When I woke up this morning I had one of those half cognizant realizations that you're always confused by. It was a "where did that come from?" Yes. I had one. At 6:00 a.m., just as my alarm clock went off, I had the startling revelation that I needed to buy toilet paper. Am I out? Not yet, but upon checking my supply, I saw that restocking might be nice. That's not the point. The point is- WHAT on earth possessed me to think of toilet paper before I was fully conscious?
I need to move to a colder climate. I have countless cute sweaters. And it's 90 degrees outside. Currently I look like a hippy remnant with my odd assortment of clothes. I don't like looking hippy. I like looking preppy.
I put white-chocolate-rasberry creamer in my coffee this morning.
I turned in a paper in English class and my professor offered me a job when I graduated. It's in Frankfort, so probably not... but I shan't burn that bridge.
All the computer labs were being used, so I went to visit Jodi. Jodi is one of my favorite people alive. She's amazing. She was my boss for about a year, and now I just stop by out of habit. We chatted for a good hour both agreeing that we tend to judge people on how they dress- I pointed out that I look like a hippy. She laughed. And agreed. Rightly so.
Then Erest called- apparently Bops loves my sunglasses- my huge bug ones. I KNEW that she was amazing! Right after that I called Bunny. We talked for 35 minutes and 47 seconds while I went to go get a den pop and look for an open lab. We need a girly movie and a life outside of West Lafayette and school assignments. I think we're going to Indy in a week...
I have two more classes. One which I'm changing to honors so I can effectively kill myself through over-working in my last semester of college, and the other in which the black girl who sits behind me snorts and says, "White people are dumb." every 30 seconds. Should be a fun day...
Then work. :)
Then children's choir, which I forsee being my new passion.
Then coffee.
Then massive amounts of studying until I fall asleep on my Child Psych notes.
Should be fun.
Happy Wednesday!
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The class I have already taken and will drop as soon as IU sends my transcript for the on-line equivalent
I always get an itching to describe certain members of academia right as I'm laboring under first impressions. As the semester continues their character develops (not always) and sometimes it's hard to include all their character (in some cases).
Let's spend today on my English professor.
He's an eccentric man. I don't think there's any other way to describe him. The first day of class we did not get a syllabus. We were not told a class outline. We were not given expectations, grading procedures, or any of the other common first-day staples of a college course. Instead, we spent an ENTIRE 20 minutes learning how to pronounce his name. No joke. I looked at the clock.
His name is Fiscle. Pronounced like "thistle" only with an "f". That's it. I just gave correct pronunciation in less than a paragraph. Two sentences, in fact. Amazing, I know. Perhaps I should go into higher education. I bet I could teach people how to say "Blake" in one easy step. I'd be a genius in my field...
This would not have been so bad were he not insulting my intelligence at the same time. He began the class by telling us that this is "very hard... you'll have never experienced a class of this intensity." I almost snorted. It's English 108. Then, after speech which scared every freshman in the room and simulataneously convulsed each upper-classman with silent, hidden laughter (yes, the two of us were very amused...) he said, "Everyone, pull out your schedule."
I hadn't printed mine. "Young lady- you need to print off your schedule. You'll get lost." I smiled and said, "Thank you." He doesn't need to know that I've been coming to this university since age 3 and that I have been a student since 2004, and that my mortar board has been color coded and scheduled for almost 48 hours. He then proceeded to walk us through the schedule. It went something like this:
"Okay, everyone look- is there a class at 8:30 on Monday. Everyone check. You have it? Good. Now, does this class also meet on Wednesday and Friday? Are there any Tuesday, Thursday slots? If there are Tuesday, Thursday you may be in the wrong class. Are you okay- did you check? Everyone check. Double check. Good. Now, everyone... is the class called ENGL 108? ENGL means "English." Does everyone have that? Are you sure? Is your Monday, Wednesday, Friday class labelled ENGL 108. Remember ENGL stands for "English." Okay, now look again. Are you supposed to be in HEAV? That's this building, Heavilon. H-E-A-V. Has everyone checked? Okay, double check. Look again for any Tuesday Thursday times. Now go back through the schedule and check everything again. Do it again. Are we okay? Are you sure? You're where you're supposed to be?"
Even if I had been in the wrong class, I don't think I would have left. To leave would be to admit a level of stupidity that I never want to be associated with. My brain felt like it was going to explode from the pure idiocy of the whole proceeding.
He then read the roll call. Oh yes, he did. And he spent about 3 minutes on each person's name- after pronouncing it correctly he would preen for 30 seconds about how amazing it was that he had done so well at pronunciation and that it was a sign of preparation and knowledge of the English language. (There were 4 Indians in the class **knowledge of English doesn't help with those pronunciations, but he thought it did** and the way he spit out their names was something to behold. My name's normal. He laughed at it and said, "Well, there's nothing exceptional about that. Fairly boring name, right?" Excuse me? "Blake" is a FABULOUS name. However, I felt worse for the others whose names were derided or butchered. No one dared to correct him, even though I saw one guy shake his head when his name was chopped.)
Then, after another soliloquey about the difficulty of college (of which difficulty he had shown us nothing) he let us go. And, even though the syllabi were sitting in a stack next to him, he merely tapped them and said, "Ahhh, you young, eager freshmen. You shall not get a syllabi today! I bet you have no other class that does that. I'm sure no one else is so thorough in their acclimation. You will have no other class like this one!"
Let us hope not.
Let's spend today on my English professor.
He's an eccentric man. I don't think there's any other way to describe him. The first day of class we did not get a syllabus. We were not told a class outline. We were not given expectations, grading procedures, or any of the other common first-day staples of a college course. Instead, we spent an ENTIRE 20 minutes learning how to pronounce his name. No joke. I looked at the clock.
His name is Fiscle. Pronounced like "thistle" only with an "f". That's it. I just gave correct pronunciation in less than a paragraph. Two sentences, in fact. Amazing, I know. Perhaps I should go into higher education. I bet I could teach people how to say "Blake" in one easy step. I'd be a genius in my field...
This would not have been so bad were he not insulting my intelligence at the same time. He began the class by telling us that this is "very hard... you'll have never experienced a class of this intensity." I almost snorted. It's English 108. Then, after speech which scared every freshman in the room and simulataneously convulsed each upper-classman with silent, hidden laughter (yes, the two of us were very amused...) he said, "Everyone, pull out your schedule."
I hadn't printed mine. "Young lady- you need to print off your schedule. You'll get lost." I smiled and said, "Thank you." He doesn't need to know that I've been coming to this university since age 3 and that I have been a student since 2004, and that my mortar board has been color coded and scheduled for almost 48 hours. He then proceeded to walk us through the schedule. It went something like this:
"Okay, everyone look- is there a class at 8:30 on Monday. Everyone check. You have it? Good. Now, does this class also meet on Wednesday and Friday? Are there any Tuesday, Thursday slots? If there are Tuesday, Thursday you may be in the wrong class. Are you okay- did you check? Everyone check. Double check. Good. Now, everyone... is the class called ENGL 108? ENGL means "English." Does everyone have that? Are you sure? Is your Monday, Wednesday, Friday class labelled ENGL 108. Remember ENGL stands for "English." Okay, now look again. Are you supposed to be in HEAV? That's this building, Heavilon. H-E-A-V. Has everyone checked? Okay, double check. Look again for any Tuesday Thursday times. Now go back through the schedule and check everything again. Do it again. Are we okay? Are you sure? You're where you're supposed to be?"
