Lexiconology

Soi-disant

2007-10-30T22:59:00.000-07:00

I am in purgatory, perpetually waiting to be flung into whatever awaits me. This is what college is beginning to feel like.

Well into my fifth year, I suppose I only have myself to blame. Though I've never failed a class, I have been cursed with chronic indecision. I call myself a musician, a writer, and a teacher, when in fact the world sees me as none of these things.

The world sees only my most superficial title, my generic nameplate. A classification I have long outgrown:

Student.

It seems "student" involves lacking a few things: skills, experience, and money. Though these are all somewhat true in varying degrees, I feel my super-senior status must entitle me some small amount of respect. After all, I have taken a lot of classes. My GPA is notable. (Ok...I guess that does sound like something a student would say).

My current major does not help with this annoyance. As an education major, "student" gets tagged on to nearly everything I do: student teacher, for example. In the classroom, "student teacher" is code for "fuck up waiting to happen."

This time next year, I will be preparing to end my tenure as student-anything. Scary, I guess. But it's about damn time.

Antiquarian

2007-09-05T21:51:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think the concept of home exists only in the past. I left, in search of different people and traditions to call home. Pick up a friend here, a new tradition there. I keep my life in boxes, ready to move at a moment’s notice. I hang my hat at a temporary address.

It’s a quiet night. I went to the grocery store to buy pasta for dinner, because all we have in the house is cookies and hard liquor. Rain had fallen, making the air swollen and dreary. I wandered into the frozen food aisle to find something to snack on, and ended up trailing the path of a scrawny, middle-aged man with long dirty hair an empty shopping cart. I caught the humid scent of pot in my nostrils, and it took me somewhere else. Back to high school, sitting next to the mysterious stoner in class I knew only by his French name (Pierre). Kissing my first boyfriend, who wouldn’t stop smoking even when I begged. Sprawled out on the lawn at a summer concert, reveling in the crowd’s collective lack of responsibility.

I watched the man struggle between Stouffer’s TV dinners and Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks and lost my taste for pizza rolls. I wondered what home was for him. Maybe a trailer in the park on the edge of town, or maybe the old underground railroad house near the square. Maybe he works in one of the factories. He might be one of the owners of that left-wing vintage clothing store with walls covered in lyrics of The Rolling Stones songs and heavy hemp ponchos and posters with the president’s face pasted onto the head of a chimp. I know this town. I’m not sure it knows me.

We’re not really looking for new homes, I guess. We’re looking for old ones. We sift through memories of our childhood like miners panning for gold, filtering out dull pieces and pocketing the ones that still gleam brightly. And then we spend our whole lives looking for people to share it with, people who have precious metals lining their pockets, too. Because that’s home: shaking hands with someone who knows what you’re carrying. Someone who knows how to love you.

I paid for my pasta with quarters and offered a sheepish shrug to the clerk before re-entering the night, wet and silent and still. I allowed my mind a vague and fleeting fear of being assaulted as I shoved the key into the lock to my apartment and heard it click open. Carpet, lights, television. Sparsely decorated walls.

Home is where I boil my pasta.

Corsucate

2007-07-27T23:12:00.000-07:00

Night signals the end of another cycle, and no night ends the same. Last night, one of my final thoughts was "I need to prepare a speech for the mayor tomorrow." Tonight, one of my last thoughts was "I'm glad that guy dropped me off before he went to buy drugs."

And nights bring lights. Headlights, starlights, tea lights and cigarette lights. If you drive long enough, the shine on wet pavement and the reflections in the river are the same. You could fall right into either of them if you aren't careful.

I still wish on stars. "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, grant the wish I wish tonight." I make my silent request. And I thank the star, out loud, because that seems polite.

It doesn't matter if it's the brightest star, the closest star, the star with the name you know. All that counts is if you saw it first. It feels both innocent and poetic to pin a hope to a speck of light, a tiny dot you caught sight of when your eyes turned skyward. It watches you. It is your only God, because you don't believe in God. A poem and a wish made on a star is as close as you get.

Tonight was headlight, cigarette light, narrowly avoided drug deals and uncomfortable conversation. Tomorrow might be tea lights and laughter. If you can't be happy, if you can't pray to God, put faith in the lights.

Trenchant

2007-07-23T22:31:00.000-07:00

The key to life must be hard work.

I know that isn't true. I know plenty of lazy, complacent people who seem to have everything they want, and plenty of hardworking folk who can't get what they need.

I used to fear my heart would explode. I used to think it would beat out of my chest. I limited myself. One day, I stopped paying attention to that beating muscle and just pushed myself, hard. I did it the next day, and the next. My heart hasn't exploded yet.

There is no reason to hold back.

Dolorous

2007-06-23T23:15:00.000-07:00

Can we, just for one minute, talk about depression?

I don't like to talk about it. I don't like to think about it..and believe me, I like to think.

I started exhibiting symptoms when I was 11. It showed its face as anxiety. I had a very specific trigger, and when that trigger was pulled, I couldn't leave the house. My parents didn't know what to do with me. But, like all childhood fears, it eventually went away. When I got over that trigger, the depression started showing.

It isn't dramatic, especially not now, after 11 years of dealing with it. It comes and goes. I never feel like throwing myself off a bridge or listening to Dashboard Confessional. I've been to therapy, but I find it unhelpful, and when the discussion turns to medication (and it usually does), I know my time is up.

Because the fact is, I don't need meds. I'm pretty sure this is just who I am. Most of the time I am more than fine, capable of having a blast and maintaining my life. Some of the time I am weighed down, still functioning but quieter and more withdrawn. Occasionally I shut down a little...but then I have my writing and my music and my own head.

There are still triggers, yes. New ones all the time. But there is kind of a cathartic cleansing to the whole process, sinking to the bottom and rising back up. As for relationships...well, it can be hard to find people who understand this kind of thing. I am getting used to this, just as I got used to the depression in general. Sometimes I want to open up, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I love people, sometimes I just want to be with myself.

Depression hits the creative, the sensitive, the thinkers. Those three things are three of my best character traits. I'll take the mild depression if it comes with the territory. I just wish it was something more people understood.

Rejoinder

2007-06-19T11:45:00.000-07:00

The wrong end of a fascinating conversation

(ring ring)

Hello?
(pause)
Oh yes, hi.
(pause)
No.
(pause)
No, no. That isn't what I meant at all, I --
(pause)
What?? Why the hell would she say that?
(pause)
No, listen, do NOT do that.
(pause)
Don't you remember last time you tried that? You couldn't sit down for days!
(pause)
She's just going to have to do the thing with the bees on her own. You have enough on your hands with the lawsuit, and --
(pause)
Cream cheese?!?
(pause)
How did it get in the cream cheese???
(pause)
No no no, I just don't believe that. There is no way the mayor is that stupid.
(pause)
Ok, I'm sorry, say that one more time?
(pause)
Uh
(long pause)
Well...I've never heard anything quite like that.
(pause)
I think I'm blushing.
(pause)
Ok, I'm on my way. Don't let him leave before I get there.
(pause)
Stop, this is just crazy.
(pause)
No, NO, no more bees! Good lord, what is it with you and --
(pause)
Stay there! I'm coming!

(click)

Disquisition

2007-06-18T19:35:00.000-07:00

Why is everyone in their twenties, as Tom Paxton said, vaguely unhappy?

I have spent more time thinking on this than I care to admit, and I have come to the conclusion it is absolutely true. Here we are, as sexy and full of life as we'll ever be, and we're all looking for something more. We have great times, make memories, love our lives...but we are vaguely unhappy. I believe there are several universal reasons for this.

Location, Location, Location
When you hit the age of 18, you begin what is to become a long journey of partings. By the time you're 21, you can barely count on two hands all the people you miss at a given moment. You wander from place to place, home to home, and you are never with all the people you want to be with at once. You are forced to face the reality that you may never be in the same place as the person, or people, you want to be with. You realize the home you grew up in doesn't hold you anymore. You are in purgatory.

You say you want a revolution? No one cares.
At some point you realize all the youthful idealism in the world isn't going to pay the bills. And let's face it: At the end of the day, watching The Office and having a stiff drink sounds more appealing than changing the world.

Don't be a fool, stay in school
I'm still in college, going into my fifth year of college, and I can already acknowledge life doesn't really get any better. Yes, there are perks to being a full-fledged grown up, but on the whole, college is the place to be. Once you're out, people expect you to know things. And do things. But we can't stay here forever, because a bird with all its feathers looks like a total loser if it hangs around the nest.

Life is beautiful
I have a nice tan and no blemishes. I am free of wrinkles and crows feet, I have time to do my nails, I can get by with next to no makeup and I have yet to discover a gray hair. I can go for a jog without aching for days. Things are holding up. Still, I don't know a girl (or guy) on the planet who loves his or her body. We're not going to get any younger, but we just can't love ourselves. How silly.

We all just want to get some
Show me a twentysomething who doesn't think about sex roughly half the day and I'll show you a twentysomething in a coma. Almost everything we do is somehow motivated by that possibility of having sex. And don't you DARE say that isn't true for girls, because it absolutely is. It is how we are programmed at this stage of life. And while that can be great fun, it is also greatly troubling. It's like wearing those drunk goggles 24/7...it becomes very difficult to see a given situation in the correct light.

I can tell you this, though: I am not looking forward to 30.

Palliate

2007-06-08T13:09:00.000-07:00

I think there are few things harder to cope with than feeling alone.

By this I do not mean actually BEING alone; as a girl who has spent much of her life in a small house with two younger brothers, I value alone time as much as anyone. Recently I've even taken up running just to give myself an hour or so of Julie and ipod time...if you know me, you know that is a desperate measure.

But that feeling of being alone, of having no one to identify with, know your soul --it can be a rough place to be.

I find it difficult to say these kinds of things without sounding emo. One of the reasons I love writing is I'm so much more able to say what I actually feel...for example, never in a million trillion years would I actually say the words "know your soul." It's just not my style.

It's not that I really feel alone, per sae. I don't feel "misunderstood." I guess what I'm missing is connection. I'm pushing messages through my circuits and the currents are spinning off into nowhere...no one is picking them up.

I would like to have somewhere to hook up my circuits.

Fiat

2007-05-25T14:14:00.000-07:00

Mr. President: You are no longer permitted to speak in public. Most people seem to think you're an incompetent moron, and lets face it, every time you open your mouth in an open forum you seem to justify that popular opinion. Since we are apparently stuck with you in the captain's chair for some time yet, you are hereby ordered to keep your presidential yap shut, for the good of the country.

Community theatre zealots: Effective immediately, there is to be a moratorium on all references -- spoken, written, sung, or mimed -- to the movie "Waiting for Guffman." Everyone knows it is a funny movie. Everyone knows it is a parody. By walking around on the day of the show saying "It's the day of the show, y'all," all you are doing is making those around you aware of the fact you have spent at least 2 hours of your life watching this movie when you could have been learning lines or taking an acting class or learning how to wait tables to support a true career in theatre. Basically, just, no more. Please.

