Stream of Thought

Right now, I should be packing up my life and getting ready to move back to Tuscaloosa, but I can't get motivated (hm, wonder why.). So I thought I'd blog out a little nervous energy.

Yeah, I said "blog out."

I had to go to the ER this morning because of course I contracted strep throat on a Sunday when doctor's offices are closed. For my mono test, the nurse used the needle they use on infants because I kept jerking away from the big needle. As a child, I was not afraid of needles in the least, but now it seems the older I get, the more afraid I am.

Something else I do more and more the older I get: cry at weddings. A close friend of the family got married today, and tears streamed down my face as she walked toward her beaming groom. I don't know if I cry now because it's easier to picture myself as the bride... or because of fear that I'll never be the bride. Ha. (half laugh means I'm only half kidding)

I love nicknames. Even if it's just Linds, I love the familiarity of nicknames. When I was little, my dad's friends called him Fish, so my brother was, of course, Little Fish, and they called me Angel Fish. A couple of my friends call me Zoe, shortened from Lindzo, and I've always liked that because my brother is the first person I remember calling me Lindzo. Trey almost always calls me LC on the phone, and I respond with the appropriate JT. And Anna has recently added Lindsanity to the list after Perez Hilton's nickname for Lindsay Lohan. It makes me laugh every time.

I mended a dress last night with my sewing machine. It was very domestic of me, and I defeated the point of mending a dress by pointing out my seaming skills to everyone who would listen.

I have to clean my room completely before I can undertake any major task, like homework or packing. I can't function in the clutter. I am easily distracted, so even a misplaced book can lead to me reading at the foot of my bed for an hour before I realize I was about to pack for an overseas trip. I need to be able to spread my textbooks and notes out across the floor or lay out outfits on the bed. So at some point post-blog I'm going to clean up this little cave I call home.

My "niece" Mallory is probably the most beautiful baby alive. Sure, you can say I'm biased if you want, but seriously. Most Beautiful. Ever. I stare at her like a creeper all the time.

When you text message me, I will respond like white lightning. It is so rare that I don't have my phone with me at all times. I wish iPhone had a clever nickname like the "crackberry" because I am equally addicted. I can't even watch an entire television episode without checking Facebook, Twitter, and my e-mail during commercials. It's sick.

I'm getting a cat named Macy tomorrow. I am really excited to add that little hairbrain to my life in Tuscaloosa.

I can't eat solid food right now for the fear my strep-ridden throat will be scratched beyond repair. My sweet mommy is making me mashed potatoes right now, and I think I'll go eat now. Toodles.

Somber thoughts.

My brother died 11 years ago today.

I know hearing that makes people uncomfortable, but hear me out.

I remember it like it happened this morning and not over a decade ago. I had fallen asleep on the waiting room couch, and my dad crouched down in front of my around 6 a.m. to tell me it was all over. We loaded up and headed home, and my 11-year-old mind didn't quite register all that had happened in the last month. When we got home, Mom and I climbed into her king sized bed and slept for a few hours; it was probably the first time she'd slept in days.

It's weird to think back on it now because it plays out like a slow motion movie in my mind. I see the characters move, and I remember wondering if my mom might shatter like a porcelain doll.

But she didn't. None of us did. The days ahead were hard, but we made it. And I'll tell you why: God's plan for Adam's life came to perfect completion that day in 1999. It's not what any of us would have chosen, but 11 years later I can see how God has been glorified time and again through Adam's life and it's impact on all of us. Our testimonies, our daily walks, our desperate need for a God that heals broken hearts.

I've seen people deal with death in different ways. Some mourn for years and even decades. Some memorialize the dead through shrines and physical reminders of the life that once was. Some self-destruct in a pit of despair. But I'm not mourning for Adam today, and I'm fighting my selfish urge to pity myself and my family. Instead, I'm celebrating. I'm celebrating a God that is wise and loving and perfect, a God who is glorified... who will be glorified... in all situations and under all circumstances. I bless him name for the 14 years Adam spent on this Earth and for the eternity that he has already begun with his Jesus.

Allow me to rant.

Okay, mommies, let's have a little chat. I understand that you're hip. I understand that, like the rest of us, you fit Facebook into your busy schedule whenever you can. But you know who is not fitting Facebook into their daily agenda? Your two-year-old. So your letter to your child via your Facebook status is going unseen. And no, I will not be passing it on to him/her that you love him/her more than life itself. Sign off Facebook and go give your little angel a hug. The rest of us will be just fine and you can save your status updates for things that matter, like filling us in on your trip to the tanning bed or your incense at being cut off on 431.

