Serial Slow Dancer

You’d hardly recognize me if you knew me in fourth grade. I was awkward, didn’t know how to dress (umm helllo hand-me-down jorts from broseph), was entirely too nice for my own good, had those super-stylish straight across bangs, and thought I was really good at singing.

Kidding, that’s exactly who I am now, except that I know I can’t sing but I do it anyways, especially while shopping. (Mom: “Morgan, stop it – you’re embarrassing yourself.” Me: “Nope, I believe I am embarrassing yeeeewwww.”)

But let’s go back to fourth grade. Some background info: I’d just gotten my cat, Callie (and after the first night begged my mom to just take her back to the store because she wouldn’t shut up and I needed my damn beauty sleep). I had also just visited Disney World for the first time and came back plastered with temporary tattoos that remained on my body for quite some time because I was incredible at life and terrible at bathing, apparently. I had dreams that involved Billy Ray Cyrus serenading me from the bottom of the staircase, and in my sleeping-but-happy stupor, I may or may not have sleep-walked to the bottom only to realize that life is never that good.  And because I was such a babe, I had no idea how to interact with boys. I know right – hard to believe that this guru on all things relationship-y (relationshitty? Sorry, ma) could have problems – but believe it.

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So what if I’m sketchy

People. Peoplepeoplepeoplepeople. They are everywhere, huh.

I took an art class last night where I drew some of these people. What’s special about the art class is (points fer yall who’ve been following along via facebook and know what I’m about to say) that it took place in a pub. A wonderful, dark, seedy, gritty, delicious little pub with stained glass windows, a bunch of nooks, a couple crannies (crannys?), and a man wearing a beret who played a card game against himself. And no, it was not solitaire.

You know what pubs do, right? Yeah, they serve you BEER and you get to DRINK IT and if you take this class, or just like to be weird on your own, you can SKETCH PEOPLE from a DISTANCE, all WHILE THEY EAT/DRINK/ARE MERRY as YOU are SIMULTANEOUSLY EATING AND DRINKING AND BEING MERRY. Excuse my somewhat excessive use of all caps but I can’t be the only person that gets excited about this. They call it “sketching” for a reason…because we’re effing sketchy.

The Beginning

Sometimes you just gotta write. Or you gotta dance. Or you gotta sing. Or you gotta paint, sculpt, or build. Whatever it is you do, sometimes you just gotta do it.

Sometimes it feels like you go forever without having done “your thing” and you just feel a little bit more empty than you should. But then there’s that moment when you’re sitting alone in your room after watching some mildly entertaining French film starring Audrey Taotau (who you may or may not have a huge girl crush on) when you realize that something is missing. Your something is missing.

Maybe it’s Audrey Tautao sparking the romantic in you, pushing you to reach for something you thought didn’t exist anymore or maybe it’s the way the rain is tapping on your bedside window, reminding you that you’ve forgotten something, somewhere. Either way, it doesn’t matter because there you sit, alone on your bed with an unidentifiable source of inspiration that you’re not even sure how to harness.

So you write. Or you dance. Or you sing. Or you paint, sculpt, or build. Whatever it is you do, you do it. And that’s the beginning.

BHOP.

Instead of boring you with a poorly written entry about why I would never make it as a rapper (probably because my main line would be “PANTIES PANTIES PANTIES PANTIES I’M A RAPPER”) , I will provide you with a “cover piece” that I wrote a few years ago about a friend who worked in a pizza place. Warning: it’s a little on the lengthy side.

Don’t worry though, I’ll be back later this week to write a unique, new, and sub-par entry.

With a blue apron casually slung around his waist, Peter Michaelidis wipes down the last table of the evening prior to heading home. His disheveled dark hair perches on top of a tired face as he slumps into a chair, absentmindedly watching the game on Sports Center. His weariness is warranted—he spent the day feeding swarms of drooling mouths before catering to two separate swim teams. Giving him the chance to temporarily prop his feet up, he savors the repose with a light-hearted grin. Even though he’s spent, his face never betrays anything but bright eyes and a carefree smile.

