there's a turducken in my future

Happy Thanksgiving!

There's a lot that I'm thankful for.

Anyway, sentiments aside, I'm also thankful that I am going to eat a lot of really good food that my mother is currently slaving and sweating away at making. Oh mom. I am so lucky to have such a great mom.

I'm thankful that she's been calling me all week to ask me what she should serve, what side dishes I might like, how I would like them prepared, and in the process, left me a frantic message while she was in the grocery store about broccoli. I tried to call her back as soon as I heard the message, but it was too late. She would have to go shopping the next day. They say a mother's work is never done, and by golly, in her case, they are absolutely right.

Or, a daughter's work is never done.

In any case...I better go feasting. Showered, dressed, and bundled against the cold, off I go for Thanksgiving with half of my family.

cheers!

self expressed walls

The thing is, not a lot of people really want to wake up everyday to orange walls. I can accept that. I can even accept that I may not want to wake up everyday to orange walls either. So, that is why I am painting the "accent wall" in my bedroom and going from there.

It is not because lame is my middle name. Even if my middle name begins with L.

Anyway, I am just a little worried too. Maybe it's all the squinty faces of the anti-orange half of the concensus that has me worried. Maybe I was always worried to begin with and they just stoked the fear.

You know, for real, I couldn't just fake orange. I couldn't just have like the hint of orange or the innuendo of orange...no, I had to go for the real deal.

Pumpkin Jack o' Lantern orange. "Fiesta Orange" A big bright bold orange.

Yeah, that's me.

The kind of orange that is so orange when I showed it to my landlords, they went through the stages of grief as they spoke to me. First there was shock, quickly followed by denial, then acceptance and finally a little nurturing. It was they who suggested painting just the "accent wall," they who suggested I sleep with that for about a week, and they who were the biggest leaders in the What are you Crazy, ORANGE? Brigade.

I have the best luck with landlords. Must be something my mother did.

Almost a month later, I have decided it is time. Eric is gone for the holiday to Massachusetts and I will be dog-sitting this weekend, so it seems a good time to tear the room apart, clean and sort it out, and paint one of these hideously plain walls orange.

You know, to be honest, it's the first stroke of the color and the final result that I imagine will freak me out most. Other than that, I think it will be just fine. In my head, maybe in my left brain, the side that la dee das and isn't ever crazy, it all makes some kind of perfect sense. I have this lovely set of curtain panels, a grand scheme begotten from this pattern, and it may not exactly work out, but the discouragement is pushed off, the plans are in motion, and by the end of this weekend, I will have an orange wall.

Seriously; pumpkin orange.

transition week 2.0

I feel like I just got the punchline. At Siena, it was always some person trumping up how good the coffee is at Starbucks. At Sbux, a woman came up to me on my first day and said, with a preface of no offense, "Have you ever had Peet's coffee? It's really good."

Joke's on me.

I don't know what I expecting. Maybe I thought things would be different somehow. That Sbux would be grand and brilliant and exceptional. Joke is, the grass is always greener on the other side.

Their dirt is just as brown.

There are rules for everything, manuals thick and spiral bound, but I constantly hear, oh that, we don't really do that.

In the end, they are just a store that is slowly deteriorating, maintaining a facade of efficency and sheen, but when you look close, crumbs, cracks, and weariness greet your probing eyes. The difference is there's more people to bitch about it, there's more people to answer the question, "Who did this?"

I can already see, a week in, that I'll either have to bite my tongue or do things the way that I know they are supposed to be done. It'll probably be like it always was at Siena, a question of how tired or how willing I was, or how much time I had.

All in all, I am glad and grateful for the newness of it, for the move, for the benefits and stuff, but I'm a little dismayed by not getting the joke; That it'd be different anywhere else.

Steinbeckian Intro

Along Clark Street the bars—Frank’s—Tin Lizzie—Club Neo—Raven’s—Clark Bar. Miska’s Liquors, an alcoholic convenience store, sits like a stigmatic step-brother in the middle of them, same collection of neon signs gathered in the windows, same brands and bottles and beer, less noise.

