Straight up keepin it real wit Jesus.

At the moment I'm between deities, going through something that most young people go through. I'm not sure exactly what I believe, so I've tossed religion aside. I still pray, because I believe in God. Maybe I'm not exactly sure what kind of God I believe in, so it's hard to make any kind of commitment.

But my spiritual issues aside, these doubts rose up in me years ago. In high school, I truly wanted to leave religion behind. It started when the music changed at high school mass and Christian retreat leaders started using odd tactics to reach us. Looking back, the reason was stupid, but it's something that still bothers me today.

Why do people want their religion to be cool? Why are mostly wise religious leaders who've spent their lives reading and teaching doctrine regressed into MTV VJs? I know I'm not the only one who realizes how this cheapens spirituality.

There are so many definitions of cool that it could easily be twisted into a word you could use about religion, but I'd prefer not to. In my experience, I was cool when anyone with pull in the social world approved of my actions and caused others to feel the same. I was uncool when the opposite occurred. Most of my decisions that synched up with being a good Christian would have been considered uncool--not drinking or smoking at parties, not having sex, not questioning my mother and father... you get the idea. At that stage in your life, it's pretty cool to be bad. I'm not stating an opinion, just the definition I learned through others' actions.

So, do we really want to apply this word to religion? Are our religious leaders so desperate for members that they're selling their god as an eager-to-please, rapping man in the sky? The truth is that most people who strive to do the right thing are pegged as boring, prudish, and even offensive.

Instead of cheapening religion, we should be preparing our youth to deal with the reality of the situation. If you choose to do the right thing, there's a good possibility that many people will laugh at you, ostracize you, or even try and hurt you. Most people in this "out for yourself" society couldn't get on board with that.

Have yourself a merry little holiday

I can understand that Christians are sad about the obligation many employees are under to wish people "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas." Sure, more people celebrate Christmas than they do other Winter holiday, but it seems like most employers encourage their employees to use a more all-encompassing term.

You, during your free time shopping, buying coffee, and watching TV, are free to wish people a Merry Christmas--unlike the workers with whom you're interacting. Be glad that you can wish it to others when they're unable to do the same, even if they may want to. Every time I'm out, I hear people respond to Happy Holidays with "same to you" instead of "Merry Christmas." Worse yet, some people don't respond at all. If it's what you want to say, why not say it instead of complaining about it in the car or at home. No one's forcing you not to say it.

People complain to everyone who will listen, and when one employee finally does say "Merry Christmas," that poor soul has to endure a pious lecture preceded by "Well I'm so glad to FINALLY hear that! *cue a time-wasting rant*

This is the season of giving, and yet everyone can't stop thinking about the greeting they want to receive. Indulge in your freedom and your love of Christmas. Be glad you can say it as much as you want, to whomever you want, no matter what they say to you, because you are free on your own time.

Music is my life

It's used so often, mostly by people who mean to say that songs move them. They react emotionally to music, and it often helps them through the day or makes a shower/car ride/dance club more pleasant. There's nothing wrong with this at all, and it describes most people's relationship with most of their music.

I've found that we all challenge our minds with different media and use other to "escape." Some of us read books so terrible that a more suitable vocation is kindling... and then devour a truly genius film. Others chortle through Dumb and Dumber and then spend the weekend breezing through Dostoevsky's novels in a weekend for the 3rd time. Sometimes it's a combination, or it depends on the mood. My point is that--while it's not quite as isolated as I'm making it out to be--I've found that people usually have one art form that they use to exercise their mind more often than others.

"Music is my life" seems like a phrase that is best used by those who challenge themselves with music. These people often forget about the concept of classification and embrace any sound that makes them think of something they hadn't before. It's a need that goes beyond emotion. We don't eat because starvation gives us the weepies. These people aren't devoid of emotion regarding music. They just don't feel the need to gush. True artists don't always realize they're making art. I think you can apply this to enthusiasts of something as well. It comes so naturally that gushing about it never occurs to them.

There's nothing wrong with being a music lover in one way or the other that I've described. I'm closer to the former than the latter. It's just a difference I've noticed, and frankly, the term's been thoroughly diluted thanks to facebook users.

*Insert safe question here*

The inability of humans to be satisfied and/or live in the moment comes through in the small talk with which we assault innocent people. We all endure a series of questions that plagues all people whose description is similar to ours. For example, I can guess what every heterosexual woman hears throughout her lifetime:

-->So, what do you plan to do after high school?

-->So what do you plan to do with your degree? And when do you graduate? *more general "how's school" questions"

-->So you've been dating __ years? When are you planning on making it official?

-->Congratulations! So when are you getting pregnant???

-->So, what have you been doing since your eggs went away?

-->Would you care for a black or brown casket?

Ok, maybe I made the last two up. Older people have it good in at least one respect: no one bothers them about the next stages of their lives that much. I suppose we have a need for small talk, but I'd prefer it if it was considered "acceptable" in mixed company to ask more interesting questions.

I'd like to ask people questions that my boyfriend asks me when we're bored, such as: "Would you rather fly or be invisible?" As tempting as invisibility is--easier to hide from small talk--I'd prefer to fly. I guess either of them would be good powers for escaping inane chatter, though.

Inviso-bird, awaaaaaaay!

Coffee

I used to force it down so that I could stay awake. Cokes didn't cut it. They made me feel very up for 10 minutes, and then completely hopeless, as if I would never be active again. Energy drinks, with their impossibly tall containers and threatening names and slogans, never appealed to me much. Who needs 60 ounces of what is essentially nourishment for a very busy hummingbird in their system? Not I, I think, since I love answering my own rhetorical questions.

So it started with a Granita when I was 15. My sister brought me to Caffe Cottage, now better known as a bar and venue than a place to have a quiet cup of joe. It was sweet and delicious, too sweet by my current standards. Most important, it perked me up for a good, long while.

That led me to the Starbucks by Barnes and Noble. This was when I started to notice how many people equated coffee and cafes with inspiration. And today, cafes are no longer places to congregate and be social. They're studying nooks and smooth-jazz caves for aspiring writers. I'll admit I'm writing this at a cafe. It's hard to help; the atmosphere is such a nice change--much better than the Student Union.

A Louisiana coffee company, Community, jumped on the complicated-espresso-drink bandwagon and created CC's (now Community Coffee Houses). Their frozen drink was the Mochasippi, and it was my regular for a long time--mostly plain ones, sometimes with vanilla mixed in.

Hot coffee was a fiscal decision at first. Blended drinks were expensive and not all that good for you either. It was a slow process. First I drank mostly mochas and flavored lattes--training wheels. One afternoon, I order a cafe au lait and added a single packet of turbinado sugar. The milk was all frothy on top. As I stirred, the little crystals sank into the froth, making the top this lovely caramel color.

That's what I'm drinking right now, and it's perfect. I feel completely awake.

Squirrels and relationships

I love eavesdropping. I can't even pretend not to.

Conversation to my left:

"I just don't like not being in a relationship. Because I like... don't like.... being... alone?"

"Oh, totally. So how's that guy--?"

"I don't know... I mean he's not a bad person, but...I don't know. I just don't wanna go to that party alone."

Not so bad, right? But my favorite part comes after I left to order my coffee and returned:

"Sometimes I'll see a run-over squirrel and be like 'oh, it sucks to be that squirrel' but then I'm like, it's just a squirrel, ya know? People die, like, every day."

--Which is completely true. When you think about the crimes against humanity that occur every day, a flattened rodent seems a lot less sad.

And now one of the girls is talking about how she doesn't like babies, and there was this one time when a baby drooled on her Harvard hoodie. She also doesn't like their oral fixations. OH, good, now the other one's talking about Freud!

Philosophy and Craps

This morning, I lost a coin on the floor of the College of Education building. As I searched, something hit me like a ton of bricks: It's impossible to find a coin on the pattern that they chose. The same goes for most of the buildings. It makes so much sense. They're just like casino floors--perfect camouflage for money and valuables. The cruel, complicated patterns encourage you to give up. "It's only a quarter.... it's only a 5$ chip."

Colleges are poor, and casinos are greedy. They both want your money, and they'll take advantage of butterfingers to get it.

I might love you, yeah, but I love me more.

Jeez.

Usually I don't like to talk about how songs hit me. It's hard to explain why. I don't like to gush, I suppose. I feel like my words are cheapening what I feel. That must be a common worry--that there's no way we can possibly describe our emotions without coming off as cliche' or something.

But screw it, I've just listened to one of my favorite Cowboy Mouth songs, "New Orleans." It's about a girl who cheats on a guy. Old news, right? Near the end of the song, Fred Leblanc sings:

But sometimes when she sleeps, she turns and she whispers his name.

This line always just breaks me. I can feel something rising up my throat, and my head even aches a little. My stomach churns, and there are little sharp sensations all over me, like I'm being cut.

