UltimateAmy

Shift by Jennifer Bradbury

2011-02-08T20:04:00.001-05:00

Shift by Jennifer Bradbury is about the long friendship of Chris and Win, their cross-country bike trip following high school graduation, Win’s eventual disappearance, and the consequences of his disappearance. Written from the first-person perspective of Chris, Bradbury creates a familiar, likable voice and a gripping story. Because Bradbury only uses Chris’ perspective, the reader finds out information at the same time as Chris and is asked to make connections and conclusions in real-time with the main character.

Bradbury’s opening chapter of Shift sucks the reader right in and does not let them go until the final page. Chris and Win have a love/hate relationship, stemming from two very different home lives and perceptions of the world. Win is the child of wealthy parents who through money and disappointment his way, but little love and support. Chris, however, comes from a supportive lower-middle class family, proud of their son and willing to make sacrifices to see him happy. Many young people experience this struggle to understand where their friends are coming from and how to support them through those differences. The snappy dialogue between all of the characters makes these attempts to understand probable and engaging.

Between the events of the bike trip and the nervousness around the mystery of Win’s disappearance, Bradbury writes a book that will grip adolescent boys. They will have to read all the way to the end to solve the mystery, while enjoying some male bonding and funny stories along the way.

Weetzie Bat

2011-02-05T15:23:00.000-05:00

Weetzie Bat by Francesca Lia Block, published in 1989, is an interesting book about Los Angeles punks. The book covers some serious themes such as sexuality, parental relationships, pregnancy, and blended families. Block writes a whimsical, fast paced novel that takes you off the beaten track into punk LA. Although the writing is entertaining, it is hard to connect with the characters and their lifestyles. But that's me! I am sure there are some kids out there who will identify with this writing style and yearn for the freedoms. Weetzie Bat reads like a modernized, punk version of On the Road.

Prom Leads to Forever?

2011-02-05T14:57:00.000-05:00

In the past week, I read Prom by Laurie Halse Anderson and Forever: A Novel by Judy Blume. While aimed at the same general age groups, these two books could not have been more different in tone and attitude, despite their similar outcomes (Click here for summaries of Forever and Prom).

With thirty years between the two novels, Blume and Anderson have created similarly strong female characters in Katherine and Ashley. They are both seniors in high school feeling unsure about the future and having some clashes with the authority figures in their lives. Beyond these similarities, the two characters are very different - suburban vs. urban, upper-middle class vs. working class, college-bound vs. unsure. While Katherine and Ashley certainly have different world views and experiences, it is their thoughts about sexuality and relationships that are particularly interesting.

In Forever, Blume has created enlightened parents and grandparents who speak freely about sex and believe that a sexually educated daughter is the safest form of birth control. Within the household, there is even a private room with lockable door and a fireplace in which Katherine and her boyfriends could find privacy. Katherine's grandmother senses that Katherine is about to begin a sexual relationship so she casually mails Katherine a package full of information about Planned Parenthood and birth control. When Katherine decides she is ready to have sex, she promptly makes an appointment at Planned Parenthood and surprises her boyfriend with her new package of birth control pills. Their new sexual relationship is explicitly described and is evidently quite a positive experience for both of Michael and Katherine.

Anderson, however, deals with sex in a much more indirect way. First, Ashley's parents never seem to acknowledge the sexual relationship between Ashley and T.J.. It is unclear if their daughter's sexuality it just assumed, if they had a conversation when Ashley was younger, or perhaps it doesn't even occur to them to inquire. Nothing is directly addressed within Ashley's family.

When Ashley is speaking about her relationship wtih T.J., it is obvious that the two are sexually involved and have been for some time. The only references to birth control include the pregnancy of Ashley's classmates (and thus their lack of birth control use), and the giant box of condoms Ashley and her friends try to obtain as prom favors. By the discussions had by Ashley and her friends, the distribution of condoms and shot glasses are the best possible gifts for high school seniors. Their sexual activity and drinking habits are known and accepted. The discomfort of the Principal and Mr. Gilroy shows that the teenagers' comfort with their sexuality does not extend to the authority figures.

The two sets of parents in these books appear to have very different perspectives on serious relationships in high school. While Katherine's parents, particularly her father, fear that Katherine and Michael are getting too serious at too young an age, Ashley's parents, particularly her father, encourage her to be patient with T.J. and let him outgrow his late-teen angst. Katherine's parents are concerned that her relationship with Michael will limit her future prospects, while only Ashley's friends appear to have this concern for Ashley and her relationship with T.J. One set of parents encourages dating around while the other seems to support committed relationships, even at the age of eighteen.

Blume's Katherine clearly undergoes a decision process about what sex is (physical or emotional connection), whether or not to have sex with Michael, and then, if her relationship with Michael should continue. All of these things seem to be deeply considered from every possible angle. Ashley, however, does not seem to have the same deep associations with sex, meaning it does not seem to have been such a big decision for her as everyone around her is also doing it. When she finally breaks up with T.J., it is after some consideration about her future, but mostly due to a loss of temper with his antics. Previous to T.J.'s final infraction, Ashley appears to make excuses for their relationship despite knowing that their future would be difficult.

The role of friends in these books is also of interest. Erica encourages Katherine to have sex and to be in a committed relationship. Ashley's friends are not concerned with the sexual aspects of things, but instead that their friend's boyfriend is dragging her down. Never do Katherine's friends worry that her relationship with Michael will prevent her from succeeding - that is the role of her parents. In Prom, Ashley's friends believe that she can do better for herself and should do so before it is too late. The parents do not seem overly concerned one way or another.

Blume and Anderson, writing thirty years apart from each other, have been and are developing into the writers of a generation. While Blume's writing still holds some truths of adolescence, the world she writes about is almost utopian. Anderson captures a very different reality. One of speed, constant noise and information, increasing responsibilities, feigned apathy, and latent desires to achieve something for the greater good. I do wish, however, that some of Blume's consciousness about the responsibility of sexual relationships and the affect of sexual activity on self-image and self respect would permeate Anderson's Prom. In an age of abstinence education and denial combined with a hyper-sexualized society and people, perhaps that is too much to ask of a contemporary writer.

An Autobiography of Reading

2011-02-04T17:49:00.000-05:00

As an assignment for my Young Adult Literature course, I was asked to write an autobiography of reading. For those of you who love to read, or even those who do not, it is a really neat exercise. My thoughts are below. When you write yours, do share!

An Autobiography of Reading

For my first three years of life, I was an only child. Life was peaceful and my parents were doting and engaged. Being the child of two people who love to read and learn meant that they took great pleasure in introducing me to stories, music, libraries, and museums. From the beginning, I was taught that reading was not only a special activity, but also something that could be done everyday to enhance my daily experiences.

Some of my earliest memories involve my mother and I sitting on a flowered, 70’s style sofa reading the stories of Thornton Burgess and E.B. White in front of the large windows of our post and beam house. Burgess was a local author from Massachusetts and my mother tells me we frequented the Burgess Museum located in the town in which we lived. In particular from this era, I remember crying with my mother over the death of Charlotte in Charlotte’s Web. Sometimes my mom had trouble continuing to read aloud and we had to take a break to garner strength to go on. I think my mother taught me empathy through her emotional connections with Wilbur, Charlotte, Peter Cottontail, Jimmy Skunk, and many other characters. While these may have been the first times I cried over a book, they were certainly not the last.

At the age of three and a half, I became a big sister. My brother was born very prematurely and was in the hospital for quite some time before he could come home. During this time, my paternal grandparents spent a lot of time with me. Grandpa enjoyed reading me the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm. Though the reading of stories did not make me any kinder to my new little brother (I would hit him over the head with my mother’s hair brush when she was not looking), I think reading helped me adjust to the new family dynamics.

According to my mother, we often went to the local library for story hour and regularly checked books out of the library. Along with the books, I frequently listened to musical versions of stories like Cinderella and Snow White on my little record player. My mom says I really loved to read and listen to stories, but I do not have many memories of this. Though they often read to me, my parents did not try to teach me how to read as they were not sure how to do so. They thought my teachers were better prepared for this task.

Jump ahead to the age of seven when I was in first grade and welcoming my second brother. We lived in a small town in Kentucky and I was a student in the class of Mrs. Neuman. It was in Mrs. Neuman’s class that I learned how to read. While I do not remember the process of learning to read, my mother tells me that I picked it up right away and never looked back. By the end of first grade, I was reading chapter books and helping my mom read to my brothers. One particular memory I have from this age is my mother reading E.B. White to my brothers and I, telling us to shut our eyes and imagine what the characters and the settings looked like. She told us the joy of reading was in the freedom to use and develop our imaginations. Given my brothers’ lust for life, these were some of the quieter moments in our household.

At age eight, my family moved again to a town in Massachusetts in the middle of January. I was the new girl in school with buck teeth, glasses and a Kentucky accent. During this adjustment phase, I was reading the books of Laura Ingalls Wilder, L.M. Montgomery, and Margeurite Henry. These books took me away from the snowy, new town to places of wonder, beauty, and intrigue. In springtime, I discovered the joys of reading in the shade of the pine grove in our backyard and on the branches of the Weeping Willow just beside our carport – quiet, tranquil places away from my rambunctious brothers.

By third grade, I was well settled in to my new town and had formed a lovely relationship with the school librarian, Mrs. Wolkenbreit. In me, Mrs. Wolkenbreit recognized a voracious, curious reader who was open to many genres and ideas. She told me that I would have the responsibility of helping her choose books for the library’s collection. I needed to report back to her on all the books I was reading so she would know what books to choose for the library. At the time, it was the most wonderful thing anyone could have told me. I do not remember specific authors from that period, but I do know I was exposed to many types of books: novels, biographies, non-fiction, novellas, short stories, memoirs, and more.

The summer of my fourth grade year, I was finally allowed to ride my bike to a branch of the public library and pick out my own books. The librarian there was my summertime Mrs. Wolkenbreit. She remembered what kinds of books I liked to read and would have some selected when she thought I might be visiting her again. She always asked what I thought of the books I was returning and what I might like to read next. Beyond her kindness, I remember her fingers – always dry with paper cuts, but quick to pat me on the back. She was a part of my life for the next five years we lived in Massachusetts.

From fourth grade to seventh grade, I developed a deep curiosity about World War II, the Holocaust, the A-bomb, and the Vietnam War. I began reading books like Memoirs of Auschwitz, Number the Stars, The Devil’s Arithmetic, So Far from the Bamboo Grove, Fallen Angels and others. During this time, I asked a lot of why questions. In sixth grade a classmate of mine asked our teacher, Mr. Noel, how many people he had killed in Vietnam. Mr. Noel immediately sent Charlie to the principal’s office and left the room. This tense moment only fueled my need to understand how human beings could do such damage to each other. Something I think I still seek in the books I read today.

To take a break from these serious themes, I read the Nancy Drew, Babysitter’s Club, Sweet Valley High, and R.L Stine thriller series. Starting in third or fourth grade, I discovered my mother’s stash of Harlequin romance novels kept in paper bags in her closet. I would sneak a few into my room on a regular basis and hunt through them for the “steamy” parts. Much was learned from these books. Now I call these books pallet cleansers – a way to clear away or absorb the taste of the more serious books to prepare for further heavy reading.

In junior high school, I continued my exploration of humanity through John Grisham, Bryce Courtenay (particularly The Power of One), and young adult level romance novels like Dance With Me by Jahnna Beecham. Beyond these few authors, I do not really remember what I read during this period. I do not even remember what books were assigned for summer reading or in English class.

At the age of fifteen, my family moved again, to Rhode Island. Again, I was the new girl only this time I was no longer plagued by buck teeth, glasses or a southern accent. Sadly, that did not make the transition any easier. Instead, I was the “hippy, grunge” girl in a very “preppy” high school. The first year did not go well, with regular snubs from sports teammates and most other people. It was during this adjustment year that I was exposed to Shakespeare for the second time. In ninth grade, at my old school, we had read Much Ado About Nothing and Macbeth and I had really liked them. They were tough, but also really lovely. In tenth grade, at my new school in Rhode Island, we read Julius Caesar and I grew to hate Shakespeare. When we moved on to The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway, I began to wonder if I still liked to read. It seemed like my teacher was killing my love of reading. The Great Gatsby, Heart of Darkness and A Separate Peace, read the following year, began to renew my faith, but only a bit. School reading was just no longer fun.

Outside of school, I do not recall what I was reading in high school, but I know I was always reading. Following the birth of my second brother, I almost always had a book with me. When my family went on road trips, I brought a stack of books with me out of necessity. While my brothers poked, prodded, and tortured each other and my parents, I had my nose in a book. Survival instincts at their best! Sadly, many of those titles now escape me.

College was a time of copious reading. My freshman writing course, “Sex, Love, and the Twentieth Century Novel” introduced me to the likes of Zora Neale Hurston, F. Scott Fitzgerald (beyond The Great Gatsby), and James Baldwin. After the course, I explored more of their writings to my great pleasure. Given my major in Theatre and Dramatic Literature, I soon fell in love with plays while reading Arthur Miller, Shakespeare, Athol Fugard, Paula Vogel, William Wycherley, and many more. I also discovered the works of James Herriot, Barbara Dimmick, and David Sedaris. My junior year of college saw the beginning of my love affair with the Harry Potter series. Friends always asked me how I could read so many books while also maintaining good grades. My secret – reading for pleasure every night before bed, whether it was one page or a whole book.

In my twenties, I began to read much more. Fiction had always been my go-to genre, but some forms of non-fiction caught my eye. I read wonderful books such as Bachelor Girls by Betsy Israel and Confederates in the Attic by Tony Horwitz – non-fiction books that explored history and human nature with humor and wit. In my fiction-reading world, I read Jasper Fforde, Gregory Maguire, Cormac McCarthy, and Jonathan Safran Foer to name a few. During this period, I also decided to read some of the “classics” I had missed in high school and college. I discovered The Grapes of Wrath, On the Road, Brave New World, The Count of Monte Cristo, and the Sherlock Holmes series. Over and over again, books from past and contemporary authors broke my heart, gave me hope, challenged my opinions, and brought me to new, unexplored places. My joy of reading had returned in great force and has not abated since.

In my late twenties and early thirties, I continue to read a variety of authors and genres. Some books that really stick out include On Foot to the Golden Horn by Jason Goodwin, White Tiger by Aravind Adiga, Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, A Map of Home by Randa Jarrar, and most things by Walter Moseley. A good friend of mine also recommended some graphic novels, including Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi (for whom I plan to name a daughter, should I have one) and Fables by Bill Willingham. As I move into my thirties, I have developed a deep interest in reading books that have been translated from other languages, or that deal with the migration/immigration experience.

Young adult literature reappeared in my life when I was about twenty-six. My best friend became a school library teacher and reminded me of the joys of young adult literature. I explored classic children’s and young adult authors including Lewis Carol, Roald Dahl, and Frank Baum while discovering new authors such as Markus Zusak, Philip Pullman, Sherman Alexie, Neil Gaiman, Douglas Adams, Suzanne Collins, Meg Cabot, and Scott Westerfeld. The authors listed here are my particular favorites because they transport me into other worlds, question my morals/values/opinions, ask me to dream bigger, command me to feel something, and often make me laugh while doing so. The strong feelings elicited by these authors cause me to rave about them to anyone and everyone I speak with about reading – my topic of choice at parties.

In the past ten years, I have also developed a strong relationship with my pallet cleanser authors. I am currently in passionate relationships with Jennifer Crusie, Mary Kay Andrews, Sue Grafton, Stella Rimington, Janet Evanovich (the Stephanie Plum series), John Le Carré and Kathy Reichs. Jennifer Crusie and Mary Kay Andrews serve as my adult pacifiers, reading them over and over again, particularly in times of great stress or sorrow. They are my friends – knowing just what to say to make everything better.

My reading life has been one of depth and commitment, fluffiness and laughter, and sometimes both. Without books, I am not sure what kind of person I would be or what kind of dreams I would have for myself. Because of reading, I am a more articulate, empathetic, balanced, and creative person. Having traveled all over the world and into many time periods through the experiences of children, teenagers, adults and adults of all ages, fictional and real, I have lived a thousand blessed and full lives.

Get with it, people!

2009-08-12T17:08:00.002-04:00

I have recently encountered something so gross and perplexing that I got off my lazy little behind and decided to blog about it. Well, actually, it is more that I decided to sit down on my tired behind and write about it, but those are just details.

Over the past few years, numerous health officials, health advocates, doctors, nurses, scientists, random people who know about germs and medicine have spoken out about the importance of hand washing. They have said that, with few exceptions, the spread of most communicable illnesses could be slowed and even stopped if everyone just washed their hands, especially after using the bathroom. They are not suggesting that we wash our hands all the time, just that we wash them after activities such as: going to the bathroom, riding public transportation, shaking hands with people, touching public computer keyboards, etc. Now, I do not advocate people becoming crazy about this whole thing and washing their hands until their skin comes off, but I do think the advice of washing hands more regularly should be heeded. Sometimes science has a point!

So, here is my issue - the issue that compels me to write today - why do I still see a large number of women walk out of the public restroom without washing hands? And often really smart, savvy women, too! WHY?!? So, you don't buy into the whole washing hands prevents disease thing. Fine. But, when you think about public bathrooms and what you have just done in the public bathroom, shouldn't that be enough to compel you to wash your hands? Do I need to spell it out for you? (POOP!) And, ladies, we also have that pesky little event that happens once a month, adding a whole other element to our public restroom experience. Seriously! Does this not make you feel that washing your hands is a must-do? How can you justify leaving the restroom and nibbling on a snack when you might have someone else's poo, or lord knows what else, on your hands? Really? And, rinsing one hand under the faucet for two seconds does not count as hand washing, but merely hand rinsing. Not the same thing. Soap, water, rub, rinse - that is what I am asking, even begging for. Pleeeeaaase!

And if some of you reading this blog are the perpetrators of this crime, I hope you will reconsider. If not for yourself or the general public, then for me because all I think about when I see you non-washers and hand rinsers is how I will probably touch whatever poo, pee or blood you have on your hand at some point in the near future while fighting back nausea, spoiling my own effort to wash my hands and to have a decent day. It is torturous. I am begging you, appealing to your best self - wash your hands. Please!?! Remember: soap, water, rub, rinse. Thank you!

Fantasies

2009-04-21T21:26:00.003-04:00

Recently I have found my ability to fantasize about hot celebrity men hampered by rules. Rules that my own conscience has created and seems determined to have me follow. A few years ago, I developed the inability to fantasize about married or seriously involved celebrities. If my dreams started in that direction, some dormant part of my brain leaped to life to create a back story justifying my rendezvous with said actor/athlete/hot guy. Sometimes he would be widowed (morbid, I know). Other times, he and his wife/girlfriend had amicably gone their separate ways, and we had connected after an appropriate grace period. No matter how hard I tried, the fantasy could not continue until one part of my brain had explained to the other part of my brain that my connection with this man was morally acceptable...or at least somewhat acceptable. Frankly, by that time, the hotness had totally vacated the fantasy. What's the point!

Now, I find myself taking into consideration the reputation of the hot guy based solely on what is reported on Perez Hilton, US Weekly or some other gossip/news source. I cannot fantasize about an actor that is known to have shagged his nanny while his wife/girlfriend was off at the market. Or about a man notorious for his womanizing ways. Or an actor known to not shower very often and stir up drama on the set of the movie that made him famous in the first place. If I start having dreams about this kind of celebrity, my brain creates this heart to heart talk with the man where he explains how he is so misunderstood and he is not really like that and that I am the most interesting woman he has ever met so he cannot imagine being with anyone else. Lots of talk and no action. Again, where's the fun in that? Oh, and I never believe the guy.

Now all of a sudden, my conscience has taken its moral code to another level and I can't fantasize anymore. The rules created by my mind have pretty much eliminated every possible man about whom I can fantasize. I mean, can't I just think a guy is hot and imagine him taking me out for dinner and drinks and whatever else without all this other stuff needing to be explained - and sometimes it is really hard to explain. That nanny thing? Rough! We are in a recession for God's sake. I am looking for some free, fun entertainment and my brain will not cooperate. I have always been a little neurotic, but this is really taking to too far. Can't a girl catch a break?

Sweet, sweet adolescence

2009-02-26T21:37:00.002-05:00

As a fairly confident, generally happy thirty year old, few things make me feel like an insecure, unbalanced seventeen year old - thankfully. Sadly, however, this past week, I re-discovered my inner, unbalanced seventeen year old and had a complete confidence meltdown. What could make me feel this way? The GREs and young adult fiction. I read quite a few young adult books, but in conjunction with the more adult aspects of my life, such books of teenage angst and insecurity do not adversely affect me. Certainly I feel great amounts of sympathy with the pimply, awkward protagonists, but their high school dramas do not get me down. I know that they too will outgrow that horrid era of high school and move on to better things. But, in combination with my agonizing preparation for the GREs, reading young adult fiction reignited a part of me I thought had disappeared long ago. As a result, I have grown a large pimple on my chin, lashed out at the people I love for no apparent reason (at least to them), and stressed out about things that only a week ago would have slid off my back.

See, taking standardized tests has always been one of my most hated activities, second only to throwing up and maybe hitting my shins. They make us sit in a small, usually windowless room, in an even smaller cubicle with a computer in front of us. We sit here to be judged on our intelligence, or at least, our test taking abilities. The computer provides a tutorial informing us of how the test will proceed. Then, we are on our own. In the upper left corner, a vicious clock counts down the minutes until our time to answer questions is through. In the center of the screen, just barely to the right of the ticking clock, are the tortuous questions with trick answers. The trick answer always standing out a bit brighter from all the rest. And down in the left hand corner are the evil options, telling us we can quit the test or leave the section. What those options do not tell us is that we essentially become a complete failure when we click on them. So, our eyes gravitate back to the center of the screen, with a quick peek at the ever descending numbers of the clock. For some, like my brother, this experience might be exhilerrating, challenging him to beat the system, the man. For others, for me, such a set up breeds sheer panic and a complete evacuation of the brain. All the words, geometric formulas, and reading comprehension skills I learned through years of schooling and weeks of hard core cramming are gone. My brain is a blank. Empty. And then the trick answer glares brighter on the screen. I know it is a trick, but panic tinged with a moth-like fascination take over and suddenly I am compelled to click. And click, and click, until suddenly time runs out. At the end of the computerized test, our scores flip on the screen. For some, elation and/or pride might overwhelm them. For others, for me, a true sense of mediocrity and failure fills my gut. We know we have yet again let the ETS and standardized tests get us down. Even at thirty, such an event is painful, reminding me of the very insecurities I felt thirteen years before taking a similar exam. Always wondering if my grades and hard work would be enough, or if this three hour test would break me.