Even if I had been in the wrong class, I don't think I would have left. To leave would be to admit a level of stupidity that I never want to be associated with. My brain felt like it was going to explode from the pure idiocy of the whole proceeding.
He then read the roll call. Oh yes, he did. And he spent about 3 minutes on each person's name- after pronouncing it correctly he would preen for 30 seconds about how amazing it was that he had done so well at pronunciation and that it was a sign of preparation and knowledge of the English language. (There were 4 Indians in the class **knowledge of English doesn't help with those pronunciations, but he thought it did** and the way he spit out their names was something to behold. My name's normal. He laughed at it and said, "Well, there's nothing exceptional about that. Fairly boring name, right?" Excuse me? "Blake" is a FABULOUS name. However, I felt worse for the others whose names were derided or butchered. No one dared to correct him, even though I saw one guy shake his head when his name was chopped.)
Then, after another soliloquey about the difficulty of college (of which difficulty he had shown us nothing) he let us go. And, even though the syllabi were sitting in a stack next to him, he merely tapped them and said, "Ahhh, you young, eager freshmen. You shall not get a syllabi today! I bet you have no other class that does that. I'm sure no one else is so thorough in their acclimation. You will have no other class like this one!"
Let us hope not.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
No Words
I hate this feeling. It's like an internal force, something inside me screaming. It wants to be written, and, as horribly Hollywood as it sounds, I don't feel better until it is.
But I don't like it. It hurts. Like ripping off a scab. Oh so bad, and yet good at the same time. It vaguely resembles the feeling I get mid-exam. A sort of panting exhaustion, a strange adrenaline rush, a "this is is!" moment. In an exam you can prepare. There's no study guide for writing your life.
The tricky part is, I don't even know what to say... There's some feeling sitting in my gut, and there are no words to add substance to it. I'm grabbing at phrases, but nothing seems to come...
Maybe I'm lonely.
I think that's the closest I can come. But it's not even that. It's like a subtle nostalgia. A faint whisper of "I love you"... perhaps the melody of "Moon River." Almost like waking up the day after Christmas and realizing it's all over. It's like those tears you cry when driving, a cup of hot chocolate, one of those nights when you wake up at 2 and realize you're all alone- in the dark. It reminds me of down comforters, fireplaces and candle light. There aren't words. There are only senses.
I want the English language to have a word for this.
But all I can say is I'm lonely. I'm wistful. I'm content.
The end.
But I don't like it. It hurts. Like ripping off a scab. Oh so bad, and yet good at the same time. It vaguely resembles the feeling I get mid-exam. A sort of panting exhaustion, a strange adrenaline rush, a "this is is!" moment. In an exam you can prepare. There's no study guide for writing your life.
The tricky part is, I don't even know what to say... There's some feeling sitting in my gut, and there are no words to add substance to it. I'm grabbing at phrases, but nothing seems to come...
Maybe I'm lonely.
I think that's the closest I can come. But it's not even that. It's like a subtle nostalgia. A faint whisper of "I love you"... perhaps the melody of "Moon River." Almost like waking up the day after Christmas and realizing it's all over. It's like those tears you cry when driving, a cup of hot chocolate, one of those nights when you wake up at 2 and realize you're all alone- in the dark. It reminds me of down comforters, fireplaces and candle light. There aren't words. There are only senses.
I want the English language to have a word for this.
But all I can say is I'm lonely. I'm wistful. I'm content.
The end.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The-start-of-senior-year-first-week-of-classes-haphazard-random-revelations
I am a frantic (happy) workaholic.
The new school year always opens my eyes with startling revelations- this was one of them. I really am. I love to be incredibly, insanely busy. I love to be running from morning to night, from one activity to another, constantly moving, constantly going, constantly opening my schedule to peruse my next activity. Such mayhem is my passion. I'm happier, more alert, bubbly, and incredibly full of energy. I love it. I've decided that in the future I will HAVE to have a job that requires my constant running and stress. Or I could become a mother. Either, or...
Being loved is amazing.
This was the second revelation. When I began my college experience I took admiration, like, and especially love for granted. That's not to say that I had an excess of any of those (barring love from my fam) but they were common. Normal. Now, as a jaded senior, love suddenly is incredible. And rare. I treated being loved as a matter of fact when I started college, now I view it as something to be highly prized. I'm very sure that there are multiple people who's love or affection I have rebuffed, ignored, or underappreciated. And I'm even more sure that (in many of those cases) I was a complete idiot. I'm flawed at loving, and even more flawed at accepting love, but despite my errors I am now sure that the greatest thing any human can do (other than love his/her Creator) is love and be loved. Victor Hugo says it marvelously in Les Miserables "Life's greatest happiness is to be convinced we are loved."
Okay, enough intensity. As a reward for your patience, dear reader, in wading through my foggy thoughts and half-formed ideas and convictions, I will now proffer several lighter revelations impressed upon me by this school year.
I love my new, purple water bottle. It's shatter-proof, stain-proof, and has a fabulous little insert that keeps me from dumping water all over myself. (Which, as many know, I am prone to do.)
My mortar board has never looked so fabulous and I think color-coding one's life is one of the most fascinating past times EVER. For this, (and my penchant for organizing 3-ring binders) I am dubbed (perhaps appropriately) a "nerd."
Engineers are born tired. They look exhausted the first week of school, so it must be an innate, genetic thing that makes them look tired, for (surely!) they could not be strained to the point of exhaustion just yet...
I like spending money. But not on rent, groceries, books, and bills.
Coffee is my motivation for getting up in the morning. My new white-chocolate-raspberry creamer is the last word in heaven on this earth.
I love my Julie-Bop. And I miss her...
End of revelations, or, at least of the ones I'll share.
Happy first week of classes!
The new school year always opens my eyes with startling revelations- this was one of them. I really am. I love to be incredibly, insanely busy. I love to be running from morning to night, from one activity to another, constantly moving, constantly going, constantly opening my schedule to peruse my next activity. Such mayhem is my passion. I'm happier, more alert, bubbly, and incredibly full of energy. I love it. I've decided that in the future I will HAVE to have a job that requires my constant running and stress. Or I could become a mother. Either, or...
Being loved is amazing.
This was the second revelation. When I began my college experience I took admiration, like, and especially love for granted. That's not to say that I had an excess of any of those (barring love from my fam) but they were common. Normal. Now, as a jaded senior, love suddenly is incredible. And rare. I treated being loved as a matter of fact when I started college, now I view it as something to be highly prized. I'm very sure that there are multiple people who's love or affection I have rebuffed, ignored, or underappreciated. And I'm even more sure that (in many of those cases) I was a complete idiot. I'm flawed at loving, and even more flawed at accepting love, but despite my errors I am now sure that the greatest thing any human can do (other than love his/her Creator) is love and be loved. Victor Hugo says it marvelously in Les Miserables "Life's greatest happiness is to be convinced we are loved."