During the day, Clark Street serves as pedway to young and old, where errands are run, purchases made, lists crossed off at each storefront. During the day, the good people of Lincoln Park hardly bother anymore to notice the darkened bars, seeping of staleness and filth, mothers turn the wheels of their strollers away, women glance away at their reflection, men avoid looking altogether. The bars are closed until at least lunch, but most until three, and Miska’s does not ask questions. It pretends not to care.

Miska’s Liquors opens every day at ten in the morning, except Sunday. On Sunday, traditionally a day of worship for many, a day of rest for most, Miska’s opens its doors at nine a.m. Sunday is a day of recovery for most of their customers, who mouth the myths of hangovers as they purchase more of what they drank last night.

It is daytime. In the daytime, Miska’s masquerades as a convenience store. Most of the regulars come in the daylight to purchase cigarettes, lottery tickets, and soft drinks like soda or Gatorade. Truth is, Miska’s is exactly one block between two better convenience stores, but no one seems to want to walk past it to get the same thing cheaper. Truth is, Miska’s makes most of its money from this steady influx of retirees, homeless and housewives. They are bored and they want to be entertained by the lotto or pinching enough change together for a pack of cigarettes, or selecting the perfect bottle of wine. Truth is, nothing’s perfect.

The only liquor sold in the daytime is usually wine, selected by a thoughtful dinner guest, a housewife who wants to serve wine with her carefully crafted dinner, or the procrastinating co-worker who needs a nice gift for a departing employee. They ask a lot of questions, usually birthed by boredom. Their questions get answered swift and certain, to cut off their patron.

The copy machine is always turned on during the day, running off bleary copies of God knows what, people come from the neighborhood, people come from the Currency Exchange next door, people who need to keep copies of things come and make shitty copies of receipts and warranties and try to explain it, to stave off the boredom.

Sometimes, Miska’s pretends to care. Like a bartender trapped behind the stools, the employees at Miska’s Liquors laugh and cajole their customers; accepted their fate. Sometimes, it is easy to care, seeing the same old guy get the same numbers every day for the lotto, figuring he’ll hit ‘em one day, and he small talks while the machine punches and prints and spits out the strip of paper that he’ll carry all day in his pocket, stare at when the boredom kicks in, and watch the news for, or maybe check the paper the following day.

Sometimes, it even feels friendly, until Sayed comes in, fat blistered cigar hanging from his bottom lip, eyes droopy, but darting everywhere, like he can take stock of the entire store with just one sweep across, what’s short, what’s slow, what’s selling. He hustles through the store, without a greeting, all business, maybe a grunt at Cy, a glance at the register, and then he’s gone, into the back room, into his office, where piles of paper threaten to tumble to the floor in cascades, papers overlapped and lying on top of others, and yet, he never loses a thing in all that mess.

He reminds you that it’s all business at Miska’s, even if it’s not exactly professional. His presence is a stifling constraint on everyone who is working, like the raging alcoholic father they hated growing up, he tramples through the store with no encouragement or joy. It’s all business, no matter how it looks on the outside.

to blog or not to blog

"So, what's your blog about?"

"I don't know. Nothing, really. Just me talking about stuff."

"Oh, well, then I probably won't be reading it."

There was more conversation between the two of us than just this, but this bit struck me the hardest, and honestly, pissed me off enough to have it coursing through my head three days later, on my day off, first thing in the morning.

I've thought about it in spare moments, in lulls, in avoiding eye contact on the train, I have wondered...what could I write about? What subject would be humorous, tragic, interesting, compelling, and hold my attention and yours for a while?

Previously, I thought about maybe rotating certain topics. You know, one day the school stuff, the next, an entry about the transistion of treachery in my move to Sbucks, or how about my experiences in what is widely regarded as cult (perky isn't it?) or my seldom but bizarre instances with my roommates (both of whom I'm convinced are on this planet just to drive each other and everyone around them absolutely bonkers). An entry on my process and thoughts on my writing, or excerpts from what I'm working on?

