Yesterday, following family home evening, Rose received a phone call. Because she is a good citizen, she politely consented to complete a political survey instead of hanging up. So here's the situation:
Rose is in the kitchen on the phone.
I am sitting at the kitchen table, still holding my scriptures from family home evening.
Anthony and Luca are three feet away. Luca is in time out and Anthony is kneeling on the ground, supervising time out.
I can tell from Rose's end of the conversation that the survey guy is asking her opinion about Trump. She begins a level-headed response, something beginning with "totally unprofessional..."
When!
With absolutely no thought or consideration, I looked up from the email I was reading and added my two cents in case the survey guy was allowed to input responses shouted at him from the background.
Said I, none too quietly...
"He's an ass!"
Cue me seeing the shocked look on Rose's face, realizing that Luca is, in fact, right behind me, and desperately trying to recover.
"...tec....warrior!"
Rose started laughing, Luca had no visible response, and Anthony gazed on me with a steely look brought on only by inappropriate input in his child's life. And then I sat there with my hands over my mouth in horror until Anthony took Luca upstairs to bed and Rose stopped laughing and got off the phone. She complimented my "nice save." I decided that I've become too comfortable expressing my feelings about political leaders to my siblings in the middle of the night, because the combination of those three things leads to the very worst language I ever use.
The whole thing reminded me of the time I showed my students a youtube video with an F word on accident. Maybe I need to reevaluate some things.
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
Thursday, March 30, 2017
Conversations with Sophomores
I am currently in the process of compiling snippets of the hilarious daily entertainment provided by my school children, but in the meantime, a conversation I had in class today for your amusement....
Boy: My mom says I shouldn't kiss people, but I am just a kisser. I do it anyway. I've kissed 23 girls!
Me: Seriously? That's more people than years you've been alive.
Boy: Yeah. I do it all the time even though my mom says not to.
Boy's sidekick: Really? My mom gets upset when I don't kiss girls.
Me: What now?
And later on....
Me: Nope, you are not speaking about girls that way in my class.
Boy: What are you talking about? I already told you I've kissed 23 girls and I wasn't in trouble then!
Me: You can kiss whoever you want, but you cannot refer to this girl as "a homework assignment I've got to get done!" Do you see how that's different?
Boy: Okay, but! Listen..
Me: Alright, moving on! Which rhetorical strategy was strongest in the documentary?
Boy: Fine. Pathos.
Boy: My mom says I shouldn't kiss people, but I am just a kisser. I do it anyway. I've kissed 23 girls!
Me: Seriously? That's more people than years you've been alive.
Boy: Yeah. I do it all the time even though my mom says not to.
Boy's sidekick: Really? My mom gets upset when I don't kiss girls.
Me: What now?
And later on....
Me: Nope, you are not speaking about girls that way in my class.
Boy: What are you talking about? I already told you I've kissed 23 girls and I wasn't in trouble then!
Me: You can kiss whoever you want, but you cannot refer to this girl as "a homework assignment I've got to get done!" Do you see how that's different?
Boy: Okay, but! Listen..
Me: Alright, moving on! Which rhetorical strategy was strongest in the documentary?
Boy: Fine. Pathos.
Monday, March 13, 2017
Grapplings with Nihilism
I have a recurring dream.
In my dream, I am blind. Not so blind that everything is black, but enough that the sight I have left seems to be a cruel joke meant to taunt me. I can see just enough to know what direction to go in, maybe.
And then something else happens. That barely perceptible goal in mind, I reach. I run. I exert all my energy, but I cannot move of my own free will. My movements seem to be controlled by some outer force- like someone is watching me struggle and gleaning enjoyment from the experience, lowering the resistance at times for just a moment to increase their own amusement when I struggle harder.
Everything is faded. Everything is still, but me. My mind is working triple time, as if to compensate for the uncontrollable slothfulness of my body. I panic. I plead. Whatever I am searching for drifts farther away, and I am left to drown. I am all alone.
And then I wake up. Shiver, and pray. Move on with my life, until the next time.
I don't know exactly what this means. I'm aware that eventual blindness is a legitimate possibility, but I can never decide if this dream feels literal or existential in nature. Deciding which often seems important, which of course does not translate into doable.
Besides this recurring dream, I have also sometimes dreamed of things before they happen. More specifically, people. I dreamed of Emma before I knew she was coming. When Bekah was pregnant, I dreamed of a little boy and knew that he would be alright. I dreamed that something terribly wrong was happening with my best friend, and found out later that this was, in fact, the case. Sometimes this has been a comfort, and sometimes it frightens me a bit. These dreams feel different than the ordinary ones, more real.
This is what the blindness dream feels like. Literal or existential, I don't know, but real.
New story.
When I was in High School, the Drama Club had season tickets to Pioneer Theater. Every other month, I would sit on the front row with my friends, enthralled at the artistry occurring in front of my eyes. Each season they would premier a show never before produced, often directed by the writer. One such show was titled Touch(ed). This play explores themes of traditional madness and how insanity is influenced by human connection.
The story focuses on two sisters, one ultra focused, responsible, a bit high-strung, etc. Not a relaxed individual, but clearly what we would call "sane." This sister is the caretaker for the other, a woman who is schizophrenic and has spent much of her life in and out of various treatment programs following suicide attempts. During this story, the schizophrenic sister (who is a little "touched' as they say) moves in with her sister and the sister's boyfriend. While the sane one is out of town, the schizophrenic one, with the boyfriend's support, begins a regimen of healthy eating, exercise, and stops taking every single one of her medications. When her sister comes back, she finds a healthy, high-functioning, lucid person in place of the crazy one she left behind.
Though she is skeptical of this new undertaking, she is persuaded by her sister's success and seeming happiness, which seems legitimate for a long enough period of time that they begin to hope it may be permanent. The neurotic, uptight, responsible sister stops worrying and calms down enough to get happy and engaged. While she and the fiance are out celebrating, the schizophrenic sister is at home, sitting in silence. The lights go down, the door opens, and we see the silhouette of a man, large and imposing, enter the room. He stands behind her and waits. She curls into a smaller ball of weathered resignation, and without looking up, says this:
"I've been waiting for you."
When the couple returns, they find the house burned down, and the sister dead inside it.
Now, listen.
The threatening, aggressive figure taking over is so unexpected that it kind of shocked the audience into silence. Everyone seemed to hold their breath at once. I remember feeling like I had had the wind knocked out of me. The usual swirling eddy of my thoughts abruptly ceased, and I remember one feeling, insisting to be heard; this was shocking not because of the contrast, but because it felt so familiar.
I am not schizophrenic. This is an extreme comparison, I know But in a much smaller way than a woman with schizophrenia suddenly succumbing to suicidal tendencies despite all healthy prior indications....that man, threatening and aggressive, who functions as a symbol for mental illness, is a figure I know well.
This part right here, this is the healthiest I've ever been in ten years. All that time, depression and I gnawing away at each other, has been filled with various victories and defeats. That constant struggle has been ugly and often unexplainable. No matter how hard I worked or how much I won, I always ended up in a puddle on the bathroom floor in the middle of night again.
So, I pull myself off the bathroom floor and get back to work on this thing called happiness. And when this goes well, I do fabulously. I have all the good advice. I've done the therapy. I have answers, but answers and execution are different things. When things are going well, it still takes constant effort, and I always have this nagging question at the back of my mind. How long can I keep this up?
Sooner or later, to some degree, the silhouetted man comes back. He seems to have a key for all the locks. He stands near the windows to block out the light. Without looking up, I hear myself say, "I've been waiting for you."
Of course that response has other layers. Sometimes, that weathered resignation wins out, and I decide that as long as he's blocking the light, I'll just rest for a bit- no need to hurry back to daylight. Other times, I stand up and scream. "I told you not to come back here. Get out!" With the darkest anger I've ever experienced, I tell him I've been trying so long to kill him. I'm generally against violence, but he is an exception I feel good about. Other times, I ignore him, step gingerly around him to throw the curtains open wider and pretend he isn't following me. I continue on. His stamina is impressive. He never speaks, but he doesn't need to. If he spoke, I could argue; I'm extremely articulate and I have an excellent shouting voice. His silent looming is more frightening than an active assailant. A fight I can handle, but he doesn't fight back. He simply is.
So here's the thing. What does that all mean?
I know for a certain fact that fighting depression, clawing to shove him out the door, buying more deadbolts, is basically struggling for survival. It's fighting to feel something. I also know that this struggle is a big part of who I am. I am different in a lot of good ways because of all that crap. And the pure "good ideas" part of me says of course fighting back is the correct response. I should do the things I can to be a healthy happy person. But always, there's that knowledge that whatever I am doing to cope is not going to last forever. No lock ever does. This is always going to be a part of my life.
Thanks to the antidepressant that miraculously works better than any other I've taken in my life, I can fall off the wagon of unsustainable healthy habits every so often without being a volatile freaking mess like I used to be. In the past couple of years, I have discovered that there can be a middle ground between happy and a happiness sucking black hole. I never really experienced that before. And sometimes I rest from all the unsustainable healthy habit work because it is nice to know that I can do that without falling off a cliff.
But then I feel guilty.
I was talking with Bekah about this the other day, and she said, "You need to give yourself a break, kiddo."
Do I? Or is that getting too comfortable with the guy blocking the windows?
Back to the dream. This has a point, I promise.
So that dream, the real one. I have been experiencing this dream with dread for quite some time, and it always makes me afraid. As Emily says, "Today is bearable, but to always be afraid of tomorrrow!" I'm always a little bit afraid of the tomorrows, because of the drowning dream.
