end result

i got The Rock. i have it: it’s mine. currently it’s sitting in a place of prominence on top of my fridge next to my camera, an unpopped bag of popcorn, and a stick of Degree.

getting it felt good, but not good enough to outbalance the bad of two weeks of not getting it. i anticipated that. plus, i don’t feel as though i received it as the reward it ostensibly is, for Rockin’ as an RA, because i lobbied for it. i resorted to cheap flattery, bribes, blatant self-promotion. while i stopped short of handing over cash or making promises i couldn’t keep, i didn’t wait for my quiet, quality actions to bring the spotlight to me either.

maybe i should just accept that this is the way the world works. my brother famously didn’t vote for himself in a 5th grade election and he lost by one vote.

literature has cast a pall over my mood. the best books never leave me feeling light and full of love, because they poke my bruises and purr, “Why aren’t you writing?” part of the problem is i don’t know what i should be writing. poetry? a new screenplay? a revision of the thesis? a novel? should i take up fiction again, after my 4 year hiatus? what do i give up? what do i try?

that, in turn, makes me wonder whether i made the right decision in turning down the m.f.a. program at emerson. there, i would likely be cold, lonely, and unhappy; and productive. writing.

i can’t think about the future. in a few days, my girls will vanish and new girls will take their place. these three weeks will happen all over again. one last swirl for me in the bathtub of the present, if you will, before i am sucked down the drain.

shit. maybe i should just be a ___________

the rock, the rock, the rock is on fire …

i’ve been kissing up like crazy to the boy who currently has The Rock and whose job it will be tomorrow to hand it on. The Rock is supposed to be a reward, passed from RA to RA at each weekday morning meeting. due to bad planning, however, there are more RAs than there are weekday mornings, so some of them/us will not get The Rock. some of them/us are a little bitter.

personally, i find these motivational things unmotivating. they incite a kind of knee-jerk anger from the angsty pre-teen in me. and, of course, that angsty, bitter pre-teen wants nothing so much as the appreciation she feels sure she will never attain.

so i’ve been kissing up like crazy to the boy who currently has The Rock. i just handed off my last diet coke. i’m willing to go farther. don’t ask how far. this is serious business. life with the losers is all right for some, all right for a while; it’s entertaining watching the wallowing, making the snide comments; but then you want to be on the flanders’ side of the pond, the side with all the light and rainbows and little furry animals. (“dad, you took a baptismal for me! how do you feel?”)

you want to be recognized for the small but constant contributions you make to the group: the snark, the increasing skill at Set, the occasional lectures about gender. come on! my girls think i’m cool. they said so, and i didn’t even have to put them at gunpoint. and one of the RAs called me genuine.

none of it matters so long as these “traditions” persist in honoring “overachievers.” well, fine. i can handle it. life with the losers isn’t so bad. we’ve been watching fine retro films like hackers, empire records, the craft, and heathers. i’ll bet the winners are too busy “planning things” and “making those things then happen” to do THAT. i pity them.

just, please, please. give me the goddamn rock.

close encounters

me: excuse me, i’m sorry. your shirt isn’t appropriate and i’d really like it if you could go change.

her: why? what? what’s wrong with it?

me: well, it’s see-through, and you’re only wearing a bikini top underneath.

her: but i’m wearing a shirt. look, it has long sleeves!

me: that doesn’t matter much when i can make out the exact pattern on your bikini.

her: why are you looking at my boobs?

me: i’d prefer if i couldn’t look at them, or see them, so please go change. now.

ah, the pleasures of being an RA.

language, harry

my girls are currently attempting to dye their hair with kool aid. I DID THAT, 10 years ago, when i was their age. at cty, even. i told them it didn’t work then, and unless kool aid has been spiking its punch with bleach, it won’t work now.

on the other hand, it gives them something to do besides shriek.

currently i’m bracing myself for the weekend ahead. weekends are not easy for the RAs. luckily this weekend begins with a clash dance, for which my calves get to wear one bright green fishnet knee sock and one blue sparkly one. the rest of me is not as exciting — how could it be?

here goes.

and watching others’ identity crises …

on my day off yesterday, my little brother took me to see spiderman 2, a truly excellent summer blockbuster and a much better flick than its predecessor. i still have some problems with it, namely everything about kirsten dunst. why does he like her? throughout, her eyes hang at half-mast as though she’s in mourning for reagan. it makes me want to sneak up behind her and scream, “boo!” or “iran contra!” to shake her out of it. and then force-feed her crackers.

luckily maguire is a good enough actor to pull off the groundless obsession. speaking of obsessions, i could form one, if i watched the movie a couple more times. holy god, when he walks down the street? trying to be all suave? he’s the cutest thing i’ve ever seen.