I have never been cheated on, but the idea of losing trust in someone forever is such a nightmare situation for me. That type of betrayal is something I've never experienced. The unknown can be really scary, I guess, because that one little line never softens. The image just hits me--A guy lying in bed restlessly, and he hears a stranger's name over and over, every night, until he finally has to end it. Must be torture.

Must I write?

There was an article that my Senior English class was required to read. I loved it. Most of the class hated it. They found it snobby and elitist. Let me explain.

It was about what makes art, and that liking something doesn't automatically make something good--especially in the eyes of experienced critics. Writing from the heart is a nice idea, but the truth is that more goes into it than heart. It takes work, thought, and so much cutting and cleaning up. By the time it's finished, the author has poured more than just their soul into it. What they've revealed is their character, their patience. It's not easy, just like any other art. And when you think about really raw, "passionate" writing, it makes sense--all the gratuitous adjectives, the unbearable level of drama. Making it something that people can relate to is a greater challenge than clumsily spilling your guts onto paper. But it's comforting to think that it's possible, I suppose, to have a masterpiece in hours instead of months or years.

The part of the article that keeps me from quitting every time writing gets hard was an aside. He wanted the reader to know that he wasn't saying that heart and passion weren't important. If someone is unsure about whether or not they are supposed to write, he or she need only ask one question: "Must I write?" If your life would seem empty without it, then yes, you must. You're "supposed" to. If you care that much, then you're likely to have the patience to do the cleaning--the stuff that's probably less fun. And you'll probably be willing to kill off and cut away parts of your baby for the sake of a cleaner story.

I cannot and will not give up.

Post Secret

Something's been eating at me. I wish I could say it here, but I don't want anyone to know--anyone. So I'm sending it in to Post Secrets. I might even find a book at B+N and stick one in there too. This is something that I never thought I would do. There was never anything so secret that I couldn't turn to at least one person.

It's kind of cool to have a secret, but I can't wait to tell someone.

An unfortunate weakness

Novel writing month disheartens me. I can't write quickly for one reason: I'm good at describing, I'm good at developing characters, and I'm good at creating a vivid setting. What can't I do? Advance the damn plot.

I've begun writing a simple adventure story that comes from an old dream I wrote down. There's not much to it but the story. Therefore I won't have much else to focus on. It's about knights and the kinds of adventures they have. So of course, we've got a bunch of brave, bold people trotting around on horses. Sure, it might become something better than that. But if not, at least I'll have gotten closer to moving the action along instead of just describing people and things and writing tons of dialogue.

My goal is to break myself of the habit of focusing on those perfect little pockets of a story that I spend so much time developing and think about what I want to say and what I want my characters to do. I really don't want my schedule to make my writing any more stale than it is.

I'd rather not work with parents in school

'Just got a call from a classmate... a 40-50 something classmate with an 8-10 year old kid who has the flu. Parents have more damn germs to worry about. I know it's a valid excuse. I KNOW people my age can get sick too. She's awesome for coming back to school, actually. But my God, I've had to deal with more kid-related excuses in college than I'd care to name.

Of course, in the kinder part of my brain, I'm totally understanding. I sent her an email telling her not to worry about it, because she shouldn't. Her kids' health comes first, and she's smart for not coming to class and possibly spreading it around.

But damnit... we might not even get to present tomorrow, because SHE has a lot of the supplies we need.

The Mark of a Good Musical

A lot of the following can be applied to any sort of music. I just feel that musicals get little credit as a genre, and that isn't fair. Sure, a lot of them suck, but many of them are beautifully composed and have great story lines.

Everything's a musical now. They had a Carrie musical a few years back, for God's sake. I think one big problem is that people don't want to accept that some stories just don't work in this genre. There are some stories that work well without following the "show, don't tell" rule. Then there are some that just don't. Trying to force big musical numbers into moments that are better left silent...that's a bad move.

Then we can look at the songs themselves. One of my favorite musical songs is "If I Were a Bell" from Guys and Dolls, because even without the lyrics, the tone and purpose of the song are totally clear. The melody itself speaks of silly, half-drunk, new love. Then someone I know tries to sell me on Wicked and plays "Popular." I can't speak for the rest of the musical, but when I strip away the words and think of the melody, I don't think strongly about the message of the song. It's just writing plinky music that sounds vaguely appropriate and then tossing in some lyrics.

I've fallen away from musicals partially because so many are just so cheesy. And I guess I don't always want people's feelings spelled out for me in song. But I'm grateful that I've been able to define why some appeal to me and some don't. It's truly a relief.

Not 6 feet under, but 6 inches from the ground

I like to think that sagging is nature's way of reminding us of the place where we'll one day return. It doesn't have to be scary. It's just a friendly pinch on the ass. "Don't forget that you're dying! Go do something good and tell your loved ones how you feel!"

And that's one of the reasons why I'll never get cosmetic surgery.

I'm not judging.

I just can't help but note visual oddities when I'm walking around campus.

Oddity #1: A 20-something man with his girlfriend at the Storyville tshirt shop. Nothing unusual, except that he's wearing a shirt that says "Mom likes me best." Unless that phrase is on a onesie, it's really unsettling. Does not bode well for the relationship unless that girl is really into videotaping him at the park and cutting his dinner into safe, bite-sized pieces.

Oddity #2: School spirit is no surprise at my university, but this girl looked like the idea of school spirit had eked out of someone's mind and started a life of its own. There she strolled through the quad in a horribly bright yellow sundress, fuzzy Tiger slippers, and offensively large purple jewelry. They looked like jumbo bath beads. Plus I think there was a fuzzy purple headband in her pixie cut. I pricked my finger just to make sure my blood is still red. Despite 3 years here, it is.

What could have been a terrible day.

I wanted to throw a rock at the construction worker who stared at me while I cried beside my car this morning. My tire was shredded. The sounds and smells of morning traffic were oppressive, and for the first time in weeks I cared that no one was answering their phone. Car accidents are harder when you realize you don't have anyone in town to call for help. I missed my first meeting with my host teacher at Dutchtown Primary School because of a freak blowout. I'm always so careful about my tires.

On top of that, my thumb still hurt from the night before. I sliced it down to the bone when I tried to avoid the kitchen knife that I dropped. I figured I should probably visit the doctor, because it took me five minutes just to button up my shirt.

Long story short, everything is sorted out. I'm healing fast after my trip to the LSU clinic, and my car is fine. Bouncing back emotionally isn't easy for me. Going on with my life physically is not a problem. When things need to be done, I grudgingly do them. But today was different. The beautiful day, my kind brother, and the faces of my future colleagues kept me from staying in my bad mood.

The most memorable thing about this day was sitting next to Clyde while waiting for the bus. He's a maintenance man at LSU who I see from time to time. We were talking about his new phone that has music and TV shows on it. "So you're never bored," I laughed.

"Never bored! No excuse to be bored! If you're bored, you're just a boring person." I agreed, and he finished with: "There are crayons that got more life than some people in this world."

Although I prefer not to have access to television at all times (nor do I equate it to liveliness), the thought still brightened my afternoon.

She doesn't read this, just getting it out.

I can't believe you approached us.

He admits openly that he dislikes you. The way you left him was cowardly and immature, and you'll never admit that. He knows it. Everyone knows it. It's been a while now, and we've all moved on. But he'll never like you again or probably even try to. You can stop pretending to care about him or to feel sad about what you chose to end. Nobody likes a martyr.

I wanted to do lots of things to you tonight that would not have been right. I almost grabbed you by the arm. I almost yelled at you. I almost followed you into the bathroom, but none of those things would have been right. Nobody is perfect, but you're just pathetic. We could have gone all night not noticing each other, enjoying our Saturday nights apart. Instead you decided to harass my friend in front of us, prefacing your attack with, "I love you to death, but---" as if it makes you seem like less of a bitch. It doesn't. It never does.

I'm glad you left him, because you're a mess. Everyone's a mess, but you're the wrong mess for him. We'd all love to never see you again. If you ever see us again, and you make the decision to confront us instead of go on with your life like you keep saying you are, I'll be forced to take action.

I'm a judgmental person. I try not to be. I try to be diplomatic and understand where people are coming from and what they've gone through to become who they are. But I can't help it now, so I'm going to say everything I think about you.

You're pathetic and insecure. You invent suffering so your life will seem to have meaning, and then you post that cheap suffering on facebook so that someone will buy you a drink. You start as many situations as you can that will end in everyone staring at you--for better or for worse. You long for a sparkling ring more than you long for love. It depresses me that you work with children every day. I hope they turn out okay despite the experience.

I like your friends very much, because they had the sense to be embarrassed by your behavior. I appreciated their apology, although none of it was their fault. Leave my friend alone.