But a couple of things occurred to me recently.
One.
If that dream is not literal, if I'm not going to go blind and get MS all at once, what does it mean? I think that dream is how depression feels. Maybe I haven't been dreaming prophetically, and that dream was just a response to how I was actually experiencing life. ( I do sometimes dream in poetry. I guess this could just be metaphor dreaming?) Maybe it isn't something to be dreaded because it's something I already lived. Something I will keep on living to some extent for all my life, but nevertheless something I know I can survive.
Two.
Have you guys read The Hiding Place? In this book, Corrie Ten Boom has a vision of herself and her family and some of their friends being arrested by the Nazis and taken away from their home. This dream is frightening, of course, and she takes the matter to her father to discuss it. She, also, is afraid of what may happen. Her father asks her what the purpose of the dream might be. What he told her made me gasp out loud in a room full of people.
If this is a dream of things to come, then maybe the point is for you to know that God knows. Because He has planned it, there is no need to fear.
This does not, of course, mean that the experience couldn't be in some way horrific. Nazi imprisonment was no less real to her because she had some inkling it might happen beforehand. But what a comfort to know that a horrifying and difficult experience is not the product of pointless chaos. This dream is frightening to me. It is deeply uncomfortable. It feels like something I have worked so hard to overcome that will just keep coming back like the silhouetted man. But it is also not for nothing. There is a point, and God knows it. He is not unaware of the silhouetted man who stalks me. In fact, they might know each other.
Because God created the waster to destroy, I can dream of blindness and drowning alone that feels very real, but wake up, shiver and pray, and move on without the fear of tomorrow hanging over my head. God created the waster to destroy- he lets me suffer from depression for a reason, but He also gave me a Savior who is far more persistent than any shadowy figure can be. He gave me a Savior who won't simply lock the door, because that isn't the point. Instead, He will stay inside with me and make me strong enough to fight back. Maybe that point when I fall off the wagon for a bit is a tool to help me know that there is a middle ground that is solid enough to rest on. And when I get back up to grapple with that dark figure -who will keep coming back because he's really only a part of me- I'll be able to do it because the Savior will be there, asking to be a part of me, too.
In my dream, I am blind. Not so blind that everything is black, but enough that the sight I have left seems to be a cruel joke meant to taunt me. I can see just enough to know what direction to go in, maybe.
And then something else happens. That barely perceptible goal in mind, I reach. I run. I exert all my energy, but I cannot move of my own free will. My movements seem to be controlled by some outer force- like someone is watching me struggle and gleaning enjoyment from the experience, lowering the resistance at times for just a moment to increase their own amusement when I struggle harder.
Everything is faded. Everything is still, but me. My mind is working triple time, as if to compensate for the uncontrollable slothfulness of my body. I panic. I plead. Whatever I am searching for drifts farther away, and I am left to drown. I am all alone.
And then I wake up. Shiver, and pray. Move on with my life, until the next time.
I don't know exactly what this means. I'm aware that eventual blindness is a legitimate possibility, but I can never decide if this dream feels literal or existential in nature. Deciding which often seems important, which of course does not translate into doable.
Besides this recurring dream, I have also sometimes dreamed of things before they happen. More specifically, people. I dreamed of Emma before I knew she was coming. When Bekah was pregnant, I dreamed of a little boy and knew that he would be alright. I dreamed that something terribly wrong was happening with my best friend, and found out later that this was, in fact, the case. Sometimes this has been a comfort, and sometimes it frightens me a bit. These dreams feel different than the ordinary ones, more real.
This is what the blindness dream feels like. Literal or existential, I don't know, but real.
New story.
When I was in High School, the Drama Club had season tickets to Pioneer Theater. Every other month, I would sit on the front row with my friends, enthralled at the artistry occurring in front of my eyes. Each season they would premier a show never before produced, often directed by the writer. One such show was titled Touch(ed). This play explores themes of traditional madness and how insanity is influenced by human connection.
The story focuses on two sisters, one ultra focused, responsible, a bit high-strung, etc. Not a relaxed individual, but clearly what we would call "sane." This sister is the caretaker for the other, a woman who is schizophrenic and has spent much of her life in and out of various treatment programs following suicide attempts. During this story, the schizophrenic sister (who is a little "touched' as they say) moves in with her sister and the sister's boyfriend. While the sane one is out of town, the schizophrenic one, with the boyfriend's support, begins a regimen of healthy eating, exercise, and stops taking every single one of her medications. When her sister comes back, she finds a healthy, high-functioning, lucid person in place of the crazy one she left behind.
Though she is skeptical of this new undertaking, she is persuaded by her sister's success and seeming happiness, which seems legitimate for a long enough period of time that they begin to hope it may be permanent. The neurotic, uptight, responsible sister stops worrying and calms down enough to get happy and engaged. While she and the fiance are out celebrating, the schizophrenic sister is at home, sitting in silence. The lights go down, the door opens, and we see the silhouette of a man, large and imposing, enter the room. He stands behind her and waits. She curls into a smaller ball of weathered resignation, and without looking up, says this:
"I've been waiting for you."
When the couple returns, they find the house burned down, and the sister dead inside it.
Now, listen.
The threatening, aggressive figure taking over is so unexpected that it kind of shocked the audience into silence. Everyone seemed to hold their breath at once. I remember feeling like I had had the wind knocked out of me. The usual swirling eddy of my thoughts abruptly ceased, and I remember one feeling, insisting to be heard; this was shocking not because of the contrast, but because it felt so familiar.
I am not schizophrenic. This is an extreme comparison, I know But in a much smaller way than a woman with schizophrenia suddenly succumbing to suicidal tendencies despite all healthy prior indications....that man, threatening and aggressive, who functions as a symbol for mental illness, is a figure I know well.
This part right here, this is the healthiest I've ever been in ten years. All that time, depression and I gnawing away at each other, has been filled with various victories and defeats. That constant struggle has been ugly and often unexplainable. No matter how hard I worked or how much I won, I always ended up in a puddle on the bathroom floor in the middle of night again.
So, I pull myself off the bathroom floor and get back to work on this thing called happiness. And when this goes well, I do fabulously. I have all the good advice. I've done the therapy. I have answers, but answers and execution are different things. When things are going well, it still takes constant effort, and I always have this nagging question at the back of my mind. How long can I keep this up?
Sooner or later, to some degree, the silhouetted man comes back. He seems to have a key for all the locks. He stands near the windows to block out the light. Without looking up, I hear myself say, "I've been waiting for you."
Of course that response has other layers. Sometimes, that weathered resignation wins out, and I decide that as long as he's blocking the light, I'll just rest for a bit- no need to hurry back to daylight. Other times, I stand up and scream. "I told you not to come back here. Get out!" With the darkest anger I've ever experienced, I tell him I've been trying so long to kill him. I'm generally against violence, but he is an exception I feel good about. Other times, I ignore him, step gingerly around him to throw the curtains open wider and pretend he isn't following me. I continue on. His stamina is impressive. He never speaks, but he doesn't need to. If he spoke, I could argue; I'm extremely articulate and I have an excellent shouting voice. His silent looming is more frightening than an active assailant. A fight I can handle, but he doesn't fight back. He simply is.
So here's the thing. What does that all mean?
I know for a certain fact that fighting depression, clawing to shove him out the door, buying more deadbolts, is basically struggling for survival. It's fighting to feel something. I also know that this struggle is a big part of who I am. I am different in a lot of good ways because of all that crap. And the pure "good ideas" part of me says of course fighting back is the correct response. I should do the things I can to be a healthy happy person. But always, there's that knowledge that whatever I am doing to cope is not going to last forever. No lock ever does. This is always going to be a part of my life.
Thanks to the antidepressant that miraculously works better than any other I've taken in my life, I can fall off the wagon of unsustainable healthy habits every so often without being a volatile freaking mess like I used to be. In the past couple of years, I have discovered that there can be a middle ground between happy and a happiness sucking black hole. I never really experienced that before. And sometimes I rest from all the unsustainable healthy habit work because it is nice to know that I can do that without falling off a cliff.
But then I feel guilty.
I was talking with Bekah about this the other day, and she said, "You need to give yourself a break, kiddo."
Do I? Or is that getting too comfortable with the guy blocking the windows?
Back to the dream. This has a point, I promise.
So that dream, the real one. I have been experiencing this dream with dread for quite some time, and it always makes me afraid. As Emily says, "Today is bearable, but to always be afraid of tomorrrow!" I'm always a little bit afraid of the tomorrows, because of the drowning dream.
But a couple of things occurred to me recently.
One.
If that dream is not literal, if I'm not going to go blind and get MS all at once, what does it mean? I think that dream is how depression feels. Maybe I haven't been dreaming prophetically, and that dream was just a response to how I was actually experiencing life. ( I do sometimes dream in poetry. I guess this could just be metaphor dreaming?) Maybe it isn't something to be dreaded because it's something I already lived. Something I will keep on living to some extent for all my life, but nevertheless something I know I can survive.
Two.
Have you guys read The Hiding Place? In this book, Corrie Ten Boom has a vision of herself and her family and some of their friends being arrested by the Nazis and taken away from their home. This dream is frightening, of course, and she takes the matter to her father to discuss it. She, also, is afraid of what may happen. Her father asks her what the purpose of the dream might be. What he told her made me gasp out loud in a room full of people.
If this is a dream of things to come, then maybe the point is for you to know that God knows. Because He has planned it, there is no need to fear.