Writers of "Scrubs": Consider this your official final warning. Once upon a time, you said the show was not meant to be a "will they or won't they," concerning Eliot and J.D. ending up together. Well, tough noogies, because that is what the show is about. Everyone wants them together, so you are ordered to clear this matter up sometime in the first four episodes of the new season. Enough already with pregnancies and weddings and deaths...just give us Eliot and J.D.

Middle East: This is an immediate cease and desist order on all fighting. This includes terrorism, civil war, foreign war, thumb war, sibling rivalry, video game boxing: no more, period.

Moms of toddlers: For the love of God, you MUST stop wearing fanny packs. While we're at it, let's also cross off the list elastic-waist jeans and anything with Mickey Mouse or Pooh Bear on it. I don't care what practical purpose you think they serve. You look ridiculous and you are scaring young, fertile women everywhere away from ever having children. The madness must end.

Furtive

2007-05-20T18:54:00.000-07:00

Spring and summer have got to be my favorite seasons. The sun, the leisure time, the improving attitudes of everyone as winter is forgotten...seriously, what's not to love?

I'll tell you what. Bugs. Specifically, spiders and cicadas. Two very different creatures, but equally disturbing.

The spider works with stealth. She goes unnoticed, either by laying low in a corner or quietly skittering along the underside of a table. She makes no sound, and freezes up at the first sign of action, and she's quick. Even her web is whisper-soft and discreet. She probably means no harm. Nevertheless, the sight of her makes me scream and the fight-or-flight adrenaline kicks in. I wish I didn't hate her so much, because I think if she were human, we could be friends. But she terrifies me, so I usually swallow whatever pangs of guilt I'm feeling long enough to destroy her.

The cicada, or as I like to call him "God's practical joke gone too far," is entirely different. He is loud, he makes his presence known, and there is absolutely nothing subtle about him. He has ugly red eyes, prehistoric filmy wings, and a body that resembles a cross between a helicopter and Frankenstein's monster. And that sound...oh the sound. He buzzes, chirps, groans. Thankfully, this horrifying creature - at least, the worst of his kind - only comes around every 17 years. The bad news? This is his year. I feel no guilt about hating cicadas. They are disgusting.

I love the outdoors; I've camped, canoed, hiked, fished and climbed for years. But spiders and cicadas...they are my downfall. I can be tough and outdoorsy as long as these creatures stay away.

But of course, they never do.

Penchant

2007-05-16T16:11:00.000-07:00

In the nearly 22 years I've spent wandering about planet earth, I have done many things of which I feel I can be proud. I learned early on not to let fear of failure stop me from doing anything, and that has had the effect of making me try -- well, everything. I always say I'll try anything twice, and that is for the most part true (the biggest exceptions being illegal substances and tobacco).

However, there is one area in which my experience is sorely lacking, and lately I have become painfully aware of it. I do not know much about sports. I played soccer for a long time, yes, and I know the game pretty-to-very well. I grew up in a house of baseball maniacs, so I know baseball decently well. After that, the facts get a little hazy...I was in band, so I watched high school and college football...I watched the Bulls during their glory years...and right about there my sports knowledge dries up and blows away in the wind.

It is not for lack of interest. I have always loved going to games, watching and participating in the competition, cheering for my team. Hell, I even enjoy watching the commentary...I used to religiously watch Baseball Tonight. But lack of time, exposure to "sports types," and my own poor hand-eye coordination all played a part in my eventual departure from team sports.

I am attempting to change that this summer. I want to be informed, and -- especially as a journalist -- I am aware of the role sports play in the lives of many. It is a kind of news, and to an extent, it is important.

My dad is going to throw me some sports stories. He is going to help me. I'll probably bug my boyfriend for advice too. I am going to learn by doing and watching.

It is amazing how quickly you can become an expert on a topic when you are forced to write about it and have that writing torn apart by editors.

Vitiate

2007-05-15T15:42:00.000-07:00

I am guilty of being self-involved. Too many of the phrases escaping my mouth and fingers affect only myself. I get lost in my own head. Does everyone? Probably everyone my age, at least.

It's the ultimate self-sabotage, isn't it? The only surefire way to lose someone else's attention is to wrap yourself up in a "Me" package, complete with colorful curled ribbons of self-esteem issues and neediness.

Of course, we can't take ourselves out of our own lives. I can't take myself out of my writing or conversation. I'm always there, no matter what, hovering over and within my words. Complete objectivity is probably an impossible goal, as I am beginning to realize.

Yesterday, I sat in the house of an old friend, half-listening to a deluded mother's rationalizations. The house is the picture-perfect suburban home. I sat on the couch - an intentionally-distressed dark teal leather piece - with my legs crossed, staring at the glass coffee table which had on it many things that had absolutely no practical value. There was a small plate holding four untouched tea cookies, a variety of useless magazines, and a menagerie of curious objects. One in particular caught my eye. It was a very large, clear green glass jug, big enough to hold water for an entire African village.

However, it held no water. It held nothing. It sat there like an enormous toad, taking up space, wallowing in its own impracticality. I felt as though it was daring me to come up with a reason for its existence: Go on, rationalize me. I've been sitting here for ages. Everyone ignores me, no one seems to notice me, despite my strange green hue and imposing size. I don't know why I'm here any better than you do.

As I effectively tuned out the words coming from my friend's mother, I became obsessed with this jug. I gave it a story, a voice, and finally, a metaphor:

My friend's family is trapped inside this ugly piece of home decor. Its ostentatious size gives them more than enough room to go about their daily lives, but when the sun begins to set, they are left with a chartreuse-tinted view of the world and a delicate family structure. They are flawed, and like the rest of us, they are limited.

I wonder how often they notice that jug. I wonder who they see trapped inside it. I wonder how much of my own brain seeped into it as I stared.

I wonder how dangerous self-involvement can be.

Internecine

2007-05-14T21:33:00.000-07:00

I have never "broken up" with a friend before. Well, never, until this weekend.

There is only so much destructive behavior a person can take before she calls it quits. My threshold for crap-taking is notoriously high for the people I care about, but even I have my limits. I believe she is a danger to herself and a danger to others. I have done what I can, and it's time to let go.

Support systems are fascinating things. They are fragile, but at the same time, they need to be so strong. The part of me that knows our relationship finds the irony of that tripod effect, that equal distribution of responsibility. If we each carry some of the load, it's not as heavy. I take the abuse today, you take it tomorrow, I'll take my apology, you'll take yours...it's a delicate balance, the three legs wobble and teeter back and forth. But if you knock two legs out at once, BAM! The tripod is down.

This is irrepairable damage. This is mental illness. This is sick, this is sad, this is pathetic. 7 years of friendship, and now it is over. She kicked the legs out from under her, and they have been beaten down too often to stand her back up again.

Good luck, dear. You'll have to stand on your own legs now.

Rivulet

2007-04-10T21:27:00.000-07:00

The older I get, the more I cry.

That isn't as depressing as it sounds. I think I just get more sentimental about things. I recognize life-changing moments, I appreciate significant experiences. Until I got to college, the only movie I'd ever cried at was The Lion King (when Mufasa dies, obviously). Now I occasionally cry at the end of laundry detergent commercials.

Honestly, I look forward to a good cry. It's remarkably cleansing. Even if it's just a few tears, it's like it recharges you for the next few minutes. Gives you a new perspective.

What can I say, I am a girl. I feel feelings. I cry tears.

But I make up for it by playing video games and drinking beer.

Abecedarian

2007-04-09T14:20:00.000-07:00

What is the appropriate adjective a young lady should use to describe her life when she feels the "word of the day" people at dictionary.com have started choosing words specifically for her?

I could write this entry about elementary literacy, which I am knee-deep in at the moment. I could mention how I am getting a degree in teaching the alphabet. But you know what? I have had it up to *here* with the god damned primary literacy standards. So instead, I will write about...

Colored-letter Synaesthesia!

"What the hell is that," you ask? Allow me to explain. Synaesthesia translates, literally, into "blended senses." One who has synaesthesia experiences certain sensations from specific triggers that do not normally occur: some people see colors with music (a la "Fantasia"), other people see shapes with certain tastes, etc. The most common type, however, is the one I happen to have.

Every letter has a color. It is always the same color. A is red, B is orange, C is bright blue, D is green, etc. They never change. I think this is why I am a good speller, and why I can easily spot spelling errors. Certain color combinations just look right.

Weird, eh? Makes for a cool party trick. People have me spell their names in colors and whatnot.

Certainly more interesting than teaching the effing alphabet, anyway.

Obviate

2007-04-09T14:06:00.000-07:00

Interesting word. I can see myself actually using this one. I am making a mental note to use it in a sentence today.

Well, it happened: Joe was elected Vice President of SGA. That is the reason I am so behind on these entries. I have taken over as Editor in Chief, it is almost the end of the semester, and I have not had a moment to myself in a week.

I was thinking not much would change. I had already been doing so much, so how could it really be that much more? Well, there is a part of the job I hadn't counted on. Being in charge (without an assistant, might I add) requires a Jedi-like ability to forsee problems and stop them before they even happen.

I am a good problem solver, but my prevention skills need work. Because of this, today's paper was riddled with stupid errors and pointless stories. The staff is frustrated. I am frustrated.

I need to learn how to catch bullets.

Toper

2007-04-09T14:00:00.000-07:00

In college, one learns many things. It is a four-year crash course on the best and worst things that can happen in life. And, for many, it is a four-year (or five-year, six-year) drinking binge.

I have never been a big drinker, but over the past year or so I have improved. I turned 21, I loosened up a bit, I learned to enjoy beer. But my rookie status in the world of alcohol consumption still shines through from time to time.

One of those times was last Thursday. A group went out after work to have a drink. Unfortunately, the drink I chose was the Long Island Iced Tea.

Let's just say it ended very badly for me and a certain bathroom rug.

I apologize to all those affected and hereby vow to abstain from drinking Long Islands until I have improved my tolerance.

Clarion

2007-04-06T14:50:00.000-07:00

I played trumpet in a former life.

Ok, so maybe it was only 8 years ago, but it feels like a lifetime. I was the only girl in the trumpet section. I had a bad perm and braces. I was 13th chair in the 7th grade band.

One day we had a sub - an older, unattractive woman with pudgy ankles and a darty personality. She stopped mid-rehearsal to tell us about her time in band:

"When we were picking out instruments I wanted to play trumpet but they told me girls can't play trumpet. (she glances around the trumpet section) ...no, I don't see any girls here either, they must still be telling people that!"