Okay, enough intensity. As a reward for your patience, dear reader, in wading through my foggy thoughts and half-formed ideas and convictions, I will now proffer several lighter revelations impressed upon me by this school year.
I love my new, purple water bottle. It's shatter-proof, stain-proof, and has a fabulous little insert that keeps me from dumping water all over myself. (Which, as many know, I am prone to do.)
My mortar board has never looked so fabulous and I think color-coding one's life is one of the most fascinating past times EVER. For this, (and my penchant for organizing 3-ring binders) I am dubbed (perhaps appropriately) a "nerd."
Engineers are born tired. They look exhausted the first week of school, so it must be an innate, genetic thing that makes them look tired, for (surely!) they could not be strained to the point of exhaustion just yet...
I like spending money. But not on rent, groceries, books, and bills.
Coffee is my motivation for getting up in the morning. My new white-chocolate-raspberry creamer is the last word in heaven on this earth.
I love my Julie-Bop. And I miss her...
End of revelations, or, at least of the ones I'll share.
Happy first week of classes!
Friday, July 6, 2007
I'm happy!
You know what I've decided? I've decided that my parents want to see me happy. Not only do THEY want to see me happy, but many of the other "elders" in my life ALSO want to see me happy.
That's very nice of them, don't you think?
I think so.
However, I'm very much afraid that these dear people are convinced that without a relationship, and without matrimony, I will never be really truly happy.
Don't get me wrong- I think marriage, relationship, "love you forever and ever" is great. But that's not what God has placed in my life. He may never place it there. And, in all honesty- I'M OKAY WITH THAT!!!
I'm very happy right now. I love what I do, I love what I'm going to do. I love my first grade Sunday school class and shoe shopping with my good friends. I love Starbuck's chats and late night telephone calls. I'm a fan of choosing where I eat on Sunday afternoon, and I'm completely and totally psyched about moving into my new apartment.
I'M HAPPY!!!
So, thank you, dear ones in my life for caring about me. I appreciate it. But I need you to know...
I'M HAPPY JUST THE WAY THINGS ARE!!!
(However, if you would like to take care of the rest of my school bills, just give me a call...)
That's very nice of them, don't you think?
I think so.
However, I'm very much afraid that these dear people are convinced that without a relationship, and without matrimony, I will never be really truly happy.
Don't get me wrong- I think marriage, relationship, "love you forever and ever" is great. But that's not what God has placed in my life. He may never place it there. And, in all honesty- I'M OKAY WITH THAT!!!
I'm very happy right now. I love what I do, I love what I'm going to do. I love my first grade Sunday school class and shoe shopping with my good friends. I love Starbuck's chats and late night telephone calls. I'm a fan of choosing where I eat on Sunday afternoon, and I'm completely and totally psyched about moving into my new apartment.
I'M HAPPY!!!
So, thank you, dear ones in my life for caring about me. I appreciate it. But I need you to know...
I'M HAPPY JUST THE WAY THINGS ARE!!!
(However, if you would like to take care of the rest of my school bills, just give me a call...)
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Wednesday 10:37 a.m., English class
While I was sitting in English class on Wednesday, my professor said something that caught my attention. (If you knew my English teacher you'd know how momentous this was...)
She said, "Borges was an amazing writer. While very politically active with strong views on a variety of subjects, he was able to separate himself from his political views and ideals in order to write stories that were pure art- no agenda."
Wait a minute...
Can you separate yourself from your ideals and your passions in order to create "art"? Is art ever "unbiased" and completely untainted by the views of the artist? Is it possible to create art without conviction?
No.
Art cannot be created in a vacuum. Were you to remove passion, conviction, and even one's own political views, one would not be able to create. These things are your character. They support you and your existence. They are you.
I wandered further down this mental rabbit trail. (English is a rather long, dry class...) I believe that too many of us do separate ourselves from something that is crucially part of us. (Or perhaps something that should be crucially part of us...) We separate ourselves from God.
Don't gasp and look indignantly at your screen. You know it's true.
There is the God of the universe. Who saved you. Who loves you. Who died for you. Who lives for you. The God who listens to every prayer you cry and every thought you think. The God who feels your pain and plans your days.
Yet we, for the most part, cut Him out of our life, out of our gifts, out of our "art" more effortlessly than we cut out our political agendas and thoughts. Why are we so quick to forget the God of the universe, so quick to destroy His influence on our actions, plans, and thoughts, while we tenaciously hold to our self-constructed ideals?
Why doesn't God permeate every aspects of our lives the same way our stubborn, man-made convictions do?
Why is He disconnected from daily pursuits and passions?
She said, "Borges was an amazing writer. While very politically active with strong views on a variety of subjects, he was able to separate himself from his political views and ideals in order to write stories that were pure art- no agenda."
Wait a minute...
Can you separate yourself from your ideals and your passions in order to create "art"? Is art ever "unbiased" and completely untainted by the views of the artist? Is it possible to create art without conviction?
No.
Art cannot be created in a vacuum. Were you to remove passion, conviction, and even one's own political views, one would not be able to create. These things are your character. They support you and your existence. They are you.
I wandered further down this mental rabbit trail. (English is a rather long, dry class...) I believe that too many of us do separate ourselves from something that is crucially part of us. (Or perhaps something that should be crucially part of us...) We separate ourselves from God.
Don't gasp and look indignantly at your screen. You know it's true.
There is the God of the universe. Who saved you. Who loves you. Who died for you. Who lives for you. The God who listens to every prayer you cry and every thought you think. The God who feels your pain and plans your days.
Yet we, for the most part, cut Him out of our life, out of our gifts, out of our "art" more effortlessly than we cut out our political agendas and thoughts. Why are we so quick to forget the God of the universe, so quick to destroy His influence on our actions, plans, and thoughts, while we tenaciously hold to our self-constructed ideals?
Why doesn't God permeate every aspects of our lives the same way our stubborn, man-made convictions do?
How is it that we have trouble removing our agendas, but we never struggle to remove our God?
Why is He disconnected from daily pursuits and passions?
Why do we so easily cut out God?
Friday, April 13, 2007
Digital Fortune Cookies
I recently installed a little digital fortune cookie on my internet homepage. It looks so cute! Plus, you get the fortunes without feeling guilty about not eating the cookies. I don't like the cookies, but I do like the fortunes.
However, I've learned that digital fortunes are just like the ones that you'll find at your standard "Great Wall Buffet." They're wrong. Often boring. Sometimes bizarre. And not always necessarily a "fortune." For example:
A smile is your personal welcome mat. Does that even sound nice? Am I the only one that immediately thinks of someone wiping their feet on my lips? Not pleasant. And what's so "fortune-like" about that? It's just advice.
You have an ambitious nature and will make a name for yourself. Now, that's just not true. (Proof that digital fortune cookies don't know you any better than those from the buffet line at the "Great Wall.") I'm not ambitious at all... I wonder if the name I make will be good...
Luck is with you now. Act upon your instincts. Luck is not with me now! My sister drank almost all of my morning coffee, and Julie definitely spit-up all over me. Not so lucky. And I don't have instincts. Alex says that's the reason I can't play tennis.
Just to have it is enough. What is this "it" that I apparently have? I'm confused... And once again, not really a fortune.
