from bold to brave:)

Let's see. My only resolution for 2010 was to be bold. To step outside of myself and do things I wouldn't normally do, to make the uncomfortable, comfortable. Did I accomplish that goal this year?

At 12:01AM as the ball dropped in New York City, I stood amongst a swell of crazywired people who had stood for nine-twelve hours just as we did, and I kissed my best friend, whom I had liked for a measley seven years. Confetti fell on our heads, rested at our feet, people screamed, clinked shot glasses and cheered, and I began my new year off on a bold foot.

In February, I applied for a job at Cedar Point, in Sandusky, Ohio - a seven hour drive from my house in Central Pennsylvania. I got the job, and when school let out, without so much as going home to my family, I made the trip to my favorite theme park. I moved in with a perfect stranger, performed a job that I ended up despising, made some lasting connections, and quit within the first two months. That I quit, however, is not the point. The point is I made the first move - I went in the first place.

I got a tattoo.

In June, I attended a Writer's Conference in New York and shared my work with a group of people who were in the processes of becoming published. I received a critique from an established and esteemed author.

I celebrated my 21st birthday in Atlantic City, NJ with some family and friends. I gambled and drank and dipped my toes in the ocean and sunbathed on the beach. I gave up on Mr. New Years and moved on, finally.

I began to speak freely in class during the fall semester of my senior year. Sometimes, I still hold back, which, if you know anything about me, sharing my opinion in front of more than five people is difficult for me. Words come easier on paper.

I applied to grad schools that are 30-36 hour drives from my home in PA. I applied to places where I will know no one. I applied to schools in states in which I have never set foot.

I watched my roommate graduate with high honors and held back the tears. Brave face, I told myself, as if I were a six-year old getting a shot. There is not much that's bold about this situation, but I suppose it made an impact, regardless. Hello, 2011!

I invited Mr. New Years (of 2010) back to my house to celebrate the coming of 2011. Not because I'm looking for a repeat of events in NYC, but because he's my friend, and we're going to celebrate like it.


On another note, being bold is not a thing of last year, no I plan on carrying it into this year as well. But I need a new resolution, a trackable, doable one, like being bold.

In 2011, I'm going to be brave. Change is coming, and what could be more useful than a bit of bravery? What could take more courage than putting on that brave face and setting forth into new situations?

Christmas

Luke 1:26-38
In the sixth month, God sent the angel Gabriel to Nazareth, a town in Galilee, to a virgin pledged to be married to a man named Joseph, a descendant of David. The virgin's name was Mary. The angel went to her and said, "Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you."

Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. But the angel said to her, "Do not be afraid. Mary, you have found favor with God. You will be with child and give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end."

"How will this be," Mary asked the angel, "since I am a virgin?"

The angel answered, "The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God. Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be barren is in her sixth month. For nothing is impossible with God."

"I am the Lord's servant," Mary answered. "May it be to me as you have said." Then the angel left her.



If only we could be so subservient, immediately willing to undertake such heavy burdens for the sake of something so amazing. The punishment for Mary was to be stoned for becoming pregnant before marriage and for disgracing herself and Joseph. And look what came of a simple man eventually believing his wife when she tells him of how an angel came to her in the night.

at our disposal

I woke up this morning with that sense of dread and panic. It catches me every once in a while, a peek-a-boo, a wake up call. This morning's was lovely, had me thinking along the lines of:

{whatamidoingwithmylife...why would i want to move all the way out west where i know no one...what if Ruth never fills out my forms and i miss out on grad school next fall because i'm lacking one recommendation...how do i get myself out of jury duty in january...i need a real job...christmas is coming up and my bank account looks as bleak as it did when i first opened an account...where did all my money go....panicdreadpanicdread...}

And then.

I prayed. And everything lifted off my shoulders. These mountains are made of sand.

on a side note,

1. Astronomy final tomorrow at 8AM and then I'm officially done with this semester. It might be more exciting, however, to note that after I work my shift at Dobbins tonight, I will no longer be an employee there! Thank goodness.
2. Michelle and I just had a heated debate over whether all residents of Wyoming listen to country/western music. She says they are all rednecks. I say they are all cowboys. There is an important difference.
3. Taco night tomorrow in the apartment commons! My hungry-self will be in attendance.
4. Decided that if I'm going to live in a state that's mostly plains, I may have to check my gas gauge more often than I do now. And my cell phone plan, come to think of it.
5. Christmas is almost here! Praise God.

A plea.

I've gone all through college without knowing what it means to scrounge and scrape for food. I've been lucky.

Currently, my roommate and I are planning days according to what's left on our pantry, in our fridge. She's broke and I spent all my money on grad school and Christmas gifts. And now our shelves are bare.

One packet of poprocks.
Three packets of oatmeal.
Two granola bars.
Maple syrup.
One poptart.
One scoop of blueberry pancake mix.
One can of peas, one of corn.
One packet of ritz crackers.
A jar of peanut butter.

This is my shelf inventory. It's so slim and sad. Ma, if you're reading this, you can donate to the Aeriale Needs Food Fund. You know where to send the check ;) Oh. And Michelle needs nourishment, too. Her color isn't so good and her hair is falling out. It's grossing me out.

Conversation:

Me (walking in from the tundra, taking the wet dog off my my head, untying my boots): I just tutored this guy who I can never talk to. He always requests me. But I can never get my point across. And I talk in circles. And I don't think he knows what I'm talking about, ever.

Michelle (on the couch, amused): Yeah?

Me: And! I can talk to other people just fine. I don't stutter or mumble and I get my point across! I so got my point across to that other guy last night.

Michelle: You have a crush, don't you?

Me: He's a freshman! No!

Michelle (sits there, one eyebrow raised, says nothing)

Me: Ughhhhhhhhhh.

Stasis, I like.

I don't want things to change just yet.

HOME.

Whew. It's finally here - the first of three big breaks during the school year. I so look forward to coming home for these stretches. I may not always get to sleep in or get done what needs to get done, but I'm home. No worrying about roommate drama. No wondering about what I'm going to eat since I don't have time nor money to buy food. It's just somehow simpler.