I was mortified. Everyone started laughing, Ryan Johnsen (7th grade heart-throb) pointed and shouted "she's a man, baby!" (Austin Powers was quite popular at the time). As if I needed help being an outcast.

"Oh, ha, didn't see you there! Well good, I'm glad you didn't listen to them, girls can do anything boys can do, right?"

Maybe not. I was 13th chair, after all. I sold my trumpet to my cousin a year later and focused on choir, which was probably the proper thing for a young lady to do. Thankfully, I'm a much better singer than trumpet player.

That sub is probably dead now. And Ryan Johnsen is probably gay.

Deign

2007-04-06T14:36:00.000-07:00

The masthead of yesterday's Western Courier had at its top "Editor in Chief - Julie Lord."

I have to admit, it's a pretty cool feeling.

The only thing I don't like is even though I've been working my tail off all year as managing editor, I don't feel like I earned this. I'm John Tyler, Millard Fillmore, Gerald Ford. I succeeded...I was not elected. And I am only editor for a month, until Jason takes over.

I did, however, have fun with it last night. I offered to let people kiss my ring, threatened to fire people, answered the phone as "Julie Lord, editor in chief" (but only if Joe or Rich was calling). It's fun to be in charge.

Do I have any more power? No, not really. Is it basically just a line on my resume and a few choice clips? More or less, yeah.

Still...

Tenet

2007-04-04T16:30:00.000-07:00

I believe in love.

That statement is about as cheesy as it gets, but it is how I honestly feel. I think I sometimes come across as a "modern" girl who aschews love and prefers cynicism, but truly, I'm not that way at all. Show me divorce rates, show me broken homes, lonely masses, suffering couples and broken hearts: I've seen them all already.

But I refuse to shake the idea that love - real, unconditional, selfless love - can conquer absolutely anything. It takes maturity and sensitivity, but it's possible. It doesn't even have to be romantic love. Once you've cared about someone as much as you possibly can, once you've felt what it's like to care about someone else more than you care about yourself, nothing else will do. Everything in your life becomes part of a quest to feel that again. It's passionate, it's intense, and it's addictive.

The funny thing is, real love isn't dramatic. It isn't about starry eyes or aching hearts. It just is. It becomes a part of you, and if it's truly unconditional, it doesn't even have to be returned. I care about so many people who don't even know it. I would do anything for them.

Because if you really care, the line between doing something for yourself and doing something for someone else is blurred beyond recognition. After awhile, it's all the same.

And it's the only thing worth living for.

Errant

2007-04-04T16:08:00.000-07:00

I am the most focused unfocused person I know.

I really wish I could just make some decisions about my life. I think if I could focus all my energy into one thing, just ONE thing, I would be unstoppable.

I wander into things. I work incredibly hard, but then I hit a ceiling, I run into a wall and I shatter into a million pieces that grow legs and wander in different directions.

"Sometimes I fear there is no longer a dream, but only the discontentment." - John Adams

I hear ya, Johnny. I just want to find it, something I can't live without. I want to find the dream and lose the discontentment. John Adams found fighting for America's independence; what can I fight for?

Arriviste

2007-04-02T12:21:00.000-07:00

Today marks the beginning of Western's SGA elections. If Joe is elected Vice President, I will officially be editor in chief for the rest of the semester.

Honestly, I've pretty much already taken over. Joe is spending a lot of time campaigning and not as much time in the office, and that's fine. But today's paper came out with a few errors and things I wish I'd thought to fix earlier. I feel like people are watching over my shoulder, they're waiting for me to screw up. Expecting me to screw up.

...am I going to screw up?

Jocular

2007-04-01T16:48:00.000-07:00

I strongly dislike April Fools Day.

I am extremely gullible by nature. I trust people, therefore I believe them and just about anything they tell me. I am frequently tricked.

I have not been fooled yet today...but it's only a matter of time.

Sedition

2007-04-01T16:46:00.000-07:00

All through school, I never got a single detention.

I don't have much to say about this...I just think it's an interesting fact. I never got into trouble. That doesn't mean I didn't do bad things; I just didn't get caught.

What can I say: I have an honest face.

Undulant

2007-03-30T14:32:00.000-07:00

Everything is cyclical.

Life changes in waves, there is an ebb and flow. Sometimes the tide is in and you can just lay on your back and let the rhythm of the waves kiss your feet; when it goes out you might find yourself on your knees, digging your fists into the sand, wondering what happened.

When the tide is out, you might feel like it will never come back. Likewise, when it's in, you think it will never leave.

But it does leave. And it always, always comes back.

Everything is cyclical.

Excursus

2007-03-29T18:43:00.000-07:00

People who know me well know there isn't a whole lot you can say that will really get to me. However, these same people know what will get to me.

One of the things I'm most self-conscious about is talking too much. I was ridiculously shy growing up and avoided talking to people at all if I could help it...I have memories of whispering to ask my teacher to use the restroom, or hiding during recess to read. I had one best friend, and we were inseparable; as far as I was concerned, my parents and my friend were the only people worth talking to.

I grew slightly more social in high school, but didn't really open up until I got to college. I have friends, I get out, I talk to people. I'm even remarkably comfortable in front of audiences.

However, I have the tendency to overcompensate for that lingering sense of shyness by talking a little too much. And a little too fast. And I laugh a little too hard.

It's a silly thing to worry about, and yet, I worry about it. Tell me to stop talking, and I will clam up faster than Bush at a press conference, probably blush, and struggle to speak again for hours.

So if you do know me...be kind and don't use that against me.

Presentiment

2007-03-28T15:33:00.000-07:00

I have a feeling things are looking up for me. I can't explain why...there are plenty of things to complain about. Maybe it's Spring, maybe it's talking about next year, I really don't know. But I'm feeling good things. I'm feeling mischevious. I'm feeling confident. I'm feeling powerful.

Basically, I just have a feeling. A good one.

Roborant

2007-03-27T21:09:00.000-07:00

I drink what some would call an impossible amount of coffee. In fact, some would say I have a bit of a problem, and they would probably be right. I'm an addict. Being such an avid coffee drinker, I am going to do the world a favor and share some tips I've learned:

- Always brew coffee with cold water. The taste difference is monumental.
- Don't leave coffee on the burner for more than 10 minutes, or it burns. Move it to a thermos.
- Try putting hot cocoa mix in with the grounds. Mocha. Yum.
- Don't be a snob...McDonald's premium coffee is pretty alright, and Dunkin Donuts coffee is some of the best ever.
- If you order a large coffee from a gourmet shop (like Starbucks), order it extra hot. This ensures it will stay hot to the last drop.
- Nothing gets coffee stains out like Oxy Clean.
- Regular coffee is actually more effective as a wake-up tool than espresso. It's a fact.

Ok that's enough. Honestly, I'm working on two and a half hours of sleep and it's kind of a miracle I'm even functioning. What can I say...coffee works.

Autochthonous

2007-03-27T20:59:00.000-07:00

I know the suburbs are supposed to be the scurge of the universe, land of creature comforts and SUVs, but I have to be honest: I love my suburb.

Yes it's 98% white. Yes there are several-million-dollar houses and a disturbing amount of Lexus cars. But in my little corner of the town, where I've lived my whole life, I feel at home. It's the corner where I once scraped my knees attempting to use 10 jump ropes at once. It's the corner where my first boyfriend dropped me off after we'd snuck out.

The downtown is "quaint and historic," and when I feel like going to the city, the train is a 10-minute walk away.

It's so corny, but I'm not afraid to admit it. I love my little burb.

Expunge

2007-03-25T16:01:00.000-07:00

I want to rid my life of negativity.

I just don't see any point in dwelling on anything that isn't positive. The lame-ass competition between music people is one of the reasons I changed my major. It's exhausting.

Ironically, I seem to be dwelling on dwelling on negative things. Funny.

Dour

2007-03-24T13:36:00.000-07:00

I'm Swedish. We're known for our stubborn, strong personalities (and our meatballs). This word reminds me of being a little girl; my papa always told me we are "dour Swedes."

You know how Americans have the "little piggies" game with toes? Swedes have one with fingers...they all have names. Papa taught me when I was little. I'll have to spell them phonetically since I have no idea how they'd actually be spelled (starting with the thumb): Tomataut, schlickiput, longamon, leeleeohan, letapetaspaylamon. Schlickiput always made me laugh (still does).

At Christmas, my cousin and I used to braid our hair and sing "Santa Lucia." The adults make potato sausage. We eat a variety of foods that, in my opinion, should not be classified as foods: pickled herring, hard tack, bread soaked in gravy.

I rarely see my papa anymore because he remarried (a very kind Irish woman) and moved away when my grandy died.

I miss my papa, and my grandy, and having cool names for my fingers. However, I'm glad to be rid of the pickled herring.

Animadversion

2007-03-24T12:59:00.000-07:00

Lately my life has been bitter people. Bitter, complaining people. And I am terrified of becoming one.

Yes, I've been hurt by people I truly cared about. I've made horrible mistakes. And you know what? I will be hurt again, and I will make more mistakes. So will you.

I am tired of ruminating over shit that doesn't matter. I'm tired of having the same discussions over and over. I'm tired of avoiding "awkward" confrontations, patting backs, entitlement, deservedness, sitting across the table from furrowed brows and glazed eyes.

Here's my final statement, to everyone: If he's/she's hurting/avoiding/confusing you, he/she doesn't care about you. If you didn't get a job you wanted, that sucks, but complaining won't make them change their minds: re-work your resume and get the hell back out there. If you don't have enough money, find a way to spend less or make more. If you completely screw over a friend, don't be shocked if they don't want to be your friend anymore. If you sleep with a different guy every other night, stop wondering why they don't respect you: no one respects (or trusts) a slut. Most importantly - no one has it easy. This is LIFE, for Christ's sake. If it was easy, they'd just call it Hollywood.

Isn't anyone just happy? If so, can we please go out for coffee? I forget what happy looks like.

Perforce

2007-03-22T23:04:00.000-07:00

If Joe is elected as SGA Vice President, he will resign as editor in chief in 2 weeks. Should this occur, I will - as dictated by the hierarchy of the newspaper world - ascend to his position.

Should this scenario play out, I could say I was editor in chief of the Western Courier for one month.

This could be interesting.

Clerisy

2007-03-21T14:46:00.000-07:00

Isn't it appalling that with all there is to do, see, and learn, some people don't care? Some people skim the surface, do only what is necessary, and spend the rest of their time drinking and getting stoned?

I mean, I'm an advocate of having fun. I don't spend all my time reading and visiting museums (though I do a lot of that, admittedly). But I think it's important to do a lot. Many things. Not just one thing.

Experience is the only way to learn.

Empyrean

2007-03-21T14:21:00.000-07:00

I love pleasant surprises.

