A disgrace to the cause.

I fancy myself a pretty good driver. I get irritated when men talk about "women drivers." In fact, my old boss changed his GPS to a man's voice because he couldn't stand "having a woman tell him how to drive." And when a friend of mine told me a couple of weeks ago that I can "park like a man," I thought seriously about punching him in the face. But I'm a lady.

This afternoon I parked my car, ran to the quick drop, slid my Modern Family and Lost DVDs in, and ran back to my running car. I started backing up slowly, checked for traffic, and upon seeing a coming car, tapped the break... or I thought I was tapping the break, at least. Sadly, no. I hit the gas.

Strike one.

Luckily, the car had already passed before I could crash into him, so I started to reverse again. Oh, hello, median. Didn't see you there. No worries, the SUV can handle a bump or two.

Strike two.

But wouldn't you know there's a man sitting there in his Mustang watching the whole debacle. And he wasn't shy about staring. I considered giving him an obscene finger gesture, but again... I'm a lady.

And therein lies the problem as well: I'm a lady. So I'm sure ol 'Stang chuckled to himself as he watched the little lady try to maneuver her big, complicated car.

I'm sorry that I didn't help our cause today, ladies.

On top of that, I'm a blonde lady. So my lapse of judgment-- or slip of the toe, rather-- caused double the damage. Today, I am disgrace.

Apartment Livin'

Facebook newsfeed has popularized the term 'creeper.' I am an unashamed creeper, and I start one too many conversations with, "I saw on Facebook that..." Okay, yes, it's a little voyeuristic; however, I only creep only the people I care about... so, you're welcome.

Meanwhile, living in an apartment complex has forced me into a type of creeping that is not by choice: I pinky promise I don't care enough about my upstairs neighbor to creep on her. Unfortunately, I could give you a detailed account of when she does her laundry and how she wakes up to the song "If I Die Young" every morning. And right now she happens to have a hacking cough.

I can also tell you that she sometimes dog-sits for one of my downstairs neighbor's dogs who is roughly the size of a Shetland pony (wait a minute, am I the only one not part of the 'community' in my building?). Oh, and then there's the boyfriend... or possibly boyfriends. All I know is they fight quite a bit and, unfortunately for me, then they make up... and I hope you read into that: they "make up." Mazel to her for working things out, but I wish she could "work it out" less than twice a day and preferably when I'm not trying to sleep.

I've started sleeping with a broom next to my bed as it's the best tool to bang the ceiling with when things get... out of hand... in the midnight hours... or in the late afternoon... or early in the morning.

Yes, I love catching up on people's Facebook albums and seeing an occasional status or two. I feel like I can justify that as a healthy interest in my friends. My neighbor and I are not friends, though, and the whole headboard-banging-screaming-all-night-long is just a wee bit too intimate for me.

Maybe I should offer her some counseling sessions-- pro bono, of course-- to work on some more neighbor-friendly relationship management techniques.

Zzzz.

I've never been sure why 'Zzzz' has signified sleep. I don't make a 'zzz' sound when I sleep, nor do I dream of Z's or count them to lull me to sleep. And I've never 'caught a few Z's' during my afternoon nap. But sleep is the subject of this post, so a few Z's seemed appropriate enough... that, and I'm feeling a little uncreative in the title department.

Sometime in high school I was advised by my chiropractor to start sleeping on my back in order to alleviate some back pain after a cheerleading injury. Since then, that's the only way I can sleep. Or I should say that's the only way I could sleep. Once upon a time, I slept stone-still on my back, usually with my hand crossed in my lap: very corpse-like, very creepy. At some point, I started sleeping with my arms over my head, reaching toward the headboard, which was noted by my mother on a beach trip a few years ago. I mean, no, I couldn't feel my arms when I woke up in the morning, but it's whatever gets you through the night, I guess.

This kind of sleep is perfect for the obsessive compulsive. When I woke up in the morning, the sheets and comforter were still in place, the pillows barely moved and mostly unused. I slid out from under the covers and replaced everything, making my bed look untouched in a matter of seconds.