A few hours of grace before the madness begins again. What? I'm going to class now. The madness has already started. I'm beginning to doubt the veracity of my digital cookies.
Your ability to juggle many tasks will take you far. Once again. Doesn't know me. I'm a horrible multi-tasker. I've just recently mastered the ability to tie my shoe and talk at the same time.
The world is always ready to receive talent with open arms. That's just blatantly untrue. I have a wonderful talent of gargling with pickle juice. No one has greeted me with open arms. So sad...
And my favorite:
A once in a lifetime adventure awaits you in the South Pacific islands.
Yaya! I've always wanted to go to Western Samoa! Bring it on. (I think my digital fortune cookies are lying to me...)
However, I've learned that digital fortunes are just like the ones that you'll find at your standard "Great Wall Buffet." They're wrong. Often boring. Sometimes bizarre. And not always necessarily a "fortune." For example:
A smile is your personal welcome mat. Does that even sound nice? Am I the only one that immediately thinks of someone wiping their feet on my lips? Not pleasant. And what's so "fortune-like" about that? It's just advice.
You have an ambitious nature and will make a name for yourself. Now, that's just not true. (Proof that digital fortune cookies don't know you any better than those from the buffet line at the "Great Wall.") I'm not ambitious at all... I wonder if the name I make will be good...
Luck is with you now. Act upon your instincts. Luck is not with me now! My sister drank almost all of my morning coffee, and Julie definitely spit-up all over me. Not so lucky. And I don't have instincts. Alex says that's the reason I can't play tennis.
Just to have it is enough. What is this "it" that I apparently have? I'm confused... And once again, not really a fortune.
A few hours of grace before the madness begins again. What? I'm going to class now. The madness has already started. I'm beginning to doubt the veracity of my digital cookies.
Your ability to juggle many tasks will take you far. Once again. Doesn't know me. I'm a horrible multi-tasker. I've just recently mastered the ability to tie my shoe and talk at the same time.
The world is always ready to receive talent with open arms. That's just blatantly untrue. I have a wonderful talent of gargling with pickle juice. No one has greeted me with open arms. So sad...
And my favorite:
A once in a lifetime adventure awaits you in the South Pacific islands.
Yaya! I've always wanted to go to Western Samoa! Bring it on. (I think my digital fortune cookies are lying to me...)
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Julie-Bop!
I now (officially, according to all the powers that be) have a new little sister.
Whoo-hoo!!!
She has what I've always coveted- long eyelashes, straight hair, and (the crowning achievement) one dimple. Just one. That's perfect.
However, she also has some of the craziest eyebrows that you've ever seen. Her face (because of the funky brows) wears a perpetually worried look that is quite amusing. She hates the mornings, loves to eat, likes to dance "Chicka-bop" (I'll show you sometime...), and gets crazy excited at night. Basically she could be my twin.
My family invented this new game called "Julie tipping." I know it sounds awful, but she loves it. We sit her on the bed, and then take our index finger and point it at her, gradually moving it to her forehead at which point you are to apply pressure and push her over. She flops back on the bed and screams with laughter. Well, after doing this several times in a row, you reach the point where all you have to do is point at her- and she'll flop back of her own volition without you pushing her. And even then she just laughs and laughs and laughs. It's quite amusing to watch.
She's learned to give "kissies" when asked.
And "Dada" is her favorite person in the world.
She hates solid foods.
And cries out of fear when given toys. She hates them. All of them.
She never puts anything in her mouth, although when worried she'll rub her lips worriedly with her index finger.
She bangs her head when bored.
She likes to be held constantly.
There, I believe that's almost all the idiosyncrasies I've observed in the past 36 hours. I write about them so that I won't bore people to death TALKING about her. :)
Going to school is so BORING when there's a little "Julie-bop" at home. (She also goes by "Reuben," "Chicky," "Ju-Ju," "Jules," and "Ju-Ji," depending on her mood. The poor child will never learn her real name...)
I WANT TO GO HOME AND PLAY WITH MY LITTLE SISTER!!!
Bother school...
Friday, April 6, 2007
Stupid car, Stupid keys, Stupid me- Wonderful Savior
So. I thought I couldn't get any ditzier. I was pretty sure that my level of stupidity had reached an all-time high and was unable to grow any more.
I was wrong.
I locked my keys in my car. I actually consciously thought, "I will leave my keys here so that I don't forget them." Got out of my car. And locked it. Brilliant.
I'm supposed to be in class right now, but obviously I'm not. I'm stranded at home until my little brother comes to rescue me by breaking into my car. I refuse to call a locksmith. Why? Because I called one not a month ago. Yes, I did. Why? For the same reason. THE EXACT SAME REASON. In fact, the car is probably sitting in the same spot it was sitting last time I called the locksmith. Something in me revolts against paying $40 dollars (again!) for my own stupidity. So instead, Alex and I are going to perfect our skill of vandalism and car breaking and entering. It could come in handy someday when money is tight... (joking!)
But my coffee is brewed to perfection. I just had a heavenly bagel with cream cheese. (I love my cream cheese!) And my brother just called me to talk about feminism and feminists (which I am not.) All in all, it's been a good morning thus far.
When the sun came shining in through my windows this morning I was too busy to notice its light. I was dashing around, frantically trying to achieve straightness in my usually frizzy hair. What pants to wear? What did I do with my eyelash curler? Why on EARTH can't I find socks? These were my thoughts. Profound, no?
But the car keys (or lack there-of) forced me to stop. To slow down. To look outside. The sun is shining. The grass is green. It's beautiful. And then I remembered...
Two thousand years ago a man, ignored by the world and forgotten by his people carried a cross on his raw, beaten back up the road to a hill. And there, on that hill, his wrists were bashed to that cross's wooden beam with dull, thick nails. There, with blood and sweat dripping into his eyes he was hoisted above the crowd and left to draw agonizing breath after breath. For hours. The world went on. Men laughed, scorned, ignored, rejected, or hurried by that man on the tree. While the earth continued to spin, while trade was plied, sins committed, and life was lived by thousands, their Creator died. On a rough cross. Splinters digging into his back. His own Father's rejection. Complete and utter lonliness. Total physical pain. He suffered. And we ignored.
It's "Good Friday." Two thousand years ago our God died. For us.
What wondrous love is this...
"This is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us, and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins." (I John 4:10)
I was wrong.
I locked my keys in my car. I actually consciously thought, "I will leave my keys here so that I don't forget them." Got out of my car. And locked it. Brilliant.
I'm supposed to be in class right now, but obviously I'm not. I'm stranded at home until my little brother comes to rescue me by breaking into my car. I refuse to call a locksmith. Why? Because I called one not a month ago. Yes, I did. Why? For the same reason. THE EXACT SAME REASON. In fact, the car is probably sitting in the same spot it was sitting last time I called the locksmith. Something in me revolts against paying $40 dollars (again!) for my own stupidity. So instead, Alex and I are going to perfect our skill of vandalism and car breaking and entering. It could come in handy someday when money is tight... (joking!)
But my coffee is brewed to perfection. I just had a heavenly bagel with cream cheese. (I love my cream cheese!) And my brother just called me to talk about feminism and feminists (which I am not.) All in all, it's been a good morning thus far.