Well and good to say all that and more! Victory for Stine! Hurrah!

I guess I understand the idea of writing from one context, one pair of sunglasses, one project under blog, because naturally, everything fits together and influences everything, no matter how small. Even the frogs, who I nurtured to death over the summer, find their way into the name of this thing, this monster I am building.

"Anybody can do a blog, you know."

Yeah, well, I'm not just anybody. Maybe this won't seem interesting to people surfing the web because it's got no definable topic, and maybe it won't even be interesting to the people who know me, but I hope that even when the subject fails to be compelling, my writing is. I'm not interested in becoming famous because of my blog, or developing a book out of my blog, or whatever other opportunity comes out of it. I'm not here for that. I wouldn't even have a blog if it wasn't for the fact that I wanted to keep in touch with people in my life who I don't see a lot. And, I wanted to write.

You know, all that, and she didn't even bother coming to look, didn't even open the page, suggested without looking. The biggest pill about it is that I attend (take time out of my busy schedule) things that she invites me to. Not to say that I go every time, but I have gone more than any other person who knows her. And I think that was the shitty thing, that she could be all nose upturned at me over something that I was just beginning to formulate and not have even bothered to come look. But the sting aside, I think she may have a point.

I wanted you who are voting citizens to cast a vote: subject based or alternating topics?

brazen class skipper

Right now, at this very moment, there is a classroom I belong in and I am missing class. I don't have any good reason. I can't blame it on anything. I woke up on time. And then I rolled over and went back to bed. I slept until someone called me moments ago, and I carefully arose, looked at the clock with a flick of my eyes, as if to verify, Is that really what time it is, and then I went to the bathroom to pee.

I feel brazen.

I have already had it out with this teacher about attendance, on the second day of class, one on one, where I had been duped into thinking all was well and she was merely going to cover syllabus and the things I had missed in the first class.

I missed the first class for no good reason either.

I mean, I thought that my Wednesday class was my Thursday class, and it was the first week and shoot me, but I made a mistake, I got mixed up, I got ready for my class at noon and then looked at my schedule and realized it started at ten.

So I missed the first class, and I am standing in front of this teacher after the second class finished (a lovely gallery tour of the River North Area) and I am thinking this class is pretty cool and I might actually learn a lot firsthand about Chicago Photographers.

--I should say, I happened to be late to the second class. Directions were given to me via email by the teacher and let's just say they were wrong. Let's just say I got off the Brown Line and transferred to the Red Line, even when I knew, I knew, that the Brown Line was a better choice, I transferred anyway, because that's what she said to do in the email, and she knows best because she is the teacher. So I ended up walking five blocks from the Red Line towards the overhead tracks of the Brown Line.

At the second gallery, she came up to me, the teacher, and said in a half whisper, "Are you in this class?"

I figured that was a reasonable question, since, this being the second class, and my having missed the first, she just didn't recognize my face. But I figured since we'd emailed each other she would be expecting me...

"Yes, my name is Christine. I emailed you last week."

"Oh good," she said, with her hand over her mouth, short maroon nails stifling the breath from her nostrils, overly made up face, layers of foundation and blush to hide what I could still see, the pockmarked skin from a terrible childhood filled with pistules and explosive acne, pus and gore, her eyes wide behind her lightweight and almost fashionable glasses, the kind of wide eyes where her pupil and iris swam in twice as much whiteness. She brought down her hand and I could see the elaborate work of lining and layering and blotting she performed that morning with a nearly identical maroon shade. "I was afraid you were just following this class around." I laughed to be polite, but I was thinking, what was this woman talking about? Why would a girl with a notebook in her arms, a pen in hand, a backpack slung over one shoulder, be anything but a student trying to follow along with the class.

She noticed my notebook, maybe for the first time, and said, "Can I have a piece of paper?" I opened it awkwardly, and tore out a sheet from the spiral binding. I tried to offer it to her. "No," she said, "Write your name at the top and pass it around."

Ah, sign in sheet. I see.