These days, I'm a maniac. I don't know what flipped the switch, but something crazy happens to me after I doze off. I start off in the normal routine: watch TV on my side until I'm drowsy, then flip to the back for the real thing. Instead of waking up to a pristine bed, though, I'm now waking up to the comforter hanging off one side of the bed, pillows in the floor, and the sheet tangled around my legs or, worse, my head.

I don't know what's going on, but I don't like it. I really preferred sleeping like the dead... ya know, waking up feeling like Sleeping Beauty or Snow White laying pristinely on my bed. Alas, now I wake up and untangle myself-- a little panicky, sure-- and roll out of bed, luckily onto the pillows that I have kicked off the bed mid-slumber. It's not so cute, and neither is my new messy bed head look.

So dumb. For real.

sigh.

It's 10:00 on a Wednesday night, I don't have to be anywhere tomorrow, and I'm thinking about going to sleep. Like, right now. In my work clothes, in my make-up, in my jewelry... possibly with this lap top in my lap.

It's been a while since I've felt so drained. I haven't worked out in days, so I can't say that I'm physically tired... although, lack of physical activity could be to blame for the decrease in energy... but I am completely mentally tapped.

On Mondays, I arrive at campus at 2 pm to review my case notes and previous sessions. At 4, I have an hour-long counseling session. I thought this would be easy enough for me, but you'd be shocked how different a counseling session is from an everyday conversation. For instance, you shouldn't ask yes or no questions. This seems simple enough, but I dare you to give it a try. Also, try to keep your conversations centered on the other person with extremely limited self-disclosure. This is probably a practice I need to pick up in everyday life anyway, but I don't quite have the hang of it just yet. I'm amazed at how often my immediate response is, "Oh, I do that too!" or something of that nature. Being self-centered is shockingly simple. After the session, I transcribe my notes and self-evaluate. From 6-9, I'm in class. From 9 until bed, homework.

On Tuesdays, I head to campus at 8:30. I work the receptionist desk in the clinic until 4, do a counseling session from 4-5, and head to class from 6-9. 12 hours later, I come home to my attention-starved cat and-- you guessed it-- do homework.

On Wednesdays, I get to campus at noon to review my session tapes. I meet with my professor and a classmate from 1-2 to discuss and critique my performance and hers-- watching myself on tape and then having to explain my fidgets and misfired jokes is extremely stressful, by the way. I return to my receptionist's chair from 2-4, and I go to class from 4-8. By the time I get home at 8:30 and have three days of self-evaluation, work, and class behind me, it's all I can do to think. Tonight, I laid down and stared at Macy (aforementioned cat) for 30 minutes before I realized that I was, in fact, having a stare-down with my faithful feline companion. I talk to my mom on the phone and get about 4 words before explaining, "I don't know where I was going with that..." because my brain is in autopilot.

Now, don't get me wrong: I have a 4-day weekend. And that is awesome. I am in no way glossing over that with my little woe-is-me moment. But, as it is just a moment, at this moment, I am tired and perhaps a little discouraged from all the critiquing and whatnot.

So Thursday is my self-proclaimed "Rebound Day." I'm going to wake up at my leisure, work out, and go out on the town. Look out, Hobby Lobby, it's been far too long. I've printed out new pictures and it's time to do a little rearranging... and I think there's going to be spray paint involved. And maybe a thrift store. I'm going to finish off my Rebound Day with my Bible, and probably a textbook for good measure, at my new favorite coffee shop. Productivity + Creative Catharsis = Mental Rejuvenation. I think I might cook too... it's been too long since I've cooked, and this week I've eaten quite badly (possibly another reason for the whole lack of energy issue...). So maybe I'll cook and live off leftovers for a few days or more. Or at least until someone suggests going out to eat...

I'm feeling better already.

Tuesday Things

This week's installation of Things is...

Things I'm Looking Forward To

Or, to be more grammatically correct...