This does not, of course, mean that the experience couldn't be in some way horrific. Nazi imprisonment was no less real to her because she had some inkling it might happen beforehand. But what a comfort to know that a horrifying and difficult experience is not the product of pointless chaos. This dream is frightening to me. It is deeply uncomfortable. It feels like something I have worked so hard to overcome that will just keep coming back like the silhouetted man. But it is also not for nothing. There is a point, and God knows it. He is not unaware of the silhouetted man who stalks me. In fact, they might know each other.
Because God created the waster to destroy, I can dream of blindness and drowning alone that feels very real, but wake up, shiver and pray, and move on without the fear of tomorrow hanging over my head. God created the waster to destroy- he lets me suffer from depression for a reason, but He also gave me a Savior who is far more persistent than any shadowy figure can be. He gave me a Savior who won't simply lock the door, because that isn't the point. Instead, He will stay inside with me and make me strong enough to fight back. Maybe that point when I fall off the wagon for a bit is a tool to help me know that there is a middle ground that is solid enough to rest on. And when I get back up to grapple with that dark figure -who will keep coming back because he's really only a part of me- I'll be able to do it because the Savior will be there, asking to be a part of me, too.
Friday, August 26, 2016
If you could leave tips over the phone...
Greg from Progressive would be a richer man. That was the most helpful and patient insurance agent I have ever encountered. And I hope he gets to go home soon cause he sounded tired. And I don't know if I believe in blog karma, but Greg, you deserve good things.
Good people get stuck in really crappy phone jobs late at night and have to answer questions from crazy people like me. Four phone calls and a Herculean effort on his part later, I have new car insurance.
Good people get stuck in really crappy phone jobs late at night and have to answer questions from crazy people like me. Four phone calls and a Herculean effort on his part later, I have new car insurance.
The Illusion of Man
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman of four and twenty in Logan, Utah must justify singlehood. All. The. Time. (Also, not being a True Aggie. People are shocked to hear that I've gone six years without making out with a stranger on a ritual cement platform at my college campus. "You're missing out!" they say. "The horror!" I reply.)
Singlehood can be awkward here. I am no longer a tiny freshman who is clearly too young to marry regardless of absurd cultural standards. I'm about to enter my third Senior year of college, just shy of done. I live in a Young Single Adult ward which is fabulous and filled with good friendships, but the boys also scatter reliably and consistently when they discover my age. While 24 is clearly not spinsterhood, I live in the midst of many, many, young men whose average age is years younger than mine.
I guess their thing with the age is pretty comparable to my thing with height. There's my comeuppance for being shallow!
The past couple years have been filled with uncomfortable, sometimes painful, albeit hilarious dating experiences. I focus on the hilarious because what else are you supposed to do? We all know about awkwards hands by now, right? I am trying to own the awkward and revel in the "double hands way in the air" storytelling moments.
Like the time a friend of many years and I decided that we should maybe, actually, try out that dating thing that everyone has been teasing us about since we were sixteen. And then he dated someone else and didn't bother to tell me, instead opting for the "radio silence for months" option. We finally figured out that mess, and it was fine. He is married now. I was in the wedding party. This wedding day was a truly happy occasion wherein I felt not a shred of jealousy for his gorgeous wife, who I actually really like. But the principle of the thing stung a bit, if I'm honest.
Or the time my boss tried to set me up on a date with her husband's coworker, twenty miles, an entire canyon, and a different county away. What are the odds he would live in my apartment building and attend my ward? They were slim, but they won out. I had private intel from the husband that the coworker was pretty excited and intended to call. And then he figured out he knew me and proceeded to never call. Instead, we've spent the last year in a silent mutual agreement that we will never speak on the bi-weekly occasions we are in the same place, doing the same thing. Awkwardly avoiding eye contact.
There was the pride-shattering and unexpected deep discomfort when Facebook informed me that my ex-boyfriend was dating somebody new. Three years later, you'd think that wouldn't matter. I thought it didn't matter. But, sheesh. Nothing like an innocent photo to knock the wind out of you for a bit.
Or the other time my boss tried to set me up with this guy we both know, and then asked me about it every day while I tried to list all the evidence that nothing is going on with this guy. When dating came up in a group conversation yesterday, I said something about being single and she looked at me wide-eyed; "Are you single?" I'm confused about what part of "never been on an acutal date with this man" makes her surprised that we haven't made it official.
There's the whole family demanding details about the man I met on the internet before I go to meet him in a very public place. After a few minutes of the Spanish Inquisition, I finally said "This is sort of humiliating anyway. I'm done answering questions right now." Mom did not understand why internet dating would be humiliating. My sister understood, and said "Yeah, I can see how you wouldn't want to talk about that." I appreciated her backup, but I'm still not sure which of their points of view is less flattering.
Anyway, we're done with the internet's input.
The thing that is sticky about this point in life, see, is that the first thing people ask when we see each other after a long while is "Are you dating anyone?" Then they get upset when I laugh involuntarily. My mom is offended on my behalf."Why is it funny that you would be dating?" But everyone also gets happy, wide-eyed surprised, and actually literally "proud!" when I tell them I am going on a date. That expression is always the same, and while I appreciate my mother's argument on my behalf that it is not ludicrous to suppose I might be in a relationship, there are some mixed messages going on here. In the past year or so, when people ask me if I'm dating and I say no, there is also an added "Well, that's okay."
Which really means, "It's a little weird at this point, so I have to reassure you that it's not weird." Nobody reassured me at twenty one, but here we are.
I live in a place where I am encouraged to date and to marry. Our Bishop is famous. The year before I moved into my apartment complex, more than half the ward got married and moved out, and the Bishopric is proud of their success. Tithing settlement is called "dating settlement" here in the 27th ward. We spend all of 12 seconds on tithing and the next questions are, consecutively,
"Are you dating anyone?"
"Do you want to be dating anyone?"
"Who in the ward do you want to date? I'll tell them."
(Cause there's not enough awkward avoidance of eye contact in Sunday School.)
Every year it seems, we are begged from many and multiple pulpits not to "date through our twenties," but instead, to be serious, and look for marriage. Don't waste time.
I gotta be honest. I am being begged not to stay someplace I can't even get, because that miles ahead point on the road that is called "dating" isn't good enough, they say. If only I could just get to "not good enough" instead of "failing so miserably."
Don't wend your way leisurely along the highway, cruising in the center. Get in the left lane. Commit. That's great. I love the left lane. I don't want to wend leisurely in the center. But I don't have a lot of options, cause I'm in the right lane impeding traffic, trying to get up to speed.
Remember that " focus on the hilarious" thing I'm going for? I realize I just fell of the wagon. But the point of this whole thing, before my accidental venting session, was to tell a story that is focused on the hilarious.
A few days ago, my roommate Krysta and I were in the Walmart, shopping for light bulbs and various apartment cleaning sundries. We stopped at the aisle filled with scented wax refills and smelled them all. Cause who doesn't, right? We always do.
There was a lot of "ohhh, smell this... wow, that is nice!"and "HOLY Cow, that is disgusting!"
Then Krysta held up a package to me to smell. It smelled really good.
"Wow!" I said.
"It smells like man!" Krysta said. "What's it called?"
I turned it over to look.
"Illusion"
I have never laughed so hard in a Walmart. "That's about right." said Krysta.
"Yep. Accurate."
There. I made it back to humor. We bought the wax.
Friday, September 18, 2015
So I was walking with my friend Adam today...
Adam: "Oh sorry! I just spit on you a little. That's awkward."
Me: "Eh, I didn't notice. We've endured much more awkwardness. That doesn't even count."
Adam: "That's true. We almost kissed once."
Me: " Yep. And then Dr. Kinkead told everybody about it for the next year."
Adam: "Yeah, that was great."
Me: "Eh, I didn't notice. We've endured much more awkwardness. That doesn't even count."
Adam: "That's true. We almost kissed once."
Me: " Yep. And then Dr. Kinkead told everybody about it for the next year."
Adam: "Yeah, that was great."
Friday, April 4, 2014
Bipolar, but leveling off
Once upon a time, I had this extremely busy semester. And it almost killed me. Stuff happened. Some terrible stuff.
Aka, last Thursday I found myself sitting in my car, which wouldn't start, trying to do homework on my phone, which wouldn't work, and trying not to panic about my computer, which is broken, or hyperventilate about my wallet, which was lost. "Pure Satan. Like, Comcast Evil."
And I called Erin and she told me to be calm. And that worked, which surprised me. That was a whole week ago, and I have discovered since then that my computer is worse than I thought and I have to buy a new one. And my car isn't fixed yet, so this week has been fun like that. But I don't feel like hyperventilating. Which is a big deal, which you know if you have been reading this blog....
This lack of panic has me wondering some things about myself. It is only one of the many stark contrasts I have noticed between this semester and that last time I was in school full time. These drastic changes are one reason I am really glad I moved away for a whole school year. Now I am back, and I think that huge gap is the only reason I really noticed how different I am. I have been trying to figure out which changes are good and which are not so good, but also why I am different. What changed me?
I have some proposals for this specific and odd "Not panicking" thing.
1. I am way too exhausted. My energy, previously absorbed in being worried and falling off of emotional cliffs no matter how hard I tried not to, seems to have been diverted, in large part, to getting things done that I wasn't getting done before. I am way more productive, and I sleep about half as much, and maybe I am just too tired to panic. Somebody told me once that happiness is, in large part, being too busy to be unhappy. I think I believe that.
