Sunday, June 20, 2010

Hey Pop.

How you doing?

Today is a day dedicated to men like you. Today is the day that we remember men who have children. For some, today sucks because they're reminded of how shoddy their father is. For others, today is lovely because it's a time to celebrate a great man. And for some it sucks because the great man they want to celebrate doesn't exactly exist in the conventional sense any more.

I wish our family was getting together today. It would be great for all of us to sit around a table, with you at its head. We would begin with a prayer that lingers halfway between poetry and blue-collared frankness, led by you, of course. The prayer would be capped with an amen that would ripple around the table like soft, surprised applause. Unbowing our heads, we would look around, grinning, probably in response to the babbling of nieces and nephews that struggled for attention against your supplication for good conversation and thanks for each person around the table.

Words would flit across steaming dishes. Commentary on the food, queries about recent life events, jokes, stories, expositions...

It would be natural. It would be normal. It would be full of life. It would be what we used to be before you were gone. We've changed since then. Not severely, by any means, but we're different. We seem a little quieter, maybe.

Your absence is like a scar. It's becoming less and less obvious that we're missing something, because we've grown used to it, but you're still gone and when we take the time to look for you it's hard to remember what you're supposed to be like. All that is clear is that there's a slight discoloration where you used to be, hinting at what once was.

I miss you. A lot. And at the same time not at all. You seem so far away. Two years is a long time. I remember stories and sometimes I can feel what your hug felt like, hear how your laugh sounded. More than anything I miss what could have been.

If only I could have known you as an adult. What would our relationship have been like if you were around now? What would you think of the ways in which I've changed? What would you let slide and what would gain me lectures, either stern or soft? What new kinds of conversations would we have had? You always respected my opinions and made me feel like I presented my ideas well, even when I didn't. What could I have learned when I finally realized that conversations are not competitions?

How would you have changed? What would be sparking your interest, taking up your time now?

I don't think about you enough. I realize that we're not supposed to live in the past, but we are supposed to acknowledge it. It's just getting harder to do as it gets further away. I don't even know if I remember any of it properly anymore. What if my memories are fabrications? Pathetic attempts at re-weaving a history that didn't exist the way I see it? Why can't you still be here so I could be making new memories with you at their center instead of grasping at the ones that continue to dim? Like a sunset, they're still colorful, but they keep getting darker and there's no telling how much longer the sun will stay above the horizon and keep them lit.

Here's hoping Heaven is bliss.

Your daughter,

Holly

David, the Dancing Ghetto Suburbanite

I am watching Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog as I write this, so please forgive any lack of coherency along with any random and slightly familiar lyrical additions to my story.

On Friday night my friend Anna and I were going to go to a concert in Minneapolis. We have kind of gotten stuck in an activity rut lately wherein pretty much every single Friday night we go to this club in St. Paul called Valentinos. We were planning on mixing it up a little by going to a place called Honey for some live-music dance partying. Unfortunately, we parked in the wrong place when we got to Minneapolis and, after asking a couple police officers if they knew about the place we were looking for, we found out that we'd have to walk 7 blocks (in our super cute, super painful heels) to the venue. And then, of course, we would have to walk those 7 blocks in reverse after dancing blisters into our feet. Anna decided (wisely) that that would be a bad idea and instead we tried to be spontaneous and looked for something to do nearby. We were, after all, in downtown Minneapolis, and although it is no NYC or Chi-town, we definitely have a good selection of places to do things.

We couldn't find anything. We felt overdressed for most of the venues, and the one that we did try out was dead and not playing any music that we liked or knew. We each took a shot and then left, which was kind of lame because we had just stood in line for a solid half hour. (Also at the end of that half hour about six people cut in front of us, which was extra-lame. The guy at the end of the budging group started drunkenly small talking with us and evidently I responded kind of coolly, because he commented on my nonchalance by slurring"Don't worry...I don't have a gun or drugs on me or anything. I'm not into that stuff," clearly implying that because he was black I assumed that he was a gangster or morally corrupt individual of some kind.

I got my snarky on and said, "No...you just cut in line, right...that's your thing?" at which point his companions turned around to give me angry death-glares. I added a "I'm just playing, I'm just playing," to soften what was evidently an earth-shattering blow to the group's collective ego, and then we were friends. Or something. I also obtained a new ghetto clubbing name. 'Tis G.G. Or JiJi. Or GeeGee. I don't know. JeeJee? You get the point.)

