple of months of that, I was called to the guidance counselor's office and informed that my schedule was being changed--I was moving to the advanced science class. Unfortunately, Mr. D*ffy didn't teach that class. I was scared and sad; I thought that I had done something wrong, that he literally didn't want to teach me anymore. When I went that day to my last class period with him, I stayed after to return my textbook, and he asked for the chance to explain. He wanted me to have the opportunity to learn everything I could. He wanted me to get the chance to play in nomenclature and equations that I would not have in his class. He was gently pushing me out of the (safe, comfortable) nest so I could fly. I didn't realize then what a gift that was. What a lovely thing he had done for me, and how I truly enjoyed science that year for maybe the final time in my life (definitely for the last time in my formal education). Mr. D*ffy was a peach and I feel very melancholy now, both that I never had a chance to tell him how much that meant to me, and that I'll never forget it--or him.
(Honorable Mention to Mr. Ed*l, who also loved history)
* From WSHS: Infinitely more difficult. Ms. Bi*sanz, the poet-to-be, who led me to love Walt Whitman? Mr. [P*te] J*hns*n, the driest man on Earth but one who loved Spanish guitars and taught me boatloads about history, political science and economics? (And who seemed not to notice while Gr*g Sh*ld*n and I flirted like brazen idiots for an hour each day?) Mr. [V*rn] J*hns*n, Chemistry guy, comedian (his only son's name? "Alpha Omega". What's in that jar? "A mole of mole.") and all-around good guy. Mr. Paul V*rgin (yup, that's his name)--recipient of my biggest teacher crush of all time, perfectly unrequited, who made me care about whateverthehell math classes I took from him and go to the Senior Banquet and not drive off a cliff because Jay K. wouldn't go out with me...?
Nope--Mrs. Margaret Ki*hne. Weirdo, overly-dramatic, wild dresser, keeper of perhaps the best classroom location in the building. Funny, intellectually uncompromising, sincere. Frightening, yet strangely approachable. I wanted to be just like her. I don't know how many classes I took with her, but I know I took at least one as a sophomore and one as a senior. Under her tutelage I read Dickinson and Millay and Shakespeare for the first time. I fell in love with William, such as this from Cicero [Julius Caesar; Act I, Scene III]:
You and I - tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave--
I will forget the light!
When you have done, pray tell me
That I may straight begin!
Haste! Lest while you're lagging
I remember him!
Though we who watched it will be gone, watched it and with it died--
Will there be none the less the yellow melilot, the white, the high sweet clover,
Close to the dusty, fragrant, hot roadside?
Oh, yes, there will! --
Escaped from the fields of fodder, for there must be fodder still....
Ah, yes, but nothing will escape...
Yet sweet, perhaps, in fields of fodder still.
When it is over - for it will be over--
Will there be none the less, will there be still
In April on the southern slope of an orchard, apple orchard hill,
Red-and-white buds already fragrant, intent upon blossoming? --
There will; I know there will
From WSU: Seymour. If I grow up, I want to be just like you.
From EMU: Rob. Inspiration! (wings) And Ron. Foundation! (feet)
From NIU: Cord*s & Ga*bler. Unforgettable stability in the midst of such condescension and bleakness.
What is your favorite kind of pie?
I'm not a big pie fan, but I'll take apple with a streusel topping if given the choice.
via Cat, natch.
Place of employment and title:
S. Public L*br*ry, Head of
[Doesn't that sound snootier? ;)]
Community Memorial Hospital, Winona MN
My fondest childhood memory:
Lying on my tummy in the rear 'cabin' of the ancient wood-paneled station wagon, reading. Doesn't matter what I was reading, because I would re-read anything I could get my hands on. My weekly trips to the Bookmobile were a weightlifting challenge for me. It was all I wanted to do.
The Brothers K by David James Duncan. I read it for the first time in 1992, again in 2001, and I'm reading it again now. It is even better the third time. I can feel myself working through it more slowly as I get closer to the end, not wanting it to end. I love this book. I cannot make that point too strongly: I love this book.
Writing. Reading. Photographing things that don't move too quickly. Baking (but not cleaning up after). Creating bizarre jewelry and foisting it on unsuspecting friends.
Trust (makes me swoon). The Professional (terrifies me). The Rundown (is hilarious). Beautiful Girls (makes me happy-sad-homesick). Top Secret! (leaves me helpless with laughter--"It took the surgeons 4 hours just to get the smile off his face!").
The craziest thing I've ever done:
Meeting a man for the first time in an airport in Chicago. It was also one of the most important things I've done.
Bakery drone, M*dtown Foods IGA, Winona MN. I was employed there for 4 years, and it was thanks to that job (or, more accurately, thanks to the "meat market-ness" of the whole place) that I met many, many, many of the key players in my chequered past.
What I'd like to be doing in 10 years:
Writing. Sleeping until noon every fucking day; waking when my body tells me to and not when the pallet-lifter decides. "Getting stuff done" during regular business hours, and starting to work when 'everybody else' is through with their regular day. Really flowing by 11 PM or midnight. Closing up around 3 AM. Falling into bed, body-tired and brain-drained, alongside someone who can, and wants to, deal with me.
For one day, I'd like to trade places with:
A well-kept housecat. Would that not be the life?!
I've always wanted to travel to:
To relieve stress, I:
write in my journal. Typically a page or two each night. Over the last year or so, as many as 18 pages at a stretch.
Three words that describe me:
stubborn, loyal, wanton
The person I most admire:
I'm shootin' for not having heroes. No hero = no unrealistic expectation = no chance for disappointment.
My friends like me because:
I honestly can't answer this question. Seriously, is it just me, or is this too weird? I don't know. Am I being all "Sally Field" again, Cat?
Behind my back they say:
"...bossy wench. At least she's not obviously stinky."
I'd give anything to meet:
My most embarrassing moment:
... [may have] occurred this weekend, in a parking lot near Randall Rd. and IL-64.
I love the town I live in because:
It's cute. No, seriously, because pretty much anything I desire is right here, and if it's not, I can get to it within an hour's drive. Except the Mississippi, which is only another hour past. The weather's not too sucky. The people are pretty decent. It's not terribly expensive (other than my rent, which is out-fucking-rageous) given the proximity to The City. My job is here. Lots of my friends are here. And Dean's here.
Do I love it? No. But for now, I'm stayin'.
I was not surprised, though I'll admit to a sense of pleasure and ...vindication? ... at this.
Achtung! You are 23% brainwashworthy, 31% antitolerant, and 9% blindly patriotic
|Congratulations! You are not susceptible to brainwashing, your values and cares extend beyond the borders of your own country, and your Blind Patriotism does not reach unhealthy levels. If you had been German in the 30s, you would've left the country.|
One bad scenario -- as I hypothetically project you back in time -- is that you just wouldn't have cared one way or the other about Nazism. Maybe politics don't interest you enough. But the fact that you took this test means they probably do. I'm gonna give you the benefit of the doubt.
Did you know that many of the smartest Germans departed prior to the beginning of World War II, because they knew some evil shit was brewing? Brain Drain. Many of them were scientists. It is very possible you could have been one of them.
Conclusion: born and raised in Germany in the early 1930's, you would not have been a Nazi.
- it rules -
|This test tracked 3 variables. How the score compared to the other people's:|
|Link: The Would You Have Been a Nazi Test written by jason_bateman on Ok Cupid|