Add these feelings with a little teenage vampire sexual tension, and I reconnect with that seventeen year old self - the one I so proudly thought I had outgrown. Hubris. Tonight I reacquaint myself with thirty through a French film, red wine and Jane Austen. I'll just have to ignore the pimple.

Perhaps

2009-02-05T14:25:00.002-05:00

I am just an average middle-class white girl - not as pathetic as Bridget Jones, but not as interesting either. I wake up each morning at 7AM, perform my morning toilette, eat breakfast and run to the bus stop. I then take the number 55 bus downtown and walk ten minutes up a huge hill to work. I arrive each day at 8:55. And each day, I heave a huge sigh wondering if things could possibly be more boring.

Now, I realize times are tough for almost everyone in the great USA. Even the guys on Wall Street are having their salaries capped at $500k per year if they are receiving government money. Must be tough! Reminds me of that NBA player from the 1998 players strike who whined on national television about not making enough to pay his car insurance. After some research, I found that the man had five cars, and they were not Hondas. So now, the Wall Street guys will have to cut down to one yacht. Those docking fees can really add up - and no one likes it when the tax payers get angry. Unless of course, you don't know any tax payers - which seems to be the case with these Wall Street and Washington folks.

Given my tendency to listen obsessively to NPR, I should know better than to complain about the rather blah flavor of my life just now. But, just for kicks, I think will indulge anyway. After all, it's free and kills time, so actually, I am doing myself (though not the economy) a favor by complaining. When focused inward, I don't notice the cute clothes I am not buying, or the chocolate cake in the fridge I should not be eating, or the house I should be cleaning. No. When writing about my vanilla life, I have what John Stewart would call my moment of zen.

Why am I so cranky, you ask? Well, I'm bored. After juggling multiple jobs and a full load of graduate courses while commuting four hours everyday, working 9 to 5 feels slow. While in school, my days were usually divided into quarters. First quarter: commute on the train for 1 1/2 hours. Second quarter: work. Third quarter: class. Fourth quarter: commute home for 1 1/2 hours while doing homework. A little variety! Now, I ride the bus, work in a windowless basement with mousetraps everywhere from 9-5 and then go home. Once home, there's dinner to make, of course, but no homework to complete or articles to read. So then what? What's a woman to do? I could rot my brain on television, which I am wont to do from time to time. I could write, but you can see what occurs when I do that. I could read, but after reading all day at work, I am finding the eyes are getting a little tired. I could sew, but my hands and wrists are sore from using the computer all day. (How old am I?) So here I am. The most boring 30-year old EVER!

I usually end up reading which, don't get me wrong, is very enjoyable, despite the fact that it might render me blind in five years. Lately, I have been reading some wonderful non-fiction that amazes me and makes me feel like a lazy, selfish, unmotivated piece of poo. Perhaps I should be out in the world building houses in New Orleans or El Salvador, establishing schools in Pakistan or Tanzania, putting Afghanis and Iraqis to work rebuilding the cities we destroyed - or creating brilliant, unique poetry, writing wonderfully engaging novels or making the next groundbreaking independent film. But I don't do any of this. I go to work and feel sorry for myself for being bored and not having any windows. I come home and feel sorry for myself for no good reason because I have a roof over my head and food to eat and someone to love me. I have caught the Kate Winslet disease - surburban woman feeling trapped by the confines of normal life. I have not yet taken a lover or decided to move to Paris - but given time, I could get there.

Now before you get too disgusted with me, understand that I am also disgusted with myself. I know I am blessed and in all reality have absolutely nothing about which to complain. I won't even have to work in the windowless basement anymore after Friday. So why the malaise? Why the feeling of biding my time?

I was inspired by the mission presented to me in library school and by our new President. I believed I could go out and make a difference each day just by working hard and contributing to the greater good. Each day I think I do that by preserving bits of our country's important past and by making it available to those who choose to explore that past. For some reason, that's not enough. I don't fall asleep at night feeling that pleasant heaviness of accomplishment and satisfaction. Sure. I have all I need and all I could ask for in the practical sense. So how do I satisfy that other need? Get off my butt and go where? Do what? Perhaps my NPR listening, informing me of all that's wrong with the world, makes me wonder where my efforts would be most useful and how the actions of one person could possibly do anything to make the crumbling, melting world a little better. Perhaps I need to turn off the radio and do something - anything - and know that it's enough. Perhaps.

The Sauna

2009-01-15T09:10:00.000-05:00

I recently had the pleasure of visiting my partner's family in Germany for the New Year. While there, we had a brief holiday in a small town in the Austrian Alps. The scenery was lovely. The sledding was AWESOME! The food was delicious. Despite the minor language barrier, even for the Germans, Austria was a restful and relaxing mini-vacation. And what would a relaxing European vacation be without the sauna? Rhetorical.

For those of you who have never been to or seen a sauna, a sauna is a small, closed room, primarily made of wood, intended to be a hot, dry, restful space - a place to sweat, cleanse and meditate. Wooden benches line the walls of the sauna in stadium-seating form accomodating eight to ten people. The key to this whole event, however, is that everyone is naked - buck naked.

Now, I like to think of myself as a worldly, open-minded person, comfortable in my skin. I like to think that I am free and open, happy with my little temple - perhaps in a way not too common in the U.S. of A. But, in Austria, I realized I have been lying to myself all these years. While being naked is something I love in my own home, I really am not a fan of being naked in public. Much to the amusement of my former ultimate teammates, most of whom had no reservations at all about getting naked, I refused to get naked in front of them at parties or on the field. Could be that my aversion stems from my redheadedness, having had more than one stranger ask me if the carpet matches the curtains. Such invasions of privacy may have created my certain knowledge that all eyes will naturally drift downwards with the curiosity of "Is she a real redhead?" too powerful to ignore. Could be that nakedness seems like something private, not to be shared with anyone other than one's partner. Could be sheer fear. Whatever the reason, I will not get naked in a "public" space - making visits to European saunas rather... interesting.

Beyond being naked in public, being naked with one's own family as an adult, or the family of a partner seems even more invasive. Not for the Europeans. Mothers, fathers, daughters and sons enjoy saunas together with no evident discomfort. For this American, such behavior was eye opening on so many levels.

So here is the scenario: Nice relaxing space, wonderfully warm after being outside in 10 degree weather. Children scamper through on their way to the pool to shriek, dive and generally create waterlogged mayhem. I enter and feel immediately comfortable. I let out a deep sigh. Naked adults stroll about, comfortable - even relishing their freedom from clothing - and I am comfortable with their nakedness. There are no roving eyes or lascivious comments. All is well. Then my partner's sister takes off her clothes. Okay, I can handle this. Then my partner's brother-in-law takes off his clothes. Seriously, where do I look? I mean, if my eyes go down then it looks like I am checking out his goods or her hygiene choices. If my eyes stay chest level, then I look like I am checking out her goods. If I look down, then I look like I am ashamed or afraid of their nakedness. If I just close my eyes, I will wipe out and really look like an idiot. So, again, where do I look?

Now I am faced with a dilemma. Do I take off my swimsuit to fit in and seem more worldly than I feel? Do I leave it on, essentially wearing a sandwich board stating, "I am an American, incapable of getting naked even though I was born that way"? Suddenly, this relaxing space became a space of anxiety, fittingly causing me to break a sweat. Not only would I be naked in public, but I would also be naked in front of my partner's family - a serious double whammy. Surely they must be curious if my hair is natural. No, that's ridiculous. Surely they must be asking themselves why their brother (in-law) stays in the U.S. with this American woman. Quit it. Now you are just being paranoid.... Sigh.

I opt for the swimsuit (yeah, wimpy, I know) - and enter the sauna, trying to hold my head up high, but not high enough to see anything I shouldn't. I feel like an idiot. Who wears clothes in a sauna? My friends lie down on the top bench, very naked, and relax, legs bent, parts moving naturally. I, being the mature, capable person that I am, feel severely uncomfortable, wondering what proper eye protocol is and how long I would have to wait until my cultural discomfort eased. My cultural discomfort outlasts my ability to handle the warmth of the sauna and I leave the room redfaced from heat and embarrassment.

Later that evening, we ate dinner in the hotel dining room. As I looked around the room, I saw many faces from my earlier trip to the sauna. I felt oddly smug as I realized I had seen most of them naked earlier that day. Somehow I knew more than I should about each and every one of them. Later, I realized everyone saw everyone else naked that day, too. Took some wind from my smugly whipping sails. Boy, I am pathetic.

Listening to the dinner conversation, I learned that my partner's mother was planning to visit the sauna the following day. I decided I would skip the sauna. Baby steps.

It's been a while...

2007-09-15T16:21:00.000-04:00

It has been a long time since I posted anything of note on my blog. In fact, it has been a while since I have written anything other than academic papers. Today, on the bus, I was inspired to start writing again. Public transportation has a way of doing that.

Recently, I have been working as a reference librarian in a small, private library, just to test it out. I thought that going to library school to become a librarian or archivist would straighten everything out and I would then be on an actual career track. After three semesters, I have discovered that the library/archives field is a vast one with much variety. Needless to say, I still have a lot of thinking to do in regards of where I want to go and what I want do. So I am giving the reference thing a try. While my co-workers are wonderful, I am not so sure I enjoy interacting with the public more than is necessary. Maybe this makes me a curmudgeon - or even a stereotypical, reclusive librarian. Either way, the jury is still out on reference work, but the outlook does not look good.

A friend of mine, with whom I discussed this ambivalence about reference, suggested that working with the public is one way to have good stories to tell at parties. I wrote,"I think I would rather converse with my peers than with the public." "The public gives us the best "work" stories to tell!," she replied This possibly being her only argument in favor of working with the public. Well, today, I realized that my argument against doing reference and working with the public is that I rely on public transportation, so I have more than enough exposure just in getting where I need to go.

This afternoon I rode the bus to and from the downtown branch of the public library. On the way there, while desperately trying to focus on my homework, I listened to a young man expound upon the young, hot mamacita he had just hooked up with - in graphic detail. Now I am no prude, but I am not sure I wanted to know so much about other people's sexual preferences while riding the bus and reading The Tao of Computing. On the way home, a woman with a bloody knee and her man friend choose the seats right across from me. They proceed to have a rather long and loud conversation about buying a headstone for a deceased friend. The man talks about how wonderful the woman was, and how much he loved her - and then the conversation became too quiet to hear with any subtlety. I went back to reading The Tao of Computing, only to be interrupted by the man's boisterous pronouncement of his love affair with Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ is his Lord and Savior. In fact, in his mind, and I quote, "Jesus Christ is the THE BOMB." His passion was infectious, and I had to fight the temptation to shout, "Amen! Praise the Lord!" Luckily, his follow up statement brought me back to my senses. What was the follow up, you ask? A snot rocket. Not out the window or into a tissue, but onto the floor - about a foot away from my feet. At that moment, I realized that as long as I ride public transportation, I will not be looking for jobs that deal with that same public. Cynical? Perhaps. But who wants snot on their feet?

Reflections on South Africa

2007-09-15T16:14:00.000-04:00

As a senior at Wheaton, I had the pleasure and the challenge to act in a student-directed production of My Children, My Africa by Athol Fugard. To play Isabel Dyson, I had to learn about the history and politics of Apartheid in South Africa, but I also had to viscerally and emotionally connect to the struggles of freedom and the need to oppress. Where did an open-minded though ignorant white girl fit into the picture? My only frames of reference at that time were my favorite novel, The Power of One, National Geographic articles and things learned in the classroom. Drawing on the support of my cast mates, the writings of South African authors and documentaries of the American Civil Rights movement, I was able to develop my character. This March, I had the opportunity to visit the place that has haunted my thoughts for so many years. I went to South Africa.

While I was certainly excited to go to South Africa, I must admit, I was also scared. If you follow the news or read the first pages of a travel guide, you will see that South Africa’s daily murder rate closely matches the rate in Iraq. You will see that South Africa has the largest AIDS population per capita in the world. You will see that the rape rate is on the rise, that visitors should hide their money well inside their clothing and should not use public transportation. So much negativity and fear about South Africa populates the pages and reports that reach Americans.

Of course, South Africa has problems and issues to face, but sometimes it is easy to forget that this post-Apartheid South Africa is only 13 years old. It is an adolescent growing into its shoes--struggling to right the wrongs of the past, meet the challenges of the future and assimilate the many cultures now attempting to live in freedom and equality. In these 13 years, South Africans have been trying to understand their history, make amends and move forward as a new, united nation—the Rainbow Nation.

As I walked down the streets of Cape Town and drove down the red dirt roads of Mpumalanga, I wondered at the beauty of the people and the places. Here I had prepared myself for I don’t know what—the place described by the news, I guess—but then I breathed the air, saw the elephants, watched the people and I experienced something else, something peaceful, something hopeful. Even while visiting Robben Island and the townships, the South Africans teaching us about their past and their present were filled with hope. Sure, they struggle and life is not what it could be, but they also spoke of growth, change and improvement.

In the three weeks I was in South Africa, I visited a number of tough places—places where people have endured great injustice and hardship. The men and women I spoke with have a deep, infectious passion for their country. South Africa, to them, is a work in progress with possibilities of greatness. While teaching their people’s tragedy, these men and women spoke with ardor, wit and humor—making me both laugh and cry. I think that most clearly expresses my feelings about South Africa—it made me laugh and cry, and sometimes, it rendered me speechless.

more South Africa

2007-03-10T01:43:00.000-05:00

We have been very busy these couple of days, visiting the Cape of Good Hope and Robben Island. It is hot here, and I have the flaming red nose to prove it. Must remember to re-apply my sunscreen!

Yesterday, we paid a visit to one of the largest colonies of African penguins in Africa at Boulders Beach. These little, lively creatures hang out on the sand with beachgoers, barely blinking an eye at the children building sand castles nearby. I saw hundreds of penguins—hundreds! With the exception of an egg-stealing seagull, my visit with the penguins was peaceful and uplifting.

Following Boulders Beach, we drove to the meeting of the Indian and Atlantic Oceans. The sights were magnificent, the wind strong and the sun bright. I could definitely understand why it is a perilous place for boats. It is certainly an awesome place, in the original sense of the word.

While hiking around the cape, we were accompanied by tons of baboons. They just hang out along the roads and trails, sometimes moving for the cars, other times making the cars move for them—a fair trade. All the signs say,” Baboons are dangerous and attracted by food.” Of course, most of the tourists still eat their chips and sandwiches out in the open anyway. One family experienced the baboon in a very direct way when the baboon stole chips right out of the hand of a two-year-old boy. Wide blue eyes followed the baboon’s fur-less butt as he ran to enjoy his booty. I learned a helpful German phrase which I repeated over and over as baboons passed me by,” Langsam weglaufen”—slowly walk away.

That evening, we saw a stunning sunset from Signal Hill, overlooking all of Cape Town and beyond, and enjoyed an ice cream cone. The sunset inspired a fun evening of wine, champagne and conversation.

Today, we visited Robben Island, the island prison of South Africa’s black, colored, and Asian political prisoners—including Nelson Mandela. The island is full of contradictions and dichotomies. Gorgeous scenery and active wildlife give the island a serene feeling, which is immediately displaced when the barbed wire and small jail cells come into view.

Our tour guides today were passionate teachers and informed us of the many injustices the prisoners endured. One of the guides is a former prisoner of 18 years who chooses to teach foreigners like us about this aspect of South African history. He believes that by teaching others about Robben Island, he is preventing the possibility of such things occurring in the future.

In the one week I have been in South Africa, I have been on two tours of tough places—places whose people have endured great hardships and challenges. The three men whose job it is to lead these tours have a deep, infectious passion for their country. South Africa, to them, is a work in progress with possibilities of greatness. While leading us on these tours and teaching their people’s tragedy, these men speak with ardor, wit and humor—making me both laugh and cry. So far, I think that most clearly expresses my feelings about South Africa—it makes me laugh and cry, and sometimes, it renders me speechless.

South Africa: Part 3

2007-03-08T01:24:00.000-05:00

For some reason, my computer or Blogger does not feel like uploading photos. I will try later today.

Yesterday, I finally met Alex's family. The big moment finally happened--and it went just fine. They are lovely, friendly and excited to practice their English. So far, most of our conversations involve German, broken English and broken German, but it seems to work out for all of us.

Because of wind, we could not go up Table Mountain yesterday so Alex and I showed his family around Cape Town instead. Later on in the day, Alex, his sister, her husband, and I climbed the Lion's Head. The climb was awesome, but similar to New Zealander, the South Africans perception of "easy" is quite different from us Americans. Still, the climb was a bit of a challenge and great workout. When I can post my pcitures, I will--they are worth seeing.

That evening, we all went out for seafood. They don't get much of that in Germany so it was a great treat for them. The prawns here are to die for! Then, for Alex's mom's birthday, we drank champagne and red wine, continuing our dual-language chat.

All in all, a good day. Today, we are heading to the Cape of Good Hope. Hopefully, penguins and dolphins are in the near future!

2007-03-06T12:20:00.000-05:00

Cape Town is fascinating. I am still gathering my thoughts about it so I am not going to share too much now, but this place is really amazing. Yesterday, Alex and I walked all over the city, taking in gardens, museums and people. Cape Town is full of people, full of life, full of variety. There are 11 national languages--all of which you can choose from when at the ATM! Walking around, I have seen people of all shapes, sizes and colors. It is a lovely thing to see but sadly, so very foreign to me.
Today, we visited a couple of townships outside of Cape Town. There is a tour company in Cape Town that offer tours to the townships, using its profits to give back to those communities. I have never, ever seen anything like it. Some of you have traveled around the world and have seen what I saw today, but this was my first time. I was moved--still processing it all, so for now, here are my photos from the day.

These tenement type buildings are refered to as hostels. The above hostels are brand new and much more spacious for the families. One family per unit where they actually have a bathroom, and multiple rooms. The below hostels are really stunning. Each unit houses up to SIX famillies. The unit has six rooms (one for each family), a common space used for cooking, sleeping and eating and a washroom. The unit we visited held an unknown number of people, but we do know that one family had ELEVEN members living in ONE room!
The "informal" township is a shanty town. Oddly enough, the shanties are more spacious for the families. There is a large building project happening in the townships where they are razing the shanties to be replaced with small huts, very similar to those built by Habitat for Humanity.

This kindergarten was formed by the funds provided by Grassroutes Tour Company, our guide for the day. These little people were brimming with life and just a joy to be with.

This is Tavern Alley in Langa Township. Our tour guide brought us to a local pub owned by three lovely women. We sat in a circle and tried the local beer made from corn, milk, wheat...or some combination similar.

Sheep heads are serious business in Langa and other townships. Women who own these shops rise early to purchase the heads of sheep. They then spend the day cooking the skulls and selling the meat from the heads.

2007-03-06T11:52:00.000-05:00

Okay, so these images are out of order but I just can't stomach fixing them AGAIN. So, I am swallowing my perfectionist tendencies for now.

Anyway, our travels to South Africa were long...let's just put it this way, they fed us four meals while on the plane--dinner, breakfast, lunch and dinner again. Alex slept the whole way, me, not so much. Yesterday was rough, but today is much better. Especially when I can eat breakfast on this cute little terrace each morning. This is the patio of our hotel.

This is the view from our balcony. We can also see Table Mountain from our room. I am sure I will get some good photos of Table Mountain tomorrow when I hike it!

To celebrate our vacation, surviving the flights and Alex's promotion, we ate cheese and crackers and sipped champagne on our balcony last night. Needless to say, I was sound asleep shortly thereafter. Champagne and jet lag are not a good pair...but it was fun nonetheless.

Alex and I visited the South African National Library to see a little exhibit there. While inside, I saw a large card catalog and could not pass it by without taking a photo. The library is stunning! Lots of natural light!

Table Mountain and the the National Gallery of South Africa. Lovely.

Alex decided it would be a good idea to take a photo while sitting in JFK waiting for our flight. Here it is. If only we knew what we were in for!

One would think that this sweet mask is the secret to sleeping on the plane. For my little sleeping beauty, apparently it did the trick. For me, not so much, though the toothbrush and toothpaste they gave us sure came in handy.

Embarking on our final plane. Only two more hours to go and of course, on this plane I fell asleep. Yay two hours of sleep!

Our room at the Fritz Hotel in Cape Town. It is a breezy, bright room. Very Euro, so Alex is right at home and so am I. I think I like this Euro thing.

Alex enjoying our balcony pre-champagne.

Knowledge is power and poverty-inducing

2007-02-04T12:24:00.000-05:00

When the new year began, I had every intention of writing on a daily or at least every other day basis--and then life revealed alternative plans. Planning for Africa, starting my Library Science program, continuing at my job, mourning the loss of a friend and thinking about the future of my relationship all at the same time makes a girl just a bit crazy. Sometimes writing helps me deal with the stresses and thoughts that crowd my mind and other times those same stresses and thoughts create a log jam. The thing that jams me up most is money....the saddest but truest thing I have admitted of late.

Starting school on January 29th was a wonderful and horrible thing. I love it! I love the subject of my courses, the professors are cool and my classmates seem lovely. The downside is watching my debt grow by a large amount. When will the bleeding stop? People keep saying I should put it out of my mind and just focus on getting through the program. While I admire, and somewhat worry about, people who can just go into denial about the massive amounts they will owe six months post graduation, I am not one of those people. The weight of it almost drowns me and I feel totally overwhelmed by the fact that I may struggle to make ends meet when I graduate. Shadows of debt will follow me for many, many years because I am not going into a field that pays lots but I am at a school that takes lots. It is so very frustrating to work hard, to be frugal and to still feel behind the eight ball. Will I ever be able to pay my bills without concern? Will I be able to own a house, buy a car or go on vacation (without freaking out)?