3 things of which I am sure:

1. Cheese sandwiches will always taste better right before bed when I'm not supposed to be eating.

2. I might never know enough about health care and foreign policy to have a definite opinion about it, but it doesn't stop me from trying.

3. Grammar is interesting.

I listen to alternative, and that's it.

"Everything except rap and country."

--The typical middle class-upper middle class response to "What kind of music do you like?"

Before I wrote this, my brother made a good point--that it was an uninformed answer that threw out the possibility of exceptions in two massive categories.

But the first impression that the answer gave me was a rejection of two very extreme cultures: one typically urban and one typically rural. So everything in between is the music of the burbs?

Not quite... because if someone doesn't like country, it's safe to say they don't like Western (die-hard fans swear there's a difference)... and might not enjoy Zydeco and Swamp pop either. And if someone doesn't like rap, maybe hip hop turns them off too.

The answer REALLY means, "whatever's on the popular 18-25 radio station." They can't literally like everything outside of those two genres. If they did, then exotic world music would take up more at the Barnes and Noble music store than half a rack. Jazz and blues would be huge. Weird fusions of reggae, bebop, and death metal concerts would sell out.

But they don't. Because "everything but country and rap" is a thin, thin blanket under which most people sound the same.

Maybe I'm wrong about the people who answer this way. Maybe they're just afraid of being too specific.

summer's over

We're always asked to give our reason for wanting to teach on the first day of class. There are always these really happy-looking girls there who had a clarifying moment after working as nanny or a camp counselor. I've never wanted to work with children in any other way but education. I'm fascinated by their inability to stop asking questions. I think that they deserveto have teachers who will never get tired of hearing those questions--at least the good ones. Anyone would get tired of hearing "can I go to the bathroom" 20 times a day.

I didn't like the look I got today after class. A woman--a perfectly nice, smart family woman who came back for her degree--addressed me when we were dismissed. I was already on my phone discussing something important with someone back home. She saw the phone on my ear; she saw I was talking, but she kept asking me the same question. I couldn't hear her. I pointed to my phone and made a mildly apologetic face, even though she was starting to annoy me. She said "goodbye" in a very put-out tone that annoyed me. I didn't pick up the phone during a conversation; I was already in it!

The first day of class went very smoothly. I like my teachers so far, although one of them might have the flu.

You're a grand old flag

http://news.aol.com/article/tattered-us-flag-angers-california-mans/604857?icid=main|aimzones|dl1|link3|http%3A%2F%2Fnews.aol.com%2Farticle%2Ftattered-us-flag-angers-california-mans%2F604857

Patriotism. I'm not against it. Inane bumper stickers and car flags probably help to stimulate the economy. I'm not against the military, either. They're just doing their jobs, and I'm grateful that someone will do it. I certainly don't want to.

But my God... obsessing over these slogans and symbols is destructive. Men didn't die for a flag. What they died for was a set of ideals. I don't like the idea of having laws or even unspoken rules attached to a piece of cloth that might as well be polka-dotted yellow and pink for all it moves me. This man's gesture moves me. A man's son is in Iraq, and he keeps a promise that their flag won't be taken down until he returns. Isn't that more beautiful than a perfectly-pressed Old Glory?

Purposeful destruction of a flag is disrespectful, but this man's actions are not. I wish people would get over it and listen to his story. It's respectful towards soldiers, or at least to one in particular.

Napping

I napped a lot from 2004-2006 when I had little direction, motivation, and intellectual curiosity. I's love to say that small-town living sapped those things from me, but let's face it, everyone has their stupid selfish years where little gets accomplished. Those were mine. I cooked, studied, watched Friends, and gained a lot of weight. Jake was with me in Thibodaux, and that made it much nicer. But we were both kind of wallowing in a very dangerous kind of ennui that I'm happy to be out of. Don't get me wrong; I don't consider those wasted years. I can now debone a chicken and make killer bread.

Now I'm back to where I was in high school: I do not understand napping. At all. I've pulled all-nighters and powered through the following day. Hell, I cooked and served at a benefit dinner after spending all night writing an essay and attending class all that day. It isn't easy, but it's easier then sleeping for one hour when you need 8 and trying to continue your day. I'd much rather drag on, accomplish what I need to accomplish, and get to bed at 9:30 like some old woman.

There seems to be a nap-based status message every day when I check facebook. And 7 times out of 10 that person is having trouble getting motivated after a nap. I thought they were supposed to refresh you. And what are 20-somethings doing taking naps in the middle of the day, anyway? What are we, 80?

Solidify

I just want to remember this great day, and there's no room left in my paper journal... where I usually put this sort of thing.

It started last night. After work, Jake met me at my apartment. We talked about our weeks--both not great. Just sitting together and letting everything else melt away is always good for stress. I sat on the couch, and he lay down with his head in my lap talking about the job that he sometimes hates/sometimes tolerates. Then we agree that we're both lucky to have jobs at all and enjoy a long night of just being close after days of chatting on stupid online programs. Then sleep.

He drives me to work. I'm five minutes late, because like a dummy, I just have to go and make myself fried eggs and toast instead of grabbing a cereal bar like normal people do when they're in a hurry. Anyway, work is quiet--which is always nice. It's basically time to read and chat online.

Then class. My teacher is a funny aging man with thick glasses, graying hair, and a wheelchair with blinking lights on the front. He talks in a thick accent that sounds like somewhere around Lafourche Parish. It's a good enough hour; most of it is a review of material learned in other classes. He has to leave early, which frees up more afternoon to check out an art show.

Jake and I walk to the art show after he picks me up. It was a mild, breezy morning, but now we're walking fast because it's all hot and wet. Clouds are coming in. We walk into the union gallery and are surprised by 3 lecturers. We sit in.

One woman talks about feminism and why female villains are known as villains because of their independence and focus on their own goals. I shrug internally and think that they're also called villains because--like male villains (independent or not)--they're not above harming others to achieve their goals. Then two men get up after her. One talks about Captain America and his place in our culture--what he's represented, etc etc. The next talks about the many faces of Batman--from silly and censored for the children's sake to dark, brooding, and gritty. After the lectures we enjoyed art from the Golden to the Modern age. It was interesting to see the transition they've gone through on a couple of walls.

Then I was hungry, and he bought me lunch. I got barbequed chicken, green beans, potatoes, and cornbread that was too saucy, too bitter, unsalted, and dry, respectively. But I'm just so happy to have an afternoon with him that it's the most delicious thing I've eaten all week. I hadn't had strawberry soda in about a year. I always forget how much I love it.

The rest of the afternoon was supposed to consist of coffee and conversation. There was still conversation, but it was in the comfort of my apartment, snuggled up close. A nice way to end the day-or-so we had. And I get to see him again tomorrow!

Faith, Part I

I wrote a short essay-type thing a while back about the time when I abandoned Catholicism, and shortly after, Christianity. They were not abhorrent to me; I didn't become an atheist or even anti-religion. Any religious organization has its good and bad, and they all have good people in them who work hard at their faith and put their beliefs into action. My leaving was mostly out of respect. Questions that couldn't be answers, nagging doubts, and refusal to compromise left me with no option but to leave the titles behind for now, until I can devote myself fully. Until then, I'm simply a theist who believes in treating others kindly and doing your best to learn every day.

The title was "Shopping for God," because that's what my brief foray into new-religion-hunting felt like. With every article or chapter or website I read, I pictured myself walking down a produce aisle squeezing fruit. "Too firm, not firm enough, rotten..."

It's inconvenient to be in college and have a crisis of faith at the same time. It's so cliche. I don't want to come off as a pseudo-intellectual whose eyes were suddenly opened by a bunch of elbow-patched bearded guys. The truth is that my doubts came early, but my confidence to face them came late. Catholic schools can be like that. You're swept up in it--all the singing and swaying and "me-toos" in Theology class.

More later. I'm just summing myself up for the moment: A noncommittal, analytical bullshitter who tries to be kind.

School Spirit

It's like modern-day totemism. We rabidly attach ourselves as an academic community to some ferocious animal (or other). Then we have miniature wars. There's even body paint present when you look at the most fervent fans. I always found a passionate love for one's school and school mascot a little strange. Thinking about this is when I learn a little about myself--that I believe not everything has a purpose. I truly believe that, when it comes to my school, i could have been born anywhere, and it would have been just as easy to fall into the fandom of another community. Then it becomes completely meaningless, and I go back to do my homework.

Middle Names

Uses:

1:Incorporating a saint's name into your child's title--useful for children who will one day be Confirmed.

2. Making it fun to be an angry parent (the middle name seems to make scolding more fun).

But why are they still around, really? Many times it's done in order to give a child their mother or father's name (usually the father's). But why does anyone bother to do that? Is that person going to go by the same name as the father? That's not always how it happens.