I've only been back home for two full days now, but already I've helped Lacey with her sixth grade homework projects (she's currently reading a book about Pearl Harbor, and I am her walking, talking dictionary. She also writes articles for her school newspaper! It's so wonderful to see her following in my footsteps. Not that I ever wrote articles for any newspaper at her age...but she likes to read and write. What more could I ask for?)

I got some Christmas shopping out of the way yesterday. See, I love buying gifts. I can't stop. The sky's the limit, regardless of how much money my debit card says I have. So, I'm a quarter of the way done with Christmas presents. And then there's Black Friday coming up! There's no telling what I'll find while scouring through aisles and crowds. I adore it all.

I'm I I <--- that close to being done with grad school applications. I just need to send a few things out in the mail, get a few questions answered, and BAMDONE. Which is an unspoken relief, to say the least.

Sometime this week, we'll head up to Pauling's tree farm to cut down our Christmas tree. This ismy favorite part of Thanksgiving break; picking out and decorating the tree. Every year, everything seems to fly by so fast, but my own personal way of curing this fast pace is sitting in front of the lit up tree at night, when everyone else is asleep, watching the lights blink on and off. On and off. Hot chocolate never tastes as good as it does when sitting alone in the living room, watching the gaudily decorated Christmas tree. Oh, how I love it. And the Christmas music! Amy Grant. Bing Crosby. Ella Fitzgerald. A little Mariah Carey. Oh man.

And Thanksgiving is just the start. It's the start of candles and amazing food and family and gift-giving. It's the start of good moods and snow and music that makes you feel like you're holding a teddy bear. It's just one reminder in a million that God is so good.

Weeding.

A good friend once told me that we need to surround ourselves with people in which as little as possible is lost in translation. It clicked the first time he said it, but as it rolls off my tongue again, the more it all comes together.

Of course. It's common sense. Why would we surround ourselves with people who don't understand?

I think, though, that sometimes it takes a while to sift through all the good fun before we realize that some people just don't get us. It takes a while to weed, to sort, to push away.

But is it all time wasted?

Ingrid.

There's a boy next to me and he never will be

anything but a boy at the bar. And I think he's the

tops, he's where everything stops

how I love to love him from afar.

NaNoWriMo Madness

A form of writing suicide is participating in National Novel Writing Month. I tried to tackle this challenge two years ago, a lowly, eager Sophomore in college...and let's just say it lasted two weeks, two weeks of sleep deprivation and tears and being a miserable person to live with, just ask Michelle.

I hung posters for the challenge all over my room like a groupie. I bought a book from the NaNoWriMo website. I promised myself that I would not quit until I had at least reached a decent word count.

NaNoWriMo is the epitome of self-challenge. It begins on November 1st and goes until November 30th... one measely month to write a 50,000 word novel. The idea is to write every day, reaching for a personal word count, and eventually coming up with the backbone of a novel, decent or not, as long as you complete the goal. It's craziness.

I've certainly come a long way in my writing from Sophomore year, but this challenge still lurks. Should I try it again, even though simply thinking about it makes me want to pull my eyelashes out (one by one, with tweezers)? Should it really be this painful for a writer to pop out 50,000 words in one month? Does it make me any less of a writer if I cannot accomplish my own self-chosen goals?

Whether or not I decide to participate, the idea of writing every day is something I need to try instead of pushing it away like a chore. Maybe it's not really about the challenge at all, but about the willingness to set my priorities straight and to plunge into a project with as much ambition as I used to have going into a tennis match.

Going

It's about time for a roadtrip. I've got my bags ready. My legs twitch in my sleep.

This weekend, headed home for Halloween to take the siblings trick-or-treating.
Next weekend, headed to Toledo to rekindle old flames.
Possibly Indiana for Thanksgiving.
For finals week this semester, there is a bus with my name inscripted on foggy windows. I believe it's headed for Chicago.

All that's left to do is get there.

Sing it Taio Cruz.

I have a problem. I think I've had this same problem all my life.. a tragic flaw, perhaps?

I rush into everything. It's been two weeks since I first began dating this guy, and bam, I realize that actually...I don't have feelings for him. What the hell, right? I've done this twice now, this jumping into relationships without actually feeling the butterflies in my stomach when he holds my hand. There is nothing in the kiss but platonic wannabe somethings.

I want to be nervous, giggly and awkward...but in the kind of way that beginning relationships should be...not in that weird, squirmy, stop-touching-the-small-of-my-back way. There's a huge difference.

Oh well. It's good to be single again, anyway. I can flirt in good fun and hope that the next time I rush into a relationship, it will be the right one. Ahhh.

News.

Maybe I'm falling?

Indeed, maybe I'm falling.

And maybe I'm okay with it.

Maybe.

The Date.

I decided a long time ago that I don't like going on dates, or the beginning of relationships. It's all one in the same to me. The awkward what-do-I-do-with-my-hands thing. The darting, nervous eyes. The knowing glances you get from strangers as you sit together, feeling the tension.

There's really nothing about dating that I enjoy. If I could skip all the awkward beginnings and move straight into the stage of 'I'm comfortable calling you my boyfriend', that would be great.

Am I supposed to date my best friend? Am I supposed to give strangers a try? It's all just so confusing. The dating my best friend is too brotherly for me. The stranger thing is too awkward. So, where does that leave me?

And did I mention the speed in which everything seems to move? Goodness, if I give a guy a smile he immediately tries to hold my hand, cuddle up next to me during a movie, make-out. It's all too hasty. And annoying. It seems as if there is no happy medium between who I date and what we do. There are too many expectations and more nervousness than I want to handle in a single situation.

After this angsty rant, I'm going on a date tonight. We're going to dinner. Maybe this one will change my mind. One can hope, yes?

[On a side note]

The worst date I've ever gone on lasted an entire day. And it wasn't just any day. It was Valentine's Day. We drove 2.5 hours to a monster truck rally. The car ride to and from was filled with nothing but gear-head talk that I pretended to understand. Not once did he ask about me. I wondered if I was just there so that he didn't have to look odd talking his head off to no one.