We started the student conducting portion of the semester in University Singers and Concert Choir. Even though being lead by students is sometimes annoying, I love it because we get to sing easy, fun, pretty songs that really don't take much work on my part. Plus, I decided to conduct Concert Choir this year...though the director chose my song, so it's not really what I would have picked ("An American Hymn" - a setting of "America the Beautiful.").

We are also singing "The Pasture" by Z. Randall Stroop. This is the pleasant surprise. It's like that song you adore but always forget about, and when it comes on the radio it makes your day. The text is a simple, gorgeous Robert Frost poem and the music fits it perfectly. The melody glides along the best part of my range. I get several waves of goosebumps when I sing it, and not much music does that for me anymore. An angry gorilla could be conducting it, everyone else could pass out on stage, and I wouldn't care. I'd just keep singing. It is - simply - beautiful.

The only trouble with making your art your work is you sometimes lose sensitivity. So forgive me my cheesiness, but when I am able to feel that thrill with music, I milk it for all it's worth. "Art is in the detail," yeah, alright. But isn't it OK to just be moved sometimes? Isn't it OK to say "screw the details, I'm just going to make some goddamn beautiful music?"

...yes, yes it is.

Adage

2007-03-19T22:48:00.000-07:00

"You get what you give."
Frequently untrue. Some part of me believes in cosmic justice, but the part of me that doesn't knows this saying is bull. Sometimes you just give what you give.

"You can't have your cake and eat it, too."
Let me start by saying it took me many years to understand what this phrase is literally saying...it should be reversed. "You can't eat your cake and have it, too." Much clearer that way, but if I said that people would look at me funny. Also, while it may literally be true, figuratively I see this happening all the time. People cheat and never get caught. People get more than they deserve.

"Good things come to those who wait."
I guess. But I think better things come to those who work their asses off and hunt down what they want.

"All you need is love."
In all senses of the word...if you have love, you have at your disposal all the things that come with it. And if it's really love, it is everything you need.

Limpid

2007-03-18T18:41:00.000-07:00

I have always adored blue eyes.

No, not adored - been obsessed with. Maybe it's because my own eyes can't decide between green and brown, or maybe it's because blue is one of my favorite colors. Though, I guess it's not unusual to like blue eyes: It's almost like a guy saying he's a fan of big breasts.

But there's something about big, clear blue eyes - they absolutely get me every time. Even if I find nothing else about a person particularly attractive, if I get a good look into their pretty blue irises, I melt.

Of course, that applies mainly to the opposite sex. If a girl has blue eyes, I either don't notice or I notice and desperately wish I had them (and by "had them" I mean I wish my eyes were blue, not I wish I "had them" in a jar or something).

None of my relationships with blue-eyed boys have lasted. Still, I like to hold out hope there is a set of baby blues out there for me.

Specious

2007-03-17T22:23:00.001-07:00

Smoking is disgusting. It's more than a filthy habit or uncouth practice; it's detestable. I have always hated it and I always will.

It started with my grandy (mom's mom). She was a lifelong smoker (emphasis on "was"). As I grew up, I watched her die. The first 12 years of my life were the last 12 of hers. It was painful. She just got sicker and sicker. It was never cancer: it was a million little things. Her bones, her stomach, complications from all the pain medications that didn't work. It was a slow, painful death. She smoked the whole time.

I stopped fighting with smokers about their smoking awhile ago. I used to fight hard. I was affiliated with "truth," that group that fights the tobacco companies. I fought hard. Then I learned no one cares, least of all the smokers.

"We're all going to die anyway." "I don't care how I destroy my body." "It's none of your business." "My grandpa smoked for 80 years" etc, etc.

Whatever. Don't feed me those lines because it's all bullshit logic. Watch someone die a death from smoking...if you can still look me in the eye and say I'm the one being unreasonable, smoke away.

It's not a matter of right or wrong. It's a matter of common sense.

Appurtenance

2007-03-16T22:14:00.000-07:00

I don't understand expensive shoes.

I know, as a girl, I am supposed to want to own Jimmy Choos, strut down the street in my 4-inch Manolo Blahniks and pine over Prada. But you know what? It's frigging stupid. Who wants to pay $1,500 for things you put on your feet and walk on all day? Not to mention the pain. I'm willing to endure a certain amount of pain to look good, but I am not willing to spend 2 months salary on it.

Besides, men (straight men) don't know the difference between expensive shoes and cheap ones. Heels are heels, sneakers are sneakers. Women buy shoes for other women. And, frankly, I don't like most other women. I certainly don't care what they think of my shoes.

That being said, I bought a pair of shoes today. And 2 bras. And lipstick. No, not kidding.

So ok, I am a girl. I like pretty things. But I don't think I'll ever buy expensive shoes.

Taciturn

2007-03-15T22:19:00.000-07:00

Allow me to be artistic: Given today's word, I am choosing to write a "silent blog entry." No words. No thoughts. No permission.
I call it, "Julie's Thursday a la Google Image Search."

Descry

2007-03-14T16:10:00.000-07:00

In the past, I have been scolded for kissing with my eyes open.

The first time was my freshman year of college. In a flashy show of confidence (with the help of a few drinks), I pursued a boy of my choosing and kissed him on the porch of my friend's house. Not aggressive, though undoubtedly awkward, and thankfully returned. After a moment, though, he pulled back.

"You kiss with your eyes open," he said, bewildered.
"I do?" I did? I didn't notice.
"Yeah. That's weird." I agreed it was weird. We continued anyway. Minutes pass, and:
"You're doing it again!"
"I am??" Goodness, I'd kissed boys before, did I always do this?
He laughed. "Yes. It's ok though. I've just never seen it before."

Since then, similarly odd encounters have only happened once or twice. I've gotten much better at keeping my peepers shut. That's how it's supposed to go, right?

People who analyze things too much would say it's a matter of trust. "You don't trust the other party enough to close your eyes." However, this logic seems faulty. What do I think they're going to do, what am I expecting to catch sight of? I don't make out with anyone whom I suspect might steal my wallet, nor do I lock lips with anyone who I think might grope around for something heavy to knock me out with mid-kiss. Think about it: when you're face-to-face with someone else, what could you possibly have to gain by keeping your eyes open?

In case none of you have ever kissed with your eyes open, I will tell you what you are missing: the other person's eyelids. Unless the other person also his his/her eyes open (which, by the way, can be all kinds of unsettling).

I still don't know why I occasionally have this problem. I have theories (my contacts dry out, I get bored, I want to make sure my partner's eyelids haven't fallen off), but none of them seem to make a lot of sense.

So...what exactly am I trying to see?

Cogitate

2007-03-13T16:27:00.000-07:00

Everyone has a scene these days. The bar scene, the concert scene, the club scene. I do not claim membership with any of these scenes. Over the summer, I bought a strange little lapel pin at a garage sale that simply says "library." I wear it on my corduroy jacket, and at some point someone decided it was representative of the library scene. I belong in the library scene. The enclave of people who enjoy quiet, meditative activities and good conversations.

Today, I went to the Art Institute in Chicago. They had an exhibit I'd been meaning to see...various works of art that had passed through the hands of the famous Avant Garde art dealer Ambroise Vollard: Van Gogh, Cezanne, Gauguin, Matisse, Degas, Picasso, and many others. It was a great exhibit. I loved the way it was structured...rather than seeing a trillion oil paintings of haystacks and water lilies, each gallery had a new artist, a new theme. And it centered around Vollard, who was the common thread. It was a post-impressionistic community of artists who knew each other, liked each other, just wanted to live their art and sell it if they could. It doesn't really work like that anymore, does it?

One of my favorite things to do is just look and ponder. I love museums and libraries, because I can just wander, stare and think, and not only is it not unusual, it's what you are supposed to do. If you run around screaming, drinking and being a jackass in a museum, you are escorted out. They might even call the police. Anywhere else, if I stay quiet and just observe, I am either strange, anti-social, boring or a snob. In a museum, everyone is quiet. Everyone is observing. If you aren't, you are the one missing out.

I had a few main thoughts while at the exhibit: 1. Cezanne is/was highly underrated, 2. Matisse did more than mono-chromatic nudes (who knew?) and 3. Sometimes I think this world has almost entirely lost its sense of community, and - as much as other people can be a drag - I don't know if that's a good thing. We couldn't have dealers like Vollard anymore. Everything is a competition. We are all freelance, independent, armies of one.

Of course, I am library. I am extremely independent. But don't you think sometimes it would be nice to be independent with others?

I do.

Trepidation

2007-03-12T21:00:00.000-07:00

As someone who prides herself on being generally "brave and strong," the great bane of my existence is my biggest fear: flying. It's actually a combination of smaller fears...claustrophobia, germs, dying in a heap of flaming, twisted metal...why would anyone like to fly?

Everyone hates flying. I wish I was scared of something unusual...like cotton candy. Or feet. Or butterflies. But no, I'm afraid of airplanes. *yawn*

Think about it, though. You go through painfully exact security measures, removing your shoes, isolating your liquids, subjecting your possessions to scanners and magnets and God knows what else. Then you arrive at your gate, where you make a silent agreement with a group of people you never met. You agree to trust these people...fellow passengers, attendants, pilots...with your life. Any one of them could freak out. They could have heart attacks, panic attacks, etc. And you'd be there with them. 30,000 feet in the air. No escape.

Meanwhile, any one of them could have the flu or tuberculosis. Or you could hit a weird patch of air and go down like a Saigon hooker. And what's the deal with those oxygen masks?? Have those ever actually helped anyone??

I doubt it.

Wordgasm, part II

2007-03-11T11:41:00.000-07:00

As promised...rundown of the words missed while I was soaking up the sun in South Beach.

Nonplus
It seems like nothing surprises me anymore. People are so frigging weird that I feel like just about anything could happen and it wouldn't phase me. However, I do frequentlh find myself at a loss for words, not out of shock, but usually out of inability to compute what someone has said. Recently, a male friend complained to me about his girlfriend - she wouldn't give him head because her mouth was small and he was "big." Loss for words, truly. I thought about saying "why are you telling me this?", but it seemed passive. I thought about hitting him and saying "you're lucky this chick is so much as looking at you," but it seemed out of place. So I sipped my drink, stared off into space and said nothing.

Effete
I was up for 25 hours yesterday. I woke up at 6 a.m. on Saturday, sang at three performances, checked out of the hotel, hung out in the airport for four hours while our flight was delayed, tried to sleep (unsuccessfully) on the 2 1/2 hour plane trip, tried to sleep (slightly successfully) on the 2 hour bus trip, then finally made it into my bed by 7 a.m. I can't remember the last time I was so tired. I felt hollow, useless, zombie-like. Not just me, either, everyone was exhausted. There were two separate instances where my friends didn't know what state we were in. It was fun...but I'm glad to be back.