As he and a fellow employee volley absurd predictions about the football game, one last straggler shuffles into Boston House of Pizza and Peter resumes his position behind the counter. Dr. Don Lucas withdraws his hands from the pockets of his leather jacket and throws one over to Pete, an obvious invitation to shake it. He is a husky and balding trombone professor at Boston University who has been a regular customer at “BHOP” for quite some time. Professor Lucas chuckles giddily when he places his order of steak tips ‘to-go’, nostalgically remembering the days when Peter used him to test new food experiments.

“It’s always amusing to be his guinea pig,” the professor sighed in his Texan drawl. “When he goes off the menu, it gets interesting.”

Blushing a little, the cook tries to stand up for his culinary creations, but instead lets out his notoriously high-pitched giggle as a defense. Peter continues to chuckle as he prepares his prized steak tips and the two banter back and forth over the counter; their most amusing raillery focused on the temperature of Dr. Lucas’ bald head during the cold winter months in Boston and a haircut of Peter’s that went dreadfully wrong.

Resolving to Quit Resolutions

I spent the first day of the new year gettin all my lazy out and it was awesome. That meant that today, however, was supposed to be one of the unlazy variety because everyone knows that if you’re a slob on the first two days of the year, it’s gonna be a BUST. Okay no one actually says that but I’m sure it’s happened before.

Regardless, I didn’t do too much today either but I say “SCREW WHAT OTHER PEEPS ARE SAYIN”, this year is going to be good…I can feel it (amidst the interesting feelings provided by a mixture of salt and vinegar chips and taco bell that are currently saturating my stomach).

In an effort to be somewhat productive, I met with my friend Lala (author of an AWESOME blog entitled “Who Made You Great?” Read and enjoy.) at a nearby coffee shop to discuss our upcoming art show. That’s right, art show. Exhibit, if you will. If I say it here, it means I’m committing to it and I’ll actually have to produce. So yes, we’re having an ART SHOW on JUNE 4th. Venue TBD.

We met and discussed our visions, our styles, our abilities and our need to leave the mindset of “I’m thinking about doing this….” into “I’m doing it.” This is a want/need/desire I’ve had for awhile–to break out of the “do-it-tomorrow” attitude and just DO IT (thanks Nike). It feels good to have the support of a fellow artist and friend who is there to not only produce works of art herself, but to support me and help me along if I stray. (FYI Lala, you’re also supposed to support me and help me along if I stray, not sure if I mentioned it earlier.)

Just as a note, I don’t do New Years resolutions because I tend to fail within a very, very short amount of time. That whole “no coke product thing” never worked because of my somewhat severe addiction to Dr. Pepper. I still bite my nails. And exercise? Sort of a joke (although I AM determined to play tennis once the weather gets warmer ‘cause it’s actually fun). So I don’t want to consider Lala’s and my art show goal a resolution to paint more because I’d almost be setting myself up for failure.

The art show is, then, a date set in stone. If I fail, I will have to deal with the public embarrassment of being a failure. What better motivation is there? None.

So dear readers, go ahead and mark your calendars for June 4th. Either you’ll get to see some awesome pieces of art or you’ll get to harass me for being unable to complete ANYTHING.

Also, leave your email address if you’d like to be added to the “Save the Date” mailing list for the exhibit.

The Ripping Point

There’s a time in every girls life when she realizes that having two pairs of pants rip in one month is a negative thing. Blame could probably be placed on thin fabric or frequent usage but we all know whose fault this really is. Thank you, Thanksgiving. Merry? Not so much anymore, Christmas. The result of over-eating and under-moving, the lethargy I’m going through is shameful.

There is, however, a ray of hope in my future. Thank goodness for my athletic father who never fails to make me feel like a big sack of lazy when he relates to me the stories of his tennis court domination. He has inadvertently inspired me to move again.

I have no desire to be the tennis prodigy that I’m sure he once had hopes for (which is good because my foreseeable tennis skills are already lacking) but I think that the effort could be rewarded. And even if that reward is the ability to walk quickly up a lot of stairs and not be winded, I’m happy.