And furthermore, the deceased are not checking your Facebook status anymore than your infant child. So no need to send up a little "Thinking about you. RIP!" I know we all have different views on the after life, but I don't think Facebook fits into any of them.

Thank you, and good night.

Writer's Block

I have a writer's block of sorts. It's not that I have nothing to write about, though, but quite the opposite.

I was so inspired in Sweden. I am in love with Stockholm and its people and my family there. These people as a whole are overwhelmingly kind and happy. There is a smile on everyone's face, and every person I met was genuinely interested in knowing more about me and about my life in America. From a Christian's perspective, this joyous people is a lost one. When they found out I was from the "Bible belt," they apologized in case they had unknowingly offended me. Religion is such a silly, restrictive thing to them... and that is heartbreaking to me.

Last night I sang in a benefit concert to raise money for missionaries to Kenya. It was such a blessing to hear the missionaries' testimonies, and I found myself craving the opportunity to do mission work myself.

But not in Kenya. For the past few weeks, my mind has reeled wondering what a mission field in Sweden would look like. It's not a third world country, and they don't need my help building houses or running orphanages, but they have a glaring lack of knowledge about what a relationship with Jesus looks like as opposed to what the world makes of religion.

So that's what I mean by writer's block. It's not that I have nothing to say so much as I have a million ideas swirling through my head that I don't know quite how to get them out. But there's a quick look into what's happening in my life.

About that...

I wish I had been posting stories about Sweden all along, but by the time I finish typing my mom's e-mail, I'm about all typed out. For one thing, we're not home much so Erica and I have to take turns on the computer doing all the important stuff (you know, Facebook). And second, the Swedish keyboard is extremely difficult. The letters aren't in the same places, there are extra letters, the #)("& are all in WAY different places, and you have to space twice after each word (that's the part that throws me off the most).

I think when I get home I'll copy and paste some of my stories from the e-mails I've sent my mom so I can blogument my travels. As for now, I'm anxiously awaiting some Swedish pancakes made by my sweet Swedish brother. It's one of my last meals here in Scandinavia.

Going home will be bittersweet. I have a passion for travel, and I want every country on my passport, but I am deeply rooted in home. There is no better feeling than walking into your own house and being overwhelmed by the mere smell of it when you've been gone. I know I've only been gone a week, but being in a foreign country for 7 days is oddly more intense than being at the beach for a week (hello, I can't text message here!).

Anyway, I start my travels home tomorrow. Can't wait to overwhelm everyone with my budding knowledge of the Swedish language. You're going to be impressed. And probably mildly annoyed.

Don't You Worry About a Thing

Oh, hi there. My, aren't you adorable, miniature Lenny Kravitz? You must be- what?- 4 years old? But you are really rocking that tiny afro and Euro hipster look, and the lion leash your mom holds onto as you run up and down the aisle of the plane is just adorable. My heart melts everytime you look at me over the top of your dad's seat. And yes, I'm going to continue winking and waving at you.

Wha...? What's that? Is someone being hurt? I had just dozed off after 4 hours on this cramped flight, but please, someone tell me who is screaming loud enough to bust through myAmbien haze? Aren't we all equally in need of a little shut eye? Oh, you don't have a 9-hour layover ahead of you like I do? Well, mazel tov. Shut that crying baby up. Immediately.

No! Not you, Lenny Kravitz! Don't you remember those pre-flight times? We laughed, we grinned, we winked... It was precious and not even mildly hazardous to your health. But yes, this screaming-- this howling, incessant screaming-- is, in fact, hazardous to your health. Because I will indeed KILL YOU if you don't stop screaming. I MUST sleep. Like, must. Bad things happen when I don't sleep; I cry, I snap, I lose the ability to focus my vision. So, please, for both our sakes and that of our fellow travelers (not to mention my currently clean criminal record), stop your miserable screaming before I snap your fuzzy little head off.

**I'll come back here later this week with more positive stories of my little Euro adventure, but I really needed to get those dangerous thoughts off my chest. That, friends, is what was going through my head somewhere over the Atlantic between Atlanta and Brussels. I-- and my little travel buddy-- made it safely to Europe, and no one got hurt. But close. So close.

Absentee

Sorry I haven't been here in a while (I know you've been on the edge of your seat).