Case in point: My brother and cousin--both "thirds"--go by the nicknames Trey and Tripp. And after countless calls to university students in my job as an operator, I've learned that "Jr." or II" after a name often means that they go by the middle name or a variation of the first. For example, Edward Jay II would be more likely to be called Jay than Edward. With the sample of students I've been given, that's just so often the case. So this need to give our children names almost identical to our own serves little purpose other than to give them more to write when they're filling out a form. But then, they never even ask for your full middle name on a form, only the initial. I write it out anyway.

There's a possibility that, at least in the case of duplicate naming, a middle name offers some variety--a chance to shake up your image. It's a gamble. And if they choose to go by their middle name, the name that the parents chose first is lost.

Why give a name that will never really be used? Names like Mary Anne (not hyphenated, just used as one name) make sense. But Portia Elizabeth? Who's going to go to the trouble? Sure, the options are nice. She could go by Portia, Elizabeth, Beth, or Liz. Maybe parents aren't as controlling as I think, and middle names really are all about freedom of choice. But is it freedom of choice when having two "first" names imply that those are your options and nothing else? Who would go to the trouble of changing their name legally when they can settle for one of two and simply have to say, "I actually go by ___."

It's a waste. It's like buying someone two beautiful hats and saying they can only wear one for the rest of their lives. Sure, people might see the other hat and admire it, but it can never be enjoyed the way hats are meant to be enjoyed. I can't do anything with the "Anne" I'm saddled with. People don't seem to mind when I write it out on forms, because it's so short. It's not that I feel close to the name; it's the principle. It's there; I might as well use it somehow, some way.

Self

Where's the line that is drawn between bettering yourself and changing who you are/should be? What should you be? Is there something we're meant to be that shouldn't be changed, or is it okay to transform? Is it all right to keep and even treasure the flaws that might very well be neutral characteristics that just happen to offend some? If I stop trying to change what can never be changed--the fact that I'm imperfect--will I think of others more kindly? When my frustration with myself fades, will it fade for those around me, too? To what extent is that giving up, losing my values, and being afraid of having standards?

Whatever I am, I think I'm tired of trying to make it different--at least for now.

Wet behind the mouse

Newcomers to the internet. They send you crap you've seen before and/or have disproved through snopes.com and cross-referencing.

My father has turned into one of these people. There are ways I can punish him for this. I'm seriously considering doing them.

Rag-Eww,

Sometimes, when I'm cooking a big pot of week-long pasta, I feel guilty. Two years in culinary school, and I'm still pouring canned pasta sauce into a pot, putting a little water in the jar, shaking it, and then pouring the watery excess in. Pasta sauce is fairly easy, although it takes a little more time.

Then I think about how I'm going to be singing the national anthem next year and need to practice. Then I think about owning a quality ukulele soon and being able to practice more and get better. Then I think about how I've dreamed about being a published author much longer than I dreamed about having a cooking show.

Then I feel better.

And I eat my pasta with my canned sauce after adding a little more seasoning.

Decisions

"Going green" these days is a lot like eating pomegranates. If it wasn't trendy, a lot of people wouldn't bother, because it's a hassle. That is not to say that I discourage the going of green or the eating of pomegranates.

One of the hardest things to pinpoint is whether or not someone's humor tastes match up with another person's. A friend and I were discussing this. People get lumped into broad categories of humor styles, and assumptions are made. For example, I say something ironic once in a while, but my humor is in general some clever turns of phrase but mostly goofy, off-the-wall stuff. But I used to always be pegged as a person whose humor is basically sarcastic.

It's a hard thing to pin down.

Please enjoy the headache.

I take issue with this cell phone feature that gives the caller "hold" music chosen by the owner as opposed to a ring. I might be less opposed to it if the music chosen wasn't so horrific.

At my job, I make dozens of calls per day to high school graduates. How many times do I need to hear "Smack That" a day? I guess if parents caught on to this fad, I'd be stuck with James Taylor and Van Morrison.

For the record, I have nothing against Van Morrison. I just got really tired of him in high school. He was at every dance, and teachers played his CDs during every "work" period in the classroom.

Brown-eyed girl can kiss my brown eye. That's right, I said it! Come and get me, Computer class teacher from junior year!

Young lady.

Well, it's that time again: Time for me to survey the room and realize that nothing is mine... REALLY mine. That's because I'm still dependent. People gave me things when I moved here--nice things, used things, things I didn't get to choose, things I accepted either out of actual need or out of politeness--none of them mine.

I bought my own mp3 player. That's mine. I bought the bottle of Strawberry Melon Fuze with job money. The empty CC's coffee house cup still in my car once held a latte that was bought with the same money. Little things here and there are mine, and they're mostly entertainment. I own books, comic books, DVDs, and an instrument. Everything else is given (mine, but in a different way) or borrowed.

It must sound like I believe that you are what you own. That's really not the case. I don't want an elaborate life with lots of nice things. I just want to be able to stand in the middle of my living room and think "I earned this..." and not by being a good, hard-working daughter whose parents saw fit to give her a break while she earned her degree. I don't want to depend on someone financially anymore. As terrible as it feels to say, I want to have different primary reasons for helping my folks with chores when I visit. Of course I love them and they deserve a little help. But my first thought it always still "they pay my bills, I can't say no." When I'm free, I'll still want to be the good helpful daughter... even moreso. Because I'll be free because of them.

That said, I know I'm never going to be an island, as much as I pretend to be sometimes. Success is almost never gained alone. If I ever have an ego big enough to think the victory of graduation is only mine, I hope that Australian guy from Jurassic Park puts me out of my misery while murmuring,"clever girl."

I still call people older than me "the adults" as opposed to me... a kid, I guess. People in the UK insisted I stop using "Mr." or "Ms." I was old enough to call anyone by their first name. I'd earned it as an adult. Man, that felt good. And coming home, it was a hard habit to break. I started thinking of myself as a young woman instead of "young lady!" I guess that's a start.

Phone-y

My new job is interesting. I deal with even more university parents than I used to. Most of them are pretty even and sane, but today I was nearly drowned by a wave of overbearing craziness.

First of all, when I leave a message on an answering machine for someone's child, it's almost always the parent who calls back. Now a lot of these kids are on their senior trips. But I hear a lot of them in the background, trying to talk over their parents. "Ask them this... ask them that..." while the mother (and for some reason it's always the mother) attempts to translate.

The most heartbreaking and annoying occurrence was a woman who started almost every sentence with "frankly." Frankly, this is a pet peeve of mine. "Frankly, finding any information out is like pulling teeth. Frankly, as long as y'all get that money it seems like we don't matter. I'm calling for my son about his room assignment... frankly I don't trust him to take care of it." Well, thank God. Another man's testicles bite the dust. His destiny is to marry a girl who will thoroughly emasculate him and grant him no power in the relationship.

At least it's a warning of things to come. I'm learning more and more that having children makes you insane. Hopefully I can prepare and learn to be okay with giving my children their independence. To be fair, that boy might have been completely irresponsible, and she, as the one paying the bill, wanted to be absolutely sure. But my GOD, her tone. The way she shut her son up in the background... it was just... well, it was a sad day for boys who hope to one day become men.

My Trip to the Salon

The worst part is the beginning. The two ladies in Fantastic Sam's looked bored, but neither one got up to help me. So, after asking about the special of the day, I just said, "So.... 'either one of you free?" A Nicaraguan lady named Aleen chuckled and stood up, took my information, and led me to the chair.

Then comes the best part: The shampoo. I'm not one who enjoys being waited on by strangers, generally. That's the worst part of going out to eat for me. But I love having my hair shampooed. My tip is never based on how good my hair looks, but how good my scalp feels after being massaged. If I'd have had a fin, it would be in Aleen's pocket right now. I had to settle for 3 bucks, which is a good tip for a 13 dollar haircut, I suppose.

Salon chit-chat is hit and miss. The basic questions are "Where are you from?" "How long have you been doing this?" and "Do you think it'll rain/get hotter today?" Some stylists answer the second question in an offended way, as if they're surprised that I'm interested in their profession. And the truth is, I am. I can't cut a straight line (which might be perfect for today's hairstyles). Cutting hair properly is one of those things I will never venture to do, because failure is almost 100% assured.

The wet, split-ended strands at my feet are fun to look at. It's the most unfinal type of finality you'll probably ever see. "Well, it's done," I think, "but it will be back in a month." I guess you could also call that futility, but the smell of coconut and tea tree oil cheers me up too much to use words with a negative connotation.

Blow drying is the part of the experience in which I feel the most guilty. My hair is thick. Horse tail thick. Drying it takes twice the time of other women, but they can't charge extra, because their extra charges are only based on extreme length. That's another reason why I tip, I suppose.

