Sunshine in a Glass. a short story.

My mother was doing that thing that she did. That thing with the rag in the sink.

“Who drank the orange juice and didn’t rinse out their glass?”

 I hear my mom yell this question from the kitchen just about every other day.

 I decided to humor her, and I went into the kitchen. My mom’s back was to me, and her poofy hair swished with her vigorous washing and scrubbing.

“Sorry Mom.” I mumbled, but of course my apology was drowned out by her flow of annoyed threats.

“I pay good money for that orange juice for you girls! Maybe I’ll buy the pulp less kind because APPARENTLY you girls are not MATURE enough to handle it!” and on and on and on.

I rolled my eyes and opened the refrigerator. I stared at the glowing leftovers and beverages, willing a food to appear for me, and tuned out my mom’s incessant nagging. Until I turned to see her standing inches from me.

“Nobody listens to me! I might as well be a nameless person on the street the way you people-what are you looking for? How many times do I have to tell you to not stand there with the refrigerator door open? You’re wasting electricity!”

She took a breath to let her slew of assaults sink in, and

to make sure that I felt the full effect of her words.

 “Whatever.” I said, as I slammed the refrigerator door shut and walked away.

I smirked to myself as I walked up the stairs, the image of my mom’s shocked and thoroughly pissed face still fresh in my mind, and I felt so powerful, so superior to my idiotic mother. At the top of the stairs, I saw Eloise dancing around in her room like a 7 yr old monkey.

“You’re so lame.” I told her.

She stopped mid-swirl and looked at me with her big green eyes as if I had just kicked a puppy.

“No I’m not...” she said hesitantly.

“Whatever. You’re just stupid.” I replied, and then made my dramatic exit from her room to mine, slamming my door for emphasis.

Through the door I could hear her clambering down the stairs, whining and ready, to go tell on me to our mom. You see, we have different dads, but the resemblance is still there... unfortunately. Eloise is my half-sister, but everyone thinks she’s my cousin.

 I knew it would only be a matter of time before she beckoned me, so I grabbed a book and flung myself onto my bed. Three minutes later my mom called up the stairs in a strained voice, “Quinn! Can I talk to you for a second?”

 I checked my watch and thought to myself, huh, she’s ahead of herself today.

I sighed, memorized the page that I was on, slid off my bed, and trudged downstairs. They were in the kitchen; my mom’s arms were folded, Eloise was next to her with a huffy expression on her face, and I could not have cared less.

I cared more about the fly buzzing around the kitchen light. I cared more about Ken, Eloise’s lazy-ass father, lying on the couch in the TV room, ruining the couch cover that I had just made that morning. I even cared more about the lemon sherbet that melted over the counter because Eloise forgot to put it back in the freezer. As my mom opened her mouth to reprimand and wag her finger at me, I told her to shut up. Miraculously, she did. In addition to my amazement, she started to cry. Her face crumpled, her shoulders slumped, and she turned around so I wouldn’t see the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Eloise looked scared out of her freaking mind. Now I don’t know why, because I’ve made my mother cry before, but I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. Maybe I had one of those super-enlightening epiphany things…who knows? All I know is that before I could figure out what the hee-haw hell I was doing, I found myself walking towards my mother, putting my arms around her, and horrifyingly enough, giving her a hug! And a real hug at that. Not like when she enthusiastically squeezes me, and I roll my eyes to someone over her shoulder. This time I was hugging her!

 I heard myself say, “I’m sorry, Mom. Really.”

When I eventually recovered from the shock of hearing my self apologize to my mother, I started to notice things. Like how her poofy hair felt against the side of my face, the smell of her perfume, how her sobs had noticeably subsided; and I really did feel sorry. It struck me then that this was the closest we had been since before she married Ken.

 Eloise had vanished; probably off in her room or trying unsuccessfully to wake up Ken, but I was grateful for the privacy. I guess I never realized how much I really missed moments like this.

 “I love you,” my mom said into my shoulder.

 From underneath the ice and harsh words deep within me, I felt the truth peek out. I really do love my mother, despite when her voice makes me want to scratch my eyes out, or when we’re in public I feel as though I’m wearing a shirt saying “I’m with stupid”.

 So I told her, “I love you too, Mom.”

My mom sniffled, pulled back, gave me a smile, and said, “I know you do. Now how bout some orange juice?”

This woman knows my very soul.

“Thank you, that would lovely.” I replied, and I smiled back. 

Working With Sources: Helen Vendler

When writing, I usually don’t start a paper or even a paragraph until I have a good couple first sentences, then I am golden and can write the whole paper in a sitting. Call it unconventional, but that is how I work; frozen in my chair as I try to assemble the perfect introductory sentences in my head. Sometimes I will even walk away from whatever task is at hand and be unable to continue until I have consumed some sort of candied snack. This is the more creative process involved in thinking, because thinking itself is a rather analytical process. Unfortunately, this process isn’t given the credit that it is due, although it is a critical part of the thinking process. As Harvard University Professor Helen Vendler writes, “Many complex, and sometimes profound, operations of the mind must precede our final arrangement of an argument, finding a path of explanation, or staging a deduction.” In other words, before resolving a problem or following through on an idea, other less mathematical and organized processes help in the creation of a final product. 