The semi-best date I've ever gone on went completely awry. We ended up at a dinky amusement park and ate icecream that dripped all over our arms and couldn't find the car for at least a half hour because there were apparently two parking lots that looked the same. And then when we came back to my apartment, he tried to make-out with me...which ruined it.

From the mouth of a wise woman:

Ruth Bell, who as a teenager wanted nothing more than to be an old maid missionary in Tibet, listed these following particulars, just in case:

"If I marry: He must be so tall that when he is on his knees, as one has said, he reaches all the way to heaven. His shoulders must be broad enough to bear the burden of a family. His lips must be strong enough to smile, firm enough to say no, and tender enough to kiss. Love must be so deep that it takes its stand in Christ and so wide that it takes the whole lost world in. He must be active enough to save souls. He must be big enough to be gentle and great enough to be thoughtful. His arms must be strong enough to carry a little child."

And then, she met Billy Graham.

OCTOBER!

If I had to choose one month, and only month, to live in for the rest of my life, it would hands-down be October. It's finally perpetually chilly (unless you live in Florida...then I'm sorry) and the leaves are allowed to start changing colors without being given dirty looks.

From my window, the view of Lake Erie is more clear than it's been for a really long time. The wind whistles through trees and the sky smiles down beneath twelve different shields of grey. It's beautiful.

I can finally drink apple cider without feeling like it's too early to indulge myself. Scary movies are always in season, but in October and only in October, it is truly acceptable to pick any night of the week to make a fest of it under the safety of blankets and pillows and hot chocolate.

Halloween beckons. I'd give anything to be at home for Halloween to take my sister and brother trick-or-treating again. Those were the days. Now I have to get dressed up for costume parties that aren't nearly as fun as walking door-to-door asking for candy. Maybe I'm still a kid.

And the corn mazes and pumpkin carving and haunted houses that are both cheesy and exhilarating at the same time! Oh, how I love October.

It never disappoints.

from petco to pet? no.

I get these strange nudgings every time I'm in/near/fifteen miles away from a pet store. These nudgings could be comparable to a fallen-asleep foot or the tension that comes right before a first kiss.

In my lifetime, I've had (you probably should not hold your breath) in no particular order,

a

snake, turtle, iguana, dwarf hampster, cat, fat-tailed gecko, 2 dogs, at least 1.5 million fish, and... wow, maybe that's it.

See, I have this issue. I want a pet. All the time. The nudgings come and go in spurts, like cravings for chocolate or fruit, but they are there, prodding. Since I've been back to school, the nudging has been for a kitten. I can't help it. When it rains, all I want to do is walk into my apartment and fall asleep on the futon next to a furry meowing face.

So what do I do about these nudgings, you ask? I buy plants.

Maybe it's this inherent need to take care of something/one other than myself. It's weird. I don't particularly like it, but to deny the nudging...well, actually I should probably just ignore it. It may be time to buy another cactus. Or maybe a fish. Or...maybe I should invest in a farm. Hmm.

swooning for robots.

Okay, I'll admit, I used to be a trekkie.

Actually, that's a lie. The truth? I was head over heels for Data. Oh yes, I used to have a poster of the pale, emotionless hunka hunka over my rocking horse, so that after I ate my oatmeal in the morning before school, I could stare into those dead eyes.

I'm so weirded out by the fact that I used to swoon (at the ripe age of 8, I swooned, yes) over a robot. Gross. Sick. Dreamy.

Anyhow, regardless of my childish feelings for a man who was incapable of love, my roommate and I have decided to go all out this weekend. We're having a sci-fi/alien/outerspace movie fest. There is icecream with sprinkles and Shell involved. Some titles we've picked? Star Trek, Apollo 13, Armageddon, Mission to Mars, and if I have my way, we'll throw a little Alien in.

I'm taking this astronomy course (in which I merely show up for class... my test scores reflect, apparently, that I don't understand a thing) and figured that maybe my 4th grade love interest might teach me a thing or two.

Ha. We'll see.

a fine brew: teacups and lizards and tourists and "The Big O"

The entire Bassler family is on a plane right now, headed for Orlando, and I'm pouring milk on my cereal, angry that school must clash with my childhood.

Maybe Space Mountain won't be worth the wait. Maybe the lizards will be in hiding because of a temporary frost that has paralyzed the city...in September. Maybe, just maybe, my car didn't actually get busted up and I have enough money in my account to make a nice little weekend getaway.

But no. I will spend today printing off grad school applications, placing them neatly in folders so as not to confuse each school's terribly confusing app instructions.

I will spend tomorrow at a wine festival in Northeast (which I'm very much looking forward to) and hit up some craft fests down along the way.

I will spend all next week reading and re-working my thesis pieces (not to be confused with Reese's Pieces), and reading some more and failing another astronomy test.

I'd rather invest in Fast Passes and skip the wait. I'd rather sit in the living rooms of my childhood friends, maybe listening to Backstreet Boys, shooting some hoops, because what else do we still have in common?

It's okay, though. My turn will come to go back and re-visit beautiful Disney World (which houses too many smelly tourists and cranky parents). Right now, however, I should probably finish my cereal and make a call to remind my family to send a postcard.

Bodies.

I should probably stop reading for Forensic Psych right before I go to bed. I'm producing unsettling fiction, the kind that's keeping me up into the wee hours of the night because I'm too on edge to close my eyes. Better fiction than dreams, no?

Working for the Devil

I'm going to Cedar Point tomorrow, not Cedar Hell. Tomorrow, I will walk through the front gates as a guest who knows too much about cleaning up vomit, and bleeding feet, and taking fifteen minute toilet breaks just to sit in a stall and contemplate the meaning of my existence because I can't walk any more.

Tomorrow, I won't fall inexplicably head over heels for a ride host. Tomorrow, I won't wear yellow ribbons in my hair, or pay for bottled water, or take dancing breaks in the Jungle.

Tomorrow, I won't wear yellow at all, actually. No more yellow, ever.