When the sun came shining in through my windows this morning I was too busy to notice its light. I was dashing around, frantically trying to achieve straightness in my usually frizzy hair. What pants to wear? What did I do with my eyelash curler? Why on EARTH can't I find socks? These were my thoughts. Profound, no?
But the car keys (or lack there-of) forced me to stop. To slow down. To look outside. The sun is shining. The grass is green. It's beautiful. And then I remembered...
Two thousand years ago a man, ignored by the world and forgotten by his people carried a cross on his raw, beaten back up the road to a hill. And there, on that hill, his wrists were bashed to that cross's wooden beam with dull, thick nails. There, with blood and sweat dripping into his eyes he was hoisted above the crowd and left to draw agonizing breath after breath. For hours. The world went on. Men laughed, scorned, ignored, rejected, or hurried by that man on the tree. While the earth continued to spin, while trade was plied, sins committed, and life was lived by thousands, their Creator died. On a rough cross. Splinters digging into his back. His own Father's rejection. Complete and utter lonliness. Total physical pain. He suffered. And we ignored.
It's "Good Friday." Two thousand years ago our God died. For us.
What wondrous love is this...
"This is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us, and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins." (I John 4:10)
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Forever and For Always
Kat pulled the blinds a little further apart and squinted out. Behind her the nurse coughed softly,
"You can open the shades, if you want, Mrs. Herschman."
"Oh, no," she smiled, "I don't think he likes it..." Judy (strange how all the nurses seemed to be named "Judy") nodded and slipped out of the room. Kat went back to her squinting. For three days she hadn't moved from the chair next to the hospital bed. Now, for some strange, odd reason she didn't want to turn around. It was safer to stare out the window.
Kat had always played it safe. Phil never had. He lived life like tomorrow was something he was guaranteed. He had done that when they started dating. Kat had fought it tooth and nail. Phil didn't care. She'd turn him down and he'd show up anyway. She'd say "no" and he'd act like she had just said "yes." She remembered one night he had borrowed his dad's Cadillac and taken her to Rudy's Rally, the drive-in restaurant. She had ordered a salad. Salads were safe date foods... you didn't want your boyfriend thinking that you were expensive or (worse still!) fat. Yes, a salad with low-fat dressing was safe. Philip had looked right at her and said,
"You don't like low-fat dressing." This was true. "Waiter! A large chocolate malt and cheese fries." And she hadn't eaten her salad that night.
She smiled. He was always doing that. Looking right through her facade and destroying it. Finding what she was scared of, finding what she wanted, and then reaching out and grabbing it for her.
The monitor behind her beeped. She turned around. Quickly. Strange how easily her eyes read the screen- it had become a habit. She walked over to the bedside. Sat down. Ken would be back soon. She remembered the day that Ken had been born. Philip had cried. He always stoutly protested any other record crying, but that day he never argued about.
"I'm a dad. I'm a dad! Look, honey! Wow. I'm a dad!" He had stood with her in the hospital three more times after that. And had pushed swings, tightened training wheels, spanked, kissed, built treehouses for, and taught all four how to drive a stick shift.
She picked up his fingers and entwined her in his. Those folds of skin that she had once seen on her grandma she now saw on her own hands. A thin, blue vein of Phil's pulsed under her thumb. She caught herself holding her breath, waiting for each pulse.
There had been that time when he had come home, gray, drawn, and collapsed in the faded easy chair. She didn't even ask. Sitting on the arm of the chair she held his hand. Felt his pulse. And prayed. Prayed that somewhere there would be a job for her brilliant, hardworking husband. Prayed that he would find it soon. Prayed that the electricity would not go off. Prayed she could find food for all four children. It had pulsed under her hand when her mother died, and all she could do was draw one breath after another. The dull throb in the hand that held hers kept her sane. Kept her from crying.
Automatically she reached forward and brushed a piece of hair off his forehead. Phil had always said that he would never go bald. And he hadn't. Not completely. She grinned when she thought about that first day when she had told him she saw a shine on the crown of his head. He had looked at her solemnly and said,
"Woman, there is no shine. Would you like to know why? Because on the day there starts to be shine you shall start to have wrinkles." From that day forth there was no mention of shine. Or wrinkles.
Forty-eight years. She had starched and mended his dress shirts, made his dinner, soothed his anger. For forty-eight years her life had been entertaining co-workers and employees at every Christmas party, cleaning the house, and making sure that his socks were put away in their color-coded positions. There had always been tacos on Friday, because he loved tacos. She had painted their bedroom blue, although she hated blue, because Phil liked that color. Forty-eight years of no onions in her baked beans (Phil didn't like onions) and calling him to make sure he didn't miss his dentist appointments. Forty-eight years of watching the "Charlie Brown Christmas" with the traditional carmel corn and commercial tickling breaks. Forty-eight years of waking up every Sunday morning to the buzz of his razor. Forty-eight years of pretending to laugh at his horrible jokes and corny puns. Forty-eight years of tears, laughter, and fights. She had spent forty-eight years telling him to never wear his brown belt with his black pants, and he had spent forty-eight years "forgetting."
For forty-eight years her life had been Phil. And his had been her, Kat. Hand-in-hand they had walked. Like friends. Constantly straining towards the same goal. She remembered the day before their wedding,
"Kat, I want to stand by you. With you. I want to grow with you, serve with you, share with you."
And he had.
The monitor beeped again, but her eyes still looked at Phil. He was so handsome. She had never stopped thinking that. Not ever. Even with the ventilator in...
"Mom?" She turned. "Mom, it's time. Are you ready?" She wanted to scream. Cry. Yell. But she didn't. She stood slowly. Nodded. Then turned to her husband.
"Phil, I'll love you- forever and for always. Forever and for always. Always."
Ken led her out of the room, closing the door softly.
The nurse and doctor entered, quietly. The nurse looked to the doctor. He nodded. Glanced at the wall clock and then his file,
"And we are suspending life support for a Mr. Philip Herschman at... 3:28 p.m."
3:34 p.m. the monitor stopped. Forever and for always.
"You can open the shades, if you want, Mrs. Herschman."
"Oh, no," she smiled, "I don't think he likes it..." Judy (strange how all the nurses seemed to be named "Judy") nodded and slipped out of the room. Kat went back to her squinting. For three days she hadn't moved from the chair next to the hospital bed. Now, for some strange, odd reason she didn't want to turn around. It was safer to stare out the window.
Kat had always played it safe. Phil never had. He lived life like tomorrow was something he was guaranteed. He had done that when they started dating. Kat had fought it tooth and nail. Phil didn't care. She'd turn him down and he'd show up anyway. She'd say "no" and he'd act like she had just said "yes." She remembered one night he had borrowed his dad's Cadillac and taken her to Rudy's Rally, the drive-in restaurant. She had ordered a salad. Salads were safe date foods... you didn't want your boyfriend thinking that you were expensive or (worse still!) fat. Yes, a salad with low-fat dressing was safe. Philip had looked right at her and said,
"You don't like low-fat dressing." This was true. "Waiter! A large chocolate malt and cheese fries." And she hadn't eaten her salad that night.
She smiled. He was always doing that. Looking right through her facade and destroying it. Finding what she was scared of, finding what she wanted, and then reaching out and grabbing it for her.