For the rest of the class, I avoided her, walking along the back fringes of the class, people who have paired off, people who were smart enough to take a class like this with a friend, rather than go it alone. So smart, I thought, I wish I would have done that. But every opportunity alone is a chance to people watch, so I didn't waste it. And the third gallery was not as pretty as the first two, but it was historically very interesting, and I wandered through the space, peering into smaller pieces and beholding larger prints.

At the end, I hung back to speak with my teacher, to get the syllabus, to get caught up on the first class. And even though we had that weird introduction, well, I guess you could call it something else, since she never actually introduced herself to me, even though I knew she gave me bad directions and I had to walk out of my way because I got off the train I could have stayed on, even though I didn't know a single person in my class, the galleries were cool, and I learned things about photogragpy and the selection process of artists and the inner workings of exhibitions, I actually liked this class and the concept that we were actually going out of the classroom and into the city to find Chicago Photography.

So I'm standing there, in front of her, and she's all discombobulated. I used to think that was a funny word to use to describe someone, but for her, it' s fair. She's always trying to muster or straighten or sort something out. Always distracted. Always breathy.

As she sorted through her things (a bag that she'd forgotten completely and a student found lying in the gallery and brought down to her) she spoke about the things I had missed in the first class. As she brought the syllabus out, I couldn't help but notice that it was one page, the class description and the book title (which I still have not bothered to purchase. I know! Brazen!) and that was all. She explained that we would frequently be making trips outside of class and some were still being arranged, so no schedule on the syllabus. That I could understand.

Then she propped her glasses back onto her face, waved back the loose curls off her face and said, "Listen, you've already missed the first class, and you were late to this one, so I think you may want to consider dropping this class. I know that seems harsh, considering, but at this point, it would be hard for me to give you a passing grade."

I probably looked shocked.

"I understand that you need the class for a education requirement, but I want people in my class who will come to class, on time, and participate. If you're just here for the requirement, then don't bother. Take a different class. This is not the class for you."

"I am really sorry about missing the first class. And about being late for today's class. I am a fiction writing major and I know how valuable class time is. I make it a point to go to every class."

"Oh, you're a fiction writing major? That'll serve you well in this class."

Okay, at least she did hear me speaking, even if she missed my point entirely.

"Well, listen, your excuse for missing the first class was kinda bogus, and you were late for this one and I just want you to know that's not okay here."

I had let the first late mention slide, but I wasn't about to let this one pass. "I agree that my reason for the first class was not an excuse. I was late for class today because the directions you gave me in the email were wrong."

"Oh, well, I don't know about that, but if you had been at the first class with everyone else, you would have got the same directions."

She's got the logic of a five year old. I swear, I've had comversations as frustrating as these with children.

Maybe she felt bad, or knew she was the bogus one, because she took at different approach. "Look, let's put it this way. Don't miss any more classes, don't be late, participate, and I won't give you a bad grade. Okay?"

She then dismissed me and went back up to the gallery to make sure she didn't leave anything else behind.

And, does it surprise any of you that I wake up every Wednesday morning and force myself out of bed and on the train and I can never quite manage to be on time, want to go, and participate?

Today is bad though, because at least when I'm late, I showed up.

Brazen.

Who knows what sort of thing she'll have to say to me now.

book of the month

Here is where rants are made. There are several published authors teaching in the Columbia College Fiction Writing Department. Soon, a biography (I believe to be written in the narrative style of In Cold Blood) about the life of Ray Bradbury will be published by Sam Weller. (Took Creative NonFiction with him last summer) Joe Meno, winner of the Nelson Algren award, has authored many different forms of excellent work, from novels to screenplays. (Currently enrolled in his Advanced Fiction this semester) And then, there's the elder teaching body, people who have not only taught in the fiction writing department for years, they are graduates of the Story Workshop method that is celebrating its 35th anniversary. One of these faculty members was (and I use this word hesitantly) lucky to have published his first novel just last year. All of this would be okay if not for the horrendous situation in which I find myself. I have a class in which this man's novel has been assigned. I had to buy this book that I would never have bought to use in a class taught by one of this man's colleagues. Not only that, this man is graciously taking time out of his busy schedule and walking down the hall to speak with our class tomorrow. All of this would even be somewhat alright, perhaps, yes, a little incestuous, creepy, a bit of forced insurance someone buys this poor man's novel, on some level of back scratching, these tactics make sense, except:

Our teacher waited until last week to announce his visit.