Things to Which I am Looking Forward

Cousins Night Out (with some possible Aunt involvement)- This year is our first annual cousins' night out. That is, Rachel (and Mally) and Anna-Kate are coming to stay with me in Tuscaloosa. We're going to a gymnastics meet here, where we will be cheering on the Auburn Tigers against Alabama's award-winning team (I figure AU will be glad to have us). I love a good excuse to wear navy and orange on UA's campus, and I'm also loving the idea of traveling with a small entourage of navy and orange-clad fans (I am not so brave as to sport this look while flying solo). We female cousins are just the beginning of the inevitable conversion of the Marcum clan, a group formerly of the more Crimson persuasion. I'm pretty amped about our little girls' night as it's high time that AK was initiated into the Older Cousins' Circle. What I'm saying is, after our gymnastics weekend, you will have officially graduated from the kiddie table, my dear... and possibly from the gift swap... sorry about that.

2nd Annual Marcum Family Basketball Outing- As mentioned, the family currently stands with a majority of Bama fans (it's a work in progress, friends). As such, my living in Tuscaloosa comes in handy what with sporting events and such. So for the second year in a row, my aunts, uncles, grandparents, parents, and cousins will be joining me here in Tuscaloosa for a basketball game... against Ole Miss, I believe (let's be honest, if AU's not involved, I'm just there for the fellowship). I love any reason-- even a UA reason-- to get together with my family, and the word on the street is that Bama's pretty good this year. I think it's really more of a basketball school anyway...

Practicum I- This semester, yesterday specifically, I start counseling students. The program kind of eases you into actual counseling, so in the first practicum I spend 4 50-minute sessions with 4 undergraduate student volunteers (most of whom have my grad professor as an undergrad professor) in exchange for extra credit in their class. With these being volunteer students and not students actively seeking counseling, there are no real crises to speak of, although some of them do have issues that come up. It's a gentle first taste of the counseling world, and I am both excited and terrified. I have to review tapes of these sessions first by myself and second with a classmate and our professor, and it just so happens that watching myself on tape is like my own personal hell. So that should be fun...

Israel- In my last post, I mentioned that my friend Matt is living in Israel this semester. I think I've mentioned before too that friends living in exotic places is kind of the perfect time to visit said exotic place. So, with Matt's blessing, I'm planning a trip to Israel. Hopefully this won't be one of those things that you talk about quite a bit but never see through to fruition. Chasley's onboard too, so hopefully that'll be the driving force to pull the trigger on an actual plane ticket.

A healed muscle- I can't be sure that this is going to happen as it hasn't happened yet, but I do sincerely look forward to and hope that it does. On my NYE trip, Annie said she was more flexible than I. Challenge: accepted. There in the living room, we had a splits-off. Annie didn't stretch. Challenge: accepted. Lindsey should have stretched. Muscle: torn. I got up and limped off without a word, proud that I had at least tied in the competition. The next day we went skiing, which was unsuccessful in the extreme on my part (I blame the torn muscle as my natural athleticism would have otherwise proven me a dynamite skier...). Since then, my left butt cheek-- oh yes, the gluteus maximus, and don't you laugh, you use it far more than you might realize-- has been a thorn in my side... er, butt. Sitting down, standing up, picking things up off the ground, working out... ouch, ouch, ouch. With no recovery in sight, I sit on a heating pad at almost all times... just another step in the granny direction.

Beach- Maybe it's the cold weather or the general gloom of this time of the year, but I find myself craving the salty air and bright sunshine. I just want to dig my feet into scalding hot sand and fall asleep on a towel while I read a Program Development text book. Luckily, we're planning a long weekend in April... but that seems so far away. So for now, all the backgrounds on my computer are beach and lake scenes... A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

I'll have what she's having.

Last week, I walked by the river with my friend Matt, our own personal going away party as he's leaving today for a semester in Israel. As we walked, I made many jokes about being proposed to on a nighttime stroll by the river, and finally I got down on one knee myself and declared my love. Two observations about proposals: it is sincerely uncomfortable to take a knee on a cold sidewalk, and Matt seemed genuinely embarrassed. Mission: Accomplished. Later in the night I managed to fit one of my favorite movie lines into conversation:

"I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees outside. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend a day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Years Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

Swoon. It's quotes like these that have so warped women's expectations of love.... Guilty.

Anyway, when I realized Matt hadn't seen the movie and had no idea what I was talking about, I knew had to force the issue as soon as the opportunity presented itself... and wouldn't you know his roommate had the DVD laying out on the coffee table when we got back to Matt's apartment.