2. Maybe I grew up a little bit? Maybe I figured out some bigger things, and I can handle problems more effectively now? I know I have a better idea of what I believe and why I believe it than I did before, but does that influence panic attacks directly? I don't know about this one exactly. I'd like to think this is the reason, but I suspect it's a little bit this and a lottle bit exhaustion.
3. I quit drinking diet coke and started exercising. Could this reduce erratic emotions? I am healthier. That has emotional impact, right? Maybe it is the physical impact and a little bit of the immense battle of self-discipline I had to win in order to overcome what was beginning to be a severe and prohibitive addiction. Maybe self-discipline is the important factor.
Maybe it's this. One of the differences between now me and 2011 me is that I feel differently about miracles. I had a lot of miracles in my life before, and a lot of people willing to help me, but I didn't ever feel like those things came naturally. Even though I was grateful, those things made me uncomfortable. I think I had an odd definition of self-reliance. I think I thought that meant that you never should have to rely on other people. But that isn't true. If that was true, what do we have families and friends and loving relationships for? We aren't supposed to do everything by ourselves. We are supposed to work hard and take help and give help as much as we can, and I feel better about my ability to accept with gratitude and to give. I feel more confident not that miracles will come, but that I can work hard and make things happen with the help of people who care about me, and that is a miracle.
For instance:
Six people have jumped my car battery in the last two weeks, because sometimes I really need to use my car and I haven't had a chance to put in a new battery yet. Last week my car wouldn't start and I was stranded at Walmart, about to be late for a group project that was kind of a big deal. So I texted my friend Adam from the group to tell him I would be late. Surprise! He just happened to be at Walmart at the time and came and got me. And then Shane took me back and started my car the next day, and Katie offered to take me to buy a battery anytime. My friends are miracles.
And my broken computer? Mark transferred stuff from my hard drive onto his computer so I could take a computer back to school with me and do my homework until I could get mine fixed, and Ben interrupted bedtime to hash out my computer problems with me and find a solution. And now I know that I can't fix my computer because I would have to buy a new motherboard. I just have to buy a new one. But you know when that happened to occur? Two weeks before Black Friday. Miracle? I think so.
And my job! I was worried I wouldn't get enough hours, and then I got a promotion, and a raise, and another promotion within a month. And I got to handpick my schedule for next semester and choose as many hours as I wanted. MIRACLE!
Things are working out even when I don't have the time or energy to pour into excessive anxiety. What a gift! We all know that this hasn't been completely consistent. Sometimes, like a month ago, I have stress attacks, and I slammed some doors and swore a little bit, and I burst out crying in the middle of a room filled with fifteen people because of one innocent comment, and mom sat down and had a talk with me about my emotional health. That all happened in one day. But even since then I feel like I've made good strides in being calm. I have learned to ask for blessings instead of slamming doors and swearing. Progress, right?
Of course right.
Aka, last Thursday I found myself sitting in my car, which wouldn't start, trying to do homework on my phone, which wouldn't work, and trying not to panic about my computer, which is broken, or hyperventilate about my wallet, which was lost. "Pure Satan. Like, Comcast Evil."
And I called Erin and she told me to be calm. And that worked, which surprised me. That was a whole week ago, and I have discovered since then that my computer is worse than I thought and I have to buy a new one. And my car isn't fixed yet, so this week has been fun like that. But I don't feel like hyperventilating. Which is a big deal, which you know if you have been reading this blog....
This lack of panic has me wondering some things about myself. It is only one of the many stark contrasts I have noticed between this semester and that last time I was in school full time. These drastic changes are one reason I am really glad I moved away for a whole school year. Now I am back, and I think that huge gap is the only reason I really noticed how different I am. I have been trying to figure out which changes are good and which are not so good, but also why I am different. What changed me?
I have some proposals for this specific and odd "Not panicking" thing.
1. I am way too exhausted. My energy, previously absorbed in being worried and falling off of emotional cliffs no matter how hard I tried not to, seems to have been diverted, in large part, to getting things done that I wasn't getting done before. I am way more productive, and I sleep about half as much, and maybe I am just too tired to panic. Somebody told me once that happiness is, in large part, being too busy to be unhappy. I think I believe that.
2. Maybe I grew up a little bit? Maybe I figured out some bigger things, and I can handle problems more effectively now? I know I have a better idea of what I believe and why I believe it than I did before, but does that influence panic attacks directly? I don't know about this one exactly. I'd like to think this is the reason, but I suspect it's a little bit this and a lottle bit exhaustion.
3. I quit drinking diet coke and started exercising. Could this reduce erratic emotions? I am healthier. That has emotional impact, right? Maybe it is the physical impact and a little bit of the immense battle of self-discipline I had to win in order to overcome what was beginning to be a severe and prohibitive addiction. Maybe self-discipline is the important factor.
Maybe it's this. One of the differences between now me and 2011 me is that I feel differently about miracles. I had a lot of miracles in my life before, and a lot of people willing to help me, but I didn't ever feel like those things came naturally. Even though I was grateful, those things made me uncomfortable. I think I had an odd definition of self-reliance. I think I thought that meant that you never should have to rely on other people. But that isn't true. If that was true, what do we have families and friends and loving relationships for? We aren't supposed to do everything by ourselves. We are supposed to work hard and take help and give help as much as we can, and I feel better about my ability to accept with gratitude and to give. I feel more confident not that miracles will come, but that I can work hard and make things happen with the help of people who care about me, and that is a miracle.
For instance:
Six people have jumped my car battery in the last two weeks, because sometimes I really need to use my car and I haven't had a chance to put in a new battery yet. Last week my car wouldn't start and I was stranded at Walmart, about to be late for a group project that was kind of a big deal. So I texted my friend Adam from the group to tell him I would be late. Surprise! He just happened to be at Walmart at the time and came and got me. And then Shane took me back and started my car the next day, and Katie offered to take me to buy a battery anytime. My friends are miracles.
And my broken computer? Mark transferred stuff from my hard drive onto his computer so I could take a computer back to school with me and do my homework until I could get mine fixed, and Ben interrupted bedtime to hash out my computer problems with me and find a solution. And now I know that I can't fix my computer because I would have to buy a new motherboard. I just have to buy a new one. But you know when that happened to occur? Two weeks before Black Friday. Miracle? I think so.
And my job! I was worried I wouldn't get enough hours, and then I got a promotion, and a raise, and another promotion within a month. And I got to handpick my schedule for next semester and choose as many hours as I wanted. MIRACLE!
Things are working out even when I don't have the time or energy to pour into excessive anxiety. What a gift! We all know that this hasn't been completely consistent. Sometimes, like a month ago, I have stress attacks, and I slammed some doors and swore a little bit, and I burst out crying in the middle of a room filled with fifteen people because of one innocent comment, and mom sat down and had a talk with me about my emotional health. That all happened in one day. But even since then I feel like I've made good strides in being calm. I have learned to ask for blessings instead of slamming doors and swearing. Progress, right?
Of course right.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Not always, but sometimes...
...drivers in Logan give me dirty looks when I am in their way. Nevermind that they are the ones driving on the left side of the road. Nevermind that this happened twice in the past three hours. Nevermind that we are not in England.
(But seriously. Let's not think about not being in England. It will make us sad.)
....I want people to do their job, because I am doing mine, and also, you are getting paid. When things in my life depend on you, and I have never met you yet, and the only thing I have ever heard from your employees is how you are pissed off at them even though they are literally doing your job, I get grouchy. Not that that is your problem, but your job description is, actually, your problem.
... I am grouchy. Not always, but sometimes.
....I remember to write in my happiness calendar, and Zane snapchats me stuff, and I make a lot of money in two hours, and I dance on a streetcorner with a new friend, and I get all of next week's homework done in advance for my YAL class, and I find twenty dollars I forgot I had, and I suck up the grouchiness and make my bed, and then I feel better.
...I remember the boy from England who can't pronounce Tater Tots to save his life and also that he winks at me a lot, and I feel better about not being in England, cause he isn't either.
Take away message:
(Cause randomness has to mean something. That is what they taught me in Lit Analysis, so it has to be true for the sake of my sanity. )
Ahem. Happiness is sometimes a precarious state of things. But we have more control of it than we realize most of the time. Happiness is hard work. Good thing I have a whole lifetime and that's the point of it.
Always.
*Dear family, I realize this is, as we used to say, pretty rich coming from me, the door slamming cusser with the tiny black soul filled with rage you all spent last weekend with. But I am making progress, so thanks for all the niceness and putting up with that psycho wielding a lawnmower in spite of the rage. Y'all are great. Love you.
(But seriously. Let's not think about not being in England. It will make us sad.)
....I want people to do their job, because I am doing mine, and also, you are getting paid. When things in my life depend on you, and I have never met you yet, and the only thing I have ever heard from your employees is how you are pissed off at them even though they are literally doing your job, I get grouchy. Not that that is your problem, but your job description is, actually, your problem.
... I am grouchy. Not always, but sometimes.
....I remember to write in my happiness calendar, and Zane snapchats me stuff, and I make a lot of money in two hours, and I dance on a streetcorner with a new friend, and I get all of next week's homework done in advance for my YAL class, and I find twenty dollars I forgot I had, and I suck up the grouchiness and make my bed, and then I feel better.
...I remember the boy from England who can't pronounce Tater Tots to save his life and also that he winks at me a lot, and I feel better about not being in England, cause he isn't either.
Take away message:
(Cause randomness has to mean something. That is what they taught me in Lit Analysis, so it has to be true for the sake of my sanity. )
Ahem. Happiness is sometimes a precarious state of things. But we have more control of it than we realize most of the time. Happiness is hard work. Good thing I have a whole lifetime and that's the point of it.