I feel whiny because I have so many gifts like shelter, clothing, loved ones, and so many more, but this money thing plagues me. It sits in the back of my mind and in the pit of my stomach weighing me down. Is there a better way? If I go part-time and perhaps got a job at the school for full reimbursement, then I will not graduate for about 4 to 5 years. That would be 4 or 5 years doing work that is not the work I want to do. If I go full-time, I accrue a greater amount of debt but will finish in 2 years allowing me to begin my career much, much sooner. It's a conundrum and I am not the only one trying to figure it out.

So many in my generation struggle financially because these days it takes a graduate degree to get a "good" job, but the cost of education has skyrocketed and the "good" jobs don't really pay well enough to counteract that debt. To some, it may seem that my generation is obsessed with money and, in a way, we are, but not for the reasons it may seem. Many of us are constantly doing math, checking and double checking that if we take job x, we can afford to pay our debts and afford the necessities. Parents of my generation who choose to assist the children are also experiencing a financial drain. They are still financially supporting their 28 year old children, who are working hard but cannot seem to make ends meet, sometimes instead of saving for retirement. Struggle is not a new phenomena, and I don't mean to suggest it is, but this particular struggle between education and cost of living seems more pronounced in the 21st century. Hopefully, Congress will address this issue for future generations, but for mine, I think we are on our own.

Women and wine...

2007-01-29T12:05:00.000-05:00

According to The Today Show and NBC, women having ONE glass of wine with their girlfriends in front of their children makes them lushes AND bad mothers. Hmmmm.....What about dad's drinking beer with each other while watching a football game while their kids watch, too? Does that make them bad fathers? And, is it okay for mothers to have a glass of wine at a barbecue when men are around to patrol their consumption?

(For a frame of reference, view this clip: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16818362/. Then read: http://www.suburbanbliss.net/. This is the woman they invited on the show to "interview." She gives her side of the story on her blog.)

Why am I writing about this when I, myself, am not a mother? Because this stuff affects future mothers as much as it does current. It makes future mothers question if motherhood is the right choice for them and not just because we may like to have a drink or two every now and then. By the major news media telling women that we need to be chaste, devoid of pleasure and devoted only to mommy-hood to be a good "woman" (which really means good mother, in their language), it makes women who are spunky, mouthy, feisty and fun loving feel that perhaps they are not cut-out for this role of mother. This NBC article suggests that women who enjoy their other roles in life--such as as wife, lover, friend and socialite which may involve a single, responsible drink--are somehow lesser mothers. I think that is downright scary.

In this country, we seem to enjoy turning healthy drinking or healthy sexuality into something bad. If mothers have a glass of wine or a beer in front of their children, they are showing their children that drinking an alcoholic beverage can be done in moderation with pleasure. I feel the same way about sexuality. We rate movies with passionate love scenes between two people who are "in-love" R and rate movies where people blow each other's heads off with little consequence PG-13. Nice example to set! Kids watch porn--that is just the reality of our times-- and by eliminating any visual examples of healthy sexuality while refusing to talk about healthy sexuality, our kids are left with one example, porn. If we keep telling ourselves that being honest with our kids about our smart drinking habits and healthy sex lives is a bad thing, then where do these kids turn to get their answers? Frankly, I find the answer to that question a lot scarier than having watched my mom have a beer while I played in the sandbox.

2007-01-19T14:54:00.000-05:00

I only have a few moments before I catch my bus, train, bus and plane to Pittsburgh for Mike's memorial service. Today has been a flurry of activity, getting things in order before leaving town for the weekend. While I was in the shower after going to the gym, the fire alarm went off...luckily it was just a drill because I was covered in soap and shampoo and it's pretty chilly here. That certainly created a flurry!

Anyway, I think this should be a sad but lovely weekend celebrating the life of a friend. More upon my return.

South Africa....in 6 weeks, 2 days and counting

2007-01-18T15:20:00.000-05:00

So in six weeks, two days and a few hours, I will be on a plane to South Africa with my lovely German boyfriend for three whole weeks. Once in Cape Town, we will have three days together before his family arrives--and by his family I mean, his mother, father, sister and brother-in-law. This three week jaunt to Africa will be our first meeting as they live in Deutschland and, well, I live stateside. They speak German, and I try and rarely succeed at speaking German.

Okay, so just to state the situation clearly: I am going on my first trip to Africa (one which I can't really afford)-- and my first vacation with my boyfriend--to meet his parents, who speak German, for the first time on a three week vacation. Don't get me wrong, if you heard a little fear or dread in that statement you are hearing correctly, but I am also really excited. Really, I am...it just hasn't hit me yet. Finagling finances, re-learning German (yeah, re-learning--I used to be fluent, and of course, now that I date a German, I am not--go figure), meeting the parents, traveling for three weeks--it feels like a lot.

But then, then I look at the images of Cape Town and Kruger National Park. I look at the penguins, hippopotomi, rhinoceroses, elephants and gazelles and I feel so lucky to have this opportunity. Now is the time to turn off the uber-practical part of my brain and allow myself to daydream about what a great experience this will be, how his parents will love me, the penguins will want to have their photos taken and the beaches will be warm and sunny.

Oh, by the way, did you know that hippopotomi make their own sunscreen? It's true! They just excrete it through their skin and they are good to go. Now if only they could teach this redhead how to do that!

Presidential Race....

2007-01-17T10:24:00.000-05:00

Obama has thrown his hat in the ring, heating up the presidential race of 2008. Issues of race, experience, gender and Iraq are already flying through the media. While I am certainly excited to think about a White House without Bush, I find it really hard to think beyond the present. We have issues, big issues, right here, right now. Should we send more troops to Irag, cut funding to troops in Iraq, pull out of Iraq? How are we going to bring health care to the millions without? So many more questions crowd my brain, and each of them affects the present, the here and now, not able to wait for 2008. My bright thought this morning was to set an embargo on the Bush and Cheney family. Why cut funding to the troops, who are performing the duties they were ordered to do, when we could cut funding to the President and his cronies? I think we could save a lot of money if we, say, grounded Air Force One, brought in line cooks from McDonalds to replace the four-star chefs, made them pay out of pocket medical expenses and limited the families to clothing from JC Penneys instead of Armani. Perhaps then, these people would feel the stress and strain of the American public, inciting some urgency within. Perhaps then, the media would cover the issues instead of the intrigue.

Really?

2007-01-16T21:25:00.000-05:00

Perhaps I have been hormonal, or maybe I am suffering from a tough case of ennui, but recently I have found myself progressively more abhorred by modern day decorum, or lack there of.

Since when did it become cool, or at least acceptable, to spit huge, phlegm filled lugies on sidewalk? People just sniff, hock and spit on the ground on which I am about to step. Quickly, I side step the oozing, white puddle and ask, "Really?"

I get on the train, settle in with my book and sigh, ready to start another day. After the first stop, a nicely dressed man sits diagonally across from me and opens his bag. Does he pull out a book, the newspaper, some headphones? No, he pulls out his floss, unravels a nice long string and goes at it. Slide, slide, pick. Slide, slide, pick--sending tiny bits of foodstuffs, plaque and whatever else settles between his teeth onto the seat in front of him, beside him and who knows where. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, thinking that day was an exception. I was wrong. The following day, he did the same thing. Really? Really....

Book Reviews

2007-01-15T16:34:00.000-05:00

After some encouragement from my few readers, I have decided to add a movie and book review component to my blog. Admittedly, I don't see a ton of current flicks, but I do tend to stumble across some wonderful classics that everyone should see. Reading, however, is something I do with great frequency and passion. I should have started this much sooner because I have read some AMAZING stuff in the past eight months or so. For now, I will just write up a little list with brief commentaries for the must reads--too many to catch up on....

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck: If you have not read this, or read this when you were a disgruntled adolescent then it is time to read it (again). Sparce, beautiful, and human.

Brave New World by Aldus Huxley: Scary how relevant this book is! It is a gripping read.

The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas: Dumas really likes to verbiage, but if you are patient, an epic, vivid unfolds.

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen: Fun and witty.

Everything is Illuminated and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer: Both books have a similar style and cause sudden eruptions of laughter. Everything is the cause of my laughing in public blog--really funny and surprisingly touching. Extremely is more intense but still filled with humor.

All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy: Wow, beautiful, sigh. McCarthy knows how to bring the reader with him to the setting of the action without being overly descriptive. Somehow, some way, I smelled the smells of the characters, saw the sites, felt the dust without ever feeling overwhelmed by verbiage. Gorgeous writer, and one I hope to read a great deal more.

Zorro: A Novel by Isabel Allende: As always, Allende sweeps the reader into the life of a passionate, energetic character as a friend, a confidante. When you turn last page, it feels just like hanging up the phone after catching up with an old friend, smiling.

The Secret Life of Oscar Wilde by Neal McKenna: An interesting journalistic review of Wilde's love life. The book is an arduous read, but certainly provides some insights into the obsessions, sexuality and demise of Oscar Wilde.

The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo: The author of Because of Winn Dixie does it again with Despereaux. A lovely children's story about a determined mouse, an envious rat, an aspiring princess and an actual princess, DiCamillo invites the reader in and holds your hand through the ride.

2007-01-15T12:19:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I learned that my friend, Mike, the star of the last post, had died. After two months of fighting, Mike's body realized this was a battle it could not win and joined his already departed spirit. When I heard yesterday, I felt numb and somewhat relieved. Today, I read the memoriam written by his father and did what any philsophical, distressed Western woman would do--cried, ate and cleaned.

As I read Dr. Franz's eulogy, I was overwhelmed with empathy for Mike's parents, brother and fiancee. At that moment, my heart ached for those Mike left behind and for all the things Mike would never do. Dr. Franz chose a lovely Neruda poem to close his eulogy which brought me both comfort and anguish. I could not believe that such a mighty presence had been extinguished, even though I have had two months to prepare. At the same time, I felt comfort in knowing that Mike lived everyday with passion and gusto--he missed little.

Quietly I sat, trying to absorb the enormity of losing Mike and I felt compelled to buy myself something sinful and delicious. Appalled that such a thought would enter my mind while mourning for Mike and his family, I had no choice but to walk to my favorite bakery. Somehow, in my grief, I had determined that I deserved to bend the rules a little and spend money on myself. I comtemplated getting a hot chocolate and large chocolate chip cookie but that felt too extravagent for this somber occasion. Instead, I decided on a small latte and a cherry almond muffin--a choice of only moderate sinfulness. In those moments, my latte and cherry almond muffin soothed my soul, or at least my aching tummy, tasting more wonderful with each bite. But, before I could finish my snacks, I was struck with another compulsion--the need to clean.

Leaving the last quarter of my delicious muffin behind, I began to clean with gusto, with abandon even. I live with four medical students and, in general, we keep our large, old apartment pretty clean. Never have I felt frightened to use the toilet, shower or kitchen counter, but, we are not so good at keeping the dust bunnies at bay. All of my energy went into vaccuuming and mopping the floors. This was not just the cursory vaccuum and mop, where I go around the furnture. Oh no, this involved moving couches, tables, chairs, desks and more. This involved looking under and behind things. Seeing all that dirt both disgusted and thrilled me. This was being totally fascinated and horrified by the sheer disgustingness that accrues while we go about our daily lives. We, who pride ourselves on our cleanliness, who look down on those who don't shower every day or so, or who wear the same clothes a couple days in a row, let dust clumps the size of small rodents build up behind our couches and under our cubbards. We are thrillingly disgusting! All I could do was marvel, and put a little more oomph behind the mop.

Two hours, millions of dust bunnies and an aching back later, I finish my cleaning frenzy. The house smells clean, like Murphy's Oil, and the floors shine. My job is done, but the grieving is only just beginning. Now it is about breathing in, breathing out, putting one foot in front of the other and living in this moment.

2006-12-01T11:24:00.000-05:00

Today I have a heavy heart. The air is damp, the ground saturated and the sky is cloudy causing the grass and evergreens to appear in varying shades of bright greens. The grayness of the day is fitting, though, because fate, chance, and a small physical weakness has caused a great light in the world to be extinguished. I don't want to be overdramatic and sensationalize this event, but at the same time, this person deserves, well, really requires a moment or two of my thoughts.

My friend, and the friend to so many others, Mike Franz, had a brain aneurysm on November 2nd while working out at the gym. He is 26. To give you some perspective, this man stands at six foot five, at least, and though trim, definitely takes up a lot of space. His booming voice can be heard from fields away--and despite wearing large, brightly colored mouth guards, his voice and words came across loud and clear. When I had the pleasure of unexpectedly running into him at some tournament or around town, I could expect a massive, all-encompassing bear hug, maybe even a little 360 degree twirl. Once my feet were gently placed back on the ground, I would look up to see a wide, open grin shining down on me. That is Mike.

For now, that is all I can muster. A moment of magical thinking--Mike, please, mend your brain and come back. Your spirit is missed.

2006-11-14T13:56:00.000-05:00

Today I went to hear a speaker discuss the relief efforts in Indonesia from the December 26, 2004 tsunami. All I knew ahead of time was that this woman is a fellow alum of Wheaton College in Massachusetts and that she works for the Red Cross. What I expected and what I experienced varied greatly.

As people from campus trickled into the room, people were talking, laughing and eating the provided lunch. In front of a large projection screen hunched a blonde woman wearing all black. Long legs crossed in front of her, hands tucked tightly beneath her thighs, spine rounded so her chest nearly touched her knee, and hair neatly combed into a ponytail--this woman swathed in black all but disappeared behind her lap top screen. For me, her nervous energy was palpable. Later on, I would realize the nervous energy was not related to speaking in front of a group, but instead to all that she has seen, heard, touched, tasted, done and will never do.

Ellen got up to speak in front of the group, but quickly decided to sit, again crossing her legs and tucking her hands beneath her thighs. Speaking quietly and disjointedly, her talk began. She introduced herself as a former executive for large advertising agencies, though her presentation style made me wonder if she had ever given a presentation before. Still hunched, nervously glancing around the room, Ellen's shaky hands tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear. When I stopped watching her body language and listened to her story of transition from advertising executive to humanitarian, I understood.

After working in a number of Eastern European nations and the Gaza Strip, Ellen took on the challenge of Banda Aceh. Stepping willingly into the dessimated landscape of Banda Aceh, Ellen took on the task of creating a line of communication between the Red Cross and the local people. She sees great deal everyday and works with local people who still shudder and shake from their experience with the tsunami. Tirelessly, Ellen works 18 hour days in spite of, or to spite, the feeling that the challenge may be insurmountable. She oscillates between the hope of progress and the reality of impossibility. The Western world wants pretty pictures of newly built homes and smiling children at play, but Ellen sees both the good and the bad. There is still so much to be done, but I perceived that she thinks it never will be done. The more she spoke, the closer her chest dropped to her knee.

Fellow attendees asked Ellen some wonderful questions and she gave candid answers. The Red Cross and other organizations are doing amazing things to support the people of Banda Aceh, but I wondered how they support the delegates who witness death, destruction, and disease. I wondered how these aid organizations support the delegates who put their heart and soul into projects that may never be finished--where their efforts may be a mere drop in the proverbial bucket. I asked. Ellen asnwered.

There is no mental health support for these delegates. No counseling or psychiatric care. Just like our soldiers, we send these workers overseas into deplorable conditions with the mission of making things better, but we do so without providing the support they need upon their return. Instead, they are left to carry this burden--the burden that we only want to hear in minimal soundbites and see in a few heartwrenching photos. We don't want to hear it from the mouths of loved ones or see it through their eyes. We can't relate to their experiences nor do we want to acknowledge that someone we love has been permanently altered because of their service. Left to decompress, to find a comfortable place for the horror in the insulated environment of their own mind, some of these workers and soldiers begin to collapse inward. The burden is too heavy to bear, not because they are weak, but because they are brave enough to actually take action, to feel, to see, to touch, to hear, to experience that from which most Westerners are protected.

As I watched Ellen squirm, shift and struggle through this session, I realized how hard it must be to share her stories. Not just to share her stories, but to edit the stories knowing that we didn't really want to know the full extent of the damage. Though her candor was striking, it was clear that she was protecting us, but I still wondered, who would protect and take care of her.

2006-11-08T16:25:00.000-05:00

Twenty-seven is an interesting age. People make so many different choices and end up in so many different places. Many times I have a met fellow 27 year old (or there abouts) and wondered how we could possibly be in the same age group. Some are now married with children, stay-at-home moms participating in weekly play groups. Some are high powered executive types who wear really nice suits, eat at really nice restaurants and drive really nice cars. Others like to date 20 year olds, attend college parties, boot and rally every Saturday night and are lucky if they hold down a "real" job. Some are graduate, medical or law students, poor but working toward something. Then there is me, and I don't think I am that unusual, who worked a couple of years after college, went grad school, graduated with a Master's instead of the projected PhD due to a change of heart, struggles to make ends meet with an unfulfilling job while trying to figure out what to do next and pay off education debt. Naturally, I do have a bit of a complex about where I am currently because this is not exactly where I thought I would be at 27. Don't worry, I am coming to terms with, or going through the phase of acceptance, my current station in life and I have hope that soon enough, my path will be clear. Or, so I thought.

One of the perks of my current job is EAP, Employee Assistance Program. This program provides me with 6 free counseling visits, 1 free half hour session with a CPA and 1 free legal consultation. (Of course, the legal consultation would have been helpgful to know about last year follwing my car accidnet and rodent incident, but as usual, I missed the boat.) Yesterday, I decided that EAP should offer these services in a specific order, especially for poor 27 year olds like myself. Here's why.

I took advantage of the half hour with the accountant, and I am glad I did because I found out that not making enough money is really my problem. Phew! So glad to know that I am doing everything right, I just need to make more money. The next logical step was to then book an appointment with the free counseling service to talk through the stress of the knowledge that I just need to earn more money but can't. When the counselor causes my psychological breakdown, at least I know I can turn to free legal services to sue for pain and suffering--the pain of talking through the stresses that show no signs of dissipating and the suffering of knowing the free counselor can do nothing to help. Thank goodness for EAP!

2006-11-07T11:43:00.000-05:00

Routines can make life feel repetitive and boring sometimes, but they can also make life more comfortbale, and sometimes, sometimes, a little more enjoyable. For instance, I ride one or two buses and the train everyday from my small-ish city to the smaller suburb that houses my small college--which is also my employer. Somedays I certainly resent that a normally 25 minute commute by car takes an hour and a half--adding a solid three hours on to my work day. Other days, I feel so glad to hear the rumbling welcome of the train that will take me, stress free, to the smaller suburb in exactly 28 minutes.

As I walk down the stairs of the station, the deep bass of the engine vibrates through the air. Through the doors, I walk to the first entrance on to the train and turn right. I then take the two-seater directly behind the four-seater with the table. If I am on the early train, I also nod and smile to the guy who always sits in the fourth seat on my left. Usually there are only 3 or 4 others in the car with me. I place my backpack on my right and hug it to my side. Then my headphones cover my ears (I don't have ear buds because my ear holes are too small), and I press play on my IPod Mini. Sometimes it is on a quiet mix or Garden State, but usually my morning ears prefer the Magnetic Fields, Coldplay or Damien Rice, if I am feeling a little depressed. Once that is sorted, I do one of three things--lean back and stare out the window, read a news source, or read my novel du jour. Sometimes this is my entire trip, other times a rowdy group of three men and one woman sit at the four-seater to my forward right and I eavesdrop. I still cannot figure out their dynamics--friends, co-workers, husband and wife with friends--am working on that.

After disembarking, usually the only one getting off among hundreds embarking, I gently push through the throng, walk into the little station and sit on the bench in the far left corner. This gives me the best view of the whole station and the bus stop. Usually, I wait approximately 22 minutes for the bus. In this time, I read the Metro or subtely watch the interesting lady who sells coffee at the station. She is a chain smoker who likes clicky-clacky shoes, dark make-up and taking smoke breaks between trains. I also know she doesn't always wash her hands after using the toilet. I think I watch her in the hopes that I will see her wash her hands or at least use hand sanitizer behind the counter. No positive sitings yet.

At 8:30, my bus arrives. Sometimes I chat with the bus driver--I am usually the only passenger. She has two granddaughters she worries about (they've had a rough time of late), loves to sail and to travel around the U.S. She drops me off near my office building even though it is not the real bus stop.

After work, the afternoon routine begins. I catch one of two buses- late or later. I am usually the only passenger, though students occasionally ride and mostly on Fridays. I look forward to seeing my afernoon driver--he is smart, funny and hopeful. At first we didn't talk on the ride, now we always talk and I am glad. We talk about politics, censorship, movies, music and more. He wants to go back to school but he's scared--though he claims he is too old--just like he is scared to date again after his divorce. He is smart though--and he thinks a lot. Not much else to do working this job, he says, but read during the breaks and think during the drives. I talk with him until the automated signs announce,"Train Appraoching."

As I walk down the platform, I look over my right shoulder to check the distance of the train's single headlight. I bounce down the two sets of steps, turn right, walk under the overpass and bop up the two sets of steps to the south-bound platform. Quickly, I move toward my usual waiting point on the north side of the pay phone. As the train approaches, its bell rings -ding, ding, ding- getting louder with each foot of progress. Within a moment, I feel the rush of air from the passing locomotive and smell the burning rubber as the brakes engage. I move forward and stand in the yellow Do Not Stand area as hundreds of commuters disembark. They hit the ground running and hurry to toward their cars to be the first out of the lot.

The bearded, bespectacled conductor stands between the two cars and shifts from foot to foot like a bored, depressed zoo animal. Right, left, Watch Your Step. Right, left, Watch Your Step. Right, left, Watch Your Step. Each word said in a monotone barely audible above the din of descending passengers. Everyday we meet, everyday amidst the hubbub, he says,"Tickets, please." I show him my pink pass, he squints at it, says thanks and goes back to his routine. Right, left, Watch Your Step. I always think he could teach Eeyore a lesson or two. As more and more people get off the train, I stare unabashedly at the conductor--right, left, Watch Your Step. I take in the neat,black beard, conductor uniform (hat included), steel-toed biker boots and the gold band adorning his left ring finger. Each day, I wonder if he is happy, if he likes his job, wife, life. Maybe he just gets through the day and saves his personality for when the bell tolls at the end of the work day.