Then comes the time when I might have to act, because even if I don't like a haircut, I can never being myself to say "I don't like it." At a restaurant, a waiter serves you food. He or she did not cook it, so it's not a problem to send it back. I'm not looking the creator in the eye. But the stylist worked hard, or at least did something I could never do on my own. Criticizing their work when it's probably very close to what I asked for seems cruel.

That was my afternoon. Want more futility? No matter how good a haircut looks, I have it up in a ponytail within the first half hour of leaving the salon. And people wonder why I never bother to pay more than 20 bucks.

I think I'll go eat the leftover scallops in my fridge.

Safety

I hope that everyone has someone in his or her life who is inspiring--not a hero they don't know or will never meet, but a person you know.

I watched my brother at a small bar almost a week ago. It's encouraging to watch him. Music isn't always the most lucrative career, and God knows he'll probably have a job besides that. But what if he didn't? Watching his face as he played with his friends makes me believe that, no matter what, he's going to be okay. Maybe that just shows how much I know about the world. But watching my brother play makes me want to write and practice my ukulele.

I got through my first entire song this week.

Rug

I console myself in different ways when I'm sad. The best crying place is the living room of my parents' house. There's this great old rug in there with unusual patterns and beautiful colors. We used to have a different one. I hated to see the first one go, but the newer one serves the same purpose. When my eyes are full of tears, the meaningless shapes start to look like things. It's distracting in a good way. The images of laughing snakes, volcanoes, Buddhas, and vases full of unusual flowers remind me of the last time I cried in this room. "Everything turned out okay that last time, and it will again," the characters seem to say. And so far, it has been okay again every single time.

Things that happened today, 5/5/09

That's the best title I could come up with. It's been an interesting day.

1: I had this odd dream. There are almost always Venetian-inspired cities in my dreams--communities built on or around bodies of water and canals. In this one, there was a river that seperated two cities--one made of leathery tents and one of caves. On the tent side were these people with dark brown skin, shaved heads, and white linen clothing. On the other side were Inuit-looking people in loincloths.
I was swimming in the lake for some reason (I always get into this kind of trouble in my subconscious), and one of the tent people pulled me out of the water. He started lashing me with this cat-of-nine-tails and telling me that my kind wasn't allowed here. Then he threw me back in the water. The Inuit-looking people shot darts at me as I swam away.
Finally, I reached what I guess was my destination: an enormous ship that housed every person I've ever known. We were all traveling down this river together. There was a theatre, a kitchen, enough private bedrooms for everyone, and even a little shuttle boat you could hop onto if you wanted to go to land for some reason. My favorite part was a hologram beach you could sunbathe on. The lamp that must have posed as the true sun felt very warm and pleasant after swimming a long way. When my fellow passengers found out what had happened to me, they decided to teach the attackers a lesson.
That's where the dream gets fuzzy. I don't know if we ever exacted revenge at all. To be honest, it wouldn't have accomplished anything, anyway. They just seemed to be really territorial folk who didn't want any strangers around. I woke up feeling scared. The pain of being whipped had felt very real. I feel guilty. Am I prejudiced against dark-skinned and Inuit people? Why did I dream about that?

2: As I was walking to work, I passed the lake that's on LSU campus. A guy was in the dirty water (close to the Highland sidewalk, where people dump everything) fishing out a chair. He said he had promised someone he would. His clothes and wallet were on the cement. I didn't say anything to him or his friends except, "this will make for an interesting memeory."

3. I received notice that my ukulele shipped. After 6 months of thinking about it, I finally just bought one to play around with. It was a hassle to purchase online, though. My bank had put a hold on my debit card for something that flagged their fraud alert. They didn't even notify me about it, either. So they'll be sending a new card soon. Mom paid for it for me through paypal. I owe her 40$, and now I don't have to wait for them to get the money order and THEN ship it. Estimated shipping time is 3 days. I hope it gets here by Friday.

I own a ukulele now.

It's a red, cherry wood, "pineapple" ukulele. I've been toying with the idea of taking it up for months now, and I finally took the plunge. The prices ranged from nine to 200 dollars. In the end I picked one up on ebay from a wholesale music shop for $40. Jake found it and linked me to it. It was the first one that I found that appealed to me visually, and it looked sturdy enough. I listened to a lot of samples of both cheap and expensive ukuleles. They don't all have the same richness, but they all sound cheerful.

Konnichi wa, can I buy you a 9$, brightly colored cocktail?

Geisha were not prostitutes. This was hammered into me long before that movie came out a couple of years back. My sister owns several books about them and loaned me some. Apparently it's hard to do research on them, because they are very secretive and are all about receiving the right kind of courtesy and humility from outsiders who want information.

What do we have in the U.S? Well, we have brothels, but they don't really have to be skilled at anything but sex and leaving when they're asked. We have exotic dancers, but that doesn't have the same amount of class. Plus, when you're with a Geisha, you're in the presence of a woman who is charming, adept in the arts and conversation, and is flawlessly polished in her appearance and personality.

Women might capture the art of conversation part when they accept a drink from a stranger at a bar. Men often complain that they spend 20$ on a girl and get nothing in return except a lot of talk and a few dances together. Bars seem like lonely places. Maybe they should just be happy for the company. Maybe there should be professional barflies who make men feel special for a few hours. For one neon drink per hour, they can be flattered, indulged, flirtatiously touched. Then they can go home, hopefully with a fatter wallet than if he had hoped for sex, and get on the internet.

It's been a while.

I feel as though a lot has changed over the semester.

For example, after taking a class all about implementing technology in education, I've become more resistant to it. That's probably because it requires lots of group work and mixing little sticky creatures with expensive equipment. So many of our activities seem useless--or at least inefficient--after discussing in my Psychology class that research points to Direct Instruction is the most effective teaching method. That means the teacher serves as the leader of the class and not just a casual guide. A lot of the activities we discussed in my Tech class were about letting children explore technology.

There's something to be said for exploration, but in a class day there's so little time. A lot of the projects and software we talked about would be more effective after some learning took place. Why not put the information in a neat--but still interesting--package and hope that your teaching has inspired them to explore in their own time? Isn't that part of what makes someone intelligent? They seek knowledge even when it's not mandatory.

The closer graduation looms, the more I start thinking about how to spend my time in the classroom as efficiently as possible. That doesn't mean I'll be boring, but why stick the kids in front of a computer and demand that they learn when that's supposed to be my job? It feels too much like a parent relying heavily upon developmental baby DVDs and then spending no time with the child.

I still wonder how I'm going to attract attention to my lessons in the first place. So many teachers in my past have served as inspiration, but I don't want to steal anyone's act. I'll have to let that question brew when I go back to tutoring and observation next semester.

There you are.

I want to get better a little bit every day. I also want to learn to be content every day.

Unsure so far of how to juggle these two in a healthy fashion, but I'll figure it out.

Trees

If I ever moved, I'd miss all the great oaks here. I noticed today how drawn I am to them--not in a hippie way. I don't hug them or anything. But I do love to watch them in the wind and wonder what's under them.

They seem to promise that, miles away, there's something interesting to see. The funny thing is that sometimes I drive towards them and end up in an ordinary neighborhood or a shopping center. So I just stand around for several minutes and try to come up with an interesting story about where I am.

Snobby

I lost a tiny bit of faith in my English teacher when she said two classes ago that she found to be a "compelling tale." Opinions aren't fact. I keep telling myself that. Still, there's a nagging pain in my head that seems to ask, "why can't everyone accept that book sucks?" During the holiday this week, Jake overheard a girl complaining about her school's reading list. "Why can't they have good books, like Twilight, instead of this old stuff?" Jesus.

I wish I could get in touch with my old high school English teacher. He gave us a great article to read by a professor who stated that everyone has the right to create a story and try to sell it. But not everyone makes good art, and there are definitely ways of telling good, well thought out literature from the bad or just plain mediocre stuff. It doesn't mean you shouldn't read it; it's just helpful to know what's art and what's simply a beach book. God, that was a good article.

And speaking of poorly-used language, if I hear one more person saying "wtf" or "jk" or "lol" instead of talking like a normal, at least moderately educated person, I might just quit the human race, rob a bank, and buy an island.

Sudden memories

When I finish brushing, flossing, and swishing Listerine at night, I inhale quickly through my teeth and then smile big at the mirror just like my grandpa used to. He lost half of his teeth because he didn't take care of them. He passed on his lesson to us by making the process fun when we slept over. He'd hum songs and tell us about how fresh breath made people want to kiss us when we got older.... that one didn't win me over when I was little. But brushing my teeth still brings back memories. I make Papa Charlie faces when I'm practicing good oral hygiene.

