Fonts and Farewells

An Ode to my Dead Baby

O.K, admittedly, that title is a little over dramatic, but that’s honestly how I feel right now! A short version of this story: two weeks ago, my car tried to kill me, so in retaliation my dad killed it. Which was traumatic, because I love that stupid car!

Now the longer version of this story. The car (which I creatively call “the red car”) is the only car I’m allowed to drive (because I’m not a great driver and my parents are paranoid). They didn’t care about the red car/what I did to it, because it was made in 1992 and was probably worth about $50. Apparently my uncle bought it for my dad as a joke, and they just never got rid of it. Over the 20+ years they’ve had this car:

-      The film on the windows has peeled off, making the windows weird and warped.

-      The radio has mysteriously disappeared (but according to my dad, the radio sucked anyway). He tried to replace it, but the car was so old there was no replacement that could fit.

-      The parking brake doesn’t work – it’s been stripped clean.

-      The FREAKING STEERING WHEEL also sometimes goes on holiday and refuses to turn while you’re driving it.

-      Also numerous other issues (yay!)

It’s basically a death trap, and my mom’s wanted to get rid of it for years, but they’re cheap and never do anything until it becomes necessary. However, since it was so cheap, they also had absolutely no insurance on the car or the driver, only on property damage to others. So of course, they decided the uninsured rattletrap of a death-mobile was the right car to give their teenage daughter.

This was a mistake, because I get attached to things very easily. And the red car is absolutely my baby. I learned to drive on it, and it’s pretty much the only car I’ve ever driven. So even though technically, I know all those things above are definitely problems, working around those problems is so intuitive that I don’t notice them – I notice their absence. I was driving my friend’s car once, and I hated it, because, in her words “it actually works like a car’s supposed to.” (Grace has very little patience for me and my craziness).

Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked. This is supposed to be about how the red car attacked me, then threw a fit, then died. About two weeks ago, I was driving to pick up my little brother from his gymnastics practice. Now, at the time, I was having a nervous breakdown because of a lot of things, but mostly because mom had asked me to put gas in the car. This is a dumb phobia to have, but I’m terrified of gas stations. So I had ignored her and hadn’t put any gas in the car, but now it was really low, and I was paranoid I was going to run out of gas, and it was dark, and the gym my brother goes to is out in the country, and I was basically just a wreck. I remember literally sobbing in the car as I was driving, and while I have no proof, I suspect I did something stupid to my car while driving, crying and not paying any attention. Otherwise I have no idea what prompted it to freak out.

So I picked up my brother (having mostly pulled myself together) and we were driving home. We both knew we were smelling something weird, but since my brother and his sweat were stinking up the car, we couldn’t really tell where it was coming from. We made it home without running out of gas (thank God), but when we got out of the car, I noticed the smell got SO much stronger. I’m thinking, “that’s weird” so I move the car from the garage to the street, just in case it issues some iocane-style invisible poison gas and chokes us all, and then while I’m still in the car (in the dark, because otherwise it would be no fun), it starts jolting and making weird coughing noises. I look and I see John by the front door waving his arms and yelling something. So now I think the engine’s exploding, and I get out and run over to the house to avoid the fallout.

No explosion happens (sad). But I turn around and the car is BILLOWING clouds of this white smoke and the smell has gotten so much stronger it is terrifying. Making the wise decision, John and I retreat into the house to wait it out. We call our parents, and when they get home we tell them what happened.

Now for why I’m angry: I specifically explained that I wanted the car fixed and that I would help pay – and they went and bought a new car instead and sold my baby for scrap metal! Now I have to deal with this new hybrid car which, as Grace would say, “actually works.” Screw that!

I got to keep the license plate though. It’s on the wall of my room. Yay.

The Stacks of DOOM

 The Main Stacks of U of I are easily recognized as one of the creepiest places on all of campus. I am writing this blog post to assure everyone that its reputation is totally deserved. It is terrifying there. Now, because I am the type of person who loves terrifying herself and getting herself into stupid and totally deserved situations, I go there to explore all the time. Here, I will chronicle some of the scary aspects of the Stacks, as well as some memorable moments from my exploring.

You can’t actually get into the Main Stacks without Ms. Arnold’s permission (never fear, there’s a way around that, read on), but also, the entire building is creepy anyway so you don’t even have to go into the Stacks if you don’t want to.

Places that are creepy in the Library Building (excluding the stacks)

-      The entire building is like a rabbit warren. I swear it was built by a madman. None of the corridors lead where you expect them to go, the maps are worse than useless, and pretty much the whole building looks the same. Have fun getting lost.