I climb up the right side stairs once the flow of people stops. Taking the first open two seater--I don't like seat mates--I sit down, put my bag by my side and pull it close. Taking my headphones out of my bag, I place them on my head and choose my music--more flexible in the afternoons with my music selection. Sometimes I proceed to scribble furiously in my journal. Other times I read my novel du jour (see former blog from October). I never read the news in the afternoon--this is my time to decompreess. "Providence, last stop. Providence, last (mumble)..." The conductor shuffles through the car, enthusiastically and clearly announcing that Providence will be the last stop. I smile.

The train pulls into the station 28 minutes later and I patiently wait to get up the stairs. This station rarely has working escalators so departing and arriving passengers maneuveur and push past each other-all eager to reach their destination, each insensitive to the other's eagerness. When I emerge from the platform, I either turn right toward downtown and the bus depot or I turn left toward my wonderful boyfriend waiting in front of the State House. This is where my routine ends and spontaneity is rediscovered--at least until the next morning.

2006-11-06T13:13:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I wonder why I feel totally overwhelmed by life. Well, that may be a little overdramatic, but sometimes the slightest change in routine, or that one extra chore makes me feel just a little crazy. Then, Melanie asked me to write about what I read everyday... take a peek...now I know why. Perhaps I should cut back a little... actually, now that I think about it, I realize I even forgot some! I need to go find my paper bag...more soon.

2006-10-31T08:39:00.000-05:00

Have you ever laughed in a public place? I mean, have you ever thrown your head back, let the glee bubble up from your gut and explode out of your mouth in a public place? Have you ever gotten the giggles so badly that your eyes water, your stomach aches and your knees weaken--in a public place?

Recently, I had the pleasure of both reading a wonderful novel and experiencing uncontrollable laughter while riding a very busy commuter train home from work. While reading Everything is Illuminated (a fantastic book by Jonathan Safran Foer, worth its own posting) I have smirked, giggled, grinned and grimaced many times, but this day was different. This day, Foer strung together one of the most hilarious string of events I have read in ages, if ever, and of course I read it while squished on a rush hour train.

As I began the new chapter, my lips quirked upwards and quickly spread to a full-faced, goofy smile. The situation rapidly escalated to fits of giggles, usually smothered by my free hand. At some points, I had to balance my book on my lap to utilize both hands to smother. Soon after the dual hand technique, Foer dielivered his most powerful and masterful blow and I was lost.

My tummy began rumbling and shaking, my chest contracted, my Adam's apple bobbed, my head tilted back and my mouth flew open to emit a roar of laughter. All of my cells vibrated with joy. I laughed until my eyes watered. Until my stomach muscles complained. Until my lungs wheezed. Until I collapsed forward to rest my head on my back pack. Until I couldn't laugh anymore because implosion was a giggle away. In this moment, I gently closed my book and put it on the seat beside me, hoping this physical separation would help me regain control.

From the beginning of my giggles, I was aware of my fellow passengers sending inquiring, curious looks my way. Some smiled with me, some squirmed uncomfortably in their seats--but most stared wonderingly at the girl crowing with glee on the commuter rail because of a book. Yes, because of a book. It is unclear if they thought I was crazy for laughing with such gusto on the train, crazy for laughing that hard because of a book, or just plain old, straight up crazy. Nonetheless, people were sadly disconcerted by this break in the norm of public transport. All I have to say is--wait until I read a sad novel. Watch out!

2006-10-27T21:30:00.000-04:00

If it's possible to be bouncily groggy, I was this morning. With sleepers still embedded in the corners of my eye, I stumbled to the bus stop. Crisp morning air massaged my bedwarm face as I took a deep breath. Another day, another dollar, I think. Then I take another deep breath and smell fall. Chimney smoke, earth and chill mingle in my nose and I know my favorite season is tryly here. I feel happy. As my IPod fills my ears with music, my mind clears and I relax into my day. I get off the bus to walk to the train station. The cool air and the song in my ear makes me bouncy despite my still blurry state. Luckily, I do this walk so frequently, I don't need to think about where I am going.

As I meander down the sidewalk in my sleepy little world, I encounter a really large, rather disoriented, hairless tailed, football sized, beady eyed....guess?!?! Guess what I saw? Yup! A HUGE rat! He was scurrying furiously about the sidewalk. Unlike the insolent Rat BAstard, this poor rat looked freaked out and confused. He ran toward me, got within three feet and then ran away as fast as his little legs would carry him. The fact that I was screaming like a banshee may or may not have caused this flurry of activity--but I'm not sure. Rat then ran out into the road and head first into (not under) the bus' tire. He backed up, shook his head and scampered between cars and buses. I couldn't tell if he made it not--but this rat was easily the size of a squirrel, so I do know that any driver would have seen him coming! While Rat ran for his life, I continued screaming and doing that special gross out dance--the one where you run in place doing something akin to jazz hands. Whether or not people withnessed this act of courage and bravery I am not sure becasue I didn't dare look around me.

After smoothing my coat, I continued walking to the train station with only periodic returns to the gross out dance. While walking, I find myself worrying that my serious over raction may have caused Rat to sprint to his death. Unlike Rat Bastard, Rat had every right to be on the sidewalk doing his buseiness. He had not violated my personal space or pooped on my books. I won't ever know Rat's fate, but at least he will have this blog by which to be remembered.

2006-06-01T14:12:00.000-04:00

Whether or not you are a fan of the Dixie Chicks, I strongly recommend listening to their performance on David Letterman. You can find it at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZBz994YWUV0&search=dixie%20chicks. On this website you can also view the video of this song. Once you have done this, continue reading below.

In case you have forgotten, the Dixie Chicks were tarred and feathered about 3 years ago for Natalie Maines' comment about being ashamed that George Bush is a fellow Texan. The response to this comment led to the burning of DC cds, loss of radio play, stores refusing to sell their albums, shows pulling interview slots and death threats. They were booed and protested whenever they did make public appearances. While the Dixie Chicks did not back down, they did take a brief hiatus from the recording/concert world to raise their families and collect themselves. This year, they came screaming back with "Taking the Long Way."

On David Letterman, the Chicks sang a song from their new album entitled, "Not Ready To Make Nice" and they blew me away. Not only did they confront the criticism of three years ago head on, but they transcended the drama to impart a beautiful message of strength, resilience and the right to free speech. Maines' powerful presence and emotion-filled voice is inspiring. She is "mad as hell" and not willing to squelch that emotion to make others happy. In a time where dissenters are urged and in some cases, forced to seethe silently, Maines' stands up, yet again, to make a call to arms.

It is time to stand up, to protest, to write letters. No longer can we go round and round with semantics and morality--it is time to speak out. The Dixie Chicks have withstood death threats, booes and boycotts. They have paid the price for speaking their minds. They are not flip-floppers and equivocators, but instead have come back with the same message in plain English. It is out there, no mincing of words. It is time for all of us, those who agree with Maines', to stand tall and get active. For three years we have been quiet, but now, Maines' has bravely sent out the call:

I'm not ready to make nice,
I'm not ready to back down,
I'm still mad as hell
And I don't have time
To go round and round and round
It's too late to make it right
I probably wouldn't if I could
Cause I'm mad as hell
Can't bring myself to do what it is
You think I should

Forgive, sounds good.
Forget, I'm not sure I could.
They say time heals everything,
But I'm still waiting

It is our job to answer Maines' call--to be mad and loud as hell.

2006-05-26T16:43:00.000-04:00

Here it is. . . my beast of burden! Don't tell me how it could improve, I have already submitted it and your comments will just lead to a truly neurotic moment. Just enjoy, smile and send the admissions people happy thoughts so they accept me with lots and lots of funding!

Amy Greer
Statement of Purpose
GSLIS Applicant

From the day letters finally formed words in my mind, my nose has been in a book. Whether escaping to a fantasy world or attempting to understand horrific events in our history, I find serenity in the written word. At the ripe old age of 6, I discovered big buildings filled with books for me to read, and I was hooked. Libraries have always been my port in the storm, my familiar amidst the unfamiliar, my structure amidst chaos and my house of knowledge. Now, at the ripe old age of 27, I want to contribute to the very system that helped foster my love of learning.

With my MLS, I hope to work in archives and/or special collections as a librarian, a preservationist, an educator, a communicator and a historian. As a librarian and preservationist, I want to organize and maintain historical documents and artifacts for the education and enjoyment of subsequent generations. As an educator and communicator, I want to inform the public of the many resources available to them in understanding our history and our future. As a historian, I look forward to handling such precious materials as letters to friends, playbills, manuscripts, and much more. Through one profession, I can fulfill innumerable goals and pursue a variety of interests, while acting as a public servant.

Through my studies at Wheaton College (in MA), I developed a deep interest in the histories of both theatre and sexuality. An intriguing research project on the theatrical norms and mores of Louis XIV’s court and an intensive independent study on Oscar Wilde compelled me to apply to Master’s programs in theatre history. Once in the Theatre History program at the University of Pittsburgh, I delved deeper into the 17th century while continuing my exploration of Oscar Wilde. Much of the research I did throughout my two-year program focused on the development of sexual norms on stage ranging from the 17th century to the beginning of the 20th century. This research incorporated dramatic literature, primary sources, paintings, commercials, and costume designs to gain a well-rounded understanding of the cultural modes.

During this time, I gained familiarity with and appreciation for the myriad of materials in the Curtis Theatre Collection housed in Hillman Library. Handling these primary sources dating from 150 years ago and beyond enthralled me. Not only was the material itself fascinating but so also was the way in which the materials were preserved, stored and maintained. I found myself asking just as many questions about how the archivists maintained the collection as where to find my materials. By preserving these artifacts, the Curtis Collection fulfills its mission to offer all people the opportunity to have direct contact with history—and it is in this mission I want to participate.

Becoming a librarian and archivist will allow me to actively pursue my passions. Wheaton and the University of Pittsburgh have fostered my love of research and history, and now I look to the University of Rhode Island to provide me with the knowledge to help cultivate others love of research and history. I believe I have an obligation to our young people to preserve and protect precious items that illuminate our past and inform our future. I know the University of Rhode Island is the place to help me fulfill this obligation.

2006-05-22T09:56:00.000-04:00

Let's face it, focus has never been my strong suit. Sure, I can focus on a conversation, a movie, a book, but when it comes to choosing a paper topic, a boyfriend or a career, I find it nearly impossible to focus on any one thing. Having been raised to be a lifelong learner, I have been both blessed and cursed with a love of many subjects. Over the years, I have dreamed of being a toll booth collector, a veterinarian, a cashier, an actress, an equestrienne, a professor, a writer and a librarian. Whenever I enter training for one thing, I dream of doing another. It is not so much that the grass seems greener but more that I don't ever want to feel pigeon-holed. Knowing the world is my oyster both excites and terrifies me because the opportunities are endless. For many, this cliche suggests that over time they have the opportunity to explore many areas. They will never be trapped in one occupation but instead may dabble in many fields--perhaps at the same time. For me, my oyster--my life of opportunity means that I have much to choose from, with "choose" being the operative word. It means that after far too much researching, exploring and discussing, I will eventually need to take action. I feel forever frozen in a world of indecision and opportunities while I continue in jobs I hate.

Now, after reading the above, imagine me trying to write a statement of purpose. Not statements of purposes or a brainstorm of possibilities, but a statement which outlines a singular purpose. Ladies and gentlemen, this is my worst nightmare--and my task for the day.

I am supposed to be writing a statement of purpose for entrance into a graduate program in library science. I am supposed to be outlining the reasons I want to attend library school, what qualifies me for library school and what I hope to do post-library school. At this point, I am confident that library school is right for me as it offers me a myriad of neat opportunities AND actually makes me employable for a change. Well, it will at least present me the chance to get a job that I might actually LIKE--a major change for me. And, part of the reason I am attracted to the field is that there are many directions it could take me, making it rather difficult to state a singular purpose to gain entry into a program. While I recognize they are not going to hold me to any stated purpose, it is difficult for me to even pick one thing to focus on, whether binding or not.

I love books--always have, always will. I love teenagers--their moodiness, their questioning, their need to fit in contradicting their desire for individuality. I love learning new things, just because I am interested. I love researching topics to better understand the whole picture. I love touching historical documents, wondering who originally owned them and what their story was. I love the musty smell of old books and the gluey smell of new ones. I love the whining spines of old books and the cracking spines of new ones. I love the anticipation of the first line and the sadness of the last. I love the excitement on the faces of young people as they experience a great book for the first time. I love perusing and meandering through stacks of books, marveling at the amount of energy, creativity and thought contained within each binding. I love the numbers and letters that instruct me of each book's subject. I love sharing my passion for all of the above with others. Because of all this, I want to go to library school. I want to excite others with literature, history and creativity. I want to preserve the work of others for the enjoyment of future generations. I want to make this information more easily accessible. How I will do this and through what modes, I am not yet sure--that is why I want to attend library school. It though school I hope to find my niche within the library world and I take it from there. Is that a clear enough statement of purpose?

2006-05-16T13:42:00.000-04:00

Oh, the joys of rural Maine, high school fashion, richie-rich prep schools, mediocre a cappella, and modern travel. Over the past few weeks, I have smirked, grimaced and grinned at the places my job takes me. If nothing else, I have learned a great deal about people this past year and will marvel for years to come at the audacity and obliviousness of my fellow humans.

Today alone was exciting enough to last me a whileÃ—at least until the fall season. After an evening of a seriously upset stomach, I awoke groggy and grumpy. A college fair awaited me, but it would be an hour and a half drive just to get there. The drive went smoothly enough, and I was even able to eat a bit of breakfast with little protest from my testy stomach before the kids came. The kidsÃ—oh, the kids! Too busy seeing and being seen to speak with the lowly college reps, these adolescents pranced, preened and puttered by the rows of tables. After two hours of people watching, I packed up and hightailed it out of there.

When I got my car, I checked my voicemail to discover that my 5:15 flight had been cancelled and the only other flight was leaving in about three hours. I was three hours from the airport, at least, and knew I would have to be a speed demon to make the flight. In my haste, I neglected to check my gas gauge. Needless to say, approximately twenty minutes into my drive, I heard that dreaded ding informing me that I would soon run out of gas. The problem with this scenario was that I was miles from the nearest gas station in rural Maine. Houses were about ten miles apart and the land in between consisted of beautiful, large marshlands. My palms began to sweat and my brain whirred with possible solutions to this conceivably uncomfortable situation. I slowed my pace and coasted down hills, while praying and making promises to God. After miles of imaginative worst-case scenarios playing through my mind, a gas station appeared on the horizon. With this problem solved, it was on to Augusta to catch my flight.

Normally, I am a ten-mile-above-the-speed-limit kind of girl. I like to test the limits but not get too crazy. Today, however, I went a bit crazy. I will not disclose details for the sake of those who love me, or for those who would like to arrest me, but I definitely made good time today. The Pontiac G6 can move! Because my luck of late would have me miss the flight out of Augusta, I called Enterprise to create a contingency plan. They were great, as always, so I plowed onward knowing somehow, some way, I would get home tonight.

Of course my bladder always decides to be a diva when time is of the essence and throws a monstrous hissy fit. Demanding my undivided attention, I had to make a pit stop. At this point, gas stations are about thirty to forty miles apart and they are the only places of business along the route. Now, logically, this would mean that each gas station would have a public restroom because that is just what you do. When you are the only place for drivers to stop, you have a public bathroom out of love for your fellow humans. After running into two stores in a rather odd fashion, seeing the sign that said," No Public Restroom," and then hightailing it out of there (much to the amusement of the locals who hung out at the gas station), I finally found a bathroom. I get out of the car, run gingerly into the store (having now held it for about an hour or more), just in time to see a mother, a baby and a diaper bag step into the one bathroom available. At this moment, my heart dropped and my bladder shrieked. I paced, back and forth, back and forth, knowing that standing still would only get me stuck in some awkward position where moving would cause an accident--speaking from experienceembarrassingng to recount here. As a 27 year old, moments like these are truly humbling. Here I am, a smart, young professional doing the peepee dance in a public place where the wrong move could lead to a serious accident. When the mother and child pushed open the door, I flew by them, gave them a gentle shove out of the way, slammed the door, and finally found relief. Thank God!

An hour later, I pulled into AugustaÃ’s airport (which, by the way, consists of one airline counter, one bus counter, one rental car counter and, naturally, one Thai restaurant) and ran inside to find out if I could make the earlier flight. The airline attendant took my ID and was ready to put me on the plane when I realized my luggage and everything was still in the rental car I had not yet returned.

I madly unpacked my car, throwing out the amazing amount of trash I haccumulatedted in my two day trip to the butt crack of Maine. On my return to the "terminal," the flight folks loaded me and my bags through security. The two security guards were very stern, clearly taking their jobs very seriously. In my discombobulated state, I continuously broke the rules of airport behavior, rankling the somewhat uptight security guard. Once I got through the first guard, I had to deal with a man who decided my laptop required a special security procedure. By this point, the plan had been loaded, the four other passengers boarded and they were just waiting for me. The plane also sat about 30 feet from the security area, the pilot observing my progress with interest. The security guard determined that my laptop passed the tests and I was free to walk the thirty feet across the tarmac and board the plane.

Because Augusta, Maine is not the most popular of destinations, only smaller propeller planes fly in and out of this airport. This plane was a sixteen-seater with one seat on either side of the aisle. The pilot asks us to spread evenly throughout the cabin to balance the aircraft. Without hesitation, the five nervous passengers obey the pilot--the awe and fear palpable. After a warning that the weather may cause turbulence, we taxi. Watching the pilots do their thing was fascination, but I have to say, I now know why there is normally a barrier between passenger and pilot. The view out of the windshield is absolutely terrifying! Blank horizon or whirling earth loomed large through the small glass windows--neither image brought peace of mind. I slept--my usual reaction to any anxiety producing situation.

With the announcement to prepare for landing,awokeoke the whirling earth in front of me. Greens, browns and blues swirled in front of me, causing my stomach to mimic the motion. My natural reaction was to swear, loudly, ascribing God-like qualities to excrement. The four men balancing out the front of the plane concurred. Any desire I had to pilot planes evaporated as I witnessed the sheer terror of landing a plane. Though my somewhat hysterical laughter drew odd looks from my felltravelersers, I feexhilaratedted by the miracle of flying and the skill to land despite the whirling earth. I moved from one phenomenon to another.

Standing at the bus stop at Logan Airport is truly entertaining. Still marveling at the miracle of flight, I exited the terminal to the din of car horns, shouts and sirens. My reverie broken, I entered a world where anarchy ruled and the little guys lose. Cars, buses, and shuttles moved about with abandon. No longer did the rules of the road or directional lines apply. Somehow, some way, these vehicles cycled in and out of the lanes without colliding. It wasn't pretty, but it was marvelononethelessess.

As I write this, I sit aboard the Bonanza bus that will bring me to my sweetie after a long couple of days away. For the next hour, I can reflect on my spring travel, listen to the guy in front of me hock lugies and marvel at this odd thing that is my life.

2006-04-06T10:06:00.000-04:00

Some men apparently do find pathological nervous chatter and awkwardness attractive. ; )

2006-04-05T09:20:00.000-04:00

Okay, so last night's blog was a little dour because, admittedly, I was feeling really sorry for myself. I then had a long chat with a good friend in the wee hours of the morn and after much laughter and a few tears, the poor me phase has passed, for now. He reminded me of the funny aspects of my life at the moment, making me so grateful to be blessed with good friends, great family, and, Gold help me, a well functioning sense of humor. Here are some things I have not discussed about the past week.
Since returning from vacation, I have starred in my very own cartoon. When I arrived home on Tuesday evening, I saw that the entire contents of my bedroom sat in my kitchen and living room. None of it had been cleaned, and most of my books and clothing sat in large black plastic bags. Because I was waiting for my room to be bleached and shampooed, I had to sleep on the couch and leave my things where they lay for a couple of days. Feeling slightly overwhelmed by the condition of my apartment, I vowed to spend the weekend revitalizing my apartment, making it even better than it had been before. The cleaners came Wednesday and I was cleared to move back into my room for Thursday. A surge of excitement shot through me, and I began to plot out the next few days.
On Wednesday, I needed to take two buses down to the airport to pick up the car my brother and I share from long-term parking. It is early and I am very sleepy so you can imagine my surprise and disappointment when I realize I left the parking ticket at home. The cashier called his manager. The manager said that I could leave the lot if she could see my license and registration. Well, this is no problem because I am licensed, insured and registered. I pull out the little yellow envelope in my glove compartment and nonchalantly hand it to the manager. She very politely asks why I have a MA license with a CO registration, and why the names are different. The registration turned out to be my parents' old registration, and my registration had, of course, disappeared. So, now I look like a thief, and she kindly tells me I need to go home to retrieve the ticket. Three buses later, I arrive back at my house, officially late for work to find my ticket tucked exactly where I left it and I leave again to catch the buses back to the airport. I drive to work in my car without registration or proof of insurance, praying I will not be pulled over. Perhaps this should have been a sign.
On Thursday, I woke up feeling refreshed and bit sheepish about the events from the day before. This was the day I was going to get it all together. I had big plans to have my bills on auto-debited, to reorganize and throw out a lot of my possessions and many other exciting organizational plans. Nonetheless, I had a positive feeling about the day as I hopped in my car to head to work. As I drove down the road that leads me to work (about 5 minutes away), the truck in front of me stopped to turn left. I stopped behind him. In my rearview, I saw a pickup truck come barreling around the corner with no evidence of slowing. I watched as he plowed into my rear end at 40MPH, shoving me into the truck in front of me. My car was squished and my neck whiplashed.
On Friday, I had a date (actually a second date with the same guy, which does not happen to me very often) so I was pretty excited. We had to change our plans given the whole whiplash thing so he brought me yummy food and we settled in to a night of movie watching. That night, I made little eye contact with my date. My neck was too stiff to alternate between watching the movie and looking at him. I could choose one or the other, but I could not do both. Whenever I laughed, I had to wrap my hands around my neck in order to hold my head still. Finally, after two movies and a tasty meal, we sat facing each other on my couch so I could finally make eye contact. By this point, I just kept my hands wrapped around my neck, like I was choking myself. Here I am, attempting to turn a second date into a third, and I have my hands wrapped around my neck. Hot!
A third date happened a couple of days later, but my confidence had taken a hit. By not being able to look at my date much on Friday, I now felt shy about looking at him too much. Having dated very little, I am clueless about initiating flirty touches and teasing gazes. I have read about it, wrote about and watched it happen, but when it is my turn to charm--forget it. On Sunday, I think I finally got a glimpse into the life of boys who must feel totally overwhelmed by the responsibility of making the first move. Augh! I am inept at enacting all the creative ideas I have about the art of flirtation and seduction. Perhaps men find awkwardness and pathological nervous chatter attractive. I will just have to wait and find out.