I've been in a gross place this week. I'm not a crier, unless severely lacking in sleep, but this week I have cried at the drop of the hat. Everything I've looked at has had a negative spin on. For instance, I should be excited about going to Sweden, but instead I've only been able to worry about what I'll look forward to when I get back. I haven't even gotten there yet, and I'm already worried about coming back!

I talked to T for two hours Tuesday night, and it's amazing what a calming effect he has on me. Our conversations are impossible and irrelevant; we mostly talk about things that we'll never actually do, but sometimes it's nice to escape into that. T is pretty much the Will to my Grace... not that he's gay. I just think we could live our lives as non-romantic life partners.

I'm subbing today, and I have a lot of "inclusion" classes. I love teaching, but special ed. is not my forte. I think about JP a lot and how he has a heart for something that stresses me out and breaks my heart. So today will be challenging, and I'll probably text him often to look for advice on how to instruct a student that thinks she's a bird (to which he responds, "Maybe she is.").

It's hard to stay in a funk when Aunt Deb is texting me pictures of my baby niece and a Rachel and Matthew that have never looked so complete. :)

skirt chaser.

Okay, that was a little misleading because it's not a skirt I'm after... it's a dress.

In high school, my guy friends used to joke about how I never wore pants. They were really alluding to my aversion to jeans and pants, but, as boys will be boys, the "no pants" joke got a little out of hand.

I love dresses. Flowing cotton dresses in summer, sweater dresses in summer, a tailored dress for church, a fancy frock for a wedding, a wrap dress for work... Bottom line: I'll pass on pants any day.

My affinity for dresses only increases as bare legs season arrives, and I have now fashioned wish lists on Anthropologie, Modcloth, and Urban Outfitters. I am relatively new to the world of Internet wish lists (thanks, Alice, for getting me here), but it's now my go-to activity while the kids do worksheets and take notes on videos.

As I mentally pack for my trip this weekend, I'm feeling a sudden craving for a little shopping trip with my ladies this weekend.

And another thing...

Please allow me a little rant before I sign off for the day.

As my little monsters work diligently on their assignments (I'm not kidding, this class is rocking my socks off), I've been perusing E! Online's Fashion Police section. It's a darling little feature where I can click through hundreds of pictures of celebrities' fashion hits and misses (serious, serious misses). As I'm clicking through reading the captions that either praise or belittle a celeb's choice of outfit, I began wondering...

Why does no one bust on the designer?

Sure, Nicole Richie's harem jumpsuit was a bad decision, but why didn't something say, "Hey Christian Dior, that was a really, really stupid design that wouldn't look good on anyone. Not anyone." ? And yes, Hayden Panetierre's black Emilio Pucci dress looks like something Rue McClanahan would've slinked around in on Golden Girls, but why don't we criticize Emilio instead of Hayden? He's the nitwit that tried to outfit a young fashionista in a dress befitting of a Dynasty reunion.

I really think that sometimes designers make things, market them, and then sit back and laugh at the clowns who pick up styles they wouldn't dress their toy poodles in.

busy bee.

I love, love, love a busy week. I thrive off the pressure of a hectic schedule (even though I may complain along the way). This week has been jam-packed, and I love it. I subbed Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and today. I stayed up all hours of the night finishing projects, papers, and finals. I've "up in the gym just workin' on my fitness." Hailey came to town, and I squired her around, introducing her to my little town's cute gift shops and boutiques and the magic of community theater. Tonight, my best friend and her husband are coming to town to see my dad's show as well, and then we're headed to meet up with all my other favorites at the local watering hole.

This time tomorrow, I'll be sporting a new 'do-- and we all know I love a good hair cut and color. Tomorrow evening the Marcum clan will descend upon our home to support my dad's show (all shows are SOLD OUT this week, by the way... I guess you could say my dad's kind of a big deal), and after the show the cast party is at my place. Late-late-late Saturday night I'm going on a little wilderness journey on a camping trip with the Grant clan (sure, I won't get there til midnight but, hey, you're only young once).

I have a feeling I might sleep on Sunday.

I'm working on Monday, and my niecelet is due to arrive on Tuesday (although if she's anything like her mother, we'll all gather around on Tuesday and she'll saunter in on Wednesday or whenever she dang well pleases... Love you so much, Rach).

Oh, and then there's just this little trip I've been planning... to EUROPE.

Thanks, May, for being awesome.