-      It’s SOO quiet all the time.

-      There’s this creepy room (which I can’t tell you where to find, refer to point 1) that I found with a giant pewter-ish gate that’s padlocked, and then when you peer through, you see these giant floor to ceiling bookshelves. I know it just sounds like I was looking at the Stacks, but it was completely dark and there were these weird chains hanging from the ceiling. Actual chains. I don’t know why, because I can’t find the room again.

-      The entire place is definitely a hangout for witches, demons, & other unnatural things.

-      in the Rare Book & Manuscript Library, they have actual books on summoning demons! It’s just a creepy place overall.

Of course, the really creepy part is the Stacks themselves. I’m sure we all remember the field trip, but let me refresh your memory. 10 (maybe) floors with minimal lighting, floor to ceiling bookshelves making these tiny claustrophobic corridors, the creepiest stairwells ever, an elevator from the time of the dinosaurs, and a million urban legends about college kids who got lost and never found their way out. Sound familiar?

I’m just going to give you some highlights of my time exploring the Stacks (all you need to do to get in is tell Ms. Arnold you have a research project and need some books; she never verifies it. No one tell her I do this though please) 

-      The main elevator’s door, which tried to close and then bounced off the frame and rebounded back into the other side. Either the elevator was completely broken, or a ghost had just entered it with me. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out.

-      Creepy noises coming from somewhere nearby me (I later figured out it was a shelver).

-      Wailing coming from the floor below (this I have no explanation for – I went down to look but there was no one there).

-      The sheer idea of being crushed inside of those mechanical moving shelves (this actually nearly happened to me once – again, I have no idea how, there was NOBODY around).

-      Getting lost. All the time. It is SO scary, because you get so turned around SO quickly – there are no windows, no frame of reference, and again, the maps are worse than useless.

-      The second elevator (which has too many problems to be covered in a single bullet point)

o  There is a second elevator all the way at the east end of the library (I think – again, no frame of reference).

-  I think it’s the east end because I tried to map it once (did not work), but also, the east end is where the entrance is, and I’m pretty sure they might be inhabiting the same space. This is obviously impossible, so it might actually be on the west end. If you wander around long enough, you always find it.

o  It is completely terrifying.

o  It was definitely installed during the Dark Ages.

- There’s maybe one square meter of floor space.

- There’s no LIGHT in it, except for the glowing buttons.

- It makes terrifying rattling noises.

- There’s no shock absorbers (or whatever it is that stabilizes an elevator) so when the doors open the elevator is still bouncing up and down and you can’t get out.

o  Finally, the most creepy, is that there is a “Floor 11” button in the secret elevator. THERE IS NO FLOOR 11! The maps don’t show it, the other elevator can’t access it, the stairs don’t go there – it literally doesn’t exist. The button is locked with a key, like Uni’s Attic, so I’ve never been there, but it’s still the scariest thing ever to me.

So that’s the Stacks. Have fun!

            

Cinnamon Stars

It’s fall now (the weather today convinced me to finally stop wearing tank tops) and that means I get to start all of my favorite fall traditions. These include staining my fingers permanently black from Inktober, visiting Spirit Halloween every weekend but never buying anything because I’m cheap, carving my pumpkins with the same obsessive perfectionism I apply to the rest of my life, and Zimtsterne.

Zimtsterne, or cinnamon stars, are a German cookie. Those of you in German 4 can attest that Sterne means star in German. Technically, these are a Christmas cookie, but I’m really good at ignoring things like that, so Zimtsterne are a part of mylife from October to March. Imagine a cookie somewhere between chewy and crumbly, baked with cinnamon almond flour instead of regular flour, and dipped in sugar glaze. That’s Zimtsterne. They’re star shaped (duh) and the most delicious thing EVER.

Zimtsterne is sort of a passion of my dad’s. That, and guacamole. Those are the two recipes he’s devoted his life to perfecting. He makes them all the time (like every weekend) and is always fidgeting with tiny things to try to improve it. The recipe in the book is covered in random contradictory scribbles.

Regardless, I’ll write the recipe from the actual book here, with summaries of some of my dad’s annotations in red, and if you want to make them, you can experiment with them yourself. Have fun.

1.   Whisk 3 egg whites and a pinch of salt until stiff. (Easiest way to get yolks out is just by using your hands. Also, NEVER NEVER NEVER whisk with a mixer. It makes them too light. Use a fork and sheer muscle power – takes longer, but definitely worth it.)