2006-04-05T00:12:00.000-04:00

Darkness has the amazing ability to foster passion, lust, worry, sadness, defeat, and fantasies. When the lights go out at the end of the day and I lay nestled in my bed staring at the ceiling, I am struck by thousands of thoughts--some romantic, some fantastical, some funny, some sad and some frustrating. At these moments, alone in my bed, the intensity of big decisions or frustrating events weigh heavily on my mind, chasing sleep away for who knows how long. I feel truly alone, unable to pick up the phone because my friends and family all have respectable jobs that require an early wake-up call. The more I think about it though, I am not sure I would call even if my pals were all night owls. How can I explain the strong feelings that only gain clarity in the dark?
Tonight I grapple with a few pressing issues that involve new cars, surgery, back injuries, job searches, etc all while listening keenly for any noise that may be a rat invader. I struggle to find a comfortable position for my tired, whiplashed neck and back. I try to stay positive about the dramatic cartoon that is my life at the moment, but in the darkness, this task is also a struggle. At the moment, my car is totaled, my neck/back is sore, my surgeon is waiting for me to book a date and my stomach feels nauseous. I cannot book my surgery until my back is healed. I need to find time to buy a new car, but I have missed work because of the accident so now I am not sure when I can go car shopping. I do not want to have surgery again because I hate anesthesia, shots in the stomach and sleeping with my feet tied together, let alone another month on crutches. I hate my job but cannot really leave until I have these other things taken care of--but who knows what will happen next to trap me into this God forsaken job. Through all of this, I try to smile, have some fun, relax and even enjoy some of the time off, and most of the time, I am successful. But, when I turn the light off and stare at the ceiling, my current situation flashes before my eyes. All my daytime attempts at finding the silver lining disappear and I grapple with the real deal which, to use a very precise colloquialism, totally sucks. Tomorrow is a new day, hopefully bringing some sunshine and good fortune my way.

2006-03-28T11:43:00.000-05:00

As I sit in the Atlanta airport, the exhaustion seeps deeply into my bones. My vacation away from the rats proves not to be a vacation, just a temporary relocation. While I had hoped to leave the rat saga behind, Rat bastard followed me to Georgia and South Carolina, as always, insisting on my undivided attention.

On Wednesday evening, I did one final assessment of my disgusting room taking pictures both to document the damage and to show to my family. Rat bastard posed for the camera and proudly displayed his handy work. My roommate and friend finally saw the true extent of the damage and were satisfactorily disgusted. While riding the train up to Boston, I listened to sad music and allowed myself about an hour of true self-pity. My sense of humor was waning and my shoulders ached from carrying a little too much weight of late. No tears were shed;it was worse. I sat curled in ball, staring out the window wondering where I could go to hide from the real world. God, fate or whoever it is that snaps us sharply from self-pity decided that I had wallowed enough for now.

On the Red Line T out to Somerville, I was awkwardly loaded down with a large backpack, a roll bag, a laptop and a purse. People avoided sitting next to the overloaded girl, so luckily I had a whole bench to myself--or so I thought. About two stops into my journey, a well-dressed, young, professional woman sits down right next to me. I barely batted an eye at her presence, still listening to the sad tunes. When the girl doubled over and vomited all over the floor, I quickly moved my suitcase out of the way and tried to comfort her. Of course, this would be the one time I do not have a tissue or anything to offer so the poor thing is sitting next to me, cradling her blueberry-red wine puke in her hands. As I looked around the car, I realized that there were only two of us on the full car who were paying this young woman any attention. Books and Ipods were of much more interest or importance than this sick woman who had already puked twice on the train. With the help of the day's news, the man and I had covered the vomit, though the woman's stomach interpreted this as another canvas to paint. At this point, the lovely man sitting across the aisle and I made eye contact. Through this momentary meeting of the eyes, we communicated that this had been a rough week for both of us and it figures that the person who would sit next to us had to barf. She was compelled to sit near us, puke her guts out and smell up the car. I began to laugh--hard. My life may not be fabulous right now, but at least I am not barfing on the train and with this thought, she leaned over and spread the cheer on to her designer leather bag. Great!

Thursday was spent traveling and sleeping. I had to wake up at 3:30AM to catch my flight. It is still dark at 3:30--and people were cranky. At the ticket counter in the airport, a customer asked the customer service agent for a pen and she said she did not have one without making any effort to find one for him. He responded," Thank you. That is very helpful!" While this was a provocative comment, it did suit the moment. Sensing his sarcasm, the customer service agent proceeded to tell the man that it was not her job to have a pen, it was her job to provide customer service. The irony was lost on her. After arriving in Savannah, I ate the fattiest meal known to humankind at the one and only Waffle House and went to bed with images of grits and rat shit dancing in my head.

The first full day of vacation was spent on the phone with health inspectors and exterminators. Each professional claimed that though my landlord was not doing a good job at exterminating Rat bastard, he is practicing due dilligence and, therefore, I cannot call in anyone else for help. Later that day, I received annoyed phone calls from my landlord and from my stressed out roommate. After a couple of hours on the phone, I just threw my hands up and said," Great!"

Finally, we all arrived on the island for the wedding. The house my cousin rented for us was stunning and my family was reunited. Life was okay...until I walked inside to find my aunt running around frantically, stressed out cousins and angry extended family. At this moment, I knew that my "vacation" was over and reality sunk in. Now, this is not to say there were not some shining moments throughout the weekend, but overall, the weekend was a wash. There were no family meals or time to play. From the time of arrival to the time of departure, we were put to work doing menial tasks for the wedding (though we were on the groom's side) or playing diplomat. Great!

When my family left the island on Sunday to catch flights or check into the hotel for the night, we finally had a family meal. It was great to sit and take in the smiling faces of my parents and brothers though we were all a bit tired.

Monday I made the mistake of checking my email before touring Savannah with my mom. The email stated that Rat bastard had died and the room had been clean according to Health Dept. standards. The following email from my roommate stated a different story. We now have all of my rat contaminated items in our living room and kitchen, uncleaned, while our broom and some rat feces remain in my bedroom. I have been repeatedly told to be patient and relax becasue the job was being done professionally, we now have direct evidence that states this whole thing has been a half-assed effort. My landlord is offering to cover a professional cleaner for our home or take $200 off rent, though neither of us have lived there for about 2 weeks. He is not offering to replace my mattress and curtains, have my clothes dry cleaned or wipe down my other belongings. I take issue with this, though I am not sure how to proceed yet. For now, I just say," Great!"

R.I.P. Rat Bastard 2005-2006
May this worthy foe enjoy many a compost heap in rat heaven.

2006-03-23T14:43:00.000-05:00

Images of the Rat Saga
Below, you will see shots of the poop under my bed, the present left on my drawers, the poop on my Bible and Rat bastard himself. I don't think I even need to provide commentary other than to say, this is only the half of it!

2006-03-22T16:20:00.000-05:00

One piece of advice from me to you: Do not vaccuum rat poop. It does gross things to the body.

2006-03-22T08:22:00.000-05:00

Rat Saga, Part 4....and the last entry before going on a much needed vacation

Sadly, since I last wrote little has changed. Rat bastard still rules over my bedroom until he dies the death of a poisoned rat. For the past week, I have been sleeping at either my brother's house or in my roomate's room (while he stays elsewhere because he thinks our house is gross). I periodically venture into my bedroom with some sort of blunt, heavy object to grab a necessary item, staying for as little time as possible. The smell is becoming a bit unbearable. Yesterday, my roommate decided we should do a progress check and what we found was truly disturbing, causing my sense of humor about the whole thing to wane. Actually, let's be honest...I have never had a sense of humor about the whole thing. I simply try to present the situation in a humorous manner to convince myself that all will be okay in the end.

Anyway, my bedroom is literally covered in rat poop. Some of you are, perhaps, imagining a little pellet here, and another there. Well, this image would not do Rat bastard justice. This rat poops in piles, particularly enjoying sites under my bed, behind my desk, in my closet and next to my TV. It has chewed some of my clothes, possibly burrowed in some of my things and nibbled on my book pages. Right now, my room is a rat infested, poop-filled space that bears little resemblance to my former sanctuary.

People keep telling me to be patient and just let the rat poison do its thing. While I understand that freaking out does little to assist the situation, I also understand that all my things are being ruined. If these objects were just clothes or linens, I may feel differently, but this rat is destroying my precious books and my valued space. From now on, as long as I live in this apartment, I will be fearful of another rat coming to visit. My space has been tainted and made foul by significant amounts of rat shit and I am supposed to be patient? With all the technology we have in the world, with all the advances, we have no other way to get rid of rats than to wait it out. I think that sucks. My nerves are frayed, my temper is just barely contained below the surface and my patience with people has worn thin.

While I am excited about this vacation, my leaving town means nothing can happen with the rat traps until I return on Monday. As I enjoy some fun in the sun, a rat will either be destroying more things or a rat carcass will be smelling up my space. The exterminator said," I don't mean to scare you, but the rat has probably burrowed into one of your bins or drawers. We will probably find the body in one of those." My vacation means that the rat has five more days to either rot, chew or poop all over my things. On Tuesday, I get to go in with the exterminator and the cleaners, search for the rat and then take my things out of the room. Everything I own will need to be cleaned and disinfected. The damage to my books and clothing will have to be assessed and then, I am to return to life as it was before. Somehow, I don't think it will be that easy. I am angry, grossed out, frightened and tired. And while I try to keep laughing about this whole thing, the smell I encountered upon entering my room this morning may have put any attempts at humor to rest.....for now.

2006-03-20T10:29:00.000-05:00

Rat Saga, Part 3

Rat bastard now has full reign over my bedroom. He resides somewhere within those four walls, remaining elusive to all who seek him. Poop and plaster can be found anywhere from under my bed to on my TV stand, yet Rat bastard himself has yet to be spotted. Yesterday, all the exit routes from my room were plastered shut. My bed was overturned and my closet cleared, but the rat(s) linger still. My room is now a rat haven where they eat the bottoms my dresses, pages in books, etc.

Last night, in attempt to get a much needed full night's sleep, I crashed on my couch in the living room. Rat bastard thwarted me again when he began digging furiously in my room, scratching loudly enough for all to hear (except my roommate, of course). At 3AM, I woke to his feet working furiously, contemplated finding a hoe and ending the hostage negotiations (my bedroom being the hostage). The thought of walking in my room, killing a rat and going back to sleep somehow did not sit right with me. First of all, what if I missed? Then I would have a pissed off rat running around my room and who knows what vengeful things he would do. Secondly, what if I hit him but did not kill him? Then I would have a pissed off injured rat running around my room wreaking havoc and bleeding everywhere. Thirdly, what if I did kill him? Then I would have a rat carcass in my bedroom at 3AM and I would have to clean it up....at 3AM. I also feel that if I am the one to kill Rat bastard in my bedroom, he will haunt me as long as I live in that space. Then I philosophized about whether or not rats have souls and if they could actually haunt me forever more. Needless to say, that good night's sleep so sorely need eluded me again. I now sit pissed off and loopy telling my story.

Today, an exterminator will set traps in my room to catch Rat bastard and his friends. For the next few days, rats will be perishing in my room on my things. Apparently, removing my belongings from the space will cause the rats to burrow and we won't be able to properly catch them. My things are truly rat bait. So those souls may haunt me still! Great!

Obviously, I will not be staying in my room for a while and will be sterilizing everything I own before I sleep there again. For now, I wait for the systematic decimation of Rat bastard and his crew, hoping that one day soon I will have a good, fear-free, restful evening where scratching and furry presences will no longer plague my dreams--and my bed.

2006-03-19T10:23:00.000-05:00

The Rat Saga: Part 2

Rat bastards! This would be my new term of endearment for the furry-except-for-the-tail varmints that reside in my apartment. Yesterday, the exterminator and contractors came to get rid of the rats and seal all points of entry. Last night, I finally fell asleep, despite the scratching sounds above me. I had faith that the rats no longer had a way into my apartment and, more importantly, into my bedroom. In the wee hours of the morning, I heard a new scratching in wall by the head of my bed. Pushing through my drowsy state, I realized the rat bastards were just inside the wall with a thin layer of sheet rock separating them from me. I called upon my newfound expertise in thwarting rat invaders and turned on the light next to my bed. Apparently, rats are not fans of light. The scratching stopped.

At 6:30 this morning, the saga took a new and ugly turn. As the sun rose, I decided I could afford to turn off my lamp and hopefully get some much needed sleep without a light in my eyes. Within one minute the scratching began again, louder this time. One minute after that, a lovely black rat struts to the head of my bed on my heater board. It looks me right in the eye and continues to strut behind my bookcase and under my bed. That's right! I now have a rat under my bed at 6:30 on Sunday morning.

Last time I encountered a rat, I screamed and threw things. This time, I was not scared--I was pissed. Not only had the exterminators not exterminated all of the rats, but the contractor clearly missed a spot. And, on top of that, the rats spent the day brainstorming how to traumatize the party pooper. This morning, there were no dainty screams. This time, the rats heard, in full detail, what exactly I thought of them--while standing on my bed, of course. Then, I heard the damn thing rustling underneath my bed. I was alone in my room with a rat--or two-- at 6:30 in the morning. Clearly, the rat had won this battle. No way in hell was I going rustling through my things to find the rat bastard. I conceded, grabbed my computer and left my room.

As I sat down on my couch, the realization that I had a rat in my room finally struck home and I cried. Then, I realized I had a rat in my room, and I laughed. With the special skill that women seem to posses, I sat on my couch laughing and crying simultaneously and, of course, I called my mom.

Now my project is to go through my room, lifting my futon and opening drawers to find the rat and the entry point. This afternoon, two lovely Honduran men who speak very little English will help me rifle through my room, moving furniture and emptying bags, tryinig to find the hiding rat. If we find it, we shoot to kill. Yes, you read that correctly. We are under strict orders to kill any rat we find. And, when I say we, that does mean that I am expected to help in the finding and eliminating of the rat that has set up shop under my bed. Watch out, varmints! I don't give a rat's ass if you are a mom, cousin or generally nice guy, you are dead. You infiltrated my sanctuary, and now you pay! As I write this, the insolent creatures have slid down the wall into my closet. Great!

2006-03-18T17:14:00.000-05:00

Last night, St. Patrick's Eve, I ventured out into the bar scene with trepidation. It had been a while, a very long while actually, since I went out to dance, play and meet people. With my job eating up most hours of each day, I have relied on old (but wonderful) friends, my brother and the internet to sate my need for social interaction. Most of my friends live a distance away so those interactions involve holding a phone to my ear. My brother is wonderful but medical school is even more demanding than my job. The internet thing has yielded some okay dates but nothing worth pursuing. I have ended the online dating thing as it was useless to me. Over time, I have become frustrated by my inability to meet new people "the normal" way--face to face. Without ultimate, I no longer have a ready made peer group and often wonder where the interesting people around my age hide. While one night onto town will not and has not revitalized my social life, it made me hopeful that some fun, interesting people do exist in my city. With the reassurance of their existence, I feel energized and ready to find them. Needless to say, this night out was important for both body and soul. I was pleasantly surprised!

2006-03-17T11:25:00.000-05:00

Rats! In this case, not a common expression of frustration, but instead the name of the rodents freeloading in my apartment. That's right! Those disease-ridden, hairless tailed, sneaky, food-ruining varmints have taken up residence in my walls and are rapidly expanding to the areas within.

Last night, my roommate and I sat watching TV (NCAA basketball, of course) when we heard the scratches and pitter-patter of little feet in the apartment above. While we were both a bit disturbed by the sounds, knowing they were made by some unwelcome beasts, we felt relieved because they were upstairs--not watching TV with us. This was soon to change!

At around one o'clock this morning, I got up to go to the bathroom and unwittingly disrupted a disco party hosted by our rat neighbors in our kitchen. They were partying under our kitchen table and by my bedroom door, having a grand old time. Luckily, my presence had them scattering as if the police had arrived at an underage drinking party. I am sure my loud screams of horror may also have inspired their hasty retreat. Upon seeing the hairless tails scuttling to safety, I did what any good woman does--I screamed bloody murder and jumped on top of my bed, clutching my chest the calm my racing heart. This incident was exacerbated by the fact that I had to pee quite badly--the reason I rose from bed in the first place--and therefore, I needed to leave the safety of my bed to utilize the loo. What if the little bastards came back after I retreated to my room? What if there was one waiting for me in the toilet (story to follow)? Decision time loomed--to pee or not to pee, that is the question. I chose to pee, because, for those of you who know me, there was never a doubt as my bladder wins every time. My brilliant plan was to turn on my light to scare these large buggers, throw a few pairs of shoes into the kitchen to hit any remaining critters while running Rambo-style into the bathroom. Slamming the door, I quickly scanned the bathroom to make sure no other rats were present, lifted the toilet seat with my toe to make sure it was not full of rats and finally relieved myself in a squatting position in case any decided to make a surprise return. My relief was short-lived, however, when I realized I would have to get back to my room and all of my ammo was spread on the kitchen floor. I ran for it, slammed my door and jumped into bed with my face covered in sweat, my heart beating wildly, and my skin twitching at any unusual (or usual) sensations. Needless to say, sleepiness had also made a hasty retreat and continued to elude me until the wee hours of the morning. Where was my roommate through all of this commotion? Sleeping peacefully in his room, apparently unaffected by the scratching, thudding, screaming, running and slamming happening one thin wall away. Reassuring, isn't it?

Well, the story is not yet over. This morning, I awaken, disgruntled and bemused, to a cheerful," Good morning, Roomie! Sleep okay?" "Ha!" I answered and proceeded to tell the tale, or should I say tails, of the evening's events. He just smiled and said we should call the landlord. While this is true, and I am sure my anxiety will do nothing to fix the problem, his calm, cool and collected appearance this morning irked me. When I read his IM away message, I knew why. It said," The good news is that the rats seem to prefer [her] side of the apartment..." Great, so now the rats love my side of the apartment, want to hang out with me and possibly give me the Bubonic Plague. While I am flattered that they clearly know who the cooler roommate is, I would prefer the rats take their Ricketts and kindly leave me alone.

Sometimes, when I develop a fear of something I research the scary thing to make it less frightening. Over the years, I have found this to be a healthy and helpful way to deal with anxiety. Today, this usually good plan did nothing to appease my anxiety, instead it fueled my already frenzied state. Here are some of the interesting, and in no way comforting things I learned about rats.

Rats are smart, sneaky rodents that infiltrate a home and then mate like crazy. They live in your walls, cabinets, plumbing, compost heaps and many other opportune locations. Despite their larger size, rats can squeeze through tiny holes and under doors. While partaking of your various groceries and grains, rats break the rule of shitting where you eat and instead, shit all over where they eat and what you eat. In doing so, they spread good cheer, Ricketts, Salmonella, and of course, that pesky plague. When not eating your food, rats like to nibble on your electrical cords or fingers and use your plumbing for a water-park. Sometimes, rats even cause electrical fires and massive infections from their handy work! Man, are they good or what?!

My favorite of their tricks is the rat-in-the-toilet trick. I had never heard of this until a good friend of mine was paid an unexpected visit while she relieved her bowels. This usually pleasurable bathroom experience was cut short by a splash in the toilet not of her doing. With quick reflexes, she turned just in time to see a hairless tail swish down the drain. Apparently, this rat, or a fellow flume rider, appeared in her neighbor’s apartment later that same day. His experience was similar to mine, though he was dealing with a wet rat straight from the toilet and he killed it.

What is the moral of this story? Make sure you keep your toilet lid closed and do check before you sit. You never know what toothy, disease carrying creature could be waiting for you! Oh, one more thing, rats only bite 15,000 people and cause thousands of illnesses a year so no need for concern. After all, the worst they can do is single-handedly wipe out half of Europe.

2006-03-15T09:30:00.000-05:00

Yet again, I am sitting at work with nothing to do, knowing deep inside that this is the calm before the storm. With this job, I work, work, work my fingers to the bone and then wait to be worked to the bone again. I would enjoy the down time if I had a say in how I spent it, but instead I just sit bored at work looking dreamily out the window, surfing vacation sites on the web and thinking of all I would do if I had the day to myself. Today, I have decided to write my blog and unload some things I have been pondering the past couple of days.

As we drove into work yesterday, my roommate/co-worker asked," Do you ever feel like we do the same thing everyday?" In the melancholic silence that followed, I imagined myself running on a big metal wheel in a cage of sawdust, pooping near my food bowl. Then I contemplated jumping from the moving vehicle. Shortly after, we passed three kids at their bus stop--the same three kids we see everyday standing at their bus stop. I waved. They looked at me funny. So much for shaking up the routine.

In January, I moved in with a guy--just a guy, not a lover or boyfriend or anything. Since that move, I have contemplated what I like so much about living with guys--not lovers or boyfriends. Over time, the advantages of a male roommate have become clear.

Firstly, the apartment is clean-ish, but there is no pressure to keep the place spotless. While we both clean up our dishes and wipe up our messes, it is acceptable to leave a cup on the counter overnight or drape a coat over a chair for a while. Well, let me just say that I leave my cup on the counter and drape a coat of a chair overnight--my roommate is actually quite neat. He calls the momentary lapses in cleanliness my "grace period."