Always.
*Dear family, I realize this is, as we used to say, pretty rich coming from me, the door slamming cusser with the tiny black soul filled with rage you all spent last weekend with. But I am making progress, so thanks for all the niceness and putting up with that psycho wielding a lawnmower in spite of the rage. Y'all are great. Love you.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Library Sleepers
Sometimes I am one of them. Like today. They just put pillows in the chairs lining the east windows, and that was a beautiful thing that turned out to be the arch nemesis of homework time. I had an hour and a half break between classes and sixty pages of Gulliver's Travels and rms errors to study and instead I took an hour and twenty minute nap. And the amazing thing about this is that I woke up and didn't even feel that guilty.
You hear that, mom? Not guilty. Boom. Roasted!
We're making progress.
You hear that, mom? Not guilty. Boom. Roasted!
We're making progress.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Word Vomit and Why I Abstain, Courteously
Not in the usual sense of dumping any words on a page you might feel like at the time with no regard for applicability, coherence, or appropriate boundaries.
No, my friends, this is me realizing that I want to vomit because of the textbook that wants to teach me how to be an English Teacher. I just read a chapter on censorship that made me want to vomit. Such self-righteous language as I have never been fed from a legitimate source! Such self indulgent and exclusive Messiah complexes! Wowza!
I understand the point. We believe in the right to read. I get it. I agree with it. I read a lot of stuff in school that wasn't necessarily 'appropriate' for my age group. I believe that being 'appropriate for an age group' is a subjective thing, and I certainly defined that for myself. That's cool. My parents were fine with it, and they were involved in it and I talked about a lot of it with either my parents or my teachers. Go Right to Read! Yay American Library Association!
However, one small qualification: I absolutely believe in the right to read, and I absolutely believe in advocating the right to read for other people, especially children. What I don't support and can't understand is that a campaign which claims its purpose is to support the free thinking and trust the intelligence of the individuals they work for also refuses to accept the fact that these people may exercise that free thought and intelligence to choose not to read a work they find inappropriate or disturbing. The Right to Read is valid only when accompanied by The Right not to Read.
I would like to think that I am not a close minded puritan who hates anything remotely offensive in literature. I read Les Miserables and Crime and Punishment and Beloved, for crying out loud. I had no problem with reading an uncensored text of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I support the sentiment as my Writing Professor expressed it; "If you're gonna be offended about something, be offended that this is rooted in history, that this type of thing existed to be written about in the first place." Truth. There is value in literature that contains things we may find offensive, immeasurable value. There is a reason I have never had an issue with reading the things he assigns. There is a reason we talk about things like racism, and violence, and as abhorrent as it is, there could even be a reason to use the N-word in a book. We should have the right to read.
But what if there isn't a reason? What if vulgarity, or obscenity, or extreme violence, and there isn't a purpose for it? What if there is a purpose but I just know that I'm not ready for it? What if those kids in high school who we hope are learning to think for themselves and make their own decisions actually do just that when they say "I believe that this material is degrading and offensive for no reason and I choose not to participate."? What if their parents decide with them that they are willing to say it out loud and find an alternative assignment? Maybe we should knock down our pride a notch or two, enough to realize that they are applying the critical thinking skills and independence we've been trying to teach them and get over ourselves enough to accept that they are doing it in ways we may not personally agree with. Maybe we respect that, or if you can't, suck it up anyway.
This is all on a case by case basis, of course, There are absolutely students and parents who abuse that right not to read, who try to impose it on other students who have no problem with what they've been assigned, and that is a shame, and when it extends to the rights of others to read, then absolutely educators should fight such attempts at censorship. But if a student chooses not to read something and has legitimate reasons and cares enough to address them with you, perhaps the respect and open-mindedness you've been preaching could go both ways. Maybe you could refrain from demeaning, belittling, and self aggrandizing vitriol. Perhaps you could recognize that 'censor' is not a term automatically synonymous with 'Beelzebub'.
I never realized before taking this class that the field might involve some things I have deep personal issues with. I didn't realize I might be one of those people they are preaching against in this book they made me pay for. And it makes me nervous. I didn't realize it might be such a difficult task to support the Right to Read and the Right to Abstain simultaneously, but maybe if I can pull it off, I'll have something to be proud of.
Though it is not always an option, and we don't want to be New York, sometimes it is appropriate to abstain, courteously.
No, my friends, this is me realizing that I want to vomit because of the textbook that wants to teach me how to be an English Teacher. I just read a chapter on censorship that made me want to vomit. Such self-righteous language as I have never been fed from a legitimate source! Such self indulgent and exclusive Messiah complexes! Wowza!
I understand the point. We believe in the right to read. I get it. I agree with it. I read a lot of stuff in school that wasn't necessarily 'appropriate' for my age group. I believe that being 'appropriate for an age group' is a subjective thing, and I certainly defined that for myself. That's cool. My parents were fine with it, and they were involved in it and I talked about a lot of it with either my parents or my teachers. Go Right to Read! Yay American Library Association!
However, one small qualification: I absolutely believe in the right to read, and I absolutely believe in advocating the right to read for other people, especially children. What I don't support and can't understand is that a campaign which claims its purpose is to support the free thinking and trust the intelligence of the individuals they work for also refuses to accept the fact that these people may exercise that free thought and intelligence to choose not to read a work they find inappropriate or disturbing. The Right to Read is valid only when accompanied by The Right not to Read.
I would like to think that I am not a close minded puritan who hates anything remotely offensive in literature. I read Les Miserables and Crime and Punishment and Beloved, for crying out loud. I had no problem with reading an uncensored text of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I support the sentiment as my Writing Professor expressed it; "If you're gonna be offended about something, be offended that this is rooted in history, that this type of thing existed to be written about in the first place." Truth. There is value in literature that contains things we may find offensive, immeasurable value. There is a reason I have never had an issue with reading the things he assigns. There is a reason we talk about things like racism, and violence, and as abhorrent as it is, there could even be a reason to use the N-word in a book. We should have the right to read.
But what if there isn't a reason? What if vulgarity, or obscenity, or extreme violence, and there isn't a purpose for it? What if there is a purpose but I just know that I'm not ready for it? What if those kids in high school who we hope are learning to think for themselves and make their own decisions actually do just that when they say "I believe that this material is degrading and offensive for no reason and I choose not to participate."? What if their parents decide with them that they are willing to say it out loud and find an alternative assignment? Maybe we should knock down our pride a notch or two, enough to realize that they are applying the critical thinking skills and independence we've been trying to teach them and get over ourselves enough to accept that they are doing it in ways we may not personally agree with. Maybe we respect that, or if you can't, suck it up anyway.
This is all on a case by case basis, of course, There are absolutely students and parents who abuse that right not to read, who try to impose it on other students who have no problem with what they've been assigned, and that is a shame, and when it extends to the rights of others to read, then absolutely educators should fight such attempts at censorship. But if a student chooses not to read something and has legitimate reasons and cares enough to address them with you, perhaps the respect and open-mindedness you've been preaching could go both ways. Maybe you could refrain from demeaning, belittling, and self aggrandizing vitriol. Perhaps you could recognize that 'censor' is not a term automatically synonymous with 'Beelzebub'.
I never realized before taking this class that the field might involve some things I have deep personal issues with. I didn't realize I might be one of those people they are preaching against in this book they made me pay for. And it makes me nervous. I didn't realize it might be such a difficult task to support the Right to Read and the Right to Abstain simultaneously, but maybe if I can pull it off, I'll have something to be proud of.
Though it is not always an option, and we don't want to be New York, sometimes it is appropriate to abstain, courteously.
Monday, September 16, 2013
Estrogen
You know how female cops are stereotyped as being horrific and terrifying because they have something to prove? Well, I am going to extend the stereotype to female professors. Like a terrible person.
According to the world of academia, I'm allowed to be a terrible person because I am female. Seeing as how all the female educators preparing me to be a female educator are hateful, its going to take a lot of energy not to be unwittingly inducted into their clan of shrewishness. And that, my friends, is energy I just don't have today. Which we can all tell cause I am venting all my frustration to the internet and I'm going to hit the publish button.
And all my suspicions that I am not at all a feminist have finally been confirmed. Because I have never had any trouble with the men who teach my classes. But the women are overwhelmingly catty and passive aggressive and elitist and unclear and impossible and vicious.
Also, I hate your reading assignments. I wonder what she'd say if my assigned video posting for banned books week actually supported the parents who cause all those headaches for teachers whose literature choices they despise. Because that book was terrible and also inappropriate and I would never make high school students read something that included that much graphic description of sexual activity. Maybe I don't want to support all the banned books. Maybe some of them should be banned.
I'm breathing. And I'm going to show up to class and be pleasant. I'm going to!
My High School English Teachers followed the opposite trend. Does that mean I have hope?
According to the world of academia, I'm allowed to be a terrible person because I am female. Seeing as how all the female educators preparing me to be a female educator are hateful, its going to take a lot of energy not to be unwittingly inducted into their clan of shrewishness. And that, my friends, is energy I just don't have today. Which we can all tell cause I am venting all my frustration to the internet and I'm going to hit the publish button.
And all my suspicions that I am not at all a feminist have finally been confirmed. Because I have never had any trouble with the men who teach my classes. But the women are overwhelmingly catty and passive aggressive and elitist and unclear and impossible and vicious.