Living Out Loud

Sixth graders have to be chastised often. Their collective attention span is that of a woodland creature, so when I have coaxed them into silence I can expect that quiet bliss to last a maximum 3 minutes, 27 seconds. On days like today then, when I am subbing for all 6th grade classes, I yell quite a bit. I like to start out the class with a fair warning (today it sounds like this, "Do not tempt me, if I hear your voice I will send you to the office"; other days I give them three strikes or something like that). On these days when I'm forced to reprimand my students an average of 32 times each period, I am so reminded of the old fogies I hated that I have to stifle my grin when I hear myself say the phrases that tumble out of my mouth:

"Because I'm the teacher."

"I don't need your help."

"If you so much as look at your neighbor, you'll come up here and sit with me."

"I don't need an echo."

"What part of silence did you not understand?"

"If you'd rather hear the principal tell you to behave, we can take the issue to the office."

"If I have to say your name one more time, that's a referral. End of story."

"No, you cannot go anywhere, so don't ask."

"When I say stop talking, I don't mean when you're done with your conversation."

The thoughts in my head go more like this:

"What are the chances that kid'll cry when I write him up? I can't deal with that."

"If I break down and cry, will they laugh at me or feel bad and be quiet?"

"I have never harmed a child, but there's a first time for everything..."

These Are My Confessions

Forgive me, friends, for I have sinned.

I am a Southern Baptist, born and raised. I have attended Baptist churches all my life, even a Missionary Baptist church complete with sweating, screaming preacher.

But today my proudly Protestant self is in need of a little absolution.

It's a safe bet that we're all familiar with the idea that if you sin in your head you might as well have done the thing outright. Friends, yesterday I sinned in my head quite a bit. No, I didn't lust after the one good-looking male teacher in the school: nothing nearly so beautifully bad.

Yesterday, I committed murder [in my head]. Over and over... and over.

I love my job. Really, I do. I love getting to know the students and getting to observe a different classroom everyday. Indeed, I get a kick out of the tiny paparazzi that screams out at me as I walk down the hall (with each "Miss Hays!" I picture a little flashbulb going off and foresee the next People magazine cover). But yesterday... Oh, yesterday...

I started the day off with a bang: my first referral. Let's get something straight: I like to be liked. All my twenty-two years I have been a people-pleaser and sometimes too desperate to be accepted. So I enjoy that kids tell me often that I'm their favorite sub, and, while it's no skin off my nose, I'd rather not put a little stain on their school record. But when you-- a 6-foot 8th grade bully with a chip on your shoulder-- trip a 4'8 6th grader, I am called to action. You have the misfortune of a sub that has been bullied, and I won't stand for it in my classroom. So there, you brought this on yourself. Have a nice day.

And then I apologized... because I don't want you to write mean things about me in the bathroom stall.

Fast forward to the end of my day: rare ground for any sub, I was asked to actually teach. That's right: teach. Most teachers just pile on the worksheets, but not this one. Oh no, she wants me to stand at the front of the room and draw on a projector and teach these excitable minds about how to add and subtract positive and negative numbers (oh yes, that was the cherry on top-- teaching math). So there I stand, drawing dots on a transparency, when I look up to see one child hovering over another's desk, shoulders drawn up to his ears, saying over and over again, "Tell me to shut up again." The rest of our conversation went like this:

Me: "Derek, go back to your desk right now."

Greg: "Yeah, Derek, go back to your desk."

Me: "Greg, I don't need your help."

Derek: "Yeah, Greg, she doesn't need your help."

Me: "That's enough, Derek. Be quiet."

Greg: "For real, just be quiet."

It was then, as all the other students jumped in with their echoes of "Be quiet," and "Y'all shut up" that it all started falling into place in my mind... Me, snapping little children in two... Me, forcibly shoving them away from my desk where my personal bubble was being dangerously tested... Me, kicking and screaming on the floor until they all stared in shocked silence, because then and only then would there be silence.

This morning, I walked through the halls to Mrs. Womac's class to the familiar shouts of "Miss Hays is here!" and "Who are you subbing for Miss Hays? Yes!" and I felt a little bad about how just yesterday I had craved to do harm to one of those sweet children. But now, as I sit in second period planning, having had a group of sixth graders just last period, I feel considerably less bad...

Because they are monsters. Precious, adorable monsters who make me feel bipolar as I flip between violent anger and lovable gush from one of their idiotic phrases to the next.

Thanks for the therapy session. I feel better. Then again, I have 5 periods ahead of me...

Type Cast

Now that I'm living la vida solo again, I've been noticing "types" a lot. I read a blog the other day about recycling boyfriends; that is, dating a different version of the same guy over and over again.

Guilty.