Secondly, I feel absolutely no pressure to look nice in my apartment. Of course I use some discretion in my home fashion choices, but overall, lounging in sweatpants, a t-shirt and no make-up is not a big deal. Why? Because he is not competing with me--he does not need to out-dress me or be prettier than me or criticize me to make him feel better. He just doesn't care! And, if I do ever have a boy over, he won't try to seduce him! A nice perk!

Thirdly, I can watch sports whenever I want. I will never catch flack for shutting myself in my room and watching basketball all afternoon. That said, I actually never catch flack for shutting myself in my room period. Certainly, my roommate and I enjoy each other's company, frequently occupying our side by side "his and her man chairs," cheering for Donald Trump firing his latest victim or whincing for the next American fallen Idol--but there is also an understanding that needing time alone is okay too. No one's feelings are injured or ego bruised when I choose to curl up with a book in my bed over watching a movie with him. Oh, the joys of drama-less living!

Lastly, my culinary ego is stroked on a nightly basis. My roommate is adept at making pasta, sandwiches and sausages--that is about it! Of course I encourage him to branch out and try following a recipe, but he chooses to stick to familiar territory. I, on the other hand, am frequently experimenting with my own combinations or a new recipe creating anything from curry to brown bread to chicken parmesan. All of my creations, whether sweet or savory, are hailed with praises such as: "God, that smells so good!" Or, "That looks delicious. May I please have bite! Oh man, that is good!" Whether he compliments to earn a free meal or he genuinely likes my comestible creations, this nightly ego stroking does a body good.

After discussing these pros with my roommate, he has asked me to write about the cons of living with a male roommate. In the interest of preserving my happy home, and respecting the privacy of all those involved--I plead the fifth.

2006-03-13T13:13:00.000-05:00

I just wrote a great entry, if I do say so myself, and with the click of a button, it was gone! I am so frustrated, I could cry! Oddly enough, it was all about the angstiness of the late twenties and here I am, angsty over the loss of my entry. Anyway, enough whining! Have a good one!

2006-02-17T14:14:00.000-05:00

Wow! It has been a while and my typing fingers feel a bit rusty.

I am sure a number of you out there are wondering about the elusive application process and the people who choose the class of 2010. Well, I can tell you, as person on the inside, that the admission process is hell for both the students and readers alike. My days are filled by essays about sad family situations, influential coaches, and desperate attempts to distinguish through the very things that make them the same as everyone else. Following those essays, I read writing samples about Hester Prynne's scarlet Letter, Gatsby's hedonism and Hamlet's madness (we really need to mix up the canon a bit). Then, guidance counselor reports, consisting of either a novella or a paragraph, try to portray each student as unique by their involvement in the National Honor Society or their trip to the Dominican for habitat for Humanity even though most guidance counselors are writing the same for their students. Through all this reading, my job is to decipher the true scholars from the rest and make a case for them at a committee meeting. There is no glitz and glamour around this process--it is a bunch of overworked people desperately reading as fast as they can while attempting to give each kid their due respect. There is no rubric, no secret formula or magic quality that ensures entrance--though we do have rules to maintain consistency from reader to reader for the sake of fairness. This disillusioning process--the one that has created a multi-million dollar industry--is really and truly a crap shute. Maybe the sad story of the mom getting hit by a truck and becoming quadriplegic will strike a chord in the reader, causing them to fight hard for that kid to gain entry. Perhaps the essay about glasses representing the phases of growth will make a counselor laugh, sympathize and put that kid on the top of the heap. Or maybe, the kid is truly a standout because she maintains a straight A average with all AP classes, wins national viola competitions, runs at an All-American pace in cross country, does not require financial aid, writes beautifully and graduates early to work in a start-up orphanage in the war-ravaged Rwanda. These kids do exist and they truly are rock stars--but, obviously, they are not the norm.

Amidst the monotony, however, there are some original and beautiful essays that bring tears to my eyes or make me throw my head back in laughter. Their honesty, their attempt to express their true selves-their passions-- make me love what I do. These essays give me hope that their are kids out there who are still kids ready to take that next step. They are exploring and writing about their amazing family history in Japanese Internment camps. They are pushing past life altering bouts with cancer, back injuries, epilepsy. They are seeking understanding of war, whether it is Vietnam, Iraq or World War II. They are traveling, absorbing and then thinking about other cultures who find true happiness beyond the material. They are loving their mom, sister, brother, dad, friend who left life early but whose influence is permanent. They are hopeful, resilient, loving, pensive, confused, angry, smart, articulate and eager. They are ready to take the next step--to stretch themselves into doctors, lawyers, nurses, actors, writers, humanitarians, diplomats, architects and photographers. And, no matter what my college, or any other college says in response to their applications, they will still be doctors, lawyers, nurses, actors, writers, humanitarians, diplomats, architects and photographers.

It is our job as friends, parents and siblings to let them know that no admissions counselor or committee is truly responsible for their future. It is our job to support whatever route they choose, reminding them that dreams and hard work can take them anywhere whether or not the envelope is fat or thin.

2005-12-23T13:24:00.000-05:00

Happy Holidays!!! I hope you all have fabulous, low-stress visits with friends and family.
As for me, I am currently waiting for my brothers to wake up-- in case you were wondering, it is 11:30 AM. Christams time always causes me to revert back to the age of 12, possibly 16. The three of us have one car to share and it is a manual--only I can drive the car. Yet again, I am at their mercy. Well, there is one other reason I am at their mercy...
My parents moved to a new city two years ago. Since they moved, I have only been to this new city twice. My brothers, however, have both lived here for a summer and now know their way around. I am clueless. So, when it comes to driving around, I need my two navigators for without them, I am completely lost.
Ah, they are finally awake...now we can go exploring.
Anyway, happy holidays. Take a deep breath and just enjoy each moment for what it is.

2005-12-06T21:13:00.000-05:00

Baking for pleasure is a First world luxury--one I take advantage of and appreciate. For me, filling my kitchen with sweet smelling, pretty, tasty confections fills me with pride. My American need for immediate gratification along with my taste buds' desire for sweetness are always fulfilled. I just put on the radio and bake until my little heart's content (or begging for mercy). Smells of ginger, cinnamon, chocolate and mint perfume my kitchen, filling my soul with bliss. As I survey the fruits of my labor, reality sets in, and I think," Why the hell did I make all of this food?" The moment ends, I wrap up my creations and ponder who will receive a tasty treat from me tomorrow. Forgetting the logical, the next time I am so moved, the process begins again.

2005-12-05T22:44:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I was writing a little list of all the simple pleasures in life--thinking of about 45 pleasurable things in 10 minutes or so. They are just a little too private to share, but here is one kosher example: drinking a cup of homemade hot cocoa on a cold day.

Today, however, that toasty warm, mushy feeling has passed so I want to talk about a couple of the annoying things in life.

Who invented the plastic window coverings that keep out the cold and hold in the heat? Who created these very helpful, but nearly impossible things? Some require a blow dryer, some require two-sided tape, but all require a person with at least 6 arms and tons of extra time.

Why do people have to be reminded to be respectful of other people's space? Why does an office whose mean age is 35, at least, have to post rules about how many times you can knock, how open your door should be, not yelling between offices, etc.? People, we go through the hell of junior high and high school to learn how not to act...now it is time for those lessons to come into play or we went through hell for nothing!

Public transportation is a beautiful thing and I support the movement wholeheartedly. I do think, however, that people would be a lot more likely to rely on public transport if the schedules were accurate. Online, you see one schedule, on paper, another schedule...which do you believe? Can you risk getting stuck somewhere, missing the last bus home and being left in the bus/train station like I was yesterday? Please, unify the schedule system! Please?!?

Who created really large, light up fictional characters? What is more scary than a five foot tall, fully lit Santa smiling maniacally through pasty cheeks and an untamed beard? Basically, he is David the Gnome (subject of many a child's first nightmare) magnified, illuminated and dressed in red, creating a parent's nightmare when they see the electric bill.

Why do southern New Englanders have to move so quickly all the time? I fear that the pace we set for ourselves leaves us open for mistakes, nervous breakdowns, and inefficiencies. Let's all just take a breath, relax and function properly. This lesson was in Aesop's fables, remember? Slow and steady wins the race!

Why doesn't snow clean itself off my car? While the scraper-brushy things are very helpful, they do not reach all the way across the roof, hood or windshield and therefore, I inevitably end up with a soaking wet mid-section, snow up my sleeves and seriously cold hands.

Why is it that the people we fall in love with, don't always love us back? I mean, we take the big risk and place our beating hearts on the table and sadly, it is often beaten with a meat tenderizer. Helena says,"I will be your spaniel." I say,"Am I tender enough yet?"

As a cruel twist of fate, and biology at its best, we all get zits--big ones in the middle of our faces--when we feel stressed or sad. So basically, at the time when you most need to impress, or you feel just plain crappy about yourself, you also know that Rudolph has misplaced his nose right in the middle of your cheek/forehead/nose. And, to top it off, that everyone including cute little old ladies and cherubic children, stare at your face in horror as you walk by feeling anxious, bloated, fat or sad. A cruel joke--one that I hope somebody out there is enjoying.

I think I am done for now. Hope this brightened your day a little!

2005-12-02T23:58:00.000-05:00

A lot of people are embarrassed to admit they have profiles on online dating websites. Men and women alike smile sheepishly when discussing online dating and through gritted teeth, change the topic of conversation. Because people are so private about online dating, what should I do when I see a friend's profile online--a friend who never mentioned they are online dating? He/she never said that they had set up a profile online, I never asked, but now I see their smiling faces on my computer screen. Do I drop them a line through the dating site, so they can see that I also have a profile, and therefore they have no reason to be embarrassed? Do I email or call them and say," Hey nice profile and picture online!" Do I not say anything, but squirm with knowledge and curiosity next time I see them? I have given this a great deal of thought on the treadmill and rowing machine, but no answers have come to mind. Of course I would hate to embarrass anyone, but it would be nice to have someone with whom I could share the trials and tribulations of online dating. This is a great dilemma, so if you have any suggestions, please let me know!

2005-12-02T23:11:00.000-05:00

We all have our nervous habits--those pesky quirks that pop up at moments when we want to be calm, cool and collected. When I am in a group of unfamiliar, new people, I have great difficulty speaking. I follow the conversation, think of responses or comments but never speak them. Friends look at me strangely when leaving these parties or get-together's wondering where their talkative friend was hiding. For some reason, in large groups, I get completely overwhelmed and can't talk. My tongue feels heavy and thick, my palms sweat and my heart rate quickens when I walk into a club, party or concert. If I can find a person or two to converse with in a corner, I am fine. If not, I just stick closely to whoever I came with and watch them magically fit in, laugh and converse. As soon as my friend and I leave the party, I start chatting away, or we just walk in a contented silence--I am comfortable again.

The odd thing is that when I am with a person who makes me feel nervous or intimidated, I can't shut up. In this case, I blabber on and on about pointless things because silence, well, silence would be terrible. My brain creates thoughts at maximum speed and because I am incapable of hiding my feelings, he would know everything I am thinking. At least if I keep a steady stream of blather going, he can't see inside of me...or so I tell myself. The people who cause this reaction tend to be friends (mostly guys)) who look at me and see things. They unnerve me with their intuition and perceptiveness. While I am no woman of mystery, I am a woman who is very much in control of herself and what people see of me. My true self stands across a wide moat, choosing who can cross and enter, but there are a select few who have crossed uninvited so blabbering becomes my personal armor. These people could hurt me because for some reason they get me in profound ways, but they have never made the promise of friendship, the promise that they will protect the secrets they see and so I babble--it is my last line of defense.

Sadly, these seers of my soul are people I would love to know better, intimately even, but they never see the true me--the open me, the quiet me. The person I am on my own and with my closest friends is so very different than the person I am in crowds or with these uninvited intimates. I am quiet, thoughtful, pensive, open, warm, funny--all things I am proud of, things I love about myself. But when I am with him, I become a person I don't like, a person incapable of enjoying silent companionship or substantive conversation. I lose my sense of humor, which is an integral part of me, and hear my laugh as shrill and forced. Before I go on stage I have almost paralyzing fear, but then I take a few deep breaths, shake out my legs and arms and I am ready. With the seers, there is no trick to end the nerves. I have known one seer in particular for six years and have tried numerous techniques but as soon I see him and we make eye contact, I lose myself--my quiet self. I fill the air with inanity and when I walk away, I feel sad that I was not brave enough to be just me. Perhaps I lack maturity or harbor insecurities of not living up to my public persona, but I had hoped that by 26, I would outgrow this nervous habit of blathering. It tires me, and I am sure the receivers get tired, as well. Perhaps someday I will outgrow my Chatty Cathy tendencies and show these seers the grounded, quiet, intense, low-key person that resides happily inside.

2005-12-02T00:48:00.000-05:00

You know you are at a Northeast liberal arts college when ...

you can sit around a table with the president of the college, provosts, professors, and staff members discussing pornography and sex toys in public bathrooms without anyone blushing, laughing nervously or responding angrily. This happened to me just the other day.

One day, I attended a meeting about strategic planning over the next 10 years or so. I sat down at a table amongst the people listed above and waited quietly for the meeting to start. A nice lady from HR introduced herself, and then an English professor did as well. We were all chatting about the weather and other such inane things when the professor asked me what year I graduated. My response of four years prompted her to ask what I had been doing between graduating and coming back as staff. So, I told her that I had been working and attending graduate school for theatre history. The prof perked up and asked what era or genre I had studied. My answer happened to coincide with her area of expertise, so then she asked about the particulars. Well, the particulars involve the history and development of pornography in relation to the history and development of theatre. Generally, this is a conversation killer and someone immediately asks about sports, the weather or some other safe topic. Today, however, it sparked a large discussion about how porn has affected mass media and the arts, how it is now the biggest addiction in the US and how it makes us desire sex toy vending machines in public bathrooms. Within two minutes, the entire table of about 10 people, including the president, were participating in this conversation--furrowing brows, nodding heads, rubbing chins, not blushing or shushing. I even got invited to give a lecture to an English class on 19th century porn!

Overall, this was a great lunch meeting, reminding me that I was home now at my NE liberal arts college where theatre, pasta, porn and strategic planning are appropriate discussion topics around the dinner table.

2005-12-01T23:37:00.000-05:00

Tonight I went to see a theatre production--a good theatre production-- at the Gamm theatre in Pawtucket. It was a festive version of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night with a minimal set and a true grasp of the old English. One of my former profs from college invited me to attend (for free) with her class, so I rode to the show in a yellow school bus filled with college students. In case you missed it, I just need to reiterate that, yes indeed, I rode a yellow school bus to a trendy theatre in Providence.

While on the bus, I conversed with my prof about what has happened in our lives since we saw each other last and eavesdropped on groaning college students wondering how long this God forsaken play would run. On the ride home, as I eavesdropped again, the students sounded surprised that they actually enjoyed the play--finding it humorous, touching and entertaining. The shock and awe in their voices saddened me because they are so ignorant about the stage, about the joy of good writing, about the art of conversation, about sitting still without a constant bombardment of sound and sight, about history. Now, I am not claiming knowledge of all the things above and I clutter my life with sound and sight just like the next person, but tonight the reality of losing wit, dry humor, quiet, art, theatre and conversation deeply affected me.

Over time, schools have siphoned off all the programs that sap them of money. These programs include, but are not limited to, drama, music, art, poetry, creative writing--the programs that take education to the next level. It is very important for students to be well versed in history, math, science, English, etc, but isn't also important for students to understand and appreciate what all of this information has helped man/woman create? The knowledge of the basics is what allows us to take our thoughts to the next level--to imagine a hitchhikers guide to the galaxy, to pen the Gettysburg Address, to sculpt the Thinker, to compose Handel's Messiah, to sing Handel's Messiah, to paint the world in blurred, bright blotches and lines. The basics create a foundation but the arts form our humanity. Through the arts, we learn to communicate, to desire, to create, to design, to emote, to feel--and these are the features that truly separate humans from other animals.

On the way home, my concern lessened because the students responded so favorably to live theatre--and Shakespeare no less; however, if K had not offered to take them, would they have had this experience? Probably not! The majority of people at the show this evening were 60 and older, which is fine, but why were no young people taking advantage of a cheap, fun event on a Thursday night? Because people think of theatre as a cultural experience where you have to get dressed up, put on your thinking cap, be bored and then talk intelligently about the feminist perspective offered in the piece. We have taken the fun out of watching theatre--because I can assure that making theatre is still fun. While I know some scholars would disagree, theatre is not always meant to be analyzed and intellectualized. Instead, theatre rests heavily on feeling--listening to the words, watching the action, using your brain--allowing yourself a moment to reconnect with feelings and emotions in a visceral way. I fear we may lose theatre as we lose the K's in the world, people who make kids see theatre. The theatre is a place for us to be human and feel a range of emotions from anger to love to lust to passion to sadness. It is one of the loveliest forms of expression for performers, writers and audiences alike--it would be a tragedy to let it go.

2005-11-29T18:26:00.000-05:00

Let's talk about the phenomenon of online dating and how odd it truly is. Online dating is supposed to help singles find a mate, email, chat, meet, fall in love, get married and make babies (last step can be eliminated for those not interested or able). These sites are set up so that lonely singles can peruse photo and profile after photo and profile of other lonely singles in search of "the one." But there are some odd double standards with online dating, both within the actual personals websites and in society.

Many attractive, well-balanced, smart and lovely people are just too busy, too shy or too tired of barhopping and clubbing to go out and meet people the old fashioned way--in person. So, the development of online dating allows them to put themselves out there into cyberspace while expending little energy or losing much time. They can check their personals mailbox from any computer to see if possibilitiies emailed them, and then, with a quick click of the mouse, they can accept or reject the prospective date. No fuss, no appeasing, no lying that it was you and not them--just a click of the mouse. Really, online dating provides a quick and easy way to get out on the dating scene, without actually having to be out on the dating scene. So where is the double standard in that, you ask?

When I see a perfectly attracitve, seemingly articulate and surprisingly funny man online, my first thought is," Why is he still single? And why does he need a computer to get a date?" Now, I am sure the irony is already striking you when you realize that I was also on the personals website, surfing for guys and there is nothing wrong with me (though that is negotiable). I always wonder if every guy who sees my picture asks himself those same questions and if that actually prevents him from emailing even though he too signed up for the program. The whole thing is just a little strange and not a little awkward.

The other double standards appear when I tell people I have posted a profile on an online dating website. Friends eyes fill with pity and they say," Honey, I had no idea you were so desperate (lonely, sad--insert any pathetic adjective)." Others say that they have a number of friends who have met some really great people through an online dating service and now they are getting married. Sometimes my friends first respond with pity and then say that they know some people who met great guys/women through the internet. And I wonder, why is it so sad to meet people online--and why is okay for their friends, or friends of friends, but not for me.

Another part of online dating that is just awkward is creating the profile. First, you take relationship and personality tests that tell you what kind of a partner you are and how you deal with life. While the results seemed fairly accurate, it is a little scary knowing that whoever clicks on my photo discovers that I am an "Individualist" and "Passionate." Just a little personal for a first meeting, don't you think? Thank God I didn't have to include my name! Then, I had to come up with a witty tag line and an informative, yet mysterious paragraph describing myself--feeling a bit like an advertising exec launching a campaign. So this little blurb is supposed to knock the socks off the reader, compel them to contact me and then....well, then what?

Then, I receive emails from men who, in no way, shape, or form fit the description I outlined. These men fail to use proper punctuation, grammar or decorum. Incomplete sentences, IM lingo and other such abominations fill the screen--and these are men in their 30s. Shame on them! Some men decide to be a little racy in their emails, writing things that make me say,"EWWWWW!" rather loudly. I mean nothing truly disturbing, but come on....a little respect. Periodically I wonder if I get these weird ones because I am a redhead, and people have all sorts of preconceived notions about what redheads want/don't want, do/won't do, etc. Other times, I sadly realize that these perverts probably scan the personals regularly just hoping for a repsonse, giving online dating a bad name. Some guys write nice little emails, filled with spelling errors and IM lingo, talking about what they are looking for and what they do. Thankfully, the personals people provide drop down menus of replies so when I don't think the guy is a match, I can click, reject and move on pretty quickly--or, if he does seem nice, I can write my own reply to continue the conversation. The problem is, it is easy to forget that a person with feelings sits on the receiving end of my drop down menu responses. While some men are just seeing what's out there, others may be lonely, hoping to make a some kind of fruitful, honest connection.

It is hard to know what people hope to gain from online dating. I can say, however, that I had to swallow my pride to sign up and I will feel a certain amount of glee when I terminate my profile (in about 3 days because it will no longer be free). This experience has humbled me, and made me think twice about making fun of online daters. Each and every one of us is looking for a deep, sustainable connection with another human and for some, online dating is a way to put themselves out there. And putting yourself out there takes guts!

2005-11-28T20:31:00.000-05:00

Happy Belated Thanksgiving! I hope everyone had a lovely holiday. Today was my first day back in the office after two months of traveling. All of you have heard my moans, groans and laughs from the road so you may be surprised to know that today I actually wished I was back on the road again. I know, I know. This is shocking, but I have to say that being in the office is stressful. People make constant requests and there is little to no solitude to be had. The road was lonely, but the office is too much! There is no in between. Now that I have been back for one full nine hour day, I am ready for another vacation. Between socializing over the holidays and talking to people in the office today, I feel like my people tolerance has been saturated. I never realized I was a borderline recluse before!