back to more rational judgements — although i wouldn’t discount his adorableness as a contributing factor of the film’s success — i thought raimi and the various story/screen writers did a terrific job of combining urgency and drama with moments of good natured self-mockery and a light touch all around. crazy science experiments gone awry and dubious longings for kirsten dunst aside, this film felt *real* to me in a way the first one did not.

i would, with your permission, like to highlight an interesting trend in recent blockbusters. harry potter III begins with harry playing with his wand under the covers late at night, trying to make it work. similarly, spidey develops (psychological) problems with shooting his spidey stuff. this is not gary cooper, people. this is impotence in our heroes. & it’s resonating.

does this spell victory for the freshly minted team of kerry’n’edwards? i can only hope so.

identity crisis

i cycle through several identities a day. and by identities i don’t mean “oh, gee, i feel somewhat punk today” or “it’s goth time! get out the black!” i mean actual ages, periods of life. i mean TEENAGER, PRE-SKOOLER, ADULT, and back again.

i go from watching sex and the city, season 1 (which i purchased on dvd for a sweet $15) to watching care bears. care bears: STARE!

i sit down to rationally consider the future i’m building — no really! — with my boyfriend of almost 3 and a half years, and then i stand up to flirt some more, as though i’m one of my own 12 year old charges who spend their time filling their cheeks with marshmellows and designating certain flipflops “magic”.

don’t think i’m not ashamed of this! i am! but the effects of summer camp are strange and wonderful, even on those of us who are, ostensibly, full-grown. we’re far, far from immune. for example: going out saturday night, when i was so exhausted that i could barely stand, was probably a less mature decision than my girls would have made. i virtually had to crawl home. at least i was grinning while crawling. i may be in the adolescent gutter, baby, but i’m looking at the stars.

daily life

for a few days, i was really fired up about seeing fahrenheit 911. now i’ve become more circumspect about the idea, more moderate; i’m beginning to redirect my energy to spiderman II. i imagine i am not unlike the rest of the country in this respect.

i think m. moore has talent and passion and a knack for generating controversy, all of which i admire, even if his bombast, chauvinism and narrow-mindedness turn me off almost in equal measure. but after reading everything i could find about the film, i almost feel as if i’ve already experienced both the high of the bush-bashing and the frustration of his limits myself.

i still want to see the film, which is setting records like ken on jeopardy!, and i would urge all you to except that clearly i’m the only ambulatory, non-senile american left who hasn’t gotten a chance.

i did get a chance to go bowling last night — duck pin! which is the exciting kind. cty organized an RA-TA Soiree that would take us all off campus for a bit and let us curse without having to look over our shoulders for impressionable younguns. i didn’t do half-bad, as it happens.

when i left college, one of my biggest fears was that i’d never again find a community of like-minded individuals with whom i could spend hours just talking, comfortably. last night i realized that coming to cty was a perfect choice because the collection of RAs here — cool folks around my own age — is helping me ease out of that college holding pattern. good conversation kept me up last night, as though i were back at swat, and it was blissful.

margaret!

ms cho, i am shocked and appalled that you would be so wantonly cruel. some of us are set with the name ester, beset with it, even, and we have learned to live with it, even like it. we don’t need your disdain knocking us back to square one:

Why would you change your name to Esther? I am trying to understand, but it is hard. … But what does Esther mean? I admit, I hate the name …

i guess i must take comfort in the fact that she spelled it with an “h.” that’s certainly not *my* name.

nope, actually, i’m still irked. for your information, miss “Oh Madonna, Madonna, why hast thou forsaken us?,” the name ester HAS meaning. ester saved the jewish people, thankyouverymuch. ester is persian for star. ester is derived from astarte and from ishtar, the sex-positive goddess who legendarily slew gilgamesh (of the Epic Of Gilgamesh) because he renounced women.

lay off, margaret. you’re no madonna yourself.

intellectual privacy

posts for the remainder of my time at cty will be under lock and key over at livejournal (i’m ljuser Shorterstory, in case you didn’t know). sorry to the five of you who care and will be left without access, but truly, i don’t want to accidentally say something stupid and get found and get fired.

12 year old girls

that’s who my charges will be: 12 year old girls. some 13s. to give you some frame of reference, not a single one was born in the 80s. this is amazing to me.

on the other hand, everything’s going well so far. the other RAs are cool. this afternoon i had to role-play a situation wherein one of my campers intentionally peed on her roommate’s bed. i was a little uncertain at first, but the consensus was that i handled the situation like a pro (“you have to communicate with words, not urine”).

i am now braced for that exact situation. maybe i’ll warn my campers about it at our first meeting: pee is a bodily execretion — not a tool.

they arrive on sunday. wish me luck.