Just like I’m trying to do with art, if I don’t publicize my attempt to get into shape then it probably won’t happen and I’ll just continue to sit here and fuse to my bed. No one wants that. So I’ve got some sweet new tennis kicks, an extra racket from my dad, fresh socks, about 6 cartons of tennis balls and no excuse to not be awesome. Well, I need to find a tennis court but all in time…can’t be too hasty.

In short, worry not, dear friends. Your beloved Morgan will not continue to expand and her pants will stay in one piece. I hope. No, I know. I know they will remain intact.

UGGGHHH commitment is hard. Support me in my endeavors.

A Tribute

If he had a Facebook, I wonder what it’d be like. I wonder who his friends would be, if he’d consider himself in a relationship, what pictures he’d be tagged in, whether his status would be witty or if he’d give the annoyingly accurate minute-to-minute updates on the progression of his day. I wonder if we’d have many friends in common and what his “interests” and “hobbies” would be. How often would he change his profile picture? Would I Facebook stalk my own brother instead of calling to chat? …In the spirit of sisterly honesty…yeah, probably.

These are the thoughts that sting the most. Instead of simply remembering and enjoying the moments we’ve shared together, I can’t stop thinking about what our relationship would be like now and how his future would be shaping up–of where he would be and what kind of innocent trouble he’d be getting into. I’ve never known curiosity to be painful (except, of course, to that cat) but this feeling is a constant reminder of what we’ve lost and can’t have back. The memories feel inadequate and understanding how to live with that is something I don’t know how to do. I’m still plagued by the unfair.

Maybe it’s immaturity speaking and in a few years I’ll actually be able to celebrate his life without always feeling a guilt-ridden wave of anger. Of course, I hoped for the same revelation five years ago. Maybe I’ll be stuck in this fit of childish selfishness forever.

But then there’s the opposite, the positive. There’s the side that negates everything I just said and pushes me to write even after so many months of avoiding it. It’s the fact that he still inspires me–it’s been five years since he died and at the thought or mention of him I want to keep pushing in his direction. I want people to know about him even though he’s not here anymore.

I can’t begin to explain how all this works out in my head but it’s all there. The anger, the guilt, the pain and sadness…but also the inspiration and happiness that, in spite of the bitterness, comforts me enough to share his story with others. He’s a character that the world deserves to know and when I’m at my lowest, I know that I can depend on a picture of his goofy smile to provide me with enough inspiration to last the day.

English for beginners

Since I’ve been quarantined, essentially, to my room to wait on student’s incoming packages (while they’re busy learning about crazy electricity theories and physics and stuff), I decided to make the best use of my time by exploring StumbleUpon. If you haven’t experienced StumbleUpon, then directly after reading this post you should google it and begin REALLY surfing the web.

Anyways, while stumbling I came across this really interesting article…after being in Germany for quite some time now and hearing all the different “American/English accents” produced by the English-speaking Germans, you sort of start to wonder how English sounds to non-native speakers…this website has compiled videos from people all over the world documenting their impressions of the English language. Not only is it (really) funny–all Americans sound like they’re from the south, you know, the best portion of the country–but also somewhat informative in that…oh hey, English isn’t the only language in the world. Eenteresting.

http://amog.com/offbeat/english-sounds-nonenglish-speakers/

My favorites were the music video from the Argentinian band and the Bulgarian woman singing a version of Mariah Carey’s “Without You” or as she calls it, “Ken Lee”.

Now I will continue stumbling.

You can call me ‘Princess Morgan’

Betwixt gorging myself on Dexter episodes and discovering that omelets are actually pretty easy to make, even for those culinarily challenged, it seems I have become a slacker (in the way of writing). There are verifiable and concrete reasons for this (new-found? no, probably not) slacker status, however, so don’t be too hard on me.

But anyways, without delving into those reasons–you’ll just have to trust me–there was something that happened in January that I’ve been meaning to write about for awhile…a simple incident of a day made better by someone’s innate kindness. Unfortunately, it was my day that was way crappy but thankfully, through cosmic intervention or something, I crossed paths with someone who bestowed upon me free hot chocolate and other goodies thus rerouting the entire direction of my day.