The monitor behind her beeped. She turned around. Quickly. Strange how easily her eyes read the screen- it had become a habit. She walked over to the bedside. Sat down. Ken would be back soon. She remembered the day that Ken had been born. Philip had cried. He always stoutly protested any other record crying, but that day he never argued about.
"I'm a dad. I'm a dad! Look, honey! Wow. I'm a dad!" He had stood with her in the hospital three more times after that. And had pushed swings, tightened training wheels, spanked, kissed, built treehouses for, and taught all four how to drive a stick shift.
She picked up his fingers and entwined her in his. Those folds of skin that she had once seen on her grandma she now saw on her own hands. A thin, blue vein of Phil's pulsed under her thumb. She caught herself holding her breath, waiting for each pulse.
There had been that time when he had come home, gray, drawn, and collapsed in the faded easy chair. She didn't even ask. Sitting on the arm of the chair she held his hand. Felt his pulse. And prayed. Prayed that somewhere there would be a job for her brilliant, hardworking husband. Prayed that he would find it soon. Prayed that the electricity would not go off. Prayed she could find food for all four children. It had pulsed under her hand when her mother died, and all she could do was draw one breath after another. The dull throb in the hand that held hers kept her sane. Kept her from crying.
Automatically she reached forward and brushed a piece of hair off his forehead. Phil had always said that he would never go bald. And he hadn't. Not completely. She grinned when she thought about that first day when she had told him she saw a shine on the crown of his head. He had looked at her solemnly and said,
"Woman, there is no shine. Would you like to know why? Because on the day there starts to be shine you shall start to have wrinkles." From that day forth there was no mention of shine. Or wrinkles.
Forty-eight years. She had starched and mended his dress shirts, made his dinner, soothed his anger. For forty-eight years her life had been entertaining co-workers and employees at every Christmas party, cleaning the house, and making sure that his socks were put away in their color-coded positions. There had always been tacos on Friday, because he loved tacos. She had painted their bedroom blue, although she hated blue, because Phil liked that color. Forty-eight years of no onions in her baked beans (Phil didn't like onions) and calling him to make sure he didn't miss his dentist appointments. Forty-eight years of watching the "Charlie Brown Christmas" with the traditional carmel corn and commercial tickling breaks. Forty-eight years of waking up every Sunday morning to the buzz of his razor. Forty-eight years of pretending to laugh at his horrible jokes and corny puns. Forty-eight years of tears, laughter, and fights. She had spent forty-eight years telling him to never wear his brown belt with his black pants, and he had spent forty-eight years "forgetting."
For forty-eight years her life had been Phil. And his had been her, Kat. Hand-in-hand they had walked. Like friends. Constantly straining towards the same goal. She remembered the day before their wedding,
"Kat, I want to stand by you. With you. I want to grow with you, serve with you, share with you."
And he had.
The monitor beeped again, but her eyes still looked at Phil. He was so handsome. She had never stopped thinking that. Not ever. Even with the ventilator in...
"Mom?" She turned. "Mom, it's time. Are you ready?" She wanted to scream. Cry. Yell. But she didn't. She stood slowly. Nodded. Then turned to her husband.
"Phil, I'll love you- forever and for always. Forever and for always. Always."
Ken led her out of the room, closing the door softly.
The nurse and doctor entered, quietly. The nurse looked to the doctor. He nodded. Glanced at the wall clock and then his file,
"And we are suspending life support for a Mr. Philip Herschman at... 3:28 p.m."
3:34 p.m. the monitor stopped. Forever and for always.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Writing without transitions
I feel like blowing bubbles. Bubble gum bubbles. While swinging. That sounds like a perfect way to spend my day.
Instead, I'm here. In a computer lab. Trying (with little luck) to summon enough motivation to finish two lab write-ups and several extra-credit assignments. I should be motivated. But I'm not. At all.
**sigh**
There was a guy who just walked by my wearing a shirt saying "Everyone loves an Italian boy." Is that true? If so, then I'm even odder than I thought. I've never noticed that I have a special penchant for Italian boys. If anything I notice that they (more than the average man) have difficulty in keeping their eyebrows well-groomed. This seems to be a predominantly Italian flaw. Just watch any Lifetime movie with those "handsome" Italian heroes. Seriously. Can a guy be attractive if it looks like he's pasted two caterpillars to his forehead? Perhaps I'm just too picky...
I gave myself a manicure this morning. I actually got up at 6:30 so I could squeeze in this crucial grooming exercise. I was very impressed with my self-discipline. And I was also very thankful that I had because we talked about grooming in psychology class this morning and how it affects how people treat you. Come to think of it, that guy I bumped into this morning was very friendly. Probably all because of my impeccable manicure. Yay for social psychology!
The family called from China. My mom started crying on the phone because she missed me. Or it could have been because Julie just made a horrible mess in her diaper. But Dad cleaned it up, so it couldn't have been that... I also spent several expensive minutes explaining to my sister how to spot a fake Burberry. With any luck I'll wind up with an original.
I eat in computer labs. Does anyone else do this? It's blatantly disobeying the rules, but I continue in the error of my ways. It's one of the few things I'm openly rebellious about. I'm usually a (seemingly) compliant person. But not when it comes to whether or not I can eat my Easy Mac in the lab. Nope. In that area I'm defiant with a vengeance.
Guess what I discovered today? I don't have a crush. Not one. There's not even a list. I've become an emotionless blob in that department. It's quite nice. Very restful.
I also discovered that I hate shorts. With a passion. However, pants are too hot to wear in the summer. So I had a brain wave today- I'll just wear skirts. That's my plan. For the summer. Unless I'm swinging and blowing bubble-gum bubbles. In that situation I shall probably wear shorts....
Instead, I'm here. In a computer lab. Trying (with little luck) to summon enough motivation to finish two lab write-ups and several extra-credit assignments. I should be motivated. But I'm not. At all.
**sigh**
There was a guy who just walked by my wearing a shirt saying "Everyone loves an Italian boy." Is that true? If so, then I'm even odder than I thought. I've never noticed that I have a special penchant for Italian boys. If anything I notice that they (more than the average man) have difficulty in keeping their eyebrows well-groomed. This seems to be a predominantly Italian flaw. Just watch any Lifetime movie with those "handsome" Italian heroes. Seriously. Can a guy be attractive if it looks like he's pasted two caterpillars to his forehead? Perhaps I'm just too picky...
I gave myself a manicure this morning. I actually got up at 6:30 so I could squeeze in this crucial grooming exercise. I was very impressed with my self-discipline. And I was also very thankful that I had because we talked about grooming in psychology class this morning and how it affects how people treat you. Come to think of it, that guy I bumped into this morning was very friendly. Probably all because of my impeccable manicure. Yay for social psychology!
The family called from China. My mom started crying on the phone because she missed me. Or it could have been because Julie just made a horrible mess in her diaper. But Dad cleaned it up, so it couldn't have been that... I also spent several expensive minutes explaining to my sister how to spot a fake Burberry. With any luck I'll wind up with an original.