Coterminous
I frequently find myself wondering what my morals are. I am bothered by this, because I feel like I should know. If I don't know, who does? And more importantly, where are these "morals" coming from? I'm an extremely laid-back person. Few things get me worked up, angry or annoyed. But of course, I look at some of the girls at the bar and scoff. I hear about friends who sleep around and get diseases, then think "serves them right." But why shouldn't I sleep around? Why shouldn't I smoke? Why shouldn't I get high every day before class?...are these things morals, or are they common sense? Eh. I don't know, and I guess I don't care.

Malapropism
I don't enjoy editing as much as I used to. When I started, I loved searching through paragraphs and phrases to find misused words, misspellings, incorrect punctuation and stylistic flaws. I have a radar for it. Or at least, I used to. I find I miss things now. I question myself. Truthfully, I don't care as much. I'd rather be the one misusing the words, spelling them wrong, manipulating them to bend to my wants and needs. I'm growing tired of being a grammar-bot.

Collegial

2007-03-07T14:06:00.000-08:00

The sleeping young woman awakens to the sound of synthesized steel drums: the ring tone on her cell phone. Her eyes open, slowly; she takes in the sun, which has fully risen. She senses something is amiss. She turns her head to the right to check the time on her alarm clock. It is flashing 12:00 - 12:00 - 12:00 - 12:00...

Julie: Oh no...no no...

She checks the phone, which has stopped ringing, to see it is 10:48 a.m. She had a math midterm at 10 a.m. The call was one of her classmates, wondering where she is.

Julie: SHIT!

She quickly calls her friend back.

Julie: Amber! The power went out in my apartment, I missed the test!
Amber: Oh no, I should have called sooner! She has another class at 11, run over there!
Julie: I have to take my social studies midterm at 11:30...
Amber: Don't freak out, just call the grad office and tell them you'll be there ASAP, and go talk to the math teacher, she'll understand. Don't freak out!

The girl is frantically running around her room, throwing on clothes, panicking. She gets off the phone with Amber and drives to the math building, where she pulls the teacher out of her class to talk with her.

Julie: The power went out in my apartment and my alarm didn't go off. I'm leaving town tomorrow, is there any way I can take the test today?
Dr. Hartweg: Well, come back this afternoon, you can take it then.

The girl breathes a sigh of relief. She calls upon the help of some of her friends to obtain materials she is missing for her open-book social studies midterm. She makes phone calls to professors and bosses to re-arrange her perfectly balanced schedule.

She cannot wait for Spring Break.

*NOTE* I will not be updating this blog between 3/8 and 3/11. I will be in Miami, FL for the ACDA National Convention. There will be a recap of the words missed once I return (see entry: "Wordgasm").

Indefatigable

2007-03-06T12:19:00.000-08:00

I cannot for the life of me remember what day it is.

When I really think about it, I am able to conclude it is Tuesday, but this is only after much rumination; this is because my mind is consumed by the vast amounts of schoolwork I have to do and sleep deprivation. Most of the time, I think today is Thursday. Sometimes I think it is Wednesday.

The thing that kills me is I went to bed at a reasonable hour last night. I even took sleepin' drugs. But I am sick, and it was my sinuses that ultimately decided not to let me get any rest. My body is falling apart: the cold, my cut chip-lip, a few cuts on my body for which I can't identify the origin, etc.

Sorry for the short entry, but I need to get to work. TGIF, eh?

Galumph

2007-03-05T21:56:00.000-08:00

I love the clumsy, oafish way young children have of handling the English language, "tact," and life in general. It is the source of much amusement for me. Today, in tutoring, I was asked the following questions:

"What is the color of your eyeballs?"
"What is that?" (pointing, horrified, to an unfortunate looking cut on the side of my lip I attained a few days ago while eating a sharp chip...speaking of clumsy...) she then added, for good measure, "you'd be really pretty without it."
"How come you don't believe in aliens when I showed you all my drawings of aliens?" (I am absolutely obsessed with this brilliant logic)

I could go on - kids really do say the darndest things. It's funny, because I find myself desperately wanting the approval of these silly little creatures. I generally don't care about the approval of my "peers," but these kids...I feel like they're the only ones who really know what's going on sometimes. They tell it like it is, to them. I hate to get cliche, but working with children forces you to see the world in a way we (as Adults) have long disregarded...

What is the color of your eyeballs? What is that ugly thing on your face? Why can't you believe what I believe when I am TELLING you I know it is the truth?

Wouldn't it be cool if we all walked around like clumsy first-graders for a day? I think society would just fix itself.

Sagacious

2007-03-04T21:37:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I wish I had better judgement in certain areas of my life.

I am too trusting, usually. I forgive and forget extremely easily. I've never burned a bridge, cut someone off, called it quits...I guess I feel like anyone I care about in the first place probably has something to offer, so why let it go?

It has gotten me into trouble. Some people should be cut off. Some people do not deserve my friendship. I should just let the bad ones go.

I just wish I wanted to.

Entreat

2007-03-03T10:09:00.000-08:00

My parents are visiting today.

They are bringing my youngest brother. The reason for the visit is I have a choir concert tonight...the "Miami Send-Off" for University Singers. I counted, and I will be singing on 14 songs; 5 with Concert Choir, 9 with University Singers. It is going to be long and my arm is going to hurt like hell from holding up 10 lbs of music for two hours.

But, anyway, my parents. They're visiting. I cleaned my room (kind of), cleaned the house (generally)...they haven't visited at all this year. The drive is about 3 1/2 hours, so I really don't blame them. But I am glad they are coming tonight.

Sometimes they drive me crazy. Sometimes they don't approve of my choices, they urge me to change my mind, they don't say what they mean. Generally, though, I welcome their presence. They are my own personal pep squad. They pat me on the back and smile, other arm outstretched, saying look at everything you've done. We are so proud of you. We know you are capable.

I am not afraid to admit, as a 21 year-old woman, that I miss home sometimes. When my parents leave tomorrow, I will want to go with them. I will not want to stay here writing lesson plans and working at the newspaper.

But, they will leave, I will get my work done. And later this week, I will go to Miami.

Conflagration

2007-03-02T17:43:00.000-08:00

I started thinking about fire. I said in my brain "fire fire fire," and a few things came to mind. Getting fired from a job, yelling fire in a crowded theater, "Let's get fired up!," even fried eggs (I have a touch of dyslexia sometimes).

But by far the strangest thing that popped into my head was that old praise and worship song I wasn't even aware I remembered...I think it's called "Light the Fire"...the chorus goes something like this:

"Light the fire in my soul/fan the flame, make me whole/Lord you know where I've been/so light the fire in my heart again."

Very weird. I can't stand that kind of music...I hate the infomercials for it, I hate seeing people with their hands raised to some invisible choir conductor, the I-IV-V-I chord progressions.

But did you know I used to play it? I used to be hardcore into the Jesus thing. Mission trips, leading worship, you name it. I really couldn't tell you exactly when all that died for me: when my, uh, "fire" went out. Was it when I dated an Athiest? I don't think so, I remember fighting about it with him. I just know it's gone now.

It's not like I haven't tried. I went to different churches, sang in church choirs, even attempted prayer. But it feels fake and forced. I wish I could believe in something again, because lots of times people of faith seem like they have it all figured out. They do things like vote for terrible presidents or stage Jihads or go to potluck dinners because they are sure it's the right thing to do. I want to have things figured out...but I don't. I want to have faith...but I don't.

One thing is for sure: I never want to play praise and worship music again.

Profligate

2007-03-01T17:47:00.000-08:00

(A work of fiction...)

If I am in a relationship, I cannot fathom cheating on the person. I've been in long-distance relationships, abusive relationships and downright boring relationships, but I never, ever cheated.
I never cheated...until I did.
Hear me out (those three words = admission of guilt). We had been on-again off-again for months, I hadn't slept with anyone in nearly half a year, I was dealing with a depressive episode, we really weren't serious anymore...
Yeah, there's really no excuse, I know. Especially since I summoned him. From Pittsburgh. And we'd never met. And he also had a girlfriend.
OK, hear me out (those four words = fuck, I know I was wrong, but what am I supposed to do, jump off a bridge?). We met online, through a friend, and we clicked. But he was older, and far away, and taken. So this is what we did: We met. We cheated. We got what we wanted.
I broke up with my boyfriend for good immediately after, Pittsburgh stayed with his for about 6 more months.
At first, I had an odd sort of pride about it. I didn't know anyone else who had pulled off a 10-hour booty call, and here I am, goody-two-shoes extraordinaire, making it happen.
It was pride, until I realized what I had really done. I had, with extreme cowardess, sabotaged two relationships. I had sex with someone whom I had never really met...(a stranger?)...in a hotel. I had, for the first time, slept with someone I didn't love. I had lied to someone who didn't deserve it...someone who cared about me.
It changed me, at first for the worst. I was already in therapy for the depression, and now I had a real-life example of my screwed up brain. I avoided feeling feelings. I was sick of myself, sick with myself.
Then I realized I would have to forgive myself at some point...so I did, and promised myself I would never hurt someone like that again. I can't take it back. But the hell I went through after it happened is more than enough to keep it from ever happening again.

It's the worst thing I've ever done. I truly hope I never top it.

(The End)

Surreptitious

2007-02-28T23:22:00.000-08:00

In this run-about, go-go world we live in, I find myself living for moments of connection with other humans. I'm talking real connection, the kind that goes beyond just talking. Times when one meaningful look conveys everything you might need to know.

Girls are pros at this. I ran into a friend last week while she was on a date. When he turned to look at the paper, she looked into my eyes. They said "this is not going well, I don't know what to do, we really don't have much in common and I need your help." So I pulled up a chair and chatted with them for awhile.

Another time, I saw one of my coworkers at the union and went to say hi. He looked at me and said "I'm interviewing this guy, it's taken me awhile to get this interview, I don't want to break up the momentum so I'm not going to say hi to you. It's nothing personal, I promise. I'll see you in a little bit" ...without saying a single word.

It's moments like that when you smile to yourself and know that, as humans, we really can understand each other. I love words...but the best things in life happen without them.

Ambit

2007-02-27T19:37:00.000-08:00

I want to start counting my steps.

It occurred to me at some point that I have no clue how many steps I take every day. I want to count them. I want to make a graph. I want to chart how many steps I take inside, how many steps I take outside, how the numbers shift from season to season, day to day, mood to mood. Where I'm going, where I'm coming from, how quickly I'm pacing or how slowly I'm meandering.

I know, of course, I will never do this. If I did, I would reach a new level of eccentric, bordering on obsessive-compulsive. But it startles me that we are all so unaware of our own paths and movements.

Do I need another hobby?

Sycophant

2007-02-26T19:06:00.000-08:00

I am in choir, and in choir, you deal with all manner of annoying people. In an upper-level choir of - oh, let's say 32 - the breakdown usually looks something like this:

10 people are cool. You have no problem with them. Reasonably talented, humble attitude, good work ethic and fun personality. They know how to work and they know when to laugh. These are good people. We try to be these people.