A couple of interesting things that have occurred since I wrote last...
I drove down to visit a friend in New Jersey, about 30 minutes from NYC last weekend. During this drive, I experienced true mayhem on the road. People in the NJ/NYC line believe in anarchy on the road--survival of the fittest at its best. If you are not safely esconced in a large SUV, you may die! Me, in my Kia Optima, and the others in their Suburbans and Expeditions--I thought for sure I was about to witness an impromptu monster truck rally. To make matters worse, there were a significant number of tractor trailer trucks on the road, all of whom deemed it necessary to ride the bumper of any vehicle unfortunate enough to be in front of them. As we all approached the toll booths, at approximately 80 miles an hour, all hell broke loose. The Giants game had let out and there were hundreds of cars on the roads. People zigzagged across lanes, dashing to the toll booths, neglecting to indicate their direction with blinkers, instead utilizing horns and middle fingers. As I made it safely through the toll booth, watching the television on the dashboard of the car in front of me, I entered hell in a new form. Now trucks, cars and SUVs were trying to decipher which highway they needed while moving at snail speed and with little room to maneuver. As I peeked in my rearview mirror to see which horrible monster was riding my bumper this time, I witnessed an SUV and a tractor trailer truck collide. Both parties were only going about 20 MPH so no one was injured, but the reason of the crash was absolutely ludicrous. The SUV wanted to switch lanes and failed to put on a signal, instead they began honking at the truck, who had the right of way in the lane. Then, the truck started honking back at the SUV, who by this time had begun to angle its way in front of the really big truck. The trucker, instead of stopping laid on the horn and the SUV driver, instead of staying in his own lane honked back--both vehicles rolling forward during this interchange. Finally, space ran out and they crashed--the truck making a large dent in the wheel well and hood of the SUV. Before I could watch the interaction between drivers, my lane started moving forward and then I realized how badly I had to pee.

Now, on the NJ Turnpike, just past NYC, there is a rest stop--the Vince Lombardi rest stop. Since the stop is named after Vince Lombardi, a well-respected football coach, I assumed it must be nice. Why would someone name a shitty rest stop after a beloved sports icon? The signs told me how much farther to the rest stop-- 1 mile, 100 yards, next right--all the while, my eyes watered and my bladder screamed. Finally, I turned off the highway, relief flooded me knowing that a bathroom was only five minutes away. "Hang in there," I said to my body. "We are almost there!" "Almost there!" Really, almost there" Accept the road kept winding with many other roads branching off. The signs were confusing and when I looked around, there was no building in sight. I was in a sea of resting truckers and their eighteen wheelers. By this time, I had the worst bladder cramps and I truly thought I might have a very embarrassing accident. After about 10 minutes of winding around, trying to read signs through tear-blurred eyes, I finally saw the McDonalds. "Thank you, Jesus!" But, then, of course, there was no where to park. The parking lot was full, probably because people who entered could not figure out how to exit. Nonetheless, I found a spot about 50 yards from the McD's and ran. Thank God I made it! My next task was to leave the rest area.....needless to say, I made it, though at times it was dicey. NEVER USE THE VINCE LOMBARDI REST STOP! It is a government ploy to trap a significant portion of NYC's liberal population in the VL Rest stop. We enter unwittingly, trusting that anything with Lombardi's name on it must be good--but it is a lie! A mean, cruel joke. I know someone out there has cameras level with car windows, laughing at the pained, contorted faces of patrons who desperately have to go to the bathroom. Grown men and women forced to jiggle, squirm, grab and squeeze to prevent mortification. Truly, this "rest stop" is a travesty and those who made it are bullies. As Stephanie Tanner so eloquently says," How Rude!"

2005-11-28T20:30:00.000-05:00

Life is a fickle thing, filled with so much gain and loss, love and hate. Just now, I was thinking about a few old friends—a few who have made profound impacts on my life, yet I have not spoken with them in years. My heart still holds a place for them, and occasionally hurts from their absence, but life continues. Since the last time I saw each one, I have made another dear, close friend who is now having a great impact on my life. People come and go, but their influence never quite leaves me. Sometimes I will trip over an old note, written in the hand of my lost loved one and daydream about where they are now, and what they do. I wonder if they are well, happy, successful—and I wonder if they ever think of me, if the loss of my presence in their lives has affected them as much as it has me. Some of them are lost loves, whose passion I will never know again and some are lost friends, whose compassion and insight made me feel like I wasn’t alone in the world. How do we find each other? Why do we find each other and then never speak again?

Recently, I have made a couple of attempts to find those people who have affected me so deeply—to see where they are now, and if they might be interested in catching up sometime. Sadly, these friends and loves have been either hard to find, or once found, difficult to re-establish contact. Perhaps we have served a purpose in each other’s lives—a purpose that is no longer present. Perhaps there is embarrassment at what happened then, or where they are now. Perhaps they have just moved on and that part I occupied in their heart has been filled. Perhaps I should fill those places as well and move on. Perhaps I will just continue daydreaming.

2005-11-17T16:06:00.000-05:00

Who knew that these trips would challenge my ethics and manners so often—every night, in fact. Something you may or may not be aware of is that all hotels, no matter how nice, have thin walls. Inevitably you hear the walking, urinating, flushing, showering and blow-drying of your neighbors. Through the walls, snippets of conversations, whether on television or in person, float to your ears and you are faced with a decision: to listen or not to listen. Now, for many people, the choice may be obvious, but to me, there is a little gray area. If people are talking loudly, knowing how thin the walls are, then do they in some way intend for the conversation to be overheard? Do they hope a helpful neighbor will weigh in with a suggestion or question? I hear discussions about restaurants, activities, kids, the works and I wonder if they would appreciate comments from the peanut gallery. At moments, I consider calling the front desk, asking to be connected to room number XXX, informing them that all the rooms around them can hear and that they should try to Chinese place on the corner. Would that fly?

But, the sounds go beyond talking and lead into more intimate places. Occasionally, I hear couples fighting and/or making love, men snoring, women crying and I really don’t know what to do. When in the throes of passion, people don’t think about whether or not they are broadcasting to the rest of the hotel. During fights, crying and sex, I never know what to do with myself. The sound fills my room and grows louder with the volume of my television. I cannot escape it. Sometimes I fight my urge to appease and diffuse, instead choose to imagine the characters in question and how I might go about making them feel better. While listening to sex, I feel simultaneously jealous, happy and grossed out. Sex, as lovely as it is, generally does not display us at our most attractive, at least to outsiders. The range of screams, moans, giggles, cheering, and the myriad of other responses are inescapable and just a little stomach churning. I mean, I feel happy that people are finding pleasure with each other (at least I hope they are), but I am just not sure I want to hear it. When I paid for my room, I really just wanted to room and not my own dirty sound effects studio.

My conclusion is that hotels need to make the walls a little bit thicker, or we should eliminate any guilt society assigns eavesdropping. Right now, I am constantly riddled with guilt because I know I am not supposed to be hearing what is going on, but I do, and how can I not listen! From this moment on, I am releasing myself from guilt and I will listen unabashedly to my neighbors. I will celebrate the sounds and then write about them on this blog.

2005-11-17T16:05:00.000-05:00

Today I fell in love. For a couple of days now, I suspected I might be, but today, I am sure. How do I know, you ask? I know because I smile, laugh even, as I pass white clapboard post offices and salty, cantankerous looking marsh grass. My heart swells as I hop over mud puddles because so many things are left unpaved. I feel fear as I drive by “Redemption Centers,” wondering if I can redeem myself from all the sins I have committed and how this center could possibly help me, until I realize it is really just an aluminum and plastics recycling center, not caring at all for my soul. Joyful taste buds tingle from the taste of real mulled apple cider that is available at all restaurants and cafes. Hungry eyes feast on the weathered shingles, clinging more tightly to the structures they cover in attempt to stay attached, spiting the determined, blustering wind. Houses wrapped in blue and orange plastics, bushes covered by sandwich boards and chicken wire, all to keep powerful winter from crushing and flooding. My car resembles a Jackson Pollock painting, splashes of browns, reds and yellows decorate the electric blue canvas. First thing in the morning, fog blocks the sun from warming and lighting me as I awaken, protecting me for a little while from the hustle and bustle of reality. A quiet reserve, a friendly manner and a hardy spirit describes the kind souls I encounter daily. Happy feet celebrate their spacious, contoured home because Dansko clogs are dressy and professional up here. Open space is in abundance both on land and in water. Soft, gray ripples beckon, desiring the company of quiet, gliding kayaks and the souls who bring them to life. People move slowly, taking time to observe and absorb the moody, natural beauty that surrounds them. Cresting a hill, I can see for miles—mountains, valleys, rivers, harbors, oceans, forests all for my eyes to digest. Truly, I am in love. With whom you ask? With central, coastal Maine, I answer.

2005-11-16T22:11:00.000-05:00

Today I was in mourning, shrouded by gray tufts of fog, sealing me into my own pensive world within my car. I spent the day
in my mind, imagining, grieving, pondering, breaking out only to enter the high schools, speak about my school and hastily return to my car. Enveloped in the warmth, I hung on each and every word feeling the myriad of emotions that each sentence evoked. Over brunch, I took in the black and white print more hungrily than I ate my food, desperate to find out, to know. Finally, as darkness settled, the words, both spoken and printed, stopped. Their job was completed and now they could rest.

Tonight, I am in mourning. Mother Nature grieves with me, pounding my hotel room window with raindrops as the wind whines and whistles across the glass. Outside is the Bucksport harbor, filled with heavy fog and little white caps. The water is dark, swirling and moody--it seems restless, hungry. The gloominess permeates the air, walls, skin and makes everything feel heavy.

Tonight I mourn for the characters I will never meet, for the happy endings that will never come, for the worlds that have been so terribly destroyed, for the children whose innocence has been stripped away, for all whose illusions have been shattered and for all who will never be able to fully express and release their sorrow. Today, I finished two novels that were both heartbreaking and hopeful. Two authors have captured the human spirit, the human psyche with such honesty and humor that closing the back cover after those final, poignant moments filled me with emotions too numerous to count. My tear-filled eyes made the last pages difficult to decipher, so I paused until the tears fell, clearing my sight. Such beauty to behold in these pages filled with words, punctuation and white space.

Over the years, I have been made fun of and laughed for how I react to films, books and music. These forms of art affect me and I have no choice but to respond. Sometimes something in the song, movie or book just funnels into me, making me so full of feeling that it literally leaks, and occasionally pours, out of me. Certain moments or harmonies will elicit laughter that bubbles in my toes, flies through my veins and erupts out of my mouth. Other moments create a sorrow that penetrates my heart, making it swell to such a size that it no longer fits in my chest so it liquifies and leaks out my eyes. When I laugh or cry at art, I lose a part of myself--something in me leaves my body and soul forever. But, when I laugh or cry at this art, I am reminded of my humanity, of my ability to empathize and feel, and I feel alive--powerful. During these moments, I connect to every generation, to every sorrow and I am a part of something much larger than myself. Communing with words and music is my religion, it is where my faith and strength is fed.

Today I was in mourning for characters who have never walked the Earth, breathed the air, seen the sights; but, in my mind, for just a few hours, they became my companions and friends. Their struggles, sorrows, and successes belonged to both of us--a burden I willingly carried. When it was over, a part of me ended and so today, I mourn. Tomorrow will be a new day, filled with unknown characters and unique experiences--the process begins again.

2005-11-16T19:06:00.000-05:00

Do you ever find yourself smiling at, responding to or relieved by the voice of a radio personality? Like an old friend, the voice appeases, teases, humors and informs you-life feels more manageable, understandable.

Each morning, I wake up to NPR's Morning Edition, moving from groggy to alert with these familiar voices as my soundtrack. As Carl Kassell wishes me good morning, I feel certain it will be now that I have heard that full, gravelly baritone voice. As Daniel Schorr explains and analyzes the week's events, the world and it's toils make more sense, feel a bit more manageable. These people are with me at some intimate moments--as I shower, dress, cry, sleep, wake-up-- delivering my coveted information wrapped in familiar, smooth, measured tones. Then, Marketplace comes on and my heart beats a little faster as Scott Jagow and Kai Rysdall fill the airwaves with their sexy voices.

Over the years, I have developed a bit of a crush on the two Marketplace commentators because of their smiles and senses of humor. I have adopted Carl Kassell and Daniel Schorr as cool grandfathers who help me understand this cruel, hard world--explaining and discussing the issues affectionately with me. All of this affection, trust and familiarity developed without ever seeing, meeting or speaking with these people. I have welcomed them into my home, my brain, my heart without any sense of who they are beyond the airwaves. How can some voices I hear each morning feel so much like family? How could I have such affection for people who I have never met, or even seen in a photo? I don't know the answers, but I do know that I plan to invite them into my home, car and hotel room for many years to come.

2005-11-15T22:43:00.000-05:00

Today I smelled snow, wood stoves burning and fresh air. Winter is here, I thought, as I stuck my tongue out to catch snowflakes. Softly landing on my pink tongue, the white snowflakes danced and tickled as they melted. Despite their coldness, the sensations they created warmed my innards and soothed my soul. My black, wool pea coat was quickly covered by white flecks like a dark chocolate macaroon, looking nearly as edible. Moving my snow laden, heavy eyelashes skyward, I watched as the snow silently fell out of low, gray clouds and enjoyed each pinprick of ice on my face. Time briefly held still and I felt each of my 27 years layered on top of each other, with images and sounds accompanying the memories. Feeling light and heavy simultaneously, I continued on toward the high school I visiting with my face raised to greet the flakes. Winter is here, I thought, and I smiled.

2005-11-15T01:35:00.000-05:00

Today I am up in Maine....all the way up in Maine. If I were to take a right off of Route 1 North, I would be in New Brunswick, Canada in about 5 minutes. The land up here is beautiful with a variety of plowed fields, meandering streams, looming mountains and naked trees. It truly is breathtaking! And, to add to the pleasures of being in Northern Maine, I saw my first wild moose--two, in fact. As I drove home from my school visit, the sky had since gone dark, I passed a number of big, yellow moose warning signs. I slowed down a bit because I do not think my little, rented Kia would stand a chance (nor do I want to get in yet another accident with the same rental company's car) and wouldn't you know, two moose were relaxing on the side of the road. Their big, gangly, broad silhouettes were displayed on the pavement and their eyes flashed in the lights of my car. Man, these are some large animals--definintely taller than my car. Unfortunately, there was a car behind me so I could not slow down to truly observe my first wild moose(s), but I squealed in delight at the sight--what a thrill!

Tonight held another unexpected thrill for me--a meal in a high school cafeteria with actual high school students. A meal with trays, lunch ladies, food fights, metiocre food-the works- but there was something missing. These kids were not flirting, giggling, posing or gossiping as I assumed most, if not all, high school students do, no, these kids were talking about linear algebra, organic chemistry, who was applying to what schools and what kinds of research they were hoping to do in college. The closest they got to gossip was which kids got into to what schools, followed by exclamations of disbelief and then proclamations that if Jane Doe got into to MIT then I should be a shoe in. Concerned with the research grants and awards won by possible future faculty, these kids would never settle for the undecorated, looking only at Ivy, pseudo-Ivy and highly respected research universities. I looked around at the earnest faces surrounding me, foreheads furrowed in concentration while listing off the applications sent or to be sent, schools visited or to be visited. Kids leaned forward on the table, taking in each detail, steam shooting from their ears as they received, processed and one-upped the reports of their peers. Dumbstruck, I silently ate my tasteless, mushy food, taking a moment to see if there was a cereal option. I could not relate to these students in any way, shape or form. At my high school, this type of kid sat at a different cafeteria table than I did, surrounding themselves with their competition, who played the secondary role of friend. My friends were certainly concerned about our futures, and we did discuss college in the cafeteria--but not like this, nothing like this.

As I took in their comments, questions and energy, which was zinging through the air, I wondered how these kids got this way. The boys are barely capable of growing facial hair, voices occasionally crack and yet they are talking about winning grants, working with the most notable of professors. The girls are assertive, articulate and baby-faced, discussing ground-breaking research and how colleges don't respect the difficulty of linear alegebra. (The table also took a moment to bemoan the ignorance of admission counselors in the fields of math and science. Apparently, we often do not understand that linear algebra is not the thing we learned in 8th grade, but something much more difficult.) Bemused, and a bit taken aback, I turned my dishes into the dishwashing man and headed to the room in which I would be presenting. I needed to escape the anxiety, competition and general flurry of energy in the cafeteria. My brain had had enough.

Following 20 minutes of catching my breath, I began my presentation on the college I represent (which is not Ivy, or even remotely affiliated with the exception that we do have ivy on our brick builldings). The kids listened patiently and responded with hands in the air when asked if they had any questions. They wanted to know the percentage of acceptances into medical school, will businesses recognize and respect the name, would we be less likely to accept them should they indicate the other schools to which they have applied (including, but not limited to, MIT, Harvard, Dartmouth, Brown, CalTech and Stanford), and what awards have our professors won. One girl needed to know if the research we do at my school is in any way groundbreaking, and could we support her groundbreaking research. Patiently, I answered their questions one by one...or tried to anyway, but I found it hard to relate. I could not place myself in their shoes to better understand the origins of their questions. I could not comprehend being so driven and focused at 17. Are these kids well balanced? Do they have a healthy perspective on life? Did they naturally become this way or has someone taught them what to strive for? While I have met my fair share of brilliant young people, I have never encountered teenagers like this--17 going on 40, with the best being the only acceptable option.

After an hour and a half at this school, I felt drained and perplexed. Are these kids freaks of nature, or were they just incapable of internal monologue so I was hearing the true cocerns of today's teen. If tonight was indicative of the general adolescent mentality, I must admit I feel a bit of fear for their futures. Is their any room for failure, or even a simple mistake? Is there room for personal exploration, discovery and growth? If these kids are an anomaly, thank God. Stretching your brain early is great, but putting yourself under unforgiving pressure before the exploration has even begun, that is a quite frightening. Tonight--tonight was frightening!

2005-11-13T22:11:00.000-05:00

Just to clarify: it is November 13th, right? I mean, Thanksgiving has not happened yet and we are still in early-ish November. My next question then, is WHY ARE THERE CHRISTMAS COMMERCIALS ON TELEVISION? Christmas is an amazing holiday-worth celebrating and even giving some forethought, but do I need almost two months of forethought? We skip right over the day of thanksgiving and family because there are no material gifts involved and move straight into consumer heaven. Every year, the Christmas season arrives earlier and earlier, eliminating much of the joy of Christmas. By the time the day arrives, I am sick of Christmas, forgetting the true reason for the season. This irritates me and I needed to share!

2005-11-12T20:19:00.000-05:00

I always thought the things that would most make me feel like a grown up would be my first drink of alcohol, the first time I rented a car without an extra fee, my first "real" relationship, my first "real" job or perhaps the first apartment of my very own. As each one of these events has occurred, I check in with myself to see if now, at this very moment, I have become an adult, but the answer was always no. Recently, however, I have been feeling very much like an adult, and after some thought, I realized what two moments it was that jarred me into this new phase.

The first event was watching one of my best girlfriends get married. I have been to a number of weddings for close guy friends, but it was the wedding of one of my girls that made me realize I am an adult. Throughout the whole planning process I teased my friend because she had all of a sudden become knowledgable about flower arrangements, linen color coordination, cake decorations, honeymoon locations, diamond cuts and carats, and so much more. I asked if she was infused with knowledge when her man slid the ring on her finger as he proposed--if the ring has special powers to fill her with "big girl thoughts." She laughed at me and claimed she just read a lot of magazines, but I still think the ring may be a component. The wedding was stunning, and the couple is so enviously in love--and as I watched them dance their last dance, I felt that I had joined the elite club of adults. The fact that I am now at an age where I could get married with no one raising an eyebrow and asking,"Aren't you a bit young?" Instead, I think people will release the breath they didn't realize they were holding and say,"Phew!" when I announce my engagement. I have to say, that is an odd, sobering moment to have--especially while watching someone you love get married.

The second moment I realized that I am getting older was, surprisingly, at a college fair in Cincinnati. This college fair was filled with bright teenagers and their parents, excited and nervous about speaking with college reps. You might be thinking that being around teenagers might make me feel older, but it actually has the opposite effect. Being around these freaked out, anxious and energetic young people reminds me of how it awful it is to be a teenager. Each time I talk to a teen, I remember so clearly what it was like to be worried about rejection, acceptance, and futures. I acutally have to remind myself when I leave these events that I have already passed that stage, never having to return and I feel joy. At this college fair, the thing that made me realize I am an adult was this hot guy at the table next to mine. He seemed about my age, dark and handsome with a lovely speaking voice. We started chatting about our respective schools, where we are from, etc and I got just a tad excited. I am comfortably single at the moment, but I wouldn't mind a date every now and then and this guy seemed like a solid option. Then, while talking and gesticulating about the location of the college he represents, I noticed the gold band on his left ring finger just as he casually mentioned his wife. At this moment it struck me that all of the attractive men I have met in the past five months or so are married. I have reached the age where I now have to check fingers before I start talking to a guy to determine the appropriate way to approach him. When did my entire peer group get married? Where was I when all of this was going on? Clearly, I have missed the boat. I knew I was in really big trouble with Cincinnati guy when, for one fleeting moment, I thought,"Maybe it won't last!" This made me almost fall over with guilt. Having been raised as a conscientious Christian girl, I pride myself on having good character (character being your thoughts and actions when no one is watching) and now, as I meet married man after married man, my character is being challenged. Don't worry! I have complete respect for the institution of marriage--I just have moments of evil thoughts.

In conclusion, it is the marriage bug that has made me feel like an adult. After attending wedding after wedding and meeting married guy after married guy, I have truly entered the next phase. Some of my older friends, in attempt to make me feel better (I think) have said,"Just wait until the babies come!' My response: I can't wait....no, really, I can't wait!

2005-11-09T21:02:00.000-05:00

My apologies to faithful readers for not posting recently. I am actually home for a few days, and man was my house a mess. Making my home livable again has taken a couple of days, but now it is clean, bright and pleasant.

Being home has brought to light a number of interesting things, pertaining primarily to stuff and television. First off--stuff. Over the past couple of months I have gotten used to living in two pairs of pants, one pair of jeans, a couple of sweaters, two pairs of shoes and perhaps a t-shirt or two. Overall, on each trip, I have travelled lightly, to say the least, learning to deal with a little less variety on the clothing front. I have also travelled with a minimal amount of stuff, preferring a couple of books, my journal and my laptop as my tried and true companions. Life on the road requires me to be unencumbered, light, ready to move and to that I have grown accustomed.