Also, I hate your reading assignments. I wonder what she'd say if my assigned video posting for banned books week actually supported the parents who cause all those headaches for teachers whose literature choices they despise. Because that book was terrible and also inappropriate and I would never make high school students read something that included that much graphic description of sexual activity. Maybe I don't want to support all the banned books. Maybe some of them should be banned.
I'm breathing. And I'm going to show up to class and be pleasant. I'm going to!
My High School English Teachers followed the opposite trend. Does that mean I have hope?
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
A Catastrophe of Epic Proportions
Keeping up with the Kardashians and Pretty Little Liars just showed up on my list of Netflix suggestions, just for me. Which means one of two things:
1) Their algorithms are royally screwed up.
2) I need to seriously reevaluate the nature of my media consumption.
Cause guys. They think I would watch that.
Shudder.
1) Their algorithms are royally screwed up.
2) I need to seriously reevaluate the nature of my media consumption.
Cause guys. They think I would watch that.
Shudder.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Nostalgia
Sometimes I have this intense need to go to Walmart with Erin in the middle of the night. And I can't, but I still need change so I can do laundry. So I go by myself and buy the cheapest thing from the day old bakery section. And then I eat three crullers on the very short drive home. And I know what Erin would think about such extraneous carbohydrates so late at night so I pawn off the rest on all the random people who are watching a movie in my living room when I get home. And I feel closer to her, cause that's what Erin would do.
Now if only I had some salsa verde to smash all over the driveway. That'd be good.
Now if only I had some salsa verde to smash all over the driveway. That'd be good.
The Happiness Calendar
I have a friend named Genevieve. She is twice as cool as her name if you can believe it. She can make me laugh harder in public than anyone else, and she uses words like "indelicate", and she cannot cartwheel. And she is superwoman and kind of intimidating sometimes, because she has a book of a hundred and something things she wants to do in college and she sticks to it with the utmost dilligence. I've seen it. All the goals and their descriptions are written in a small book in pencil, and she retraces over them in pen as she completes them, and she has done a lot of stuff, my friends.
Last week we had our breaks at work at the same time and were sitting eating dinner together, and she was telling me about the last year when I was in North Carolina, and it was a rough year for her. And out of the difficulty was spawned a thing called "The Happiness Calendar". (Tell me she's not the most admirable woman in the world. You can't. Such positivism!) All it is is a tiny cheap calendar from Walmart and the rule is that she must write one thing that made her happy that day before she can go to sleep, even if it's really hard to think of anything. She just makes herself pick one.
Such a suggestion struck me like a lightning bolt. I thought, I must have a Happiness Calendar. To be able to look back at an entire huge period of time marked only by the things that made you happy? I need it. I told her I was going to do that. I thought, life is kind of rough, and I am kind of nervous and wandering around trying to figure out exactly what it is I'm doing and how exactly I plan to pay for that and just being lonely and afraid in general. And that's no way to live, but I have a hard time snapping out of it at times. This seemed the perfect solution.
So, needing a new planner, I bought one accompanied by a calendar, and I've been writing on it. And let me tell you, folks, that the majority of my days are still ones of fatigue, and discouragement, and uncertainty, and that balance that you have to find at the beginning of each new semester is not yet achieved. But I am inching slowly closer to the fulcrum, I think, and it has been eye-opening to take that calendar out and write down something that made me happy today. Not because it's hard to choose one, but that the instant I actually stop wallowing and think about it, it's impossible to pick from the streams of small miracles and tender mercies. It helps me to remember the things I love about Logan and why I wanted to come back here. And it helps me to realize that, even in the midst of my loneliness, most of those things that end up on the Calendar are people. Katie who I ran into on the Quad, and Alan who keeps me from falling asleep in the mornings at work, and Scotty who will teach me how to stretch my intensely painful right shoulder blade area, and Dr. McCuskey the professor who changed my life who I saw on the stairs (who looked at me and said, "Why aren't you in my classes?"), and Erin who will leave me voicemails just to say she misses me. Life is hard, but the point is to surround each other with love and support, and my Happiness Calendar sessions are not only an excellent excercise in humility but a reminder that I'm not alone even if I feel like it.
Genevieve gets a spot tonight, I think. She gave me the way to remember all those things. It's almost like giving me all those things in one. I'm a lucky girl.
Everyone needs this. That is all.
Last week we had our breaks at work at the same time and were sitting eating dinner together, and she was telling me about the last year when I was in North Carolina, and it was a rough year for her. And out of the difficulty was spawned a thing called "The Happiness Calendar". (Tell me she's not the most admirable woman in the world. You can't. Such positivism!) All it is is a tiny cheap calendar from Walmart and the rule is that she must write one thing that made her happy that day before she can go to sleep, even if it's really hard to think of anything. She just makes herself pick one.
Such a suggestion struck me like a lightning bolt. I thought, I must have a Happiness Calendar. To be able to look back at an entire huge period of time marked only by the things that made you happy? I need it. I told her I was going to do that. I thought, life is kind of rough, and I am kind of nervous and wandering around trying to figure out exactly what it is I'm doing and how exactly I plan to pay for that and just being lonely and afraid in general. And that's no way to live, but I have a hard time snapping out of it at times. This seemed the perfect solution.
So, needing a new planner, I bought one accompanied by a calendar, and I've been writing on it. And let me tell you, folks, that the majority of my days are still ones of fatigue, and discouragement, and uncertainty, and that balance that you have to find at the beginning of each new semester is not yet achieved. But I am inching slowly closer to the fulcrum, I think, and it has been eye-opening to take that calendar out and write down something that made me happy today. Not because it's hard to choose one, but that the instant I actually stop wallowing and think about it, it's impossible to pick from the streams of small miracles and tender mercies. It helps me to remember the things I love about Logan and why I wanted to come back here. And it helps me to realize that, even in the midst of my loneliness, most of those things that end up on the Calendar are people. Katie who I ran into on the Quad, and Alan who keeps me from falling asleep in the mornings at work, and Scotty who will teach me how to stretch my intensely painful right shoulder blade area, and Dr. McCuskey the professor who changed my life who I saw on the stairs (who looked at me and said, "Why aren't you in my classes?"), and Erin who will leave me voicemails just to say she misses me. Life is hard, but the point is to surround each other with love and support, and my Happiness Calendar sessions are not only an excellent excercise in humility but a reminder that I'm not alone even if I feel like it.
Genevieve gets a spot tonight, I think. She gave me the way to remember all those things. It's almost like giving me all those things in one. I'm a lucky girl.
Everyone needs this. That is all.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
"If it looks like a duck, and it talks like a duck, it's Imperialism"
Once upon a time I locked my keys in my car outside the library at school. After extensive searching under my car looking like a loser, I concluded that my hide a key is no longer attached to the underside of my car and could be in any number of places spanning about three thousand miles. So I called the campus cops and sheepishly asked them to come break into my car for me, cause you can't do that with a credit card, and that's the only break-in I am any good at. Sigh...
While I was waiting for the cops to come save me, I called my twin Amy. I miss her and I needed someone to give me permission to drop the horrid grammar class. And I sat outside the library talking with her for a good long while about all manner of things; cabbages, kings, our parents, bratty teenagers, school, and eventually the George Orwell piece I had read for my persuasive writing class called Shooting an Elephant. I highly recommend anything written by George Orwell at least once*, and in this case a re-read would probably be in order. I was sharing with Amy the intense satisfaction I get from this class, which is taught by my second favorite professor who I love. He is hilarious and paces around the front of the classroom with growing intensity proportionate with the intensity of the literature we are currently analyzing. I love this man. And I took this class specifically so that I could take it from him and not some grad school hippie who doesn't care, which was a wise choice because this, this is just like the Lit History class that changed my life, but applied to writing. And it is brilliant. And even at seven thirty, it gives me an adrenaline rush that reminds me why I want to teach English! Dr. King! The Rhetorical Triangle! Characters symbolizing the conflict between Imperialism and the native oppressed! yesyesyesyesyesyesyes!**
Long Story short, Shooting an Elephant is the most damning evidence to Imperialism I've ever read, including everything I ever read in 19th Century British Lit. And it is brilliant and beautiful and gory and graphic in all the most effective ways, and now I sound like my crazy coffee-chugging floor pacing, cussing professor, who, after reading a specifically revealing passage, yelled "Excellent!" and then mutter under his breath as he paced away, "Syria...".
That's okay with me. I like him.
And I really like Amy, who is a really good egg, and a really good twin.*** And she plays along when I get all hyped up on English and says extremely quotebook worthy things. It was a good day.
* AKA nobody ever needs to read 1984 twice. As Crawford said, "And just when your soul starts to weep, it gets worse..."
**I miss Brighton. And the yesyesyes dance. That is all.
***Guys. Did you know I have a roommate named Amy? I am also one of five Amys in my ward. We're taking over the place.
While I was waiting for the cops to come save me, I called my twin Amy. I miss her and I needed someone to give me permission to drop the horrid grammar class. And I sat outside the library talking with her for a good long while about all manner of things; cabbages, kings, our parents, bratty teenagers, school, and eventually the George Orwell piece I had read for my persuasive writing class called Shooting an Elephant. I highly recommend anything written by George Orwell at least once*, and in this case a re-read would probably be in order. I was sharing with Amy the intense satisfaction I get from this class, which is taught by my second favorite professor who I love. He is hilarious and paces around the front of the classroom with growing intensity proportionate with the intensity of the literature we are currently analyzing. I love this man. And I took this class specifically so that I could take it from him and not some grad school hippie who doesn't care, which was a wise choice because this, this is just like the Lit History class that changed my life, but applied to writing. And it is brilliant. And even at seven thirty, it gives me an adrenaline rush that reminds me why I want to teach English! Dr. King! The Rhetorical Triangle! Characters symbolizing the conflict between Imperialism and the native oppressed! yesyesyesyesyesyesyes!**
Long Story short, Shooting an Elephant is the most damning evidence to Imperialism I've ever read, including everything I ever read in 19th Century British Lit. And it is brilliant and beautiful and gory and graphic in all the most effective ways, and now I sound like my crazy coffee-chugging floor pacing, cussing professor, who, after reading a specifically revealing passage, yelled "Excellent!" and then mutter under his breath as he paced away, "Syria...".