Tomorrow, I will scream and pull my hair out because of how excited I am while experiencing the weightlessness of Millenium and Dragster. I will not scream and pull my hair out in frustration from telling smokers to stop smoking in this section because, unfortunately, some people would like to keep their lungs. There is a designated smoking area in section's A, E, and F and kindly, please stamp out your butt while walking there or I am obligated to call security and have your ass kicked out. And yes, I am a little girl in sunflower overralls, but I'm an angry little girl in sunflower overralls that is not in the mood to put up with corrupted lungs because of your laziness.

[I can't believe I'm still bitter about that. Goodness!]

Tomorrow, I will gladly skip through the entire park because I have the choice, at any time, to sit down on the bench of my choice and eat a funnel cake. I will not limp or complain about aching feet (ever again).

I will, tomorrow, admire every good-looking man that walks around the park with his shirt off. I will not, with a roll of my eyes, say, "Excuse me, extremely good-looking sir, but you'll have to put a shirt back on that gorgeous body of yours. I know, I know, I, too, am sorry that those abs have to be covered up, but I'm only trying to follow the rules here, and would you like to get dinner tonight?"

Hahaha. Yeah.

I will drive by Cedar Point's prison and remember those nights that I had to live inside of those barbed wire fences. But, oh, were there some good times under the moonlight in that prison. I'll remember those, too, and smirk.

I will watch employees in yellow jumpers bring in donuts, pizza, and orange juice...these employees will wear sloppy grins attached to their hickey-ridden faces. And I'll be in on the joke.

Oh, Cedar Point, how you have made me a better person for enduring your miserable madness. You have given me material, so much material, to write about, to expand upon. You, Cedar Point, have given me the opportunity to experience more than I ever imagined, and for that, I will be eternally grateful.

Now give me my free water and don't judge me too harshly when I decide to never ride Mantis ever again.

Splat.

It's nice when you realize that people are human. Pedestals aren't for us - they're probably more for yappy show dogs with frilly pink bows clipped to their fur.

It's nice to know that we all are capable of feeling, of feeling the same way.

A delectable Saturday morning:

Instead of reading Mary Austin this morning, like I told myself I would, I found myself driving along West 12th street scanning for Farmer's Markets. I fell head over heels for fresh fruit and veggies over the summer, when I had nothing to do but read, write, and eat. Why not?

It's a careful process, selecting the healthiest, most delicately-garden-picked scrumptiousness. I would probably scour the rows and rows of baskets and cartons and bins forever if excitement over the colors didn't detour me. It's called zig-zagging.

Peppers. Just look at them! I've recently acquired a taste for bell peppers, but those fantastic colors! And, naturally, I smell everything. Peaches. Plums. Fresh-from-the-dirt potatoes.

Since Fall is basically nipping our heels, gourds and pumpkins and utensils to scoop out the goopiest of goop beckoned. I picked up the ugliest of gourds and smoothed my fingers over every bumpy edge. Tactile learning.

I ended up limiting my purchases. I only bought 4 green tomatoes (to fry up and gush over), an apple pie (to serve a la mode, of course), and a quart of raspberries.

My fingers stained purple after an hour. The raspberries never left my van.

holding crowns.

It's the same old story, really. The classes change, but here I still sit, waiting for...something to solidify that yes, I am in fact a senior in college. I've been asked at least thirteen times in two weeks if I'm a freshman. I still wear my dopey smile at Dobs, wondering why I haven't quit by now.

I sip rum concoctions while reading Shakespeare, but all that makes me is 21. I'm still 16. I'm practically 25.

Sticky notes adorn my desk, names like Northwestern and Sarah Lawrence make me jittery and nervous and anticipating the change that's waiting to slap me in the face. It occupies my mind like a high school crush. I sit in class and drum my fingers to the beat of Bronxville and Chicago and Laramie and Pittsburgh.

It's so close I could probably reach out and touch it all, the sounds and smells and tastes of traveling, living somewhere new. But I don't. I'm still in the in-between, between starting senior classes and applying to grad schools. Between kissing goodbye four years of familiarity and skipping into the arms of all things unknown. Between knowing who I am and who I can become, I suppose.

Will I be more grown-up in a year? Will I learn to like beer? Will I learn to speak in front of more than twelve people with having a nervous breakdown? Will I sit in classrooms discussing intelligent topics like...well, probably not. Who the hell cares?

I'm more interested in crazy tangents and the impossibility of nonsensical ramblings, anyway.

All of this future-oriented stuff is a tick. One of the lime-disease carrying kinds. Right now, I'm going to learn how to be a senior. And then, then, I will dive head first into everything that awaits me next year.

12 facts.

1. My philosophy professor is already handing out homework assignments and classes don't begin until the 23rd.

2. I drive back to Erie in two days, move my stuff into the apartment in three days, and start work again in four days.

3. There is utterly too much to contemplate right now.

4. I am not looking forward to...a lot of things.

5. Somehow, I'm still managing to keep an open mind.

6. It's proven that taking on the stress of others causes zits and headaches. Or maybe I just made that up.

7. I'm feeling that familiar, desperate itch to go/run/drive far, far away.

8. I'm in the middle of writing a brand spankin' new short piece and I'm having a blast with it.

9. I need a new stress reliever. Working out is simply not cutting it.

10. Muskmelon is best eaten directly from your own personal garden.

11. Bada boom = Bada bang

12. Fear has no place in friendship.

Singer.

There's a song you once gave me. Keep it, you said. It's great, huh?

I put the song in my pocket and kept it there, listening only to the tiniest bits and pieces. I only let the whole song play through on special occasions; those times you looked away, or late at night when the wind howled through snow drifts.

I kept that song in my pocket until, bit by bit, it started to lose it's appeal. By then it was long forgotten by you. Listen to this, you told me half-heartedly. It's great, right?

Sing it to me first, I said. And then I'll listen. You shook your head no.

And then another you came by, held out a hand and sang to me a sweet tune. Here, the other you said, it's all yours.

Slowly, carefully, I took the song the first you had given me. It was crumpled, ripped, faded, forgotten. I let that song fall gently to the ground, and walked with the other you, the you who wasn't afraid to serenade.

Cavities.

It's a little like this. It's like reaching out toward the doctor's hand when she's handing you the sucker.. your mom is nodding her head, it's okay, it's okay to take it. But then you remember what the dentist said about your teeth during the last visit. You had to have a cavity filled. It hurt. You cried. But you also got through it.