5 - 8 people have an unreasonable amount of confidence. They sing too loud because for some unknown reason they think they are doing everyone a favor. They all have other odd traits, too; anger problems, lack of self-censorship, god-awful fashion sense. They all have hero complexes.

5 are just extremely strange. When they speak, you seldom know how to react or what to say. Whether it be a confusing/embarassingly weird joke or odd observation, you just want the moment to pass. More quickly than it ever does.

2 or 3 are just plain ol' not very good at singin' and, though you have no problem with them personally, you want them to leave. You find yourself wondering why they are there in the first place more than once a day and wonder if they are aware of how poor they are.

Intermixed with all these is usually one skank, one dumbass, one pothead and one emo kid.

All of the above types are tolerable, however, when compared to the worst, most loathesome members of the ensemble: the suck-ups.

They laugh at every joke the conductor makes. If someone makes a mistake, they are the first to shoot a nasty glance. If something funny happens NOT intentionally induced by the conductor, the person does not snicker or crack a smile. We hate these people. We give these people snarky nicknames. We avoid them before/during/after class. They are not like us, they are not our friends, they are not welcome. The suck-ups are the only reason all the other types in the choir ever get along. We band against a common enemy; we rise up against the ass kissing. In our choir, a few of us even made up a specific secret hand gesture we use when someone has committed an intolerable suck-up offense (to be fair, this is as much for our entertainment as anything else).

The funny thing is, all of us - the OK people, the self-lovers, the skanks and weirdos - are guilty of sucking up sometimes. For one reason or another, we have all been on the receiving end of the hand gesture. I guess we all realize that, sometimes, it pays to be on the side of the powerful.

Enjoin

2007-02-25T21:41:00.000-08:00

My power does not lie where I expect it to.

The people I think I can control do not listen to me, do not care. I can go a whole day standing on a soapbox, fists clenched, screaming at the top of my lungs, and not one soul stops to listen. The people who are supposed to obey do not; the words I write to change minds change nothing.

I touch people on accident. It's as though I flail my arms, kick my legs, bang my head and hit nothing, but one finger on a flacid hand gets loose and hooks into a soft spot on someone I didn't even see standing by. They tell me: They tap me on the shoulder and say "Hi, this is terribly awkward, but you appear to have gotten to me. Yeah, you're in my head. Just thought you'd like to know." I am shocked.

I guess I just hope whatever I said or did that got stuck is something good. Don't get me wrong, it doesn't happen often. I can't tell anyone to do anything. I have no direct power. I am not important, intimidating, impressive or even all that interesting.

So my influence is modest. But the fact that anyone hears me, ever, and typically when I'm not even trying to be heard, is a little strange. It's not power, then. Not authority, anyway. Just a simple transfer of ideas, or some small unedited line of personality.

I'll tell you this, though: it feels good. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying lying lying.

Hardscrabble

2007-02-24T13:14:00.000-08:00

One of the girls I tutor - a third grader - comes to school every day with half a sleeve of saltines for lunch. That's all she gets, every day. I know this because the supervising coordinator tells me.

It baffles me...the crackers beg so many questions. Is it all her family can afford? If so, why don't they qualify for free lunches? Maybe they do, but her parents don't have the time to file for it. Or they have too much pride. Or they just don't care enough. Christ, what if they just don't care enough?

She is so, so tiny. She sits on my lap when we read together (extremely unusual for her age group). I see her for exactly 45 minutes every week. Whose job is it to feed this girl? Whose job is it to make sure she's alright? It can't be mine, can it?

When I was in second grade, the school nurse discovered I needed glasses. My mom conducted her own brand of tests on me to verify this fact; she wrote words on large pieces of paper and had me read them from varying distances. When I got my glasses (large, translucent purple, sparkly pink hearts in the corners), we drove home and I exclaimed I could "see the leaves on the trees." My mom started to cry.

Who is making sure this girl can see the leaves on the trees?

Lapidary

2007-02-23T15:21:00.000-08:00

When I was at the career fair last week, I wore a business suit. It was black with a knee-length skirt. I wore a lavender collared shirt underneath and black heels. I had never had to wear a real suit before. I looked pretty OK, I guess. But when I looked in the mirror, I had only one thought: I look like my mom.

This was an unusual thought for me. Other people have always had strong opinions about which parent I look like. Personally, I have always considered myself equal parts. But is it strange that I had never actually thought "I look like my mom" until I was wearing a suit? I suppose I am part of one of the first generations to think of mothers as career people. My mother the lawyer, my father the journalist. I am my mother's child, I am my father's child.

I have two younger brothers, and the older of the two is a rock star. He writes songs, he sings songs, he plays songs, he records songs. One of my favorites of his songs contains this lyric: there's more to this than following the ones who came before. I know what he's saying, but the older I get, the more I see the truth in things.

And the truth is this: we are the sum of our parts. We aren't following anything...following implies a conscious decision. It seems to me the conscious decisions we make are actually where we define our independence -- we leave home, we choose majors, we experiment and test and explore and take on the world.

What my little brother sees as "following" is actually, I think, simply realizing what was engraved on our heads the day we were born. I don't believe in destiny or fate. But I do believe we are, ultimately, exactly who we are.

I am my mother's child. I am my father's child.

Malodorous

2007-02-22T16:11:00.000-08:00

I'm feeling a bit flighty today, so rather than some long, introspective entry, I will instead write a brief list of odors I find offensive and unpleasant.

Beer and wine. I think beer smells terrible. I drink it, I like it, but the smell is nauseating. It reminds me of my childhood in an odd sort of way...something about drunk mall santas. And wine (especially red) just smells like vomit to me. Again, I drink it on occasion. I avoid smelling it.
Bananas and banana flavored/scented items. Smells like sugar and starch. Not a fan.
Meat factories. Ok, so maybe no one likes the smell of meat processing plants, but having grown up very near one I feel I have the right to include it. I also grew up near a landfill, but I would take the landfill over the sausage factory.
Money. All money - both paper and metal - smells like a) someone's butt, b) mold or c) metallic mint. I do not like any of these odors.

Ok, to shake things up, a list of strange smells I really enjoy.

Hardware stores. They smell clean and industrious, or, in the right section, like burning wood. Mmm.
Paint. This includes almost all kinds of paint and ink. Smells like fresh creativity. I love it.
Onions. I don't care for onions. I only eat them if they are deeply embedded in whatever food I am eating and I cannot avoid them. But I really, really enjoy the smell.
Rain. What makes this one weird is that the smell of "rain" is really just the smell of plant mold and worms. Yummy.

Sorry this isn't more interesting. Just one of those days.

Hoi Polloi

2007-02-21T18:47:00.000-08:00

When I am at school, there are many things I miss about the city. For example: the people. Ohh, the people. I love the anonymity, and the ability to ignore each and every one of them OR, if I'm in good-little-writer mode, to try and tune in to each and every one of them. And no one notices, no one notices anything. Even if you stare with all your might and someone does happen to notice, you are quickly written off as another wacko on the subway.

Public transportation is the best of all. No matter what you do, you will not - cannot - be the weirdest person on the train/bus. This past summer I was on the beach before I had to catch the train back to the suburbs. I couldn't change, so I ended up on the uptown bus (think penthouses, investment bankers) in the middle of the day wearing breakfast-food boxer shorts, a pink tank top with no bra, green sneakers, and I was sunburned and dehydrated. But alas, the guy across from me was 400 lbs, wearing an obscene t-shirt and mumbling to himself, so he stole all the attention. Figures.

I miss the people. I miss the crazies and busies and tourists and shop owners. I miss the hispanic Bears fan who gives me my hot dogs (I miss the hot dogs too, but that's another story) and the silly little gaggles of girls with their American Girl dolls. Sure, some of the people are bastards.......ok lots of them are bastards. Still.

I don't mind a little bit more of a rural atmosphere, either. Sometimes it's refreshing. It's laid back, friendly, less frustrating. But it isn't home.

Apogee

2007-02-20T16:34:00.000-08:00

I have been thinking about graduating.

Like the masochist I am, I voluntarily postponed my graduation by a year and a half when I changed my major at the end of my sophomore year. So this means that though I am a senior with a 3.8 gpa and a bazillion credits, I still have a year and a half left. One year at Western, one semester student teaching.

Last semester I reached a breaking point where I actually went to my advisor and insisted she find a way to get me out of here this year. Any degree, anything at all. She talked me out of it. I'm still here.

I know there are worse places to be than college, but I honestly feel I have outgrown this place. It isn't that I am sick of school (I'm planning on graduate school), I'm just ready for the next step. Moving east, moving west, a salary, a little self-reliance. I have been 25 years old since I was 8: it's about time I start acting my age.

As it stands now, my graduation day will be after the fall semester of 2008. I will be 23 years old. I will have spent 5 1/2 years learning how to teach when I'm pretty sure all I really want to do is write.

I guess I just wish I felt close to a culmination.

Turbid

2007-02-19T11:59:00.000-08:00

The wonderful thing about seasons is the involuntary rebirth. No matter what is going on in your life, when winter begins seeping into spring, you feel like you've been released. It is wet, muddy, dark: a gooey slush. Spring pops out of the earth not suddenly, but as the result of a long labor, complete with contractions and retractions, peaks and valleys.

It is electric. Everyone walks around trying to supress a skip in their step, as though they know a very exciting secret. It's coming, spring is coming, we've almost made it through! Good job, everyone. We really deserve this.

Winter is not over yet. I am willing to trudge through the murky slush for a few more weeks. I will slip in it, feel it in my shoes, watch car tires part it like the break on a wave. I will watch the earth embibe the excess moisture, bloated to the point of bursting.

Now is the best time for metaphors, so I suggest you hurry up and get them out of your system before we are assaulted with ostentatious heat and the dreaded hyperbole takes over.

Enjoy the thaw!

Sonorous

2007-02-18T21:30:00.000-08:00

She auditions for sport.

At this point in her life, Jaime no longer sings because she loves it. She DOES love it, yes, but singing is something she prefers to do privately. Auditions are strictly to maintain her alpha status. She knows she is better, period, and she wants to perform.

Jaime's voice is what amateurs call "big" and experts call "resonant." Once, when warming up in a bathroom, a girl walked in and said (clearly shocked), "Oh, I thought you were a fat girl!" She's got a fat girl voice.

She uses her voice to project a kind of sadness. It's dark and thick, like really rich chocolate or jazz saxophone. When she tries, she can bring a room to tears. A teacher once noted that even when singing in French or Italian, having no ideas what the words meant, she inherently sensed the tone of the text and sang it accordingly. It was dangerous, he said. Quite a powerful weapon and an excuse for ignorance, which was not what Jaime wanted. She frequently abuses it.