Tufte Brilliance- My thoughts on a paper

The Cognitive Style of PowerPoint: Pitching Out Corrupts Within by Edward R. Tufte was basically about how PowerPoint is a senseless, pointless program that dumbs its audience. In particular, Tufte laments about the use of “slide-by-slide” and “line-by-line”: a slide will reveal itself, and then line by line show the information being presented in an altogether tedious and painful fashion. As a useful alternative, Tufte suggests passing around printed-out material, which “allows [the audience] to control the order and pace of learning.” Essentially, Tufte says that the human brain can handle the information that is being presented, and it is unnecessary to break information down to “bite-sized chunks” (Tufte 6). 

Hayden Brilliance- My thoughts on a poem

     In Robert Hayden’s poem, “Those Lonely Winter Sunday”, a father’s love and commitment for his son is expressed through the example of getting up early to warm the house before his son gets up. In the second stanza, however, there seems to be an underlying negative tone that conflicts with the loving action being described in the first stanza. For instance, the speaker -after being beckoned to get up and get ready- takes his time changing his clothes, and ‘fears the chronic angers.’

F*cking Up: Dating Strategies for Maximum Class Mobility and their Potential Pitfalls

        Although the United States we are in the new millennium has overcome many social barriers, there is still prejudice and sexism in society today. Sexual harassment in the workplace, although being cracked down on by law, managerial and business codes, it is still prominent and makes it very hard for a woman to be successful in the workplace. Stereotypes, biases, and prejudices consistently get in the way for women, and as a result, women have had to come up with various strategies to get ahead in modern society. One way is to marry above one’s own social class for financial gain and class mobility.

There have been numerous examples in popular culture of women using men as a springboard for their own success, whether it is intentional or unintentional. Take the Grimm fairy tale Cinderella for example. Most everyone knows the story of the poor ‘Cinder’ girl whose cruel and abusive stepmother refuses to let the girl go to a festival being hosted by the local prince, for fear she will marry him, and instead endorses her own two daughters in wedding the prince. In fact, one of the stepdaughters is willing to do anything to fit the shoe Cinderella wore and become wealthy, even when “her mother gave her a knife and said, ‘Cut the toe off; when thou art Queen thou wilt have no more need to go on foot’” (Grimm).  The level of desperation, although somewhat exaggerated, shows the steps women are willing to take to advance themselves socially, including cutting off one’s toes. Every eligible woman who attended that ball, and tried on that shoe was there to advance themselves from simple peasants to royalty. None of these women knew, or had even met the prince, but were willing to try and impress him for a hand in marriage. Therefore, acquiring a man’s wealth and property through marriage is an acceptable and successful way to improve one’s current standard of living and social class. This message is portrayed to young girls who either read an adaptation in a children’s book, see it re-enacted in a cartoon or movie, or from being told the story directly. Women are raised to think in this mind-set, so naturally women are bound to act on it.

Children are not the only ones who are fed this ‘get-rich-quick’ scheme. Adult women reading romance novels are getting the same ideas, though perhaps not as subtly. Jeanne Dubino, an English professor at Plymouth State College, writes about the effects of different romance novels on many types of women, and at the core of all of these novels is the same idea. She writes, “All varieties of the romance contain the pattern of ‘heroine gets rich through love’” (103). In general, women are surrounded by this idea from the moment they learn to read up until they read to escape their own realities, affecting the way they see relationships and marriage as a whole.

Of course most people want to fall in love and marry a spouse that they feel attracted to and can look to as an equal partner for the rest of their lives…but wouldn’t it be grand to find that person, and they just so happen to have the financial security to take care of you for the rest of your lives? In the hit single, “Ain’t Nothin’ Goin’ On But the Rent” by Gwen Guthrie, she proclaims that there is “no romance without finance”. This suggests that if all you’ve got is love, then that isn’t going to be enough to keep the two of you together. Love doesn’t pay the rent or buy groceries, and there has to be some sort of financial income. Love is not all you need.

            But what if you don’t seek to marry that person? Dating can be just as successful with one’s own advancement in modern-day society. A couple of lunch dates and intimate get-togethers with one’s boss can either boost your career by receiving unfair benefits and advantages over fellow co-workers in exchange for your company, or it can ruin your reputation in the workplace and ruin your career. For example, say a female secretary works for a male CEO of a large corporation. If this hypothetical secretary were to be sexually involved with her boss, and was given bonuses based solely upon their personal interactions, and somehow this information was spread to the secretary’s fellow co-workers, this would prove to be a poor choice. Rumors carry easily and if this woman’s unprofessionalism spreads to other companies, then if for some reason her boss lets her go or lays her off, it would be difficult to find another job.