You take the sucker (green apple flavored, your favorite), but don't unwrap it. It stays hidden in the cupholder all the way home. You want it. You even roll the smooth surface around in your palm, knowing it's going to taste amazing. It's green apple, of course.

After the twenty minute drive home, your mom looks back at you and tells you to take out your trash. You tell her there is no trash, you never opened the sucker. You take it in the house, holding it tightly in your palm.

Finally, when you can't stand it anymore, you sit on your bed and tear off the clear plastic wrapper. It tastes a million times better than you remembered from the last time. The dentist's warnings dissolve..the cavities are nonexistent..one sucker couldn't possibly hurt.

Right?

It's like that. There is no logic anymore. These are matters of the heart, simply. Or rather, not so simply. Because matters of the heart are not simple, ever.

Hmm.

Some meaningful words, perhaps?

"To create a family with a spouse is one of the most fundamental ways a person can find continuity and meaning in American (or any) society. I rediscover this truth every time I go to a big reunion...and I see how everyone is held so reassuringly in their positions over the years. First you are a child, then you are a teenager, then you are a young married person, then you are a parent, then you are retired, then you are a grandparent - at every stage you know who you are, you know what your duty is and you know where to sit at the reunion. You sit with the other children, or teenagers, or young parents, or retirees. Until at last you are sitting with the ninety-year-olds in the shade, watching over your progeny with satisfaction. Who are you? No problem - you're the person who created all this. The satisfaction of this knowledge is immediate, and moreover, it's universally recognized. How many people have I heard claim their children as the greatest accomplishments and comfort of their lives? It's the thing they can always lean on during a metaphysical crisis, or a moment of doubt about their relevancy - If I have done nothing else in this life, then at least I have raised my children well.

But what if, either by choice or by reluctant necessity, you end up not participating in this comforting cycle of family and continuity? What if you step out? Where do you sit at the reunion? How do you mark time's passage without fear that you've just frittered away your time on earth without being relevant? You'll need to find another purpose, another measure by which to judge whether or not you have been a successful human being. I love children, but what if I don't have any? What kind of person does that make me?"

-- Elizabeth Gilbert
Eat, Pray, Love

Day 89.

Last night, I stared and stared at my GRE books (which I bought in anticipation for, you know, actually studying this summer), and I panicked. You see, I am not a test-taker. I have never been a test-taker. After how many years of taking tests and watching the material dissolve before my eyes, I still don't know how to really, truly study.

I opened the first GRE book, which I paid a hefty amount for, and began to cry. Why, oh why, does my future have to be measured by standards that I cannot live up to? It's not that I'm incapable of comprehending (well, when it comes to all levels of math, I very well might be), nor am I incapable of preparing myself the best I can ... this is just ten and a half times worse than the SAT and ACT.

I took the SAT twice and the ACT twice. And I am not your average over-achiever. Does this tell you anything? What most people take once and send away for college, I suffered through 4 times.

So... my plan? I stayed up into the wee hours of last night registering myself a date for this (kill me softly) test. Saturday, October 23rd, 8:30AM. That's my date. I paid $160 dollars, and it took every ounce of my being to push the "complete registration" button.

Day 1 of studying starts now. I have exactly 89 days to prepare myself, to hopefully score a cumulative score of at least 900.

It seems like so much time, too much time, but it's not. Not when I'm trying to keep up with my 20 credits of everything, extra curriculars, two jobs, and maybe a social life on the side?

Oh Lord.

Milestone?

I attended my first viewing/memorial service/burial today. It was terrifying. And lovely?

Death, so close, makes me want to listen, be attentive to every story, everything. I don't know about you, but thinking about death makes me want to become a better person, so that when it's my time to go, everyone that knew me can nod their heads and say, say.

I don't think I've cried continuously for 3 hours in a very long time, if ever.
It was one of those good cries, though. The kind of cry that left me exhausted and numb and questioning every aspect of everything. I will greatly miss my Mamaw. She was, indeed, loved.

What am I saying?

Of course there's hope. There's always hope.

O's and musings.

Brown.

Is there a flicker of hope?

tag, you're it.

Apparently there is a weaponry near our house. To be more precise, it's on the left side of our garage. It consists of a large rock. And two trash cans. This is where my brother sits to collect and sharpen his weapons.

...

Should I be worried?

No. Because he sells his masterpieces to me when he's done. It's this game we play. He names each rock after its sharpening, names like "Triple Blade" and "Killer". I ask him why he names them so (is dangerously the word?). Because this one slices through your neck, he replies calmly. Of course. I should have known this.

After all, I was a tomboy growing up. I played as hard as I could just to come home at the end of every day with an accomplished dirt ring around my neck.

It's just funny. Last night I spent some time looking at some of the goofy things my Uncle bought off me as a little girl. Pieces of paper, folded like squares, colored in sloppy designs with the intricacies of little girl hands. McDonalds toys, still in the clear plastic wrapper. Crayons. Begging someone to let me clean their shoes (a dollar per shoe, mind you). I was quite the little sales person.

It's neat seeing Gavin take up where I left off, one killerdangerous weapon at a time.

Contortionist, much?

Various roommates and friends who for some crazy reason have a taste for exercise have (finally, somehow, I have no idea why) inspired me to try yoga. I have this awful purple mat that I bought on one of my spurts a few years ago and I pulled it out, watched the dust fall off in snowy chunks, and smiled at it as if it were an old friend.

I can do this, I told myself eagerly. I can so do this.

I move daringly toward the living room, pop in the 30 minute DVD, and roll out the ugly mat. As soon as I feel my feet squish into the whatever-it's-made-of, I sigh. This can't be too bad. Michelle does this all the time. Granted she's probably way more limber than I am..because she actually uses her body in the gym...but oh, I can do this.

The DVD is set somewhere between Hawaii and Heaven. Immediately, jealously kicks in. What the hell? If I'm going to contort my body into various, ungodly positions, I at least want to hear waves rush at my ankles, and feel the tickle of wind on my sweaty, dripping forehead.