I eat in computer labs. Does anyone else do this? It's blatantly disobeying the rules, but I continue in the error of my ways. It's one of the few things I'm openly rebellious about. I'm usually a (seemingly) compliant person. But not when it comes to whether or not I can eat my Easy Mac in the lab. Nope. In that area I'm defiant with a vengeance.
Guess what I discovered today? I don't have a crush. Not one. There's not even a list. I've become an emotionless blob in that department. It's quite nice. Very restful.
I also discovered that I hate shorts. With a passion. However, pants are too hot to wear in the summer. So I had a brain wave today- I'll just wear skirts. That's my plan. For the summer. Unless I'm swinging and blowing bubble-gum bubbles. In that situation I shall probably wear shorts....
Monday, March 26, 2007
This is the new little sister! The family picked her up at 3:30 a.m. this morning our time. And yes, I was up and crying and laughing and acting mildly deranged at 3:30 because I just couldn't sleep and I wanted to be there so badly.Poor little chica looks a little perplexed and scared! But she's so adorable! And here hair has grown. Which is fabulous, because I currently have an assortment of bows that would satisfy any up-and-coming fashionista. (Her closet is also color coded and arranged by style and item. But that's just because I'm going crazy back here alone...)
We have another 12 days and 11 hours until I get to hold her (but who's counting!). I am so overwhelmed at the goodness of God to bring little Julie Ann Blake into our lives.
I'm so happy I think I'm going to cry... gosh, I could so be a Kleenex commercial right now!
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Pet Peeves
I've always told myself that I'm not a very nit-picky person. Not at all. But I think that was a clever lie that I repeated to myself when I wanted to seem like a better person.
I'm very nit-picky.
I'm OCD.
I'm perfectionistic.
And I think I need to get over it.
However, until I decide to actually become a better person I've compiled a list of pet peeves. I know, I know, there are so many better things I could have done with my time.
All well!
1. Whining. Arg. Suck it up and deal with it! (Am I whining right now? hmmm...)
2. The lady who was going 78 mph in a 50 mph zone who I "pulled out in front of" (riiiiiight) and then proceeded to lay on her horn for a good 30 seconds. Puh-lease.
3. When car windshield wipers wipe too frequently. Or are left on after the rain stops.
4. Greasy hair.
5. Stonewash jeans- they did NOT look good in the '80s. They look worse now. Stop wearing them.
6. Larger ladies in smaller clothes. Buy your size.
7. When people open things with their mouths. Ew. Saliva. Yuck.
8. Disobedient children in WalMart. If your child can't take "no" without a temper tantrum- don't take them out in public. Ever.
9. People who think that I need a boyfriend. Okay, actually, I usually love all those people, but the thought that I can't REALLY TRULY be happy without a significant other drives me up the freakin' wall!
10. People who make fun of my family. I'm a hater. I know. It's awful. But bad-mouth my family and you're DEAD.
11. Starting notes in one color ink and finishing them in another.
12. Bad handwriting.
13. Even numbers. Or numbers not divisible by 3.
14. Alfredo sauce. Can't stand it. Or fish.
15. Not having pickles for my hamburger. Very devastating.
I'm not really irate or anything... I just needed a break from being grown-up and responsible. I'm learning that grown-ups whine too, but when I'm pretending to be a grown-up I have to rise above such things and pretend to be as perfect as I always thought I'd be.
Well, my grown-up list of house, car, relationship maintenance is calling. **sigh** I had better go.
I also don't like cleaning out the litter box...
I'm very nit-picky.
I'm OCD.
I'm perfectionistic.
And I think I need to get over it.
However, until I decide to actually become a better person I've compiled a list of pet peeves. I know, I know, there are so many better things I could have done with my time.
All well!
1. Whining. Arg. Suck it up and deal with it! (Am I whining right now? hmmm...)
2. The lady who was going 78 mph in a 50 mph zone who I "pulled out in front of" (riiiiiight) and then proceeded to lay on her horn for a good 30 seconds. Puh-lease.
3. When car windshield wipers wipe too frequently. Or are left on after the rain stops.
4. Greasy hair.
5. Stonewash jeans- they did NOT look good in the '80s. They look worse now. Stop wearing them.
6. Larger ladies in smaller clothes. Buy your size.
7. When people open things with their mouths. Ew. Saliva. Yuck.
8. Disobedient children in WalMart. If your child can't take "no" without a temper tantrum- don't take them out in public. Ever.
9. People who think that I need a boyfriend. Okay, actually, I usually love all those people, but the thought that I can't REALLY TRULY be happy without a significant other drives me up the freakin' wall!
10. People who make fun of my family. I'm a hater. I know. It's awful. But bad-mouth my family and you're DEAD.
11. Starting notes in one color ink and finishing them in another.
12. Bad handwriting.
13. Even numbers. Or numbers not divisible by 3.
14. Alfredo sauce. Can't stand it. Or fish.
15. Not having pickles for my hamburger. Very devastating.
I'm not really irate or anything... I just needed a break from being grown-up and responsible. I'm learning that grown-ups whine too, but when I'm pretending to be a grown-up I have to rise above such things and pretend to be as perfect as I always thought I'd be.
Well, my grown-up list of house, car, relationship maintenance is calling. **sigh** I had better go.
I also don't like cleaning out the litter box...
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Battered To Dependence
I think I should have had a break-down yesterday.
I didn't.
Probably because I was too exhausted to do much more than lie on the couch and focus on the basic action of breathing.
I thought I was getting better. The doctors thought I was getting better. Then, I miss one pill dosage (because of a crashed computer system at the CVS pharmacy) and I'm completely out. No joke. My 48 year-old mother had to practically carry me in from the car. I'm 21. I should be carrying her.
And as I lay there, it occured to me: I'm going to live my life like this. Granted, days like this will probably (hopefully) be few and far between, I'm very blessed to live in a country with fabulous drugs and doctors, but this is my life. I'm going to be sick. Forever. There's no cure.
At twenty-one I have 15 pills a day I'm taking. Daily activity is often a struggle, and I have to go in for monthly blood work.
I thought I was handling it well. I probably was. While I was in the hospital I was happy. When I spent the week at home, I was getting better. I was polite. Smiley. Said, "Thank you for praying!" a million times each Sunday. And it was all good.
I don't know if it's all good now.
I'm starting to realize that it's never going to go away. I'm always going to have to fight to stay healthy. Heck, I'm going to have days when I'll have to fight to stay upright.
"Over-achiever." Obsessive compulsive. 5-year strategic planner. I've always been in control. I've always been in charge. My life has always been flawlessly organized, planned and mapped out. I make a goal. I achieve the goal. End of story. Dependence on any person or thing has always made me shudder. This has progressed to the point where I'm hopeless at starting (or maintaining) a relationship- with Mary Kay salespersons, bosses, school advisors, not to mention members of the opposite gender. I fly solo. It's safest. Easiest. Maybe lonely- but definitely free of any reliance on anyone else.
But now I can't live like that. At all. Each day I have to get up and say, "Lord, help me make it through." And I have no other option. No other guarantee but that my Heavenly Father loves me. He knows what's best. And He's my only choice. I can't do it on my own.
I feel battered. Bruised. And some mornings I don't want to get out of bed. Some nights I don't want to go to bed because I'm afraid of tomorrow.
I'm not in control.