Anywho, after that clubbing failure Anna and I decided to default back to our regular Friday night excursion of Valentinos dancing, which wound up being the best choice we could have made. I danced with a few people, most notably a blond-haired blue eyed (not my usual, but nice) fellow who went by the name of David. Hands down the best dancer I've danced with (recently?) and fricking wicked attractive. He also tried to convince me that Apple Valley (a suburb of the Twin Cities) is ghetto. Something about the inherently ghetto qualities of apples? Also a former swimmer, with the remnants of a six pack he showed me as testament to that claim. And you know the best part of the story? I didn't get his phone number or give him mine because (CAN I GET A DRUMROLL PLEASE)...he told me he's studying to be an accountant.

The instant he said that he became at least 40x less attractive to my drunken self who was, at that particular moment, lusting after adventure and could not possibly abide to associate herself with anything so conventional. Sober me says who really cares if there is one not so savory piece to him (and accountants make bank, so the gold-digger that lurks deep within all women should have perked up at such a revelation, yes?) Everything else he said or did (except for his intial attempts at complimenting me) made him seem pretty stellar. I mean, we're talking sex-god level of attractiveness here...There are definitely worse unsavory characteristics than accountantism, but...

Things like that are what make me Holly.

As a sidenote, I have a new favorite song. I would like for it to be my life theme-song because it is that good and it sums up my life-philosophy pretty well. Please allow me to introduce you to Frank Turner's The Road. Love, love, love.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Taste Testing, Taste Taste Testing

It's tough to find work these days. I scour craigslist, newspaper listings and websites that offer work. I peek in windows, looking for needy employers who could use a cute, talented, charismatic girl like myself. Application after redundant application is filled out with all the boring details of my work history, oftentimes followed by what I was once told are illegal personality questionnaires. (Seriously...employers aren't allowed to insist that you must fill them out. It's an invasion of our oh so private privacy.) Rejection after rejection rings lovely in my inbox and voicemail, which, still, are better than those who never get back to me on top of giving me no way to contact them, either. And then there are those who seem to want to hire me, but never give me quite enough information for me to drop everything and move to where they are. *cotridentugh*

Suffice it to say, I am taking whatever I can get it this point. Two jobs is not quite doing it for me right now. Part time work makes for a rough schedule...full of emptiness and not enough money. Today, in desperation, I did a taste test to supplement my income. It took about an hour total and I was paid $35 at the end of it. Being sworn to sacred secrecy, I can't tell you what I tasted, but the process was interesting, and there's nothing either sacred or secret about that, so I am going to write about it.

The taste testing was held in a church. We checked in by showing a photo id and redoing all the paperwork they had already had us do over the phone. Everyone sat by themselves, some with magazines or books to occupy them and others simply staring blankly into space and trying not to make eye contact with anyone else. After (almost) everyone arrived (there were at least eight people who didn't show up) they escorted us into the next room and assigned us to sit at chairs designated with our personalized numbers. We were immediately instructed not to talk to our neighbors, which had already been made clear by the fact that each paper and plastic place setting was divided from its neighbor by an upended white piece of cardboard.

Overall the job felt like a standardized test. An awkwardly shaped, but friendly and surprisingly energetic woman read instructions to all of us from her packet, instructing us to open ours and informing us of the strict process of look at cereal, answer question, pour milk, taste cereal, answer questions, taste cereal, answer questions, taste cereal again to see if it got soggy. Three samples and a printed stop sign mid-test later, we were well on our way to passing. A few more questions and instructions later and we were all handed a check and fairly pushed out of the door. Easiest $35 I ever made in my life. Granted, once upon a time I made $100 for helping someone buy a plane ticket on the interwebs, but that was in Alaska, and there are different rules in Alaska than there are in the lower 48.

There is more I would kind of sort of like to say about the taste testing, but I think that would actually get into the product and I would rather not get an email or phone call one day telling me I can't get any more free money/food because I divulged too much information on the interwebs.

Also I think I hurt my wrist pretending to be a boxer the other day. Owie.

...this is my life...