So I closed my eyes. I'm a good pretender.

The woman, Susan something or other, held her hands to her face in a prayer-like position and uttered "Namaste". I burst into fits of laughter. My sister came downstairs and asked what I was laughing about. I told her she should join me in this fantastic endeavor. So... she did.

Before we got too started, the instructor pulled out a set of "bricks" - two blue, soft-looking square..bricks - and began to place her hands on them and sit on them...and so I paused the video.
Nobody told me I would need bricks. Ugly purple mat? Check. Sports bra? Yep. Bricks? Uh.

So I used my resources; books. I used a thick Shakespeare compilation for my right brick, and a mix between a novel and a Bartender's Guide for my left brick. Let's just say none of these "bricks" worked out too well. At all.

Then the twisting and stretching and laughing ensues. Instructor Susan wants us to touch our toes. Um. After finally, a little, brushing my toe-skin in an exhausted huff, Lacey starts to laugh, saying I'm doing it wrong. How in the world can I be doing it wrong? Your knees are bent, she points, and the whole laughing process continues...

And as we place our butts high and mightly in the air, and Susan tells us to close our eyes, feel our bodies, I can't keep track of when to exhale and inhale, and how can you not feel your body when pangs of utter un-stretchable ligaments are tearing and ripping at the seams? My goodness, Susan, take it down a notch!

Finally, after my books have slid all over the mat into places where they are not supposed to be, and my legs feel like jell-o and my purple ugly mat lied to me several times about its comfort, turned to Lacey and said, "Well. That was fun. See you tomorrow morning?"

Virginia is for

Lovers.

Comparing Crème brûlée to Jello.

I tried converting this post into a poem that ended up sounding like nails on a chalkboard, so writing a narrative must suffice. It's the middle of the summer...and where have I gone?

Today, last summer, I was with Michelle doing flips into the Adriatic Sea along the coast of Croatia. I was more tan that I have ever been in my entire life. The smells of Italy and the foods of Greece lay just within my reach. I managed to call a ship my "home".

Where have I gone? What is marking this summer as unforgettable? It marks the last summer I'll be at home, that's for sure. But what stands out so far?

I've worked for a month in Ohio, which became more a part of me than I care to admit. I've come back home to stay with my family, who I miss more than I care to admit. I've spent a week in New York working with Dan Chaon and a group of talented writers who instructed and pushed me forward in my own writing. In three days, I'll be spending a week in Virginia, relaxing and catching up on my reading.

This is what I've done as far as travels go, and although I still manage to compare last summer to this summer, I wouldn't trade art class with my siblings or listening to Moni tell stories about her childhood for Turkey or Egypt.

There is, indeed, a time for everything under the sun. Accepting this fact is an ongoing process for me, but I think I've finally come closer to smiling about it.

How nice it must be!

The coolest aspect about my summer art class is that since I'm officially the "old woman" of the group, 7th graders make me friendship bracelets and beg me to trade whatever silly band I decide to sport that day.

My brother, sister, and I are all signed up for this art class, which is to say, a beginner's course introducing different styles and techniques. It's an absolute blast. The fact that I can mingle with elementary and middle-schoolers just means more writing material.

One girl, Abby, is officially devastated that I will not be attending next week's session because I'll be in Virginia, so she vowed to have me a friendship bracelet made by the time I get back. She gave me two of her prized silly bands and gave me a hug at the end of today's class that probably means we'll be BFFs by the end of the summer. Oh man.

As we hovered over our boards, each trying to be exact and precise about the scales on our fish, we conversed about her college-aged sisters and her family's uh-mae-zing lake house in New York. She wants to be an artist when she grows up. I told her I want to be a writer when I grow up.

We slurped down two crayon-shaped popcicles without dripping on our papers, and after 2.5 hours, we'd managed to cover more topics in conversation than most of my friends and I can cover in a week's worth of time.

With every word that popped out of her mouth, I tried to imagine myself again at her age but could not seem to conjure my 13 year old self. It's nice, every once in a while, to be reminded of the days when all I needed to care about were battle wounds from riding my bike and which outfit I wanted to wear the next day.

Pick me! Pick me!

I may not be writing every day, but I have been doing my research in the field of prospective grad schools. Finally, I've come up with my top 3 places to apply - all with intricate, tightly-woven programs that can not only further my writing skills, but push me toward my passion for travel.

1. University of Wyoming, Laramie.
2. University of Nevada, Las Vegas.
3. University of Alaska, Fairbanks.

After months of ongoing research into these programs, I can picture myself, finally, somewhere after I graduate from Behrend.

Now all I have to do is apply and writewritewrite.

Frou Frou.

As children, all we want to be are adults. We want to dress up in Mom's dresses, we want to wear Dad's ties, we want to play house and pretend to yell at unruly children. We want to cook dinner for a family of six. As teenagers, we want to drive cars, and drink beer with the guys on a porch under the stars. We want to kiss the mouths of people our age instead of the rosy cheeks of grandmothers and aunts.

As children and teenagers, we want to dream and pretend and play. And at that age, it's okay, even expected.

As adults, we are taught how to drive cars and handle money and not overdraw bank accounts. We are given educations and provided with the skills needed to have jobs, careers. We are decision-makers and financially independant and stressed out.

As adults, as adults.

What about the in-between? Where does freedom come into play? I feel like I'm stuck, somewhere between retirement age and child. I am an adult who struggles with commitment and contentment and wants nothing more than to break loose.

I don't think the black and white statistics cover people of adult age who don't want to live in a proper house with a proper family, holding a proper job, relying on proper financial coverage, or me.

Over pizza and wings tonight, I sat with a good friend and we talked about how our plans for this summer both somehow went awry. We were both okay with it. And then she asked me what I planned on doing next summer. Our conversation went something like this:

"Well, I don't plan on sticking around here."

"Really? Where do you plan on going?"

"Across the States. Maybe Europe. All I would need is a plane ticket for Europe."

She covered her mouth, eyes wide. "With what money?"

Well, I'm not going to touch that argument, but I shrugged and said something else, and then we switched conversation topics. I remember thinking, it doesn't matter. I work two jobs during the school year. That's what money.