Mom scanned an old letter from our babysitter and housekeeper, Ms. Linda. She was a lean, beautiful woman with curly hair, a deep, joyful laugh, and unending warmth. Mom and Dad had gone out of town, and she kept us for about a week. She left a note on the fridge telling them how nice it was. I've noticed a lot of people find it distasteful to call a housekeeper "one of the family," but she absolutely was. She died of complications with her kidneys; that was all anyone told me. But I remember how empty I felt when I knew I'd never hear her laugh on this earth again. I remember now that I've written about her before, but I can't think about her enough. I hope she can see me. I hope she's still proud of us.

I remember when Papa Charlie died, she came to my grandma's house unannounced, apologizing. "I'm sorry if I shouldn't have come," she began. And everyone protested. Someone helped her to a seat. "You're family," my mom and my mimi both said. At this Ms. Linda wiped her eyes and started to talk about my grandpa. Sometimes when I'm sitting in my parents' den, I imagine the ironing board up by the doorway to the kitchen. I imagine her watching TV with me as I heard steam escape quietly from the iron.

I saw a picture of a Daisy on google. I looked them up, because I miss them. I had them in my neighborhood back home, and now there are none anywhere. I should buy some. Once when Jake gave me some of those flowers, he said I reminded him of them. He said there was a reason they were my favorite. "Bright, beautiful, and tough as nails," he said, smiling. I don't know about that last one, but it made me want to be more resilient.

Strange power

When you're in the Actors' Guild, or whatever it's called, you cannot have the same name as someone else. There has to be some difference. If there are two Jake Smiths, one of you has to go by "Jacob Smith" or "Jake E. Smith" or "Jake Smith III" in the credits.

I guess that's why a lot of celebrities have a middle initial. The only other reason I can think of is because they want to see if people will actually take the trouble to say it. It's annoying to say "Samuel L. Jackson," but I do, because he's such a badass in his movies that I'm scared he'll somehow know when I say it wrong. Then he'll come to my house and yell at me. John C. McGinley? I say John McGinley, because the worst thing that happens there is that he rattles off about Hugh Jackman and calls me girls' names. And that's fine, because I'm a girl.

But don't they have a strange power? Their issues become our issues. Their fashion opinions become ours. And we say clumsy-sounding things like "Samuel L" even though it's kind of a pain to stick those two l's together. I suppose it varies. I can't think of anyone Bjork fans who own a swan dress.

Trolling

I recently had to use a men's restroom out of pure urgency, and I hated it.

There's always so much annoying stuff written on the walls. On this one in particular had anti-Islam statements, anti-Christian statements (not just "I don't like religion," but more of a "we should ship these people away on a boat that's sure to sink" vibe), and lots of nihilistic whiny crap that you can expect from upper-middle class kids who are becoming acquainted with the cruelty of life from a comfortable, safe distance.

Then it hit me: I'm looking at the work of early Trolls--jerks who wandered the Earth before the web hoping for an outlet for their ignorance and hate. I guess bathroom walls are still more cost effective. At least I saw one thing that wasn't drivel: A weighted companion cube. If i didn't have a problem with defacing property (even property that's already gone to seed) I'd have written that the cake was the truth... just to try and bring some positivity to the old WC.

The only prank I know I'll remember forever:

The Old Gargoyle is a blogger that I strongly recommend to all....5 or 6 of my followers (I'm counting the unofficial ones). He's responsible for my favorite April Fool's joke ever. I didn't fall for it, but it was fun to watch.

It's April Fool's day about in 2003.... and a test day in dear old Gargoyle's class. We're all sitting with out pencils out, a few students trembling. He never made Theology a "gimme" course, God bless him.

"Students," he declared in that even, yet mischievous voice, "Happy April Fools Day. There is no exam today."

There were actual sighs of relief. People started taking out their notes.

"Students! Surely..... April Fools!" Then he passed out the test.

This is one of the reasons he was my favorite high school teacher--that and he's practically responsible for me getting together with The Fellow (Brother Jake). You are invited to the imminent wedding.

Today I am thankful for:

1. Sunscreen. As I was applying my spf lotion to my arms and neck this morning, I thought about how neat it is that I won't have catcher's mitt face when I'm 40.

2. Sunshine: It's a nice change from all the storms

3. Newfound resolve: After many months of "having a good cry" once in a while, I'm finally able to get mad and get strong about some problems that have been nagging me.

4. Spring slowdown--teachers are getting tired, and the workloads are waning. Lots of time to stay ahead

Great.

"Raising awareness" is getting to sound even stupider to me. 'Seems like so few of the people who become aware care about the cause as much as the people raising awareness. So, if you're going to raise awareness, why do it with quiet little pamphlets? I'm not suggesting anything destructive, just something a tad noisier. It's the age of compromise. Nothing changes.

Reality shows:

If I ever went on a reality show, I would have only one goal: To look straight at the camera and utter the phrase: "I'm just here to make friends."

Something I never do

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Jake asked via AIM last night when I told him how frazzled I was about the upcoming week.

My usual answer: "Nah, thanks."

My answer last night: "I might want to talk a lot more than usual this week. Sorry if it's a lot."

It's pointless to ask why it's so hard for me to ask for help, because it's just part of me. Even when I was a kid fretting over fractions and paltry reading assignments, I didn't want any guidance. I knew I could get through it.

Either my problems are getting bigger or I'm a lot less tough than I was when I was 6-16. No matter how many times I argue with myself about it... no matter how many times I prove myself wrong, at the end of the day I always feel like I'm weak if I have to lean on someone. I've all but given up overcoming this feeling. It's a good thing Jake can read me so well. I hardly ever have to actually ask. Even from miles away, he can read me.

It's hard to write about a person who gives me so much support. It's hard even though I smile uncontrollably every time I listen to his "just because" voice mails. It's hard even though he tells me all the time that he's proud of who I am and what I do. It's hard even though, when we're alone, I know I can break down on the ground crying about nothing and I'll still be a strong person in his eyes. What makes it hardest is that he understands this fault of mine and accepts it with all his heart.

Pride, pride, pride. I'll never overcome it completely. But still, thank you.

College is funny, part II

I love this more than bagels and garden vegetable cream cheese:

That moment in a classroom when everyone... everyone is prepared, and there's one person in the back who has no clue what's going on. What happened? The professor sent out an email yesterday afternoon with a reminder or a request to print something out or bring it to class, read an extra few pages of the literature, or do a worksheet.

And what's the excuse? It's always in that deliciously self-righteous tone: "Well... I don't check my email every day. Sorry."

That's like working in an office and never answering your phone or checking your emails. It's part of the job, and you have to do it. You have to make it a habit. Students today who don't check their email... I don't understand it. We're plugged constantly into every other type of technology--texting in class, surfing facebook in class (AKA "taking notes"), talking on the phone between classes... so why is it so hard to check your email a few times a day?

I know I'm kind of a smartass... but really, it boggles the mind.

I also wonder about professors. After they earn the title "doctor," does some kind of fluid release in the body that sends a very specific signal to the brain? The signal is "It's ok to wear a beret now" and about 75% of them seem to heed it, even in the summer. I'm not complaining. They all look rather dashing in their long philosopher beards and their muffiny hats.

Traditiooooooooon, tradition!

In the usual Cajungal fashion of overthinking things, my thoughts turn to tradition this warm, bright afternoon.

I think that traditions are nice. They give me a warm feeling--like Baptisms, getting together at Christmas, and seeing something blue on the bride. But when it comes to me, I never want to be the one people look to to hold up a tradition.

I have so many ideas about how I want to do things in the future---things that I won't be doing for a LONG time, but still... I get so inspired by all of my ideas. I think I could make an event memorable without falling back on what's been done over and over again. And then it would be all mine, all from me. If someone wanted to continue it on after I died, fine. If not, that would be fine too.

It seems sometimes that traditions are too much about 'living for the comfort of others' (I heard someone use that phrase a month or two back, and it's been sticking to me. I can't shake it!). Selflessness is nice. Doing for others is nice. But we all have one life, and I think that the people who love us the most would be able to understand that.

Anyway, these are just a bunch of thoughts I'm trying to piece together. I'm constantly stuck between wanting other people's happiness and wanting to give into the little qualities about myself that I hide or play down because I don't want to be a disappointment. I think that this is something many people can relate to. In the end, I think, I am me and I'm going to have to listen to myself.

Tabloid blues

I love grocery shopping. For some reason, my thoughts are always really clear when I'm there getting what we need for the house. But there's one part of the experience that I hate: the barrage of tabloids at the checkout line. It's hard not to look at them, because they surround me.

I wonder what celebrities read when they're waiting to buy groceries. I imagine tabloid and celebrity magazines are pretty ho-hum to the people in them. The gossip and factoids have to be a lot less interesting. So do they just stare at the gum?

Back after no demand at all

I've been sick. Sorry, my 4-6 readers.