That's okay with me. I like him.
And I really like Amy, who is a really good egg, and a really good twin.*** And she plays along when I get all hyped up on English and says extremely quotebook worthy things. It was a good day.
* AKA nobody ever needs to read 1984 twice. As Crawford said, "And just when your soul starts to weep, it gets worse..."
**I miss Brighton. And the yesyesyes dance. That is all.
***Guys. Did you know I have a roommate named Amy? I am also one of five Amys in my ward. We're taking over the place.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
S M R T
A few weeks ago my phone broke. Like, hardcore broke and took all my contacts and voicemails and text messages down with it. Which was a little bit of a huge deal because I had text messages and voicemails on that phone from three years ago. In a desperate and unhealthy "let's be a packrat for the digital age" kind of time, I saved everything. And I am still mad that I won't ever be able to listen to those voicemails again. You know that part that drives me even more crazy? Those voicemails are older than that phone. Which means that somehow they got transferred over when I got that phone, and I DON'T REMEMBER HOW I DID THAT, GUYS!
So if someone really loved me and knew how to make that happen, I'm still a packrat for the digital age and I would really like all that stuff and I would really like you.
But that wasn't the point. The point is that after two weeks of denial about the real and truly dead state of my phone and some irritation and anger from my family who was sick of wondering where I was, I caved and bought out my contract and bought a new phone. And it's a really good deal. Like, I am getting unlimited everything for twenty bucks a month with no contract. And I really like it. But there's always a catch.
This is my first smartphone. And you guys, it is smarter than me. It's taken me a week to figure out how to use the thing. And there are still some things I am fuzzy on. Like why the heck I can't find the place where it will send picture messages. And I am also pretty embarrassed about the part where I can't get the freaking cover off the back. Which is inconvenient seeing as how I really need the SD card. Seriously, who can't get the cover off their phone and who the heck can't figure out how to send pictures?
My smart phone makes me feel stupid.
My only consolation is that James couldn't get the cover off either, and Zach couldn't figure out how to send picture messages either. And when I ask Bekah really stupid questions like "What does the red exclamation mark mean and how do I get it to go away?" she is really nice and doesn't make fun of me.
Wait. Lie. There was one more consolation. Yesterday my Uncle Leon and cousin Zach and his wife and daughter came to visit on their way to Washington. Which was really nice cause I haven't seen Zach or Leon in so long I can't remember the last time I saw them, but it's been something like eight years. And Leon has this fancy smart phone he doesn't know how to use cause he thinks "Technology is the worst thing to ever happen to our world!" And the only reason he bought it was to get pictures of his granddaughter, but apparently his curiosity is getting the best of him cause we spent the better part of last night listening to Zach teach his dad how to use his smartphone. And I learned some stuff. And I didn't feel as discouraged about not knowing how to use my phone when Zach had to explain how to download apps and the difference between 3G and wi-fi. I felt better then.
But I still can't get the cover off, so....
So if someone really loved me and knew how to make that happen, I'm still a packrat for the digital age and I would really like all that stuff and I would really like you.
But that wasn't the point. The point is that after two weeks of denial about the real and truly dead state of my phone and some irritation and anger from my family who was sick of wondering where I was, I caved and bought out my contract and bought a new phone. And it's a really good deal. Like, I am getting unlimited everything for twenty bucks a month with no contract. And I really like it. But there's always a catch.
This is my first smartphone. And you guys, it is smarter than me. It's taken me a week to figure out how to use the thing. And there are still some things I am fuzzy on. Like why the heck I can't find the place where it will send picture messages. And I am also pretty embarrassed about the part where I can't get the freaking cover off the back. Which is inconvenient seeing as how I really need the SD card. Seriously, who can't get the cover off their phone and who the heck can't figure out how to send pictures?
My smart phone makes me feel stupid.
My only consolation is that James couldn't get the cover off either, and Zach couldn't figure out how to send picture messages either. And when I ask Bekah really stupid questions like "What does the red exclamation mark mean and how do I get it to go away?" she is really nice and doesn't make fun of me.
Wait. Lie. There was one more consolation. Yesterday my Uncle Leon and cousin Zach and his wife and daughter came to visit on their way to Washington. Which was really nice cause I haven't seen Zach or Leon in so long I can't remember the last time I saw them, but it's been something like eight years. And Leon has this fancy smart phone he doesn't know how to use cause he thinks "Technology is the worst thing to ever happen to our world!" And the only reason he bought it was to get pictures of his granddaughter, but apparently his curiosity is getting the best of him cause we spent the better part of last night listening to Zach teach his dad how to use his smartphone. And I learned some stuff. And I didn't feel as discouraged about not knowing how to use my phone when Zach had to explain how to download apps and the difference between 3G and wi-fi. I felt better then.
But I still can't get the cover off, so....
Thursday, May 9, 2013
And the Winner is...
Elder Daxx Stryker, who opened his mission call yesterday. Storytime.
The plan was to wait for me to get off work before he opened it so I could be there. This turned out kind of funny. First, we were disgustingly busy the night before and prep was gonna be a freaking nightmare the next day, so I offered to come in early, right? Which makes me sound like a nice person but really I wanted to make sure we freaking got out on time cause they were already waiting for me. And Megantron our fearless leader agreed that coming in early would be really good so that Daxx could leave when I got there to go open his mission call.
Hehe. Irony, man.
So all day long I hear updates at work. Megan just got a snapchat of the mailman "taking his sweet time!" and another one with "It's here!" Hayley showed up and announced to everyone first thing that Daxx had his mission call and then all I wanted to do all night was scream "I KNOW! EVERYBODY STOP BUYING SODA AND GET THE LIST DONE SO I CAN GO AND HE CAN OPEN IT! ALSO, IF YOU SWEEP THE FLOOR ANY SLOWER MY ARTERIES MIGHT EXPLODE!"
Eventually everything was done. And I tried to lock the door and leave. And then a horrific thing happened. It wouldn't lock. I couldn't do it.
(Backstory. I don't normally have a key cause I don't close very often. I had Daxx's key on loan last night. His key was once my key for a really long time. But in between the time it was mine and the time that it was his, it belonged to another employee who:
1 Got her car booted
2 Tried to pry the boot off the car herself
3 Used her work key in the attempt
And then they took it away and gave it to Daxx.)
Long story short, the key is bent, and Daxx is the sole talented person who can use it, apparently. So, exercising my talent for the worst timing in the world, I had to call Daxx to come lock the door, cause I just wasn't being enough of the problem child.
Thank goodness Daxx is super patient and didn't blow up when he had to come save me after waiting for six agonizing hours. But he worked his magic and we finally got there.
And this joyous thing is what happened.
HE'S LEAVING FOR ARGENTINA IN EIGHT WEEKS! Well technically fourteen, but whatever. The MTC is exciting too. Out of all the votes marked on the map, not one person guessed Argentina. We all lost.
There was a lot of "Where's a map?" and " Converter? I hardly know her!"* and incessant "Shoot! That's soon!" and "Guys. I'm gonna die." and a whole lot of fake lisping. (Apparently, Argentinian people say Carne Athada? No one knows. Either way, all the boys started calling him Elder Thryker and its my job to make sure everyone at Papa Murphy's only talks to him in a lisp for the next eight weeks. We jumped up and down trying to contain our joy.
It was a really good night. July 3rd is speeding towards us.
Also, all my missionary letters will still go to Argentina. Rosario is one mission over from Resistencia. I like Argentina.
* For as long as I have known him, Daxx has made "I hardly know her" jokes. Any exclamation of words ending with er elicits this response. Duster. Eraser. Register. Heater. Steeper. The list goes on. And when he changed his name, I thought it would never end.
"Stryker? I hardly know her!" Twenty thousand times a day, seriously.
And then last night, I was reading the packet they send with the mission call. And there was a part where they talked about electricity and how the voltage in his mission is 220 and he should prepare accordingly.
"Whoa. What do you do for that? I didn't even think about it."
"I don't know. Maybe you need a converter."
Automatically: "Converter? I hardly know her!"
And then we heard it.
"Ha! Convert her!"
There you have it. The most perfectly timed unintentional mission joke in the world. All the jokes culminated in that one perfect point. There was not a more perfect high five moment ever. I will remember that as a golden moment in time for my whole life. That is all.
The plan was to wait for me to get off work before he opened it so I could be there. This turned out kind of funny. First, we were disgustingly busy the night before and prep was gonna be a freaking nightmare the next day, so I offered to come in early, right? Which makes me sound like a nice person but really I wanted to make sure we freaking got out on time cause they were already waiting for me. And Megantron our fearless leader agreed that coming in early would be really good so that Daxx could leave when I got there to go open his mission call.
Hehe. Irony, man.