And.

When the hell am I going to have no other commitments like this ever again? I'm tired of friends, family looking down upon the fact that I don't have 'acceptable' ambitions. I'm not a cookie-cut 21 year old. I suffer severely from curiosity and the urge to act upon my daydreams. I'm not a stranger to fantasizing and acting upon my whims. I'm going to make mistakes, and it's okay.

"Just let me go."

That's what I told her.

Revelation, of sorts.

I just realized I have dimples in my lower back.

Wow.

It's so nice to learn something new everyday!

A kind of storypoem.

Ah, song lyrics. They seem to heighten everything. An experience is surely brought to life with the right set of lyrics, music, vocals.

Here's a a little something I came up with solely relayed in song lyric stanzas from one person or another;

I was just guessing at numbers and figures
Pulling the puzzles apart
Questions of science, science and progress
Do not speak as loud as my heart.

Let's go and see the stars
The Milky Way or even Mars
Where it could just be ours.

Drink up, baby
Are you in or are you out?
Leave your things behind you
'Cause it's all going off without you.

But your sweatshirt says it all with the hood over your face
I can't keep staring at your mouth without wondering how it tastes.
I'm with another boy; he's asleep, I'm wide awake
And he tried to win my heart, but it's taken time.

Long walks in the dark
Through the woods behind the park
I asked God who I'm supposed to be.
The stars smiled down on me
God answered in silent reverie,
I said a prayer and fell asleep.

Meet me once again
Down off Lake Michigan
Where we could feel the storm blowin' down with the wind.

Let's get crazy, talk about our bigs plans
Places that you're going, places that I haven't been.
Build my walls up, concrete castle
Keep this kingdom free of hassle.

Yeah, I know who I want to take me home,
I know who I want to take me home.
I know who I want to take me home,
Take me home.

Aeriale is...

...blowing out 21 candles in Atlantic City until Saturday. :)

PA TO NY TO OH. OH MY.

How circumstances change when you force yourself to step outside of the confines of dangerous comfort zones and choose to let yourself taste something new, perhaps even exciting. I met some wonderfully interesting people at the Chautauqua Writer's Conference this past week.

Poets, fiction writers, nonfiction writers. Professors, hippies, stay-at-home mothers. Grandmas, speech pathologists, reporters. People of all ages and various backgrounds. A man who spent 2 months in South India and rode an elephant into town every other day. A woman who thinks she's found the ultimate brownie, an authentic New Yorkah.

Once I let my guard down, started opening up to people, conversation flowed as freely as the alcohol that decorated tables every night.

One night, however, trumped all of the rest, easily. While people mingled with red plastic cups, I stepped outside and took a walk. My grandmother would have frowned upon this action because it was well around 11:30pm and I am a young girl, alone, at night. She has never been to Chautauqua, however, and wouldn't understand.

I found a secluded spot by a streetlamp, a place where not many cars would stumble upon me, and laid down in the middle of the road. Star-gazed. Allowed myself time to think, consider. I talked to a few people on the phone and made plans to head to Cedar Point immediately after the conference on Sunday instead of straight home. I relaxed.

The rest of the conference was eventful and certainly pointed me in a direction with my writing. Which direction, I'm not sure. But isn't that the beauty of writing and re-writing and switching and cutting and starting anew? There are so many beautiful directions that there never is one 'right one'. There are possibilities and I'm in search of them.


* * *

I don't know what it is about Sandusky. The people, perhaps? The atmosphere? The energy that surrounds Cedar Point, in general?

Regardless, stuff happens at Cedar Point. Everything happens there. No one really makes anything happen, and that's both the blessing and the curse.

What happens, exactly? Well. Everything. I am a different person from working there, and when I returned for a quickie visit, I returned to whoever that person was, whatever she did.

Everything just happens.

And then I left. For the second time. I waved, and blew kisses, and told them I would be back, I would be back. I've never felt more welcoming hospitality from people than I did when I returned for this second visit. Awry is the word I've been searching for all night; awry. And awkward. And wish.

Usted conoce a ese te quiero muchacho, caliente como Mexico, disfruta. Rejoice. Rejoice.

:)

Peace Corps Slogan:

The corner office can wait.

Some corners of the world can't.

Life is calling.

How far will you go?

This I've Learned:

It's not too hard to kid yourself at 2 in the morning.

And then you wake up.

amor, bailando en susurros dulces

Our hands brushed the faces of every possibility, but neither of us had an actual choice. We side-stepped and danced passionately around every tree and phone and furtive glance, and in the arms of what was never to be had, we held each other.

He smelled like pineapple and sun tan lotion and every time I glanced right, he lingered.

See, we had nothing.

"If you just.." His breath on my neck deemed sickeningly sweet.

Some deal.

We danced and danced and danced until we stopped, and by that point, we were already over.

There was the beach, that one night, but he stole my camera and snapped a thousand memories I never saw. It was just as well.

Where is he? I asked them.

Corkscrew, they replied. You can probably catch him.

Nah. I danced on blistered toes away from our jungle.

On a side note:

I've come to terms with everything. It's taken me a week, but I'm allowed to wear my fifty pieces of jewelry everyday as well as flip flops and my hair down in messy sun-dyed curls... so what I'm saying is, I'm free!

I've been working and playing around with a piece for this upcoming Chautauqua Workshop, trying somewhat to place my mind back into this all-too-familiar mode of academic thinking. We'll see if it works come next Thursday.

On a side note, I'm getting new glasses this Wednesday. They are going to be so great, so librarian, so RED.

Case Study 2: (for all you science-y people out there)

From the book I'm currently reading:

"In laboratory studies, scientists have learned that, when it comes to love, a very tiny portion of the brain is actually involved. For example, friendship lights up receptors all over the cerebral cortex, but this isn't true with love, which activates parts of the brain more commonly associated with emotional responses like fear and anger. The brain of a person in love will show activity in the amygdala, which is associated with gut feelings, and in the nucleus accumbens, an area associated with rewarding stimuli that tends to be active in drug abusers. Or, to recap: the brain of a person in love doesn't look like the brain of someone overcome by deep emotion.

It looks like the brain of a person who's been snorting coke."

Ha. Thought I'd share.

Blessed Time.

It's what I quit my job for, right? Time? Well, I've decided to be useful with it. While I'm still trying to be productive in my writing, the least I can do is come up with my (probably not super literary, but whatever) summer reading list.

Here goes (and in no particular order):

House Rules (current novel) - Jodi Picoult
Soul Revolution - John Burke
Far From Home - Anne DeGrace
A Year in the World - Francis Mayes
Girls in Trucks - Katie Crouch
Neither Here nor There - Bill Bryson
Naked - David Sedaris
Look Me in the Eye - John Elder Robison
Eat, Pray, Love - Elizabeth Gilbert
I Know This Much is True - Wally Lamb

..and probably so much more. May the time not wither away or pass me by, but may I take full advantage of what I've so whimsically chosen.

Do Work, Son.

Some people can write when they are sad, depressed.

I am not one of those people, unfortunately. I blank out. I stare zombie-like into the nothingness that is my white screen and wonder what in the world people see in loneliness.

My best, most productive work comes from being happy, bubbly. And then I shoot for the stars.

I'm missing Cedar Point people with a ferocity that only comes from being connected thickly through physical pain and desperate heat. I miss them so much.

And this is not helping my productivity whatsoever. Crap.

here's to those nights we felt alive

So. I've done some things these past few weeks that I am not really proud of, and here I am, semi-regretting, sweetly paying for those mistakes.

Oops. From this moment forward, I will dedicate my summer to not making those mistakes again, to writing without further adieu, and to slowing down my pace... because breezing through every day wild and crazy is apparently not the best way to go about things.

Cheers to thinking before acting (spontaneously and without regard for the future)!

Rule Breaker Extraordinare, Me.

I honestly don't know what's gotten into me lately. At C.P., there are these disciplinary actions called "steps" and if one breaks the rules, one receives a "step"...or something like that. Well, here I am, 3 days away from driving off into the sunset and I've already received 3 steps.

I'm a rebel, apparently.

I lost my employee I.D. on the beach two nights ago. It must have fallen from my pocket as I ran barefoot with pent up freedom and crazywild energy. Step 1.

I took an "unauthorized break" in the employee cafeteria that involved a slice of pizza and sitting down when I wasn't supposed to. One of the higher-ups walked over in her khakis and gave me the Look. Didn't you already have your break? Yes, but... And why are you eating pizza? Uhhh.... Throw the pizza away and meet me in my office after your shift is over. Step 2.

I went parasailing this morning over Lake Erie instead of showing up for work. Now let's be fair here... I was not supposed to show up until 1:30pm, but my TFL (Team Freakin' Leader) decided to change my starting hours without my knowing. She left five messages. I chose not to answer them. I floated by parachute above C.P for fifteen lovely minutes slowly regaining my sanity and dignity. Step 3.

I'm not the kind of employee who intentionally tries to screw things up. Honestly. I'm the kind of employee who does her job and quietly hangs in the background, the kind who (once noticed) is appreciated for her hard, quiet work and is acknowledged with a warm-hearted smile. I am not the kind of employee who repeatedly breaks the rules.

Wow. It must be something in the water here. I suppose I wouldn't know because heaven forbid if I take five seconds to slurp down sustenance. My sincerest apologies.

Yo Ho Ho and a bottle of pain killers.

It's not worth it. This whole bloody socks/limping/no breaks/unforgiveable hours thing.

I put in my one week notice today and am driving away into the sunset on the 30th.

Gave it my best, but sometimes my best is not what people are looking for... I think sometimes people want you to be super human and walk around for 12 hours every day with no sleep and no food and still smile. Gave it my best, but I am not super human, nor am I masochistic. I'm not one for unrelenting physical pain.

Screw that.

I will very much miss every lovely person who has given me hugs and made me smile. So much. I will miss every joke, every aching minute that we endured together, but no worries. I am the roadtrip queen. Crown me and send me on my way.

I have mixed feelings, but it's no fun when life is clear-cut. Muddled and messy, that's what I'm looking forward to... as long as I don't have to walk for 12 hours straight, I've got no complaints.

Welcome to the real world, she said to me, condescendingly.

There are multiple aspects of my job as a Sweep that I enjoy, most of them consisting of interacting with the guests and other workers. My feet ache so bad that I have no choice but to stop and chat with people.

For the past few days, I've noticed in particular one man that looks to be about sixty who is always first in line at Millennium Force. He wears the same florescent yellow shirt that reads "Single Rider Bob". I've talked to Bob a few times. He recognizes me and always asks about my feet; "How're those feet today, girl?" and I always ask him how many times he's ridden Millennium Force that morning, which typically is about 7 or 8 times. He's a fun one.

Then there are the people who read in the park. I've always wondered about those people. Although I am an avid reader myself, I would never think to bring a novel to an amusement park. It just wouldn't cross my mind, so naturally I'm drawn to those people. I went up to a man bundled in in blankets and rain ponchos reading on a bench. I had passed him several times while sweeping and had wanted to talk to him for a while.

After a few more passing strides, I walked over and asked what he was reading; he had just finished one of his kids' books, and was now on to something more thick, dense. He was waiting for his kids to finish riding their rides. He'd been reading for more than two hours now. Interesting.

I especially enjoy taking pictures for the guests. If I see a family struggling to get a picture with Snoopy or Charlie Brown, I'll offer to take one of them all. So far, I've taken more than a few pictures and I get to be creative about them. The families are always appreciative of my stopping to help, as am I thankful for the rest from walking.

It's a fun job, really. The only downfall is the constant shooting pain in my feet and legs. If there were no pain, I wouldn't have anything to complain about concerning the job. Albeit, I have not yet cleaned up the aftermath of an upset stomach or anything more than sticky cheese sauce and forgotten cigarette butts but I don't think vomit will be much different. Just find the nearest oil dry, wait for it to soak in, and scoop it into the dustpan (which I have decorated nicely with my name :)

I don't get paid much, but the hours are well worth a beautiful, much appreciated paycheck. At least I hope so.