Anyway, Mardi Gras had ups and downs. The significant up was Xanadu. Even though my friend who was supposed to go with me had Bronchitis and had to cancel at the last minute, I went with my boyfriend anyway. This still has me feeling guilty. There was nothing I could have done, but she was so disappointed. If that was the wrong thing to do, I definitely paid for it, because I was bedridden for all the parades. I'm just grateful I didn't have to miss much school. I'm feeling bogged down with work already.

Something good happened today. I've been feeling guilty for another reason lately: It seems like I never really get to help others. It's not as if I never try. I've attempted to volunteer for a few things in the past year, but they always butt heads with my school or work schedule. It's hard to be philanthropic when every bone in your body tells me to take care of me at this point in my life. But this afternoon presented me with an opportunity to do something small yet satisfying. That will hopefully last me til the summer. Since I left the Catholic ranks, I've become aversed to too much guilt all at once.

Spies and traitors wanted.

What are men like, really?

What goes through your heads?

What the hell is up with you people?

Roleplaying I

RP Observation Number One:

If you're stuck finding a name, go to a website where you have to type in a random confirmation word in order to submit a comment.

The word that made me realize this: Ingrash. I am INGRASH, destroyer of Orcs!

More later.

Wonderingment

If we start to remove "Under God", "In God We Trust", etc. etc. from things in the United States, I'm wondering if it's going to set a precedent for other... stupider things.

For example, will a public school student one day be suspended for saying, "The writing's on the wall?"

I'm always puzzled by that--people don't want to acknowledge God, but they're fine with the idioms and things that have snuck into our culture that are based in Christianity.

Gesundheit.

Lots of things

I'm thinking about the day, mostly. Lots happened. Here are the highlights in order.

1. I was wide awake this morning after sleeping for three hours. This is a phenomenon that occurs every time I get sick. I sleep so much to recover that my body is completely saturated in pure "rest." So I need little to none the day after I recover.

2. A man yelled at me at my job. I'm very good at being polite when this happens.

3. I enjoyed a coffee--really enjoyed it--because I didn't need it at all.

4. I actually had fun in Bio lab. My three partners and I were fumbling with fruit fly food (smelly blue stuff that looks like mashed potatoes), Vaseline, and 2L soda bottles to make fabricated environments to show how Natural Selection works. It was messy and funny, and at one point, one of us said, "Don't hit me, Mo! Gynaaa!" when we nearly spilled and ruined everything. I've never laughed in science class before... not THAT hard.

5. I got to dress up like a bee and perform a poem. It made me miss speech club.

6. I continued to write a children's story that I really think might measure up with the ones I've been studying. All I really care about it that Ada likes it, though.

7. It was 99 cent waffle cone Wednesday, and they were not out of mint chip.

There you are--7 reasons why this has been one of the best days so far this year.

Taking my own advice

"Just write! Stop thinking and write! It doesn't have to sound good; just get your ideas out there!"

Yeah, I'm not doing that tonight. Even my semi-good ideas aren't worth the ink in my pen tonight. So I'm here on blogger. I'm getting over a cold. That's probably part of why my mojo's all off. Having my head all stuffy messes with me. Man, I can't even think of much to say on a blog that's meant to be casual, conversational, and aimless. How sad am I?

Bah. I'll try again tomorrow.

A common theme

In so many dreams, I'm wandering through a kingdom or a city high on a cliff with violent waters below. It's romantic yet unsettling. Last night, I dreamed that a friend and I were in a kingdom like this. We wandered through the city, stepping over wet, brown rocks. The farther we walked, the more we changed. Suddenly, we were creatures that looked like a cross between a reptile and a cat.

We tried the logical thing, I suppose--walking backwards. Nothing helped. So we climbed and climbed to the top of the cliff where the castle stood. We hoped that whoever lived there could help us. An enormous komodo dragon crawled out of a hole on the side of the cliff and started to chase us, hissing loudly. We had become more agile and leaped from rock to rock.

By the time we reached the castle, a storm had whipped up. Even as high as we were, we could feel the spray of the ocean. We clung to each other, frightened by the lightning that seemed so close. We extended our hands to knock on the great doors of the castle, and they were human again.

Why do I keep dreaming of castles and water?

Oh ye of selective faith

Here's a common conversation between aunts, uncles, and parents when I was a kid:

Adult 1: I always take the eucharist, but I never take the wine.

Adult 2: Oh, I know! They wipe it off every time, but you can just never be sure.

Adult 1: You never can.

Adult 2: I love God, but I'm not getting a cold!

Adult 1: Seriously. It's a flawed way of doing it.

They believe in transubstantiation. That takes a lot of faith. When I was a kid, I figured that sacredness killed surface germs. The reward for our faith and courage was not catching a cold, that is. All I'm saying is, I never once got sick after going to mass. It doesn't seem that unbelievable, comparatively.

Lusting after ink.

I imagine that when men read those magazines full of pretty girls, they're aware they'll never get a woman like that. It's just fun to look. That's how I feel when I look at the leather satchels and fountain pens in Levenger. I hope my anime messenger bag and Pilot pens don't think my dedication is wavering. The magic is still there.

What do you call a seance leader who can't stop laughing?

Another dream

I'll post any interesting dreams here. I might have already. The latest one (Friday morning, 1/23/09) played heavily on my love of online gaming. When I die in World of Warcraft, I can walk around in spirit form and find my body. Well, in this dream, I lived in a futuristic society... think Logan's Run meets The Jetsons--an eerie dystopia that was obnoxiously convenient: Robots everywhere, high up in the air, and if you ever made it off of the city there was a raw frontier below. Only there was no strange creature/robot screaming "Fish! Protein! Gifts from the sea!"

So anyway, there are these intruders who look a lot like Jawas with gray robes. Their eyes are still red, but they speak in this low, kind of electric gurgle. They've killed off all the politicians and have taken over. I try and fight them, and I die. So I wander around in my spirit form trying to get someone to raise me from the dead, or cast a "Resurrection Spell," I guess. I can touch things but not people. I start throwing papers into the air and moving things around, trying to guide someone to me.

Jake finally follows me to my body and puts his hands on my head. He says something, and I wake up with a start. But I'm possessed by something, and he has to kill me again or I'm going to kill him. So he tries it again, only this time he has some kind of gun ready that will shoot a sticky/putty-like substance that will pin me to the wall so someone can drive the evil spirit out. So he figures out how to make me me again, and we decide to sneak out of the city.

I want to get a haircut and a new face, so we go to this nearby salon (yes, it's that easy in the future). I picked out a slightly similar face with a few subtle changes, and I had them cut off nearly all of my hair. Then, we put on hoodies and snuck past the rows of Jawa-like politicians walking through the streets.

It's kind of a shameful dream. I didn't even try to stop the Jawa men. Frankly, there were no details in the dream as to why I wanted to stop them. Maybe their coup was for the good of humanity. Maybe they killed off corrupt, evil men, and I didn't realize it. So, it's open to each individual--were the Jawa-like men evil, or did I misunderstand them? Is that why I left? At any rate, we made it to the land and ran off into the mountains. It was very quiet, and the sky was full of cirrus clouds.

Venti is twenty.

I loathe Starbucks coffee. Well, I loathe U.S.A. Starbucks coffee. The one in London was much better. But the point here is this: If I'm on campus and PJ's and CC's are both closed--leaving only the Seattle-based coffee shop--I'd rather nurse a caffeine headache.

But at LEAST their word for an extra-large coffee means something. Venti means 20 in Italian. At CC's, it's infuriating enough not to be able to say "large," but to have to say "Super-grande please!" Come on now. It feels like there was so little thinking involved in the naming of their huge cup of coffee.

And HEY! Community Coffee is a Louisiana company, so why don't we at least use French? If we're going to hop on the complicating-coffee bandwagon, we might as well use the language of our ancestors. Oh well. Grande is still grande in French. No one would bother to pronounce it differently. This is where I tell myself to pick my battles carefully.

PJ's coffee is mild and mediocre, but I like going there. I'm allowed to say "small, medium, large" without being stoned with stale muffins.

Lost and found

I'm having one of those moments where doubt leaves me and I'm 100% convinced that there is an afterlife. It feels good. I'm thinking about a few people right now that I've lost. If they are gone forever, there's no comfort for me at all in this world. But they've never felt closer to me than now. Thank you for the peace. I'm ready for bed now.

The sadism bike of sneaky tripping

So I'm walking to class this evening, and this man speeds by me on a bike. It looks like a bar is poking out from one of his wheels. When I look closer I realize it's a single training wheel on one side. But this was my thought process before realizing that:

"What kind of sick bastard has a stick poking out of his bike's wheel? He could trip someone! He's passing an old woman; what if he.... that sneaky.... oh, it's a training wheel."

I liked my hypothesis better than the truth even though it's horrible.

Letting stories end.