If you haven't seen When Harry Met Sally-- first of all, if you haven't, go get it. Now. Right now. Go on-- it references Casablanca quite a few times. And if you don't know me, you need to know that Casablanca is my favorite movie of all time... and it just so happens to be the greatest movie of all time. Seriously, it wins, like, every time. Casablanca is this really tragic, passionate romance between silver screen greats Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, and it provides some pretty quotable quotes itself:

"I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray, you wore blue."

Ilsa: "A franc for your thoughts."

Rick: "In America, they'd bring only a penny, and, huh, I guess that's all they're worth."

Ilsa: "Well, I'm willing to be overcharged."

"Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world she walks into mine."

And, of course...

"...Here's looking at you, kid. " and "Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

It's important for you to know, too, that the famous line, "Play it again, Sam" is never actually said in the movie. Not once. But Woody Allen did make a movie by the same name.

Those quotes probably don't mean anything to you, but I can quote Casablanca like most people my age can quote Dumb and Dumber and a handful of YouTube videos.

So where I'm going with this it that I'm on kind of a classic movies kick. And what I mean by "classics" is "movies that I see referenced quite a bit" or "movies that have won lots of awards." I think pop culture makes you a more well-rounded individual. This summer I crossed Citizen Kane, The Godfather, The Shawshank Redemption, and Jaws off my list, but I'm thinking it's time to update the list. Drumroll, please...

-The Godfather, Part II

-One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

-Goodfellas

-Rear Window

-Indiana Jones... all of them.

-Lord of the Rings... all of them.

-Dr. Strangelove

-Saving Private Ryan

-Vertigo

-Back to the Future

-Slumdog Millionaire

-Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid

-Ben-Hur

-The Graduate

There are more, unfortunately. I have a long way to go in my mission to be a pop culture expert. But there could be worse fates in life than watching one classic movie after another.

well, isn't that nice?

This period the task I've been asked to give my children (approximately juniors and seniors) an assignment: a two-page paper on the sexually transmitted disease (more commonly referred to as a sexually transmitted infection these days, but I digress) of their choice.

How delightful. All around me are giggling adolescents ogling over the most disgusting pictures you can find on the worldwide web. I have remind them periodically that this assignment does not require visual aids-- no pun intended-- but the 'Images' option on Google is a temptation they cannot resist.

Meanwhile, I've just watched a classroom of 20 cut-and-paste Wikipedia articles, dive head first into the wonderful world of plagiarism, their assignments.

Soon we'll be talking about who has what and from where it came. Won't that be nice?

Friday facts.

I must keep blogging to stay awake.

I have checked and responded to emails, a highlight of my day; I have caught up on blogs, checked my Twitter feed, and responded to the quick responders from my first email check. My other option is to get out my text book, easily my most pressing need, but that will only make me sleepier. I must avoid instructional reading until this Diet Mt. Dew kicks in. So here comes the word vomit.

For the moment, my students are being very well-behaved. Of course, in the early morning when I need something to wake me up they would be silent and lull me to sleep with the rhythmic tapping on their keyboards. It's surely a plot against me; I'm convinced that high schoolers are never well-behaved on purpose. I wasn't good on purpose, anyway; I just lacked the courage to be bad.

Lesson learned: when you leave your gloves in the car over night, they, like your car, will be 23 degrees when you put them on. This renders said gloves useless and unable to fulfill their warming obligation. In fact, they're really quite painful to wear when they're just as cold as the air you're trying to escape. It just compresses the cold air around your skin, which I think makes your hands even colder. Note to self: take gloves inside with you. That way, I'll just forget them altogether instead of putting my hand into a block of ice fitted perfectly to my hand.

One of my kids is currently perusing Rolling Stone magazine. Now, I've read Rolling Stone magazine a time or two-- hello, I'm not going to turn down a mag with John Mayer looking sulkily up at me from the cover-- and I'm fairly certain, nay positive, that it is not appropriate for high school students.

Having written that, I've realized immediately how old I am. Ugh.

Most recent announcement: All students interested in joining the fishing team please meet in the library at