To make an unnecessarily long and complicated story short, my flight from America to Dresden included 4 different planes. The last one was supposed to fly from Frankfurt to Dresden and land me back in my modest and somewhat lonely dorm room around 10 am or so. Because of the terrible timing of a snowstorm, my flight from Frankfurt was canceled–important to note here, though, is that NO ONE TOLD ME. I sat sitting around the airport like a moron waiting for my flight until I got the idea 15 minutes before we were supposed to take off to, oh, I don’t know, ask why the monitors said nothing about my flight. Then and only then did I find out that the plane was permanently grounded until further notice. JIGGA WHAT!?

Morgan was unhappy and on the verge of tears (that’s just what happens after a million hour long stressful travel day ending with a canceled flight). After finally retrieving a piece of good information from the troll behind the counter, I raced all over the airport, without my luggage because it was still on my loser, grounded plane, trying to find the train station that was somewhere underground. I could take a train from Frankfurt to Dresden..AWESOME! It was just gonna take 5 hours. Eh…not so awesome.

After finally finding the god-forsaken train, I sat down and promptly put on my headphones to try and slip into a coma so I wouldn’t have to think anymore. A few minutes after the train left, a man tapped on my shoulder…he was older, wearing a blue suit and matching hat, and although my mind probably invented this last detail just because it would’ve been perfect and adorable, little white gloves.  It was the ticket controller and he was asking for my ticket, a routine procedure. I removed my headphones, pulled out my ticket, handed it to him and on impulse, decided to tell him that my name is Morgan. (“Wie ‘Guten Morgen’!” Translation: “As in, Good Morning!”…My name means ‘morning’ in German and it makes for a wonderful way of having people remember my name.)

You know how with some people you can just tell if you’ll get along? That’s how it was with this older gentleman…even though I was in a foul mood, his light-hearted manner put me immediately at ease and I just felt compelled to tell him my name because I was almost certain he’d get a kick out of it, which he did.

(Note: the following conversation was in German…well, broken German on my part, but I don’t feel like translating to and from German, so I’ll just write it in English.)

Welcome to Boston

I wrote this “memoir” sophomore year for a communication writing class. I thought it was pretty entertaining so I assumed the readers here would too. Many of you have heard this story…if not, well, it’s definitely memorable. It’s also pretty long, so don’t read it if you’re in a hurry.

It starts below the city of Boston in the tangled system that hosts trains going anywhere and everywhere, with no concrete schedule of when they’ll arrive or depart. It starts with the time you’re given to stand and wait while the train is running around the city. It starts with that dull olive army cap that always seems to stay in the same corner of your eye as you stand patiently by yourself, waiting.

It’s odd. Even in the middle of the growing crowd of people waiting to get somewhere, that army cap never seems to go away; it stays near you, bobbing along with the rhythm of the masses. The cap is misleading too because it’s clear that it doesn’t even belong to an army guy. Instead, the only visible cues of life from that hat are grey, matted hairs springing out from underneath it. These hairs are sparse, but frequent enough to provide a little shade for the glassy-grey eyes that sit below a wrinkled, spotted forehead. All of these features exist undercover with help from that fake cap.

Its frequent persistence is a little unnerving, so you decide to move away. Being stared at is nice sometimes, but why from an old guy? Apparently the young, strapping army lads are at boot camp and you’re stuck here, in this dingy train station, with their homeless grandfather batting eyes at you.

As you walk, you take in all the other sensations specific only to this place. This place where trains come and go, people stand and wait, and musicians play for quarters with the hope of a big break. Sometimes it’s hard not to feel bad for them—nobody really gives them a second glance. You keep moving in hopes of escaping the hat and those eyes. The magazine stand looks informative enough, hosting dozens of papers and tabloids promising that they know the secret to the new Hollywood diet. It’s all very intriguing, but the sugar infused junk food they sell is what really grabs your attention. Rows of chocolates and sweets and sugars and all sorts of things that you were warned about as a child fill at least half of the stand—there are so many choices that it’s almost hard to decide. The magazine men are nice enough though. Give them a dollar twenty-five and they’ll respond with a Snickers bar.