Our teacher was surprised to discover that none of us had cracked open this book.

Our teacher admonished us for taking too long to read Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities.

Our teacher just emailed our class with the suggestion, "Try to finish reading the novel before you come to class."

What sort of nonsense is all that? I am on page 86, and I skipped a passage we read out loud in class! And I've been reading it as much as I can, on the bus, at home, and I am still nowhere near finishing the damn thing. But now it's not about us reading the book, because if it was, our teacher might have suggested we begin it perhaps two or three weeks ago. No, this is about her impressing her colleague with a class full of bright, eager young people directed to ask pertinent questions.

blech.

Now, for those of you not completely swayed by the facts as they are, how about some pithy judgments? The book isn't bad. It's not terrible. For the most part, things are in order. Dialogue. Scene. Descriptions. Characters. Check check check. But then, there's this narrative filled with clichéd terms, dated colloquialisms that are twisted and turned. Maybe it's being exposed to A Tale of Two Cities and Grapes of Wrath (another class) and then taking a walk down the path of contemporary, post modern, ironic and flippant fiction, but it just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I hope to god if I ever make a story like this, someone tells me the bad news.

Promise you will.

yuletide greetings

Hey there! I'm so glad you made it! Yes, you! A lot of you have not heard from me in a long time. I thought I would address a few questions ya'll might have, briefly, and then we could go from there.

• where have you been? I don't know. I moved. I worked a lot. I got busy with stuff.
• do you still love Eric? like the dickens. he's the reason for the move. he's the stuff of life.
• what about school? oh yeah. I am in my third year at Columbia College. I am pursuing a degree in Fiction Writing and (get ready for this one) developing material for my first novel.
• are you all pretentious now? no. not at all. still the same old stine.
• stine, who's she? oh, well, that might be new to you. I like calling myself Stine. It's just the other half of Christine that no one thinks to use and a little girl I babysat for a long time ago came up with.
• how do I say that? Well, technically it should be the same as R.L. Stine, but I like it as [steen].
• anyway, so how are you? I'm pretty good. I have a full life and a lot of things going on.
• is that why you never call me? yeah, but I got a cell phone finally, so I'm totally reachable and always calling people. It's really hypocritical since I loathed the whole cell phone phenomenon for years, but what can I say? eep?
• what else is new with you? well, I may be working for Starbucks soon. things are in motion. I know, I know, I know. Starbucks?! How could I? But I still love the coffee and the world of coffee, just can't deal with only fifteen hours, no benefits, and I needed a fresh perspective.
• what about that seminar stuff you like to do? I just started a new seminar at Landmark called Sex & Intimacy. it's too soon to tell anything spectacular, but I'll keep you posted.
• oooh, sounds like fun, Eric must feel lucky!? I sure hope so.
• Floggingforfrogs? I don't know. Last winter I captured some tadpoles and they actually became frogs and then they all died, because like, they were supposed to, short life spans and all, and we drove ourselves crazy trying to feed them, buying anything at PetCo that said it might be tasty for frogs: blood worms (no use), crickets (a little too big), goldfish flakes (for the young stage) and finally, wingless fruit flies (that still managed to make one squeamish).
• so, anything else? Bush won the election, like fair and square. I feel a little unsettled over that one.

How are all of you? How is life? How is love? How is stuff?

I know for some of you, it has been a long time since we've spoken. For some others of you, tracking me down and shaking me up happens all the time. knowing you're here will keep me writing. In other words, share, come on in, and let loose.

I'm off to Thai Spoon for some tom kha soup and thai rolls...goodnight.