2.   Mix in 2 cups icing sugar.

3.   Set aside ½ cup of mixture as icing. (no fridge! Outside on patio works best!)

4.   Mix in 1½ tbsp. of cinnamon, ½ tbsp. lemon juice (basically one squirt), and four cups ground almonds until a dough is formed.

a.   SIDENOTE: ground almonds = almond flour from Trader Joe. No grocery store in CU (and I mean NO grocery store, we’ve looked) sells almond flour or ground almonds of the proper consistency. The perfect flour is somewhere between the coarsest almond flour in CU and the finest ground almonds. It’s really annoying. You have to travel to get the flour. Or just grind up your own, but our processor is really finicky.

b.   I recommend our method – go to Trader Joe’s once a year and buy all of the almond flour they have in stock. That stuff never expires. It’s literally an entire shelf of our pantry.

5.   Roll out dough (dust surface with powdered sugar, not flour. Flour ruins things.)

6.   Cut out with star shaped cutters (we have 4 different sizes. Really, just one is acceptable, but it’s more fun when they’re all different sizes.)

7.   Put on baking sheet with non-stick paper.

8.   Ice cookies with remaining sugar mixture (do NOT let dry beforehand)

9.   Thenleave to dry (the book says 6-12 hours, 2-4 days is better)

10.Preheat oven to 45 Fahrenheit.

11.Bake for 3-5 minutes. (Check @ 3, check @ 5, can go up to seven)

12.Let cool (at least 12 hours).

13.Now transfer in AIR-TIGHT containers to refrigerator (2 days is the lower limit, 1-2 weeks with no air is when they hit their prime chewiness and have the best flavor).

If you want to, you can add sprinkles or more icing decorations or whatever, but we never do. They’re best when they’re kept simple.

                                                                       

Sorry if this blog post seemed rambling, but these are literally the most perfect fall cookie ever designed and everybody needs to know about them.

Why I wish I could write like Geronimo Stilton

Lol the formatting made blogger so angry I just had to upload a bunch of pictures of my word document.

On Cracking Up

So this blog post is gonna be about F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Crack-Up, because I’m a nerd, and have nothing better to do with my time than write blog posts about class readings. Cool.

I had some mixed feelings about this essay. A few general notes first, I thought the tone and voice of the essay were much more formal than some of the other essays we’d read, and I thought some of the language was archaic and came across as a bit stuffy. None of that really bothered me. I read it while I was sitting in Grainger, and I always feel all scholarly and smart there, so I was cool with the formality. That said…

Most of the essay I really liked. And by most of the essay, I mean everything but page 34. Like we talked about in class, his metaphors and imagery are really great, and he’s got this snarkiness running throughout the essay that keeps it semi-light despite the depressing subjects.

But…. I like complaining more than I like praising, so let’s move on to the final pages, because that is where everything went off the rails for me. 

I felt as if the whole essay had been setting up a nice fall/redemption arc – he was super driven, slipped behind, cracked, struggled to regain a sense of purpose, nearly slipped into a depraved, depressed, hostile mindset , and then realized himself again, but instead the essay stops in the middle of the depraved part! He’s just like, I decided to let orphans die without lifting a finger to stop it because the world is just like that, and I really felt thrown off!

First, there was a very abrupt tone shift, as well as a shift in his voice. Like I said earlier, his tone is a bit stuffy to my modern ears, but overall he does still have a wry humor and thoughtfulness throughout the rest of the essay. But this section felt almost like someone else altogether – the narration just becomes very weird, hostile, and cold, very fast. It threw me out of the essay, just trying to figure out his thought process.

On page 525, he says “since that day I have not been able to fire a bad servant, and I am astonished and impressed by people who can. Some old desire for personal dominance was broken and gone.” This is set before the tonal shift, and to me it signifies that he was the sort of person who didn’t want to punish people or make their lives harder. Even if he himself didn’t approve of that fact, that was still the person he had developed into: someone who didn’t want to hurt others for the sake of it.

But then, if you skip ahead a few pages, he completely changes. “There was a whole shaft of letters to be tipped into the waste basket when I went home … letters that wanted something for nothing.” (530) “didn’t care if the world tumbled into chaos tomorrow if it spared their houses.” (530) “I would not so much as acknowledge your letter, unless you were related to someone very rich and important indeed.” (530-1). The amazing thing is that these are only a few of the quotes I found! It seems like two separate people, one of them worn-out and exhausted but generally a good guy, and one actively cruel and cynical are fighting over the direction in which the essay should go.