I challenge Hollywood and its workers to not make any sequels or remakes for a full year. I'm so tired of a movie coming out and hearing, "Oh, I saw the original when you weren't even ALIVE" or "This might be even better than the first one!" Cowards!

The first preacher of the season

If I remember correctly, the fire and brimstone preachers always crawl out in the Spring semesters. At least the man I encountered today didn't bring his children. It's unfair and a little cruel to subject kids to the level of mocking that skeptical students are capable of.

He held a sign that said "YOU DESERVE HELL" in yellow and green letters. A Methodist, he assured us that he did not represent the Methodist church--only the kingdom of God. I'm sure the Methodists are grateful. I respect him more than the others--not only for coming alone and not using children for his cause, but for opening his ears to our questions. Sure, his answers were slanted and did not satisfy the crowd, but he answered everyone as well as he could.

It takes resolve and courage to do what he does. Those are great qualities in theory. I don't agree with much of what he said, but I his actions remind me of one of my most solid beliefs: God knows and has mercy on those who truly want to help the world. This guy might not be helping, but he's taking action the best way he knows how. I would have used a more positive approach. You know what they say--you catch more flies with honey. It's difficult to ridicule the man, because that's what he'll have to listen to all day. Why throw another comment on the pile?

I've argued with myself about that "solid" belief of mine. George Carlin did too when he said that motivated people are the most dangerous. Of course many of them are. But when a misguided person does more harm than good, who comes forward to tell them so?---a person who is motivated to do so. So it's somehow, sometime going to even out, at least in my mind. And if it doesn't well, at least there will be people who can say that they tried.

Good luck, angry Methodist man, on your own path to clarity. I don't think that every student deserves hell. Maybe God gives everyone a 4-year grace period. We're bombarded with information, and it feels almost arrogant to assume which path is best when so many look promising. My four years are up. Good thing I believe in forgiveness.

Sometimes half empty is better.

For example:

My mp3 player is still half empty!

Edit:

Well, I'm back on the payroll. I don't have very many hours, but I can pick up extras that people need taken now. I couldn't have been a freelance shift-pick-upper without the couple of hours I'm working now. All is well again for now. I'm still hoping to tutor a bit.

Handkerchief on a stick, worn shoes, and a can of beans.

I'm jobless.

The hours for my old desk are a first-come first-serve thing since I'm a student worker, and I couldn't get the ones I needed. I've been there almost 2 years, and suddenly I'm gone. It was an enjoyable job most of the time, and I'm going to miss it.

A part-time job is the one thing that makes me feel apart from a lot of the people at LSU. There's an unusually high population of spoiled kids. It's not all their fault; they're Lafayette imports who have never had to work because their parents are comfortable. I don't have to work, but I do have to work if I don't want to feel like a complete bum.

Mom and Dad tell me to relax and enjoy my last year and a half of college. My idea of enjoying it is learning a little more every day what it means to be a REAL adult. Of course I'm not there yet, but keeping a job is important to me, because it makes me feel like I won't be afraid of hard work later.

I don't want to fall screaming into the world of grownup-ness right after graduation. I'd like to be calm, prepared and confident. God, I'm a bum. I'm a huge bum.

A new semester

I'm finally getting over the feelings of guilt and regret about my school situation. I'm 24 and have about a year and a half of school left because I just had to give culinary school a try. And because I didn't always work I have no money. And because I have no money I'm still VERY dependent (although now I'm RABIDLY against not working through the year--and I save from every paycheck). At any rate, I'm not where I wanted to be at this age.

I'm not really looking for a "don't feel that way" speech, because I give that one to myself all the time, and it's nothing I haven't heard before. When I look back, I hope that smiling comes easier when I look over those John Folse Institute years and am able to be just thankful for the opportunity---without other negative emotions ruining it.

Growing up in a largely Republican area of Louisiana has given me an unclean start, politically. But no one has a clean one, I suppose. When Obama was elected, here were my thoughts: Well, I read up about a lot of his platforms, and it doesn't sound too bad, but everyone is so scared. I wonder what I'm missing. I guess the best thing to do is get behind him since he's elected now and keep on reading. At LSU there were parties outside the dorms. The more spoiled-looking students who lived there--the ones who got all their information from mom and dad and nothing else--moped in the lobby as the president elect gave his speech. They glared at the happy people outside. They know nothing of their own doom!

Maybe I should care more or put more emotion into it, but there is so much information to go through about both sides, who can know everything? Who can say beyond a doubt that everything is going to be ruined? Well, not experts, because they disagree all the time! It's hard to say to my friends and family, but I feel hopeful. I don't belch out the mantra of "change" like a lot of his more wide-eyed, clueless followers, but I'm hopeful.

Roar

http://news.yahoo.com/s/space/mysteryroarfromfarawayspacedetected

Scientists have heard an incredibly loud noise coming from space--radio waves that are about 6 times louder than anything they could have expected. I don't know enough about science to even think about what this could be. I frequent a forum filled with Lovecraft fans, so out of habit, my first thought was Cthulu.

Seriously, though, I hope they find out. As uneducated as I am about this kind of thing, I'm very very curious.

I feel a little cold coming on.

My new favorite TV show is Dexter. I used to really dislike most television, and then I learned about that, The Office, and It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, the last of which I've yet to actually check out. But it looks great. Cartoons used to be my thing--the only thing I'd watch.

I've maintained my attachment to cartoons and comic books into adulthood. No matter how good CG gets, there are still such big limitations on live action shows and movies. In animation, because everything that's happening is either drawn or created by a computer, everything looks seamless. I'm not thinking about how much work they did (or DIDN'T do) to make an effect. I guess it sucks me in way more than most television.

Home Movies is an underrated cartoon. It was made for adults, but people automatically get turned off because the main character is an 8-year-old. The dialogue is clever and snappy, and it's even funnier coming from elementary school kids. It makes me sad when people won't give it a chance. So much TV writing out there stinks. It's a shame when a talented guy's creation gets the brush-off just because of the medium he chose.

create

I have some ideas about the 57 year old man staring in the corner (it's a corner, not just a wall). None are just right. I'm getting way too into this exercise. An older short story of mine came to mind this afternoon. I put it down because I couldn't make it sound like anything better than whiny drama. One of my biggest weaknesses is my fear of sounding too much like this or that. Learning to get excited again and throw away logic for my first draft--that's a feeling I miss. Ego makes you inhibited, because you never want to look foolish. I feel more ready to write now.

Spring Cleaning

I've put off removing my things from my old room at Mom and Dad's house, and now it's probably going to be a week-long ordeal... whenever I decide to do it. I've realized over the past year or so that I'm not a sentimental person. I keep things because I'm too lazy to go through them, but I don't collect a lot of stuff hoping to look at them a month later and reminisce. The exception to this is bells. I love bells and cow figurines.

Anyway, I have Jesus and Mary statues in my room that I've just learned were painted and gifted years ago by my late great grandmother's crazy neighbor. Apparently she changed personalities depending on her weight. Now I really, really want to keep them.

My mirror broke.

I can't be bothered to look it up now, but someone sometime said something along the lines of:

We usually have in ourselves the things we dislike in other people.

This is sadly true for me, or at least it used to be. Up until recently, I was a notorious projector of my own faults and fears. The unhappy recipient of this was my significant other. He never complained about it, because he knew that I knew the truth. Even when I didn't admit it to him, he had faith that whatever problem I had would blow over that night when I went to bed and thought about my words. My accusations had no roots--at least in him. Realizing this over and over taught me to be responsible for my own feelings and my own actions.

People cannot help how they react to things that I say and do--that's part of their personality.
Sometimes, people can purposely egg others on or push their buttons. But this was rarely true with me. Not only did I often see my faults in others, but I imagined my faults in others. What an unfair person I was. I'm still nowhere near saintly, but knowing that I can speak directly about my feelings and my worries instead of transferring the burden and blame to another comforts me greatly at night.

That said, I've come to realize that one of my pet peeves is bullshit---not the kind of bullshit you hear from a drunk man boasting that he can bench 350. No, I'm referring to the bullshit I used to spew myself. I guess once I started seeing it more from the outside instead of in myself, I realized how awful it is. This disgust makes me cringe, though, because it makes me feel like I felt when I did Weight Watchers. Everyone was a target for my health preaching, because I myself was finally on the way to a healthy life. I don't know how much that counts when it comes to living a good and moral life, but that person's never the life of the party. As comfortable as I am with my view from the soap box, it's time to get just as comfortable on eye level.

Therefore, my next goal is to try and channel my frustration. By now you all think I'm egotistical, and you're right. It's another thing I have to work on. But leave this entry knowing that I'm aware that my failings are my own to work on, and I plan to . Becoming a better person who tries harder to relate to people---that's my New Year's Resolution.