So all day long I hear updates at work. Megan just got a snapchat of the mailman "taking his sweet time!" and another one with "It's here!" Hayley showed up and announced to everyone first thing that Daxx had his mission call and then all I wanted to do all night was scream "I KNOW! EVERYBODY STOP BUYING SODA AND GET THE LIST DONE SO I CAN GO AND HE CAN OPEN IT! ALSO, IF YOU SWEEP THE FLOOR ANY SLOWER MY ARTERIES MIGHT EXPLODE!"
Eventually everything was done. And I tried to lock the door and leave. And then a horrific thing happened. It wouldn't lock. I couldn't do it.
(Backstory. I don't normally have a key cause I don't close very often. I had Daxx's key on loan last night. His key was once my key for a really long time. But in between the time it was mine and the time that it was his, it belonged to another employee who:
1 Got her car booted
2 Tried to pry the boot off the car herself
3 Used her work key in the attempt
And then they took it away and gave it to Daxx.)
Long story short, the key is bent, and Daxx is the sole talented person who can use it, apparently. So, exercising my talent for the worst timing in the world, I had to call Daxx to come lock the door, cause I just wasn't being enough of the problem child.
Thank goodness Daxx is super patient and didn't blow up when he had to come save me after waiting for six agonizing hours. But he worked his magic and we finally got there.
And this joyous thing is what happened.
HE'S LEAVING FOR ARGENTINA IN EIGHT WEEKS! Well technically fourteen, but whatever. The MTC is exciting too. Out of all the votes marked on the map, not one person guessed Argentina. We all lost.
There was a lot of "Where's a map?" and " Converter? I hardly know her!"* and incessant "Shoot! That's soon!" and "Guys. I'm gonna die." and a whole lot of fake lisping. (Apparently, Argentinian people say Carne Athada? No one knows. Either way, all the boys started calling him Elder Thryker and its my job to make sure everyone at Papa Murphy's only talks to him in a lisp for the next eight weeks. We jumped up and down trying to contain our joy.
It was a really good night. July 3rd is speeding towards us.
Also, all my missionary letters will still go to Argentina. Rosario is one mission over from Resistencia. I like Argentina.
* For as long as I have known him, Daxx has made "I hardly know her" jokes. Any exclamation of words ending with er elicits this response. Duster. Eraser. Register. Heater. Steeper. The list goes on. And when he changed his name, I thought it would never end.
"Stryker? I hardly know her!" Twenty thousand times a day, seriously.
And then last night, I was reading the packet they send with the mission call. And there was a part where they talked about electricity and how the voltage in his mission is 220 and he should prepare accordingly.
"Whoa. What do you do for that? I didn't even think about it."
"I don't know. Maybe you need a converter."
Automatically: "Converter? I hardly know her!"
And then we heard it.
"Ha! Convert her!"
There you have it. The most perfectly timed unintentional mission joke in the world. All the jokes culminated in that one perfect point. There was not a more perfect high five moment ever. I will remember that as a golden moment in time for my whole life. That is all.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Conference Kids
When we were teensy children, I remember Conference being a super big deal. It was always memorable, be it good or bad. I would spread out my orange blanket on the ground in the living room and fight over floor space with Rose. We'd start, so excited that we got out of Sunday clothes, and ever steadily fight to stay awake. Halfway through we'd beg mom and dad to let us watch it down in their room, pleading with promises that we would be good and watch the prophet. This wish, when granted, usually turned into a raucous, laughter-filled, pillow fight with Alex as the ringleader. Of course, he doubled as the one to tell us to behave so he could claim being in charge on both ends. Those were the days.
Things evolved, of course, as we grew up. We got better at listening, betterish at taking notes when applicable. Ben and Erin started the Conference Waffle tradition and that regulated things quite a bit. And then, one day, we were all magically grown up and there was another generation of big people instructing a new generation of little people in the art of conference- watching. We were well-mannered, and dilligent, and attentive, and mature.
That, my friends, was short-lived.
I realized this last week during the Sunday morning session of conference. Mark and Amy had come the night before so they could make us waffles on Sunday morning, Ben being in North Carolina and the Trents being industrious and service oriented. We had breakfast on Sunday and then went downstairs to the living room so that Amy could take a nap. Of course, she took Mark with her to snuggle like the pukerific newlyweds they are. Of course, I came along because Mark and I were in the middle of a conversation. So there we were, on the couch, not bothering to get ready. Bekah came over to watch with us, and she ended up down there in a chair by my end of the couch. Mom, of course, sat across the room, seeming to sense with her mother's intuition, that she would need to tune us out.
And so conference began, the new generation of adults at one end of the room. And we began in a well-mannered and dilligent and attentive and mature fashion, albeit a pajamified fashion. And then Bekah and I began to cross into each other's territory. Which started off as a companionable sisterly thing and ended with us playing a game of "Draw Something" on each other's ankles.
Mark and Amy had to see, of course, so there ended up being a lot of stretching my ankles across people and holding some double awkward hands positions while people laughed at Bekah's message. ("Moisturize Me!" I guess I should use more lotion.) Bekah's ankle started out with a dandelion looking thing and ended up as a clover with a Who Village on top, complete with captions and labels. All we needed was the Elephant. It was almost as good as Pillow fights downstairs, even without the urgent warning which is strewn throughout my childhood memories, "CRAP! Dad's coming!"
I promise we listened to the Prophet.
But it was a good thing Mom tuned us out. Also a sign that maybe we are more kids than ever now that we are grown-ups. Cause she doesn't even try to make us behave anymore. And then Matthew came home and we shaped right up. We had to be big kids again. Good examples and all that. I was amazed to realize how quickly we can transition. Maybe we're all just faking it for the kids.
Moral of the story, kids might be better at encouraging good behavior in us than we are at encouraging good behavior in them. Matthew is more awesome than I knew.
But I really wanted to finish drawing Horton on my sister's leg. Dang!
Things evolved, of course, as we grew up. We got better at listening, betterish at taking notes when applicable. Ben and Erin started the Conference Waffle tradition and that regulated things quite a bit. And then, one day, we were all magically grown up and there was another generation of big people instructing a new generation of little people in the art of conference- watching. We were well-mannered, and dilligent, and attentive, and mature.
That, my friends, was short-lived.
I realized this last week during the Sunday morning session of conference. Mark and Amy had come the night before so they could make us waffles on Sunday morning, Ben being in North Carolina and the Trents being industrious and service oriented. We had breakfast on Sunday and then went downstairs to the living room so that Amy could take a nap. Of course, she took Mark with her to snuggle like the pukerific newlyweds they are. Of course, I came along because Mark and I were in the middle of a conversation. So there we were, on the couch, not bothering to get ready. Bekah came over to watch with us, and she ended up down there in a chair by my end of the couch. Mom, of course, sat across the room, seeming to sense with her mother's intuition, that she would need to tune us out.
And so conference began, the new generation of adults at one end of the room. And we began in a well-mannered and dilligent and attentive and mature fashion, albeit a pajamified fashion. And then Bekah and I began to cross into each other's territory. Which started off as a companionable sisterly thing and ended with us playing a game of "Draw Something" on each other's ankles.
Mark and Amy had to see, of course, so there ended up being a lot of stretching my ankles across people and holding some double awkward hands positions while people laughed at Bekah's message. ("Moisturize Me!" I guess I should use more lotion.) Bekah's ankle started out with a dandelion looking thing and ended up as a clover with a Who Village on top, complete with captions and labels. All we needed was the Elephant. It was almost as good as Pillow fights downstairs, even without the urgent warning which is strewn throughout my childhood memories, "CRAP! Dad's coming!"
I promise we listened to the Prophet.
But it was a good thing Mom tuned us out. Also a sign that maybe we are more kids than ever now that we are grown-ups. Cause she doesn't even try to make us behave anymore. And then Matthew came home and we shaped right up. We had to be big kids again. Good examples and all that. I was amazed to realize how quickly we can transition. Maybe we're all just faking it for the kids.
Moral of the story, kids might be better at encouraging good behavior in us than we are at encouraging good behavior in them. Matthew is more awesome than I knew.
But I really wanted to finish drawing Horton on my sister's leg. Dang!
Monday, April 1, 2013
Not April Fools
I am sitting in Kansas City with Dad. We are gonna be back in Salt
Lake on Tuesday. And the adventuring is going well. We drove through
Oak Ridge and saw Grandpa's old house (read: laid on the hill outside it
while Dad thought I was weird), and I finally know where Gatlinburg is
(Tennessee, that's where it is), and new inside jokes have been born,
and we continued the road tripping with Ruby Tuesday's croutons
tradition, and I finally found something that makes Dad sicker than me! I
can look up at the St. Louis Arch just fine. Also, I laid on the ground
and put my feet in the Missouri river again. Bam! St. Louis is mine
now.
Also, I made daddy dance with me in a parking lot somewhere in Missouri. No one knows where. Well, probably he does, but I don't remember. My capacity to retain small details was drastically impaired after driving through three states over five hours, but my ability to produce sillyness was apparently intact.
("Dad, you have to waltz with me in the parking lot! Please! Then I'll own all of Missouri and not just St. Louis! Dance with me!")
After some body blocking him from getting in the car, he smiled indulgently and danced.
I think it's going rather well.
Also, I made daddy dance with me in a parking lot somewhere in Missouri. No one knows where. Well, probably he does, but I don't remember. My capacity to retain small details was drastically impaired after driving through three states over five hours, but my ability to produce sillyness was apparently intact.
("Dad, you have to waltz with me in the parking lot! Please! Then I'll own all of Missouri and not just St. Louis! Dance with me!")
After some body blocking him from getting in the car, he smiled indulgently and danced.
I think it's going rather well.
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