The truth about Jaime's voice is it is extremely personal. Auditions are necessary annoyances -- cold, sterile one-night-stands, fueled by the need to fulfill some biological or monetary prerequisite. She finds when she sings the way she wants to, it feels like falling in love: beautiful and cliche, hormonal and dangerous. She is giving something up to gain something greater, she is hoping this one doesn't let her down, she is dizzy and breathless with expectations. One wrong move means her own broken heart.

For Jaime, her voice is the one that got away. Singing used to be satisfaction, soul-cleansing satisfaction. Now she prostitutes it, sells it on the corner for money to people who abuse her talent for their own gain. It has become a shameful way to make a living. She loves it. She's killing it.

She justifies losing sensitivity by chirping "competition." She auditions for sport.

Wordgasm

2007-02-18T10:29:00.000-08:00

A quick and dirty freestyle on the words we may have missed whilst I was in Chicago:

Raffish
There are days when I truly wish gentlemanly behavior was not as dead as it is. I mean, really, it's not just dead: it was drugged, raped, dragged through town tied to the back of a pickup and thrown into a large body of water. When did it become OK for a man to tell a girl he wants her just for sex? Shouldn't some kind of courtship still be taking place? I go to the bars and look at these people wearing next to nothing, waiting in line to shamelessly rub up on strangers and snag a partner for the night, and it looks like some bizarre animal mating ritual. I'm thinking of making a tape and sending it to National Geographic.

Impregnable
Isn't family a wonderful thing? No matter how insane my life gets, how many people let me down, my brothers and parents always have my back. I feel like the five of us are an unbeatable team (and trust me, we've had some rough matches). Each of us has a specialty or function, a role to play in our indestructable family unit. Living mostly on my own now, I feel the change when my family is around. I feel stronger and safer. We are a very, very good team.

Doyen
I finally met the editor in chief of the paper I've been writing for over the past four years. It was at the job fair in Chicago; I didn't interview with him, but I felt it necessary to introduce myself, seeing as my byline had appeared in his paper many times and my dad has worked with him for 20-some years. He was exceptionally nice. In fact, all the editors I met that day (three or four?) were genial folks. One of them gave me a piece of advice I feel I need to remember:

Editor: What do you love about your job?
Me: The writing, mostly. I enjoy editing too, but the writing is definitely my favorite part.
Editor: Well, if you're a writer, don't let them make you an editor. And they will try. Don't let them.

I think I am a writer, even if I'm not a very good one yet. My reason for thinking I am a writer is not that I "love to write" or "want to write"....it is that I have to write. I get itchy and restless when I don't. If writing is in you, it is a reality that cannot be denied. I just hope I can become a good one, because the last thing the world needs is more shitty writers.

Beau Ideal

2007-02-14T22:54:00.000-08:00

I think the thing I find most fascinating about the way people see themselves is no matter how beautiful someone is, how charming, sexy, handsome, whatever, EVERYBODY has one physical flaw that they try to hide at all costs.

If I am being honest, there are a few things I would change about myself physically. I don't really think that's unreasonable. I mean, I see myself naked more than anyone else, I have the right to pick what I like and don't like. But the truth is, the one thing that irks me the most about myself physically has nothing to do with whether or not I'm wearing clothes. The physical aspect of myself I am most self conscious about is....

my toes.

No, they're not particularly long, big, hairy, gross, any of that. They are perfectly normal toes. I even try to keep them nicely painted. What freaks me out about them is I have an abnormally large gap between my big toe and the rest of my toes. Like a ninja turtle. Or Tarzan.

Think I'm being silly? I'm not. The DAY I was born, my uncle took his video camera to the hospital to get tape of my beautiful entry into this world. I am lying there in my tiny hospital carriage, sleeping peacefully, and my uncle slowly zooms in on my freaky toe gap. Yes, even as a baby I was deformed.

It doesn't go unnoticed. My friends call them flip-flop feet, my pedicurist doesn't bother putting a toe separater between those toes, my footprints are instantly recognizable.

I could wish I had bigger boobs. I could say I'd like to lose 15 pounds, or have red hair, or greener eyes, or any number of other things. But you know, I don't honestly care about any of that. I don't really care about the way I look. It's just those toes...those damn toes...

I guess everyone has their thing.

*NOTE: Due to a journalism conference in Chicago, I will not be posting again until either the 17th or 18th. I will provide a brief "word of the day" recap at this time. Happy Valentine's Day, and here's hoping you are able to ignore whatever body part pisses you off.*

Slaver

2007-02-13T22:41:00.000-08:00

Sometimes in life, there are things you want so badly you can hardly control yourself. When the craving strikes, you have to have it, no matter where you are or what you are doing. Occasionally it is a sporadic thing; sometimes it is a lifelong ambition.

There are very few things I want in the long-term that fall under this category. Yes, I want the same as everyone: security, love, money, a career. I want all these things. But I don't find myself pining for these things or suddenly demanding I receive them at a moment's notice. No, the things I want so intensely I could burst tend to exist on a much more "basic instinct" kind of level:

Coffee, black olives, a good book, and sex. Not all at the same time (although......no, no. Not all at the same time).

I get so few of my favorite creature comforts these days that, yes, I occasionally find myself chomping at the bit to have them. Coffee (I never seem to have enough of), black olives (instantly brighten my mood), good reading material (just plain ol' don't have time for this) and sex (Sigh. This one is tough, because I could get it. Easily. But I don't want diseases, or emotional trauma, or gross man whores with body odor problems...at the same time, waiting for a disease-less baggage-less upstanding gent with impeccable hygeine is a bit of a lonely occupation. [This is a very long aside, time to end]).

However, these days I find myself craving less. I'm kind of on autopilot. I hate this time of year, because the time period from Valentine's Day to the end of March is a constant barrage of landmark dates that remind me of how lonely this world can be. I'm not unhappy...but sometimes, when work is tiring and school is stressful and any other number of things make me crazy, I think it would be nice to have a partner. Just someone to lighten the load, have your back, be on your side.

Thankfully, I have a can of black olives. That will have to do for now.

Vivify

2007-02-12T15:12:00.000-08:00

Normally, two hours of work would not be particularly exhausting. No one takes a break on a two-hour shift, no one complains about the time commitment, no one gets Michael Moore on the phone to come fight for their working rights.

The one exception to this might be two hours of tutoring 100 children grades K - 3 immediately after school when only two other tutors showed up to work.

Don't get me wrong: I actually enjoy my tutoring sessions. Though the kindergardeners are a bit rowdy for me and the time passes slowly, I generally look forward to working with them. I believe the main reason for this is that ever-popular, stereotypical elementary activity absolutely everyone loves:

The Read-Aloud.

My favorite part of the day is having one of those eager little crazies run up to me with a book about sharks or Arthur or anything else and watching them stare back at me as I share with them the secrets of the pages. I am the keeper of the words, the guardian of the story. I get to hear them gasp as they see how big a Megalodon is when compared to a great white shark, or when Harry Potter almost dies at the hands of a dragon.

I swear, it's as good as theatre. I get to build the suspense, invent different voices for the characters, make them guess what's coming next. And they hang on every word.

So, you can see why I am exhausted after a meer two hours...but, I love getting to be a kid again and breathing life into the stories that have been told a million times.

Satiety

2007-02-11T21:43:00.000-08:00

One of the biggest downsides to living on your own for the first time is occasionally having to subsist primarily on snacks and innovative combinations of staple foods. When money and time are limited and cooking skills are...well...developing, one can stumble upon some truly baffling recipes. Allow me to share some of my brilliant culinary creations that have popped up over the last 6 months (the dishes that left me satisfied are in green, ones to avoid are in red):

Macaroni and Swiss Cheese Slices
Peanut Butter and Jelly Triscuits
Tuna-stuffed Celery Stalks topped with Black Olives
Chili Mac eaten out of a plastic bag on the way to class (didn't travel as well as I was hoping)
Frozen Pizza topped with Taco Dip
Ham and American Cheese Wrapped with Lettuce
Cherry Yogurt mixed with Honey Bunches of Oats

Well, you get the idea. On the upside, I actually got to go shopping tonight. My roommate and I enjoyed rainbow pasta with Prego (that's right, I sprung the extra 10 cents to step up from Ragu), so I am quite full and happy at the moment.

I am one of those people who, when asked what they want to eat and respond "anything is fine," actually means it. I truly enjoy most foods. Sushi, burgers, fancy french sauces over snails, fondu, barbeque ribs, pizza, spinach, salads, salmon...I like it all. I am very easy to please when it comes to food. I think it is because my parents raised me to be grateful for everything ever put in front of me: that, or because my parents force-fed me weird foods as a kid. Either way, I am almost always full and happy.

I hope I never stop appreciating a good meal.

Crux

2007-02-10T17:06:00.000-08:00

I saw (future U.S. president) Barack Obama speak today. He announced his candidacy in front of the old capitol building in Springfield, IL. I've read his books, but I had never heard him speak. My opinion after seeing him: everyone in the world needs to hear him speak.

A short distance from the throngs of people there to see Obama was a small sect of adamant pro-lifers protesting Obama and his party's beliefs. They could barely be heard over the cheers of Obama's crowd, but they were there, like a nagging thought at the back of the mind.

Isn't that just how these elections always seem to work? There's a great candidate: qualified, intelligent, just what we need. But that one stupid issue is always there in the background, holding its ground, so deeply rooted in ignorance it can hardly be shaken.

If Obama (or any democrat) loses this election because some right-wing group has at the heart of their political stance some irrelevant, non-political issue, I will have lost all faith in this country. It has happened before, but I hope to God (yes, God) that after 8 years of unnecessary death, poverty, and destruction at the hands of a president who was elected based on "fetuses, faggots and fear," even the reds will have to come around.

Obama is such an entrancing politician because all who hear him are granted hope for America. He's an FDR, a Kennedy, a Lincoln; he honestly believes we can change and will change with the right leadership...and THAT is what people in America need to have in their hearts.

Bucolic

2007-02-09T22:19:00.000-08:00

"Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove..."

Christopher Marlow's pastoral poem has endured for many centuries because it is quite possibly the earliest written record of a man feeding bullshit to a woman to get some lovin'. What Marlow intended to read as a passionate plea to sweep a young nymph off her feet is now widely regarded as the world's first (long, iambic) pick-up line.

Hundreds of years later, the nymphs are still yielding to the passionate shepherds, despite the crystal clear calls of history. We've all fallen for it. Though now buckles of gold and belts of straw might be more appropriately translated into a dozen roses and cute stuffed animal, the girls of the world are forever drawn in by the sickly sweetness of the doting boys.