When I returned home on Friday, I almost felt overwhelmed by the amount of stuff in my apartment--and my apartment is relatively sparse. Had I time, I might have cleaned out the whole place leaving only a few precious keepsakes, furniture, lighting, other essentials and, of course, my books. Beyond that, I felt like it could all go. Why do I need more? It doesn't make my space more homey, more welcoming, but instead caused my head to start spinning and my heart rate to increase. Am I becoming a minimalist? The next time one of you comes to visit, will you wonder why someone with so little stuff lives in such a sizable apartment? Perhaps you will. Or, perhaps you will take a nice deep breath and feel freed by the lack of clutter. Either way, travelling has caused me to re-evaluate how I choose to create my home and whether stuff helps or hinders the creation of such a sacred space.

Secondly, I realized that I have been slowly, steadily letting my brain rot by watching an obscene amount of television. Now given that the past couple of years have been difficult physically, emotionally and intellectually, it seems moderately understandable why my vegetative state of choice would be drooling at the boob tube. TV would not have such wonderful nicknames accusing it of melting brains, ruining eyes, atrophying legs, building thumb muscles, etc if it was not the ultimate loafing facilitator; however, it is so good at allowing me to vegetate that it almost became a drug. Over the past couple of years, I have let life pass me by in order to catch whatever scripted or unscripted lives that were being displayed in front of millions. I chose to live through Rory Gilmore, Paige Davis (Trading Spaces), Stacy and Clinton (What Not To Wear), Kristen (Laguna Beach), and many, many others instead of dealing with my own life. For a while, I needed to live vicariously because there were some uncontrollable things going on in my life--but, now that it is time to snap out of it, move forward and live for myself, I am finding the television difficult to give up. It has proven to be the single most effective tool for eliminating stress since running and ultimate no longer were options. Now, my healthier self needs to turn off the idiot box, get the brain churning and take a deep breath every now and then.

Tonight, I have begun my first night of no television. My favorite shows have been shaved down so I should only watch about 2.5 hours of TV a week. Not bad! Today, I did not turn on the television and have been hugely productive. Surprise! I worked hard at my job, went grocery shopping, cooked my first meal at home in almost 2 months, baked cookies, consolidated some educational loans, listened to NPR, talked to my brother, cleaned my kitchen, caught up on email, read a little and now, have written a couple of pages. Imagine if everyday were TV and clutter free--I might actually make something of myself yet! Imagine if we all lived our own lives a little more, and others lives a little less--this world might actually have a fighting chance!

2005-11-04T07:36:00.000-05:00

Evan commented on my last entry. I think it is very interesting so this is what he wrote:

How much of the current trend in pornography is a reflection of human nature rather than any moral values or the actual interpersonal relations of the people who partake in the porn? Look at it this way. Pornographers are essenstially business people. They make whatever sells, and whatever turns men on is what sells best. The next question is why does degrading porn that objectifies women turn men on? This is possibly a reflection of the root s of human societal evolution rather than a recent development. I think that our society is breaking down taboos and societal restrictions and exposing everyone to the more intimate primal urges and instinctive emotions than have been around untold generations. In recent years (1600s-1960s) many of these things have been repressed by society and religion. They are starting to come out more in today's soceity as the world becomes smaller and the conections between people become easier on all levels. It would be nice to think that this is an advantage, and on certain levels it is. However when children (of any age) are developing it is sometimes important to protect them from objects and concepts that they are not yet prepare to handle. At certain points in development humans are unable to distinguish between perceptions and reality and this can bite you in the ass. The pornography situation is one where some people's (old and young) perceptions of reality are based on what is essentially a fantasy that has been created to cater to some very primal ego-based urges. Severe conflicts unsue when these fantasies are treated as reality by persons decieved by ignorance. How can people who are ignorant of the reality be protected from the decieving fantasy? Frankly I don't know. I feel like the conservative are doing the damnedest already, and if they can do it then I don't know how it can be done. Maybe the reality needs to be more clearly comminicated before the fantasies are the primary source of information. Of course the conservatives would like to surpress that too.

2005-11-03T15:16:00.000-05:00

I am writing this post from a cute little town in southern Vermont while sitting on a large, wrap-around porch attached to yummy cafe and a great little bookstore (of course), all housed in a beautiful Victorian. Today is a stunner and it is a full-bodied pleasure to be writing while feeling the breeze on my back, hearing cars go by, watching little kids play and absorbing the day's last rays of sunlight. This is my last day in Vermont and has it been a good one.

One quick complaint before I move on to the true thing occupying my mind: the food in Vermont, overall, has been delicious. Now you might be wondering to yourself, how is delicious food a negative? Well, it is a negative because the fresh blueberry muffins (as discussed yesterday) are difficult to pass by, as are the steaming hot scones filled with juicy apple bits and the hot chocolate made of rich chocolate with lots of frothy milk on top. The good/healthy part is the salads with deep green lettuce with freshly grown fruits and vegetables, the freshly laid eggs, and the many organic meats and dairy products. The bad part is, all of the wonderful ingredients combined into a scone, muffin, hot chocolate, etc, are nearly impossible to pass by. Needless to say, it is a good thing I am done today, leaving all of these tasty temptations behind.

Now, the issue that I have been mulling over for the past few weeks is sex/sexuality/pornography. What does this have to do with my travels for my job, you ask? And, you may also be asking youself, do I want to keep reading? Yes, yes you do. There is nothing too offensive to follow.

Over the recent weeks, I have frequented innumerable public restrooms whether at truck stops, gas stations, restaurants, rest areas or bars. My experiences in these bathrooms have led me to ponder: why are there sex toys available in many public lavatories? Why are there flavored condoms and other such "necessities" located in the majority of these bathrooms? As many of you know, I believe in free speech, in being in touch with your sexuality, in sexual equality and freedom. I understand that the need strikes at odd times and protection is a must. However, these machines are not just condom dispensers which I understand, they are dispensing actual sex toys and the signage is weird, borderline offensive and not necessarily appropriate considering the myriad of people who utilize these restrooms.

To me, the issue of sex toys in the bathroom directly connects to this country's obsession with impersonal sex, pornography, and sexualized female nudity while simultaneously legislating what is legal and illegal relating to sex (often involving the above obsessions) yet incapable of having a public, coherent, articulate discussions about these very same issues. Over the past few years, I have been studying the origins of pornography and its development into the multi-billion dollar industry it is today. I have grown concerned about how we have "pornographied" pop culture without educating our children about how to interpret these images and song lyrics. We want our kids to abstain, but we shy away from "the talk", so the only messages they do receive are from their "role models" like Britney Spears and Pamela Lee. We cannot blame Britney and Pamela because they have a right to behave how they choose; however, we can look at ourselves, think about our own attitudes, misconceptions, and expectations about sex, asking whether or not we want our children to grow up with these same ideas, or do we need to get over ourselves and have candid discussions with young people to help them formulate their own ideas. Kids are pelted (and assaulted) with information all day, every day, trying to negotiate, understand, participate in, grow into and feel confident within the world around them, but we adults seem unable or unwilling to discuss the very world these kids are living in.

As some of you may know (sorry, Dad, if this is TMI), I am not opposed to all pornography and know for fact that there is some pornography that is interesting, beautiful, mutual, equal and fantastical. Much of today's pornography involves debasing the female, where her role is solely to pleasure the male, even if that involves hurting herself, demeaning herself and/or denying her own needs. This same attitude is trickling into our high schools, our junior high schools and even our elementary schools. Boys expect pleasure without expecting, anticipating or looking forward to reciprocating. Girls are demeaning themselves, performing sexual acts to fit in, to be accepted and liked by the boys. I am not attributing all of this to porn, but I do feel that the more pornography's version of sexuality infects our culture, the more we are at risk of losing a type of sexuality that is respectful, consensual and pleasurable to both parties. Men are becoming unable to be aroused because their female partner does not look like a porn star and is unwilling to do what porn stars do. Women are unable to be aroused because they feel used and unattractive. Gone are the days of free love in sixties and seventies porn when all parties involved enjoy themselves and when couples could watch together, feeling like both of their fantasies could come true. In the sixties and seventies, for better or for worse, porn was a place of inclusion (the more the merrier) and today's porn excludes the female as a participant and includes her only as a vessel and a sex toy.

How does this diatribe relate to sex toys in the bathroom you ask? I am not sure totally sure, but when I know, I will be sure to share. For now, I just drive around and ponder where this country is going and why we are in this handbasket.

2005-11-02T12:44:00.000-05:00

Two surprising things happened to me this morning in Stowe, Vermont.

First, I found a caterpillar inside my fleece sock. When I say found, I actually mean that I put my foot in my sock, stuffed it into my shoe and felt a funny, prickly sensation against my big toe. Having walked around a field the last time I wore the sock, I thought perhaps I had a burr, but when I removed my sock and turned it inside out, I realized it was, in fact, a caterpillar. This was a woolly one, black and brown and curled into a ball. Now the question many of us might have is: how the hell did a woolly get in my sock? Bemused, I picked up the woolly, laid him gently on the bed and hoped I had not killed him when I jammed my foot into my clog. I put my sock back on, placed my foot in my clog and checked again on the woolly. Sad to say, the little woolly didn't move and so I laid him to rest in a generic hotel garbage can. This felt disrespectiful, but really I had little choice and I have a severe distaste for flushing animals (whether fish, woollys or rats) down the toilet. This past year has been particularly traumatizing in the flushing-animals-down-the-toilet department and I could stand no more. I did say a few words, bowed my head and had a moment of silence in honor of the cute, fuzzy, prickly woolly who took up residence in my sock. This morning, I committed involuntary woolly slaughter and that is always a sad way to start the morning.

Secondly, and on a much happier note, this morning I was surprised to taste the best blueberry muffin I had ever had. This muffin was chock full of FRESH blueberries that burst with flavor in my mouth on every bite. Around these juicy morsels were a light, buttery pastry that had my taste buds singing gospel and my heart valves singing the blues. The muffin melted in my mouth on every bite. The top was crispy with tiny bits of sugar melted to just the right crunchiness. Needless to say, this muffin seriously uplifted my mood and caused me to feel awe for the baker who created this breakfast confection.

While I could not simply forget my run in with mortality this Wednesday morning, that blueberry muffin was a special reminder of why I am glad to be alive and glad I do not live in a sock.

2005-10-31T20:55:00.000-05:00

It is amazing how being on the road, doing what I do can almost erase my personality. When I walk into a guidance office, I am often greeted by,” Are you Northeast College? Welcome. Hey Darlene? Northeast College is here, where should I put them?” Now, there are many reasons why these statements are untrue or incorrect--the thing that always irks me most is that I am not longer myself, the human being representing Northeast College but the actual college--brick, mortar and all, standing in the guidance office. The other day, I finally had enough and in my lightest of tones, responded,” Well actually, my name is Jane Doe, Northeast College’s rep, but thanks for the compliment.” After a month and half on the road, I needed to be recognized as Jane Doe, a person who eats, breathes, and shits, unlike the lovely buildings that constitute my campus. I was tired of feeling like an incomplete person, or perhaps more accurately, like a person with a double personality. At one moment I am Northeast College, enticing the smartest and most adventurous students to our campus; the next moment, I am Jane Doe, friend, sister, daughter—irreverent, funny and of course, humble.
Over the past few months I have been astonished at how often I feel out of sorts, not like myself, because I am trying so hard to adapt to a new situation in a short amount of time. Sadly, or realistically, I just take a little longer to settle in, feel comfortable and let the good times roll. I need to get my bearings, feel people out and test the waters before my true personality can come out. Instead, I have a great dual dialogue that occurs. There are the things that actually emerge from my mouth (rarely considered before coming out) and the things that I think but never share. My brain is a fun place to be, and I have to say, I am pretty damn funny, but oddly enough, people rarely ever hear those witty comments. Instead, I frequently laugh at inappropriate moments while appreciating my own internal monologue and receive unwanted attention as people try to understand why the crazy girl in the corner is laughing.
I have been fortunate in my life to have great parents, siblings and friends who just accept my quirkiness and who frequently enjoy being a part of it. At my new job and on the road, however, I have not had time to suss out my peers, nor do I have time to uncover the humors of the kids and counselors I deal with, so I can very rarely let my odd sense of humor and irreverence for many things revered emerge. Instead, it is locked away for only my enjoyment. While I am a great audience, always laughing at my jokes, I have to admit that sometimes my head is a lonely place to be.

2005-10-28T17:43:00.000-04:00

Thank you all for your comments. I have been secretly writing for a long time and now it is fun to share it with you!

Well, today was not a terribly interesting day. Last night, however, was pretty funny. I arrived at a good friend's house last evening, enjoyed a lovely meal and chatted by the fire. It was great. I start to yawn and think about the nice cozy bed that awaits me. Finally, I summon the energy to go upstairs and brush my teeth, get ready for bed, etc only to realize I left my toiletry kit in Bennington. I am now in Norwich...a few mountain passes away from Bennington. This leaves me without my toothbrush, deodorant, shampoo, soap, lotion, and most importantly, my contacts. Considering I have been on the road for a month straight and this is the first time I left or lost anything, I think that is pretty good. However, it is not like I just left a pair of socks behind. No sirree. Pretty much, everything that keeps me clean and presentable is sitting in a room in Bennington. Woohoo! No worries though, the nice lady in Bennington is overnighting it to me so I will only smell today.

Beyond that, my day was tame. I did see a great bumper sticker: WHERE ARE WE GOING? AND WHY AM I IN THIS HANDBASKET? Every time I look at this quote I start to giggle. And that is how I entered school #1 on this frosty, Vermont morning.

Last thought of the day:
How do small towns in the US stay afloat. As I drive along the back roads of New York, Vermont, Ohio, etc. I encounter these small towns with maybe 5000 people, if that. They often consist of a general store, a diner or two, maybe an insurance agent, and most importantly, a church, a bar and a school. None of these things seem like enough to keep a town running. I realize there is industry hidden away, off the roads, and most likely nestled along the banks of rivers, but how do these towns keep on going?
That said, I am sad to report that much of America's medium to large sized towns are starting to look the same. With Best Buy, Walmart, Pier One, and other "suburban" stores creating a strip effect in each town, sometimes I forget where I am. Driving along, I smile to myself as I see these little main streets with antique stores, restaurants called "Molly's" or "Jake's Diner", enjoying the unique-ness of that place. Then, just as I start to head out of town, I encounter this mass of brightly lit, horizon blocking stores--and they are the same stores every time. While I understand the need for jobs, and the need to have stuff, these stores look the same no matter where they are located. The individuality of the town is stripped away. I quickly forget Main St. and become overwhelmed by the mass of stuff in front of me. Often times I have just left a nice diner where everyone knows each other and people are friendly--the experience is personal, one-of-a-kind only to be clobbered by what seems to be the new face of America's towns. I don't like it. Now, I am not knocking big business, mainly because I think I am too ignorant to knock it properly, but I am wondering why these placces could not at least try to fit in with the landscape already in place. Why do these stores have to mammouth? Why couldn't they exist to complement the town instead of contrast and even overshadow the town? I fear we are losing our personality in the US. I fear that we are becoming standardized, de-individualized without asking questions or prostesting. These towns offer so much, each with their own flavor, feeling and personality only to be marginalized by a huge yellow Best Buy sign. I don't know where I am going with this. But, I do wonder why we are so complacent in letting our history slide away in favor of ugly, boxy, ostentatious stores that offer little in the way of service and nothing that is personalized or unique.

2005-10-27T16:25:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I tried to write, I did, but I just could not muster up the energy. I said everything that needed to be said the day before; but today, I am refreshed and ready to write some more.

Vermont--the Green Mountain State is my host for the duration of this 10 day trip. My first night in this amazingly beautiful state consisted of me alone in my car staring at the natural beauty that is upstate New York and Vermont. Me, alone in my motel room--a different brand too so it felt a little funny. Me, alone at a bar eating dinner--watching a bunch of close friends drink, eat and laugh together. And, last but not least, me alone watching the World Series, falling asleep to the World Series and missing the climactic ending of the World Series. All in all, it was a special day for the lone traveller.

Today, October 27th, was pretty awesome. It was a moody day in the mountains of Vermont and as always, really beautiful.
This morning, as I picked out my clothes, I decided to take a fashion risk. Now, this garment that I am wearing has been sitting in my closet since last Christmas because I have not had the guts to wear it. Because Vermont is, well Vermont, I thought it would be a good day to try something new. People here are pretty forgiving so the chances of someone outright laughing at me was slim to none....not that I really care if people laugh at my clothes, but you know... My new(ish), spiffy trench-type coat has one of those pleasant silky liners, feeling nice against my skin. I wrap my green scarf around my neck, look in the mirror, scrutinizing, and decide,"What the hell!" Normally, I would consult a friend or co-worker shortly after leaving the house to find out if I needed to feel embarassed for the rest of the day, or if I could stick out my chest and prance around like the proud pony I am. Well, today, I was on my own. And Vermonters, being the accepting people they are, presented no reaction. No laughing, no smirking, no compliments, no nothing. This could mean that it is horrible and they feel bad for me. It could mean that it looked professional so there was no reason to comment. Or, it could mean that people were slightly frightened of my fashion choices and, therefore, frightened of me so they declined to comment. Ladies and gents, you have just had a scary insight into my wandering brain. The very brain that keeps me from falling asleep during all my hours in the car. Speaking of the car....

As I was driving from Bennington to Bellows Falls, it decided to blizzard on top of one of the mountains I was crossing. As I drove down a long, steep hill -slowly because I don't trust my rental car- I noticed a sign that said,"Runaway Trucks" with an arrow to the right. About 25 yards later, there was a steep ramp off to the right that was about 50 yards long. This pattern continued about every half a mile until the ground levelled out. Wow! My dreams of driving big trucks in the mountains are shot!
First of all, that is a scary sign causing me to immediately check my rearview mirror and grip the steering wheel a bit tighter. My little PT Cruiser would not stand a chance! Secondly, if those trucks are screaming down this icy, curvy road at God only knows what speed, is 50 yards of ramp enough to slow them down? And, wouldn't they have crashed by then? Those curves are not just your average meandering curves, but switchbacks on ice with large ravines on either side. Needless to say, my trip down the side of that mountain consisted of me checking my rearview mirror, gripping the steering whell, feeling petrified and laughing my ass off!
All in all, today was just another exciting day on the road.

2005-10-18T21:25:00.000-04:00

So, I am new at this whole technology blog thing but I have decided to give it a whirl.

Having now been on the road for about a month and half staight, I have come to realize what a unique experience it is living out of a suitcase, waking up unsure of where I am and feeling perpetually lost-literally. Along with these rather disconcerting sensations come the benefits of traveling. Firstly, I have now visited a number of cities and towns to which I have never been and have the colorful privilege of learning about them through the eyes of teenagers.

Secondly, I have to say, and hopefully this won't jinx me, that these trips have renewed my faith in humanity. Over the past couple of years, I had found my faith in my fellow homosapiens waning, to say the least. In general,though, people are friendly, honest and, when you are lost in the woods of Maine, helpful.

Thirdly, I have truly come to appreciate the physical beauty of America. This country is truly stunning, ranging from the flats of Indiana, to the rolling hills of Ohio and Western Pennsylvania, to the green-ness of Vermont and the terrain that belongs only to Maine. At a time when being an American doesn't always feel like something I want to shout from a mountaintop, seeing the natural beauty of our nation renews my pride and my drive re-claim this country as my own. And lastly, being on the road has simultaneously challenged my ability to laugh at myself and/or the situation and increased my ability to laugh at myself--and let's face it, others.

On this trip, I have encountered a pick up truck chock full of Amish men- beards, hats, overalls and all-tooling along the highway. I have been in an accident, surrounded by true Downeastern old men dressed in camo and hunting orange, speaking a language I think was English but that is yet to be determined. I have sat in the squad car of a Maine police officer who told me of his dating history with red heads--he prefers us, apparently. I have ridden in a tow truck to Enterprise car rental with one of those Downeasterners, squeezed into the cab with a shot gun and the loudest CB radio known to human kind. I have arrived at Enterprise after this surreal experience, walking into an office full of young, hot guys in starched white dress shirts and pressed slacks, creating their own special reality in Bangor, Maine. I got sick from Cracker Barrel. I have had many cars honk at me and flip me off on their way by because I just never know where I am going (I just wave back and smile). I have been perpetually confused with the representatives from the Wheaton College in Illinois. I have laughed with my brother in Pittsburgh. I was welcomed into the homes of close friends. I walked trepidaciously through the streets of Squirrel Hill. I cried in my car when I discovered I had to work on my one full day home after three weeks on the road. I have had the pleasure of getting to know my co-workers (who are pretty damn cool, I have to say) over the telephone since we never see each other. I have attended the coolest, hippiest state fair ever. I have sat at the counters of numerous small town diners. I have been honored with the details of the lives of strangers. I have talked to some of the coolest high school juniors and seniors anywhere! I have visited private schools with nicer campuses than most colleges. I have visited a private school with a zoo! (Oh yeah, you read that right, a zoo full of real zoo animals.) I have been shown love and support from my closest friends. I have called my parents almost everyday and possibly worn out my welcome. I have watched the Red Sox lose. I am watching the White Sox....win?

All in all, these trips to the mid-west, mid-Atlantic and New England have been fun, interesting, tiring and so very worthwhile.

Oddly enough, I am getting used to that sensation of not being sure where I am when I wake up and it just doesn't bother me anymore. I just flip on the radio,, search the low 90s, high 90s, find NPR and wait for them to tell me where I am on this particular morning. However, if the hotel chains decided to mix up their lay outs, bed linens and curtains a bit, it might be a little easier to figure out my location. That said, these hotel rooms now feel like home because I have basically been staying in the same room the whole time. I am getting used to having zits constantly because the water is different everywhere. I may or may not be helping Starbucks and Barnes and Noble stay in business with my penchant for steamed milk. But most of all, when I finally rest my head, night after night, on my own precious pillow, and wake up to my own red curtains, I will feel so lucky. Lucky, or blessed, to have a place to call my own, a sense of humor, an appreciation for the beauty of my country and a few good stories to share with those of you who read my blog.