I have no strength on my own.
And I think that's right where God wants me...
I didn't.
Probably because I was too exhausted to do much more than lie on the couch and focus on the basic action of breathing.
I thought I was getting better. The doctors thought I was getting better. Then, I miss one pill dosage (because of a crashed computer system at the CVS pharmacy) and I'm completely out. No joke. My 48 year-old mother had to practically carry me in from the car. I'm 21. I should be carrying her.
And as I lay there, it occured to me: I'm going to live my life like this. Granted, days like this will probably (hopefully) be few and far between, I'm very blessed to live in a country with fabulous drugs and doctors, but this is my life. I'm going to be sick. Forever. There's no cure.
At twenty-one I have 15 pills a day I'm taking. Daily activity is often a struggle, and I have to go in for monthly blood work.
I thought I was handling it well. I probably was. While I was in the hospital I was happy. When I spent the week at home, I was getting better. I was polite. Smiley. Said, "Thank you for praying!" a million times each Sunday. And it was all good.
I don't know if it's all good now.
I'm starting to realize that it's never going to go away. I'm always going to have to fight to stay healthy. Heck, I'm going to have days when I'll have to fight to stay upright.
"Over-achiever." Obsessive compulsive. 5-year strategic planner. I've always been in control. I've always been in charge. My life has always been flawlessly organized, planned and mapped out. I make a goal. I achieve the goal. End of story. Dependence on any person or thing has always made me shudder. This has progressed to the point where I'm hopeless at starting (or maintaining) a relationship- with Mary Kay salespersons, bosses, school advisors, not to mention members of the opposite gender. I fly solo. It's safest. Easiest. Maybe lonely- but definitely free of any reliance on anyone else.
But now I can't live like that. At all. Each day I have to get up and say, "Lord, help me make it through." And I have no other option. No other guarantee but that my Heavenly Father loves me. He knows what's best. And He's my only choice. I can't do it on my own.
I feel battered. Bruised. And some mornings I don't want to get out of bed. Some nights I don't want to go to bed because I'm afraid of tomorrow.
I'm not in control.
I have no strength on my own.
And I think that's right where God wants me...
But I will sing of your strength, in the morning I will sing of your love; for you are my fortress, my refuge in times of trouble.
O my Strength, I sing praise to you; you, O God, are my fortress, my loving God.
(Psalm 59:16,17)
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Today, while shaving my legs, I found a previously unseen label on my shaving cream can: "contains no CFCs."
Then in little letters it said: "which destroy the ozone layer."
Let's just say I'm glad that while using my apricot-mango Noxema exfoliating shaving cream I am not destroying the ozone layer.
That's a load off of my mind...
Then in little letters it said: "which destroy the ozone layer."
Let's just say I'm glad that while using my apricot-mango Noxema exfoliating shaving cream I am not destroying the ozone layer.
That's a load off of my mind...
Saturday, March 17, 2007
If I was really me...
I can't help but wonder something...
If I was really, entirely, completely me- would anyone like me?
I'm inclined to think they would not.
That's my general view.
For instance, the real me would say, (when once again politely asked "Anyone special in your life?") "Yes, he's 87 and I'm his playboy bunny. It's really fun. You should try it." And then watch with glee as the sweet, little Baptist lady gaped in horror.
Or, when presented with steamed brocolli I would calmly say, "Brocolli is disgusting." That's all. The real me would never return the cart to the cart rack, or be nice to the too-slow Starbucks lady. The real me would tell the parents of certain first grade Sunday school pupils that their child was a devil incarnate, and that they, themselves should be punished for introducing such a blemish to society. I WOULD dye my hair the punk highlights I've always desired, and I'd get a nose "sparkle." I would clap in church- and I might even say, "Amen" or "Hallelujah." I know. Scary. I would admit my affinity for rap music. And dancing. And then I would GO dancing and maybe even have a margarita. I would. The real me would flirt with the waiter, stay out until 4, and refuse to have another boring summer job in an office. I would occasionally stop studying, go partying, and skip class on Friday. I would intentionally light things on fire, say exactly what I'm thinking, and wear my men's XL sweatpants in public.
Unfortunately, I've had this thing known as an "upbringing." My parents have worked ceaselessly to impress some level of responsibility and decorum. They've succeeded. Although they might often doubt that.
So here I am. I smile at the little old lady and say, "No, no one right now!" I eat the brocolli, return my carts, am nice to the Starbucks lady, and intone the age-old "Johnny was a little excited today but we talked about it" to another parent. The hair is completely preppy, the nose ring a dream, I refrain from emotion at church, and listen to rap occasionally when all alone in my car. I dance only with my hair dryer, drink diet coke, am boringly polite the the waiter, and apply for another office job. I study. I don't party. I always go to my Friday classes. I've never lit anything on fire (intentionally), I censor my speech, and I haven't worn my sweatpants in public. (The drive-thru does not count.)
And I'm "good." Very Baptist. And well-behaved. And I don't mind. I might even like it. My parents should heave a sigh at their success.
But occasionally I wonder what would happen...
Do you think anyone would notice if I got plum highlights?
If I was really, entirely, completely me- would anyone like me?
I'm inclined to think they would not.
That's my general view.
For instance, the real me would say, (when once again politely asked "Anyone special in your life?") "Yes, he's 87 and I'm his playboy bunny. It's really fun. You should try it." And then watch with glee as the sweet, little Baptist lady gaped in horror.
Or, when presented with steamed brocolli I would calmly say, "Brocolli is disgusting." That's all. The real me would never return the cart to the cart rack, or be nice to the too-slow Starbucks lady. The real me would tell the parents of certain first grade Sunday school pupils that their child was a devil incarnate, and that they, themselves should be punished for introducing such a blemish to society. I WOULD dye my hair the punk highlights I've always desired, and I'd get a nose "sparkle." I would clap in church- and I might even say, "Amen" or "Hallelujah." I know. Scary. I would admit my affinity for rap music. And dancing. And then I would GO dancing and maybe even have a margarita. I would. The real me would flirt with the waiter, stay out until 4, and refuse to have another boring summer job in an office. I would occasionally stop studying, go partying, and skip class on Friday. I would intentionally light things on fire, say exactly what I'm thinking, and wear my men's XL sweatpants in public.
Unfortunately, I've had this thing known as an "upbringing." My parents have worked ceaselessly to impress some level of responsibility and decorum. They've succeeded. Although they might often doubt that.
So here I am. I smile at the little old lady and say, "No, no one right now!" I eat the brocolli, return my carts, am nice to the Starbucks lady, and intone the age-old "Johnny was a little excited today but we talked about it" to another parent. The hair is completely preppy, the nose ring a dream, I refrain from emotion at church, and listen to rap occasionally when all alone in my car. I dance only with my hair dryer, drink diet coke, am boringly polite the the waiter, and apply for another office job. I study. I don't party. I always go to my Friday classes. I've never lit anything on fire (intentionally), I censor my speech, and I haven't worn my sweatpants in public. (The drive-thru does not count.)
And I'm "good." Very Baptist. And well-behaved. And I don't mind. I might even like it. My parents should heave a sigh at their success.
But occasionally I wonder what would happen...
Do you think anyone would notice if I got plum highlights?
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