I include myself in this category. As much as I hate to admit it, I have been fooled before. Recently, even. I look at myself and wonder how I could let it happen...I'm reasonably intelligent, not really into receiving gifts, confident enough to avoid codependence. Hell, I even studied Marlow's poem for a 15-page research paper.

I suppose it is because inside every woman - no matter how young, old, fat, thin, pretty, plain, smart, stupid - is an ever-so-slightly insecure girl who wants nothing more than to believe in the shepherds' promises. I'm not afraid to admit it. I guess you just have to keep those training wheels on the ol' relationship bike until you are steady enough to decipher the real from the imaginary. I must not be there yet; however, I keep that hope that if the "real" ever does come along, I'll be able to tell.

Until then, I'll side with Sir Walter Raleigh and his skeptical response to Marlow's poem:

"If all the world and love were young, and truth in every shepherd's tongue, these pretty pleasures might me move to live with thee and be thy love..."

Pyrrhic victory

2007-02-09T10:15:00.000-08:00

You'll notice this entry was posted on Friday, Feb. 9, but this was Thursday, Feb. 8's word of the day. Why didn't I post yesterday? Well, let me tell you.

I had class from 8 a.m. to 2 p.m., at which point I went to my office and worked from 2 p.m. to 1 a.m. with only a one hour dinner break. So, if you consider work and school as my "jobs," yesterday I worked a 16-hour day.

I am at the top of the food chain in most of what I do. I am a top student, I am in the top choir, and I am in a top job at the newspaper. I have fought hard most of my life for these honors. I strive to be the best at everything I do...and I do quite a bit.

But what happens when being "the best" means you are working two full-time jobs and driving yourself insane? When you have to strive to make so many people happy you find yourself incredibly unhappy? When you don't even know who you are anymore because all that defines you is what you do all day?

My goal in life has always been to do what I love and do it well. And now, in my early twenties, I am proud to say I do many things well and I am recognized for it. But the success I am having in my various professions is running me into the ground. College is supposed to be enjoyable, a time for discovery, experiments, youthful indiscretion. Instead, I find myself wishing I could narrow my focus. Being a Jill of all trades is bringing me nothing but grief.

In the words of the highly underrated pop duo from the mid-nineties, Evan and Jaron, "Quite a view from the top, though it is cold as hell."

Idee Fixe

2007-02-07T20:35:00.000-08:00

When you don't have money, you don't have anything. There are lovers and dreamers in the world who will tell you money isn't necessary for happiness. Well, I am a lover and a dreamer, and I am here to tell you that without money absolutely nothing else in your life works.
How do you get to work without gas in your car? How do you buy food? How do you pay for the house you live in, the clothes you wear, the things you need?
I am tired of listening to college students whine about how they don't have money when what they really mean is they don't have money to buy a Wii or six rounds at the bar. Just once I'd like to see them actually struggle with how to pay the bills or feed themselves.
My dad tells me how fortunate I am to be learning to "penny pinch" at this age. He wishes he'd learned it earlier. If he had, we wouldn't be in this position now. Yes, "fortunate" is the way I would describe having to borrow money from your best friend so the both of you can shower for the next month. "Fortunate" is having monthly freak-outs when you can see the check physically bounce as you hand it to your landlady. "Fortunate" is having to hear your parents tell you I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do over and over, and knowing it's true because you have exhausted every option except amateur porn.
It's not that I'm poverty-stricken. I know there are people who have it far, far worse than I do. But when you are a senior full-time student on a full scholarship with a full-time job facing the very real possibility of having to quit school for awhile when school is what you LIVE for (you're a frigging education major), you might as well be poverty-stricken. The moment you realize money has the power to keep you from doing what you love is the moment you become an adult.
A lack of money is a vacuum that consumes the mind and everything else it can get its hands on. This sad world runs on dollar signs and debt and there is no escaping it. Don't listen to the lovers and dreamers, because dreams are only good for as long as you can afford them.

Genial

2007-02-06T22:26:00.000-08:00

Midwesterners are the wild cards when it comes to attitude towards others. In the south, people are friendly and hospitable. In the east, people are cold and mean. In the west, people are self-absorbed and laid back. But the midwest...well, we go all ways. You'll have your Chicago tough-guys, your Kansas farmers' daughters, etc. There's really no telling what kind of attitude you'll get. The stereotypes are too diverse to really be stereotypes.
I consider myself a part of the species midwesternus suburbanus, the subsect that enjoys life in the midwest - the seasons, the cities, the pace, the corn - but is reared with enough complacent bitterness toward all creature-comforts to have a hard edge. At some point I will move, probably east, to try life elsewhere. I will ultimately move back. I will get warmer with age and lose my younger inhibitions -- striking up conversations with strangers, laughing too loud at inappropriate jokes, hugging people I barely know. The grinding stone of life will wear away at that edge, and I will join the kinder breed of midwesterners. There is no telling how long it will take, but given my already friendly nature, I'm betting I have less than a decade.
It's like that stupid cliche on the sign in the coffee shop: "kindness counts." It really does. People take notice when you maintain your warm nature when you have no real reason to. I'm not much of a hugger...but who knows. Maybe when I return from Boston/New York/Pittsburgh I'll be a little more anxious to wrap my arms around my fellow farmers' daughters.

Missive

2007-02-05T18:35:00.000-08:00

Dear Regis and Kelly,
It is my great displeasure that as a poor college student I am able to afford only the most basic of cable television, and today I had the hours of 11 a.m. - 1 p.m. free. These two factors came together to result in me sitting on the floor of my living room and eating leftover Super Bowl party cheese dip while watching your show.
I'm sorry to say the highlight of that two-hour period was the lukewarm cheese, because your show might possibly be the most pointless, insulting, frivilous drivel I've seen on T.V. in quite some time.
Now, perhaps you are thinking "Why that's nonsense, the girl must only watch CSPAN and 'Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip' if she thinks our show is the worst." Granted, I do watch a lot of CSPAN (two of our twenty channels are CSPAN), and 'Studio 60' is one of my favorite shows. But I also watch my fair share of reality T.V., evening sitcoms and Rush Limbaugh: your show is STILL the worst. Allow me, if you will, to elaborate.

1.Banter
This is just painful. Regis, you have some very off-putting tendencies when it comes to casual speech. You have a grating voice anyway, but when you start ranting (which is roughly every 15 seconds), it develops a high-pitched sandblaster quality that I'm convinced could derail trains. Kelly...how to put this nicely. I have no exact way of measuring your "intelligence" from my side of the T.V. screen, but you strike me as the kind of person who probably finds the process of how ice is made fascinating. Every other comment was an excited giggle about how great Harry Potter is or a vacant stare at some semi-lewd joke Regis had just cracked.
2. Special Segments
You have this trivia contest...it's called something like "Blizzard Bash" or "Winter Smash" or "Ice Havoc," I really don't have the desire to look it up. Anyway, a viewer has the opportunity to call in and answer a single question apparently based on information that could have been gleaned from the show's previous episode. This is a) self-glorifying, b) somewhat insulting to the caller's intelligence, and c) just kind of a waste of time. What do the rest of us have to gain from this? Nothing.

I suppose I could go on...awkward guest interviews, etc....but this letter is becoming a bit rambling. I don't usually take such an interest in the poor quality of daytime programming. It's just that your show was so bad. Please don't take it personally; I just think the two of you together are an absolutely dreadful show-hosting team.

Cheers, and please consider quitting your day job,
Julie

Conspectus

2007-02-04T12:57:00.000-08:00

-Female, green eyes, brown hair, incredible talent for sarcasm
MEETS
-Male, blue eyes, blonde hair, incredible talent for cynicism

Scene: non-trendy coffee shop, green-eyes reads Proust, blue-eyes reads Vonnegut. Drink order called: medium latte, no flavoring. Both rise to claim it, glance at each other with weak smiles, and BE concedes to GE. Both go back to the books. This is how it should go:

"Business or pleasure?"
"Always pleasure."
"Not me, I've been working on this for weeks, it's torture."
"I was never a big fan of his."
"English major?"
"Nah, music."
"What do you play?"
"Tuba."
"Really??"
"No."
"Ha."
"I sing."
"Would you like to get coffee with me sometime?"
"We're having coffee now."
"True. Would you like to do it again sometime?"

BE finishes his coffee and smiles to GE on his way out, GE smiles back.

(end scene)

Roseate

2007-02-03T22:48:00.000-08:00

They call her Kristie, and she annoys almost everyone. She's startlingly pale with very light blonde hair and denim eyes, and she never dresses stylishly. She laughs too hard at everything. She spontaneously breaks into song and, worst of all, sees the best in absolutely everything.
I, on the other hand, have trouble focusing on the good while I'm walking into the wind. The winter whips at my cheeks, turning them an angry pink, and I plunge my hands deeper into my pockets. Not so much to keep them warm as to keep me from fruitlessly throwing punches at Jack Frost as he not-so-playfully nips at my nose. Just not today. I woke up late to a fight with my boyfriend, an empty coffee canister and frozen locks. I just don't want a Midwest winter today.
And right on cue, here comes my California sunshine. Kristie dear, please let me have my mood. But before I have a chance to ice over her gooey goodness, she thrusts a blueberry muffin into my be-gloved hands. This is so annoying I almost don't know what to do. I did not ask for a muffin, I do not know where it came from, and she's grinning like an idiot with a basket of muffins. I am about to thank her when I realize she's not waiting for a thank you. Who is this girl? Did no one ever steal her bike, kill her puppy?
It's actually a good muffin. As I sit in the building's lobby I feel the prickling heat of my joints dethawing and taste the blueberries, the only food I've had today. For a moment I hate that this sugary breakfast food is actually pacifying the monster behind my eyes. But...it is. The damn girl baked her ridiculous optimism into these muffins.
I should call him and apologize. I might have actually used the last of the coffee yesterday afternoon. And, had I been able to make coffee, I wouldn't have been able to use the pot to heat up the water to defrost my locks and I would have been late to class.
And come to think of it, I love winter. Snow and wind and ice...they are challenging, but beautiful, and they make the seasons worth changing. I love bundling up and braving the weather. I can't remember why I was angry.
She's still grinning at me. Kristie, dear, you are very strange. Despite you're disturbing cheerfullness, I can't help but think if there were more of you distributing muffins to world-weary souls there might be a little more love in this world.

Here's the idea...

2007-02-03T22:40:00.000-08:00

...and unforunately, it is not mine. My name is Julie, and I will be writing entries based on dictionary.com's word of the day. They will take whatever form I feel is most appropriate, or whatever I'm feeling at the moment. This is mostly to improve my vocabulary and keep my creative writing juices flowing. I shamelessly stole this idea from my friend Adam. His blog can be found at http://wordofthedayproject.blogspot.com/.

Please forgive me Adam. But perhaps our different "takes" on each word could be cause for conversation, debate...maybe even emotional growth.

We are all on a crazy journey, now. Together.