            Ruining one’s career and reputation are a trade-off and gambling piece. Although marrying into wealth or dating to get to the top seem like easy and fool-proof methods to success, there are several negative consequences; the first being that there is the issue of morals and values. If a woman feels it is necessary to pursue a man she does not love purely for financial gain, one must wonder about the conscience and overall happiness of that woman. To be willing to sacrifice the option of a mutually loving and caring marriage for financial security, there are definite psychological effects, not to mention the effects of their children (if any). Children pick up on the moods and emotions of the parents towards each other, and children raised in a hostile environment are more likely to have social and psychological problems later in life (Buehler, Krishnakumar, & Anthony 1994). Although the negative aftermath of such choices are clearly evident, if money and social standing are what is important to oneself, then these options can (somewhat) guarantee a financially successful life.  

So whether it be a marriage into a wealthy family, or a rendezvous with a CEO, it is pretty clear that dating and marrying above one’s own social standing is a good way to get a woman in 2012 where she wants to be. Skip past the sexual harassment of the workplace, fast forward through the expensive and stressful years of college, and go for the gold. Dig if you must, as long as you get what you want.

           

Works Cited

Buehler, Cheryl, Ambika Krishnakumar, and Christine Anthony. "Hostile Interparental Conflict And Youth Maladjustment." Family Relations 43.(1994): 409-416. Education Full Text (H.W. Wilson). Web. 4 Nov. 2012. 

Dubino, Jeanne. "The Cinderella Complex: Romance Fiction, Patriarchy and Capitalism." Journal of Popular Culture 27.3 (1993): 103-118. Academic Search Premier. Web. 28 Oct. 2012.

Guthrie, Gwen. "Ain't Nothin' Goin' On But the Rent." Rec. 1985. Ain't Nothin' Goin' On But the Rent. Vinyl recording. 1986.

Grimm, The Bros. “Cinderella”. NationalGeographic.com. National Geographic Society. 1999. Web. 28 October 2012. 

A Scene From the Memoir I Am Not Writing

           I took a  breath before dialing my home phone number into my cellphone. I checked the clock again -10 a.m. as we agreed- and felt relieved that I was calling on time.

           

I could hear the other line buzzing as I grabbed my yellow notebook and pen off Alex’s desk, shuffled through our bedroom covered in clothes and trash, and sprinted through the dining room to avoid the demonic cat that lurked under the dining room table.

As I passed Alex drinking his buttered toffee coffee in the kitchen, I had my phone pressed to my ear, and he gave me a look. I mouthed “my dad” to let him know who I was calling. I hated having to explain whom I was talking to with my boyfriend. I knew I was going to get bombarded by his questions demanding every detail of my phone conversation with my own father. Paranoia was Alex’s middle name, so I could sense him freaking out about what I could be saying about him while on the phone, and I resented his less-than-trusting nature.  

After making my way through the crammed obstacle of a house I lived in with Alex, his mom, and his younger sister, my Dad picked up the phone just as I got to the basement, where I could escape and have some privacy.

“Hello?”

My Dad sounds as though he answers phones for a living, and picking up a call on a day off exhausts him immediately. Being an artist , and painting contemporary abstractions, this isn’t the case, but how he can always sound so tired from answering the phone amazes me.

“Hey Dad” I answered, “How are things at home?”

“The same as the last time we talked. Are you still taking your meds?”

He was referring, of course, to my medication Adderall, which I take for ADD. It’s a bit of a Catch-22 since ADD can cause forgetfulness, and the meds help with that, but if you forget to take the meds, how can you remember without them? Even now that I am no longer living with a boyfriend in his mother’s neglected house, and in college, my Dad still asks about my meds. They are necessary for me accomplishing just about anything.

“Yea, I’m still on top of them, I just forget the afternoon ones sometimes” I reassured him.

My Dad cut right to the chase.

“Well, Rachel, you seem to be calmer and in a better state of mind this morning. Are you ready to talk to me and not get upset or angry?”

Of course I am that’s why I called! I thought, but I knew that talking like that would only aggravate him and make him think I was copping an attitude.

I tried to sigh as subtly as possible. 

“Yea, I’m ready. I guess I’m just nervous I’m not going to be able to come up with some good reasons about why you should let me come back home.”

“Well, you’ve had all week to think about it and come up with some good answers” he said.

This early in the phone call, and I was tired of it, fidgety, and anxious to hang up. I hadn’t even brought up any points and I was struggling to pay attention. I just wanted to go back to bed and sleep away my problems.

I could smell the moldy dankness of the poorly refinished half of the basement I was in. I loathed this garbage hole behind Railroad Ave. I despised the neighborhood that looked quaint during the day, but where people were stabbed at night. I was tired of smelling like cigarette smoke from Alex’s chain-smoking mother. I missed my younger sister Claudia, and above all I was scared for my future. Out of high school, not in college, working at a grocery store…I did not want that future.  Staring at my blue bike Alex had shoved hap-hazard in the corner, I forced my brain to get over it and try to talk to my dad.  I wanted to go home and move on, and I knew that I had to.