Also, I just didn’t approve with the thesis on humanity that he comes to. By the end, he argues than all adults live in a stage of murky unhappiness, and that just sounds very boring to me. I’d hope when I become an adult, I keep some sense of purpose, and like…excitement to learn new things – I feel like that’s almost what qualifies you for human status, that you still interact with and are curious about the world. My least favorite part of the whole essay was the line “I felt, therefore I was.”(528). It’s sad obviously, but it also just annoyed me. He isn’t accepting his lack of humanity, as he implies. He acts as if he had no bearing over this loss of his humanity, but he is a human! We are all human! Our being humanity doesn’t slip away from us in the night – that was a conscious choice of his -- to, in his words, act “like the beady-eyed men,” (530) -- yet he tries to push the blame off of himself onto the world around him.. The fatalistic attitude combined with his literal cruelty made it so I just didn’t like the narrator as a person!

I know there’s that whole Lopate idea about honesty being more important than likeability, and that’s fine. As an essay, I think it’s very well done. But this is my blog, and I don’t want to talk about Fitzgerald’s skill at writing a personal essay. I want to talk about how he’s a horrible person!

My biggest problem with the ending wasn’t that it was badly written, or even that it didn’t make sense. I just literally disliked it. I’m the sort of person who is always trying to move forwards. If I have a problem, I want to move forward and conquer it, because I believe if I just try to stand still, I’m going to be pushed backwards instead. So by the same logic, if I read an essay entitled The Crack-Up,and the ‘crack’ is referring to a human, I would assume that there is a goal, a goal to mend the crack. Crack: Mend. Problem: Solution. But his decision to just accept it & act like this completely different person is really strange to me.

Basically, I thought the essay and the narrator were really interesting until the end when he RANDOMLY becomes all doom and gloom and suddenly becomes really unlikeable and it feels like a whole different essay.

Ohhhh….that’s why it’s called The Crack-Up, isn’t it?

Cause there’s like … a crack in the essay.

I get it.

Someone who knows nothing about gardening talks for way too long about gardening

So, it's occurred to me that writing blog posts about gardening is really quite a cliche, but I have made the enlightened (read: overly stubborn) decision to ignore that fact and continue on forward. Enjoy my gardening success (?)

This is basically just a story about my youth group's attempt to plant a garden. My church is really small, so youth group basically just consists of me and two friends of mine, Grace and Molly. We had stopped meeting after the older kids went off to college (because again, there were all of three members) but at the beginning of the summer, the three of us got together and decided with lots of enthusiasm and few reality checks that we wanted to take initiative and do an activity all on our own. In other words, we had no adult supervision because our church doesn't have anything resembling a youth pastor, and we were all equally unskilled, but we had decided to plant a garden in the middle of the church lawn.

I still don't know why the church council approved this, but they did. So, armed with a permit and fifteen dollars to buy seeds, we set off on a Monday morning. We went to Prairie Gardens and quickly encountered our first problem - none of us knew anything about seeds or flowers. We weren't sure which of the seed packets grew in summer, and were equally unsure how many flowers they would grow. After about fifteen minutes of stupid arguments, a merciful God took pity on us and we ran into Mrs. Diane, a woman who attended our church, was friends with my mother, and happened to be an avid gardener. She took us around the store and explained what all the labels meant, and recommended to us which of the seed packets we should buy.

We were all overly busy that summer, so we'd decided to do the entire planting process in one day. Grace had work at four, and she was the most responsible of us (and the only one with a license), so by 1:30 or so we realized we really needed to choose some seeds and get to the church. So we did, and we headed over, which is where we encountered problem #2. We hadn't actually examined the plot of soil we wanted to plant in. This was a problem because it was completely overgrown with grass and the dirt below was filled with rocks. It was just bad soil. Instantly, our task became a lot harder, as we had to dig up all of the grassroots before we could start planting. None of us were particularly athletic, so it took us quite a long time to actually do that. (To continue with our ridiculous plan, none of us had brought sunscreen or water bottles, and it was around 95 degrees that day. We were pretty stupid.)

By the time we finished digging up the grass, we were all pretty much done with the project and regretting our noble impulse, but we had already spent all the money on seeds, so we continued doggedly. We weren't totally sure whether or not you were supposed to bury the seeds, but we figured we'd just throw them in the dirt and stomp on them a lot (which turned out to be quite therapeutic). We were going to water the seeds that first day, but we hadn't brought a watering can, so we all figured it didn't really matter, and promptly all left.

We did eventually manage to grow a border of nice, normal looking flowers, which were followed by 20 to 30 sunflowers in a space meant to grow no more than ten, most of which died. Soon after that, our wildflowers sprouted, which promptly took over the entirety of the cleared land and are now extending outwards into the grassy parts of the lawn. So if you drive by a tiny white church and happen to notice that it is completely surrounded by wildflowers that are taking over everything, you know who to blame.