So I think on my next go-around, maybe I'll date against type (since my success with my type has been so outstanding). So here's my overview of a few types that are out there and how they might fare (or have fared) in my life.

1. The Musician- ah, my favorite. This rare bird is a little skittish and squirrelly, tortured and shy (until you put an instrument in his able hands). You can find him at social gatherings in the corner with his true love, the banged up Alvarez he's had since he started picking at age 13. He's the one with the slightly mussed hair, wearing a retro band t-shirt (and he doesn't even care that it's totally trendy) and biting his lip as he strains to make that beautiful music. Sure, he's kind of hard to talk to, but if you're lucky you'll be his muse (and it'll only bother you a little bit if his friends call you Yoko).

Pros- he'll write songs about you and you could listen to him play for hours; Cons- you couldn't pay him to dress up and don't think for a second you'll ever meet his parents.

2. The Frat Star- I like the frat daddy because he cares about his appearance, but he oftentimes outdresses me, especially when I'm feeling like a bohemian day instead of polo and pearls. If there is a trend out there, this man has it down-pat. He is decked out in Costas (slung around his neck via Croakie), a PFG fishing shirt, shorts that are debatably too short, and flip flops (possibly Chacos-- it's all about the brand name with this breed). He is characterized by his involvement on campus and over-usage of words like "Epic!" And he will likely charm you with his limited (but still impressive) ability to swing dance and the way he throws back his head to brush his perfectly coifed shaggy hair out of his eyes. You will note his appearance on the road by the collection of "outdoorsy" stickers he has on his back windshield (Patagonia, Mountain Hardware, etc), but you will not likely catch him in the woods as that is too far from a keg. Pros- this guy is ambitious, well-dressed, well-connected, and he is well-trained to open doors and offer to buy you drinks; Cons- Bro time will always outweigh time with his lady, and you'll need to be sure to stay current on Greek fashions (luckily for the ladies, most days that means an over-sized t-shirt and Nike running shorts).

3. The Good Ol' Boy- You can hear this gentleman's vehicle from a mile away, as his F250's muffler has fallen off somewhere between here and the creek. He'll be wearing jeans, Carhartts probably, and he might even have his t-shirt tucked in under his camo jacket. And beware of those steel-toed boots. On the weekends, you can find this specimen on his family's land fishing or hunting or throwing back beers in the back of his high school buddy's pick-up truck. Hop in that very truck, turn on the radio, and you'll be enjoying the smooth stylings of Nickelback or, if you're lucky, any number of country music stations.

Pros- he loves his momma and could probably check your oil for you or even build you patio; Cons- his taste in music is hardly cultured, he probably won't get your references to Garden State or other indie movies, and you may have to spend an afternoon watching Nascar.

4. The Athlete- You know him, you love him. He is a block of solid muscle, and he makes you feel tiny and delicate, like he could pick you and twirl you around with ease. Sure, he's not a scholastic giant, but he is quick and agile and make you want to sport a jersey with his name across the back. You can expect him to always be wearing tennis shoes, in case he needs to sprint somewhere mid-day, and you can count on him wearing some sort of Under Armor at all times. He is very competitive, and he will manifest this by trying to train you in his sport of choice or choosing to never play with you at all for the sake of your relationship.

Pros- You have just come into a plethora of giant hoodies and sweatpants with "Guntersville Baseball" or what-have-you across the chest, and, for some inexplicable reason, athletes more often than not have a great head of hair. Cons- You have just signed yourself up for attending every intramural or office sports league game your man should decide to sign up for, and The Athlete will sign up for them all. Your TV will also unfailingly be tuned to one of the infinite ESPN channels when this type is nearby.

5. The Politician- Be careful not to confuse him with the Frat Star. He may come off as trendy at first, but you'll rarely find him out of his uniform of polo and khakis. This breed argues for the sport of it, not necessarily to change your opinion. They thrive on debate, and they have an unwavering opinion on all the issues. The phrase 'I don't care' is not in their repertoire. You can find them at a meeting of the College Republicans or at a meet-and-greet for a local candidate, networking like it's his job. You will need to be well-groomed to date this gentleman, as a politician's mate must be current on the issues and dressed to the nines (think J. Crew and Chanel).

Pros- this man has ambitions (read: he wants to be the Leader of the Free World), and being with him means being with a Somebody... as in you could be the First Lady one glorious day; Cons- those of us that are politically apathetic have little to nothing in common with this specimen; and those of us that don't care to argue will often leave his presence with a general feel of exhaustion.

*sometimes these types overlap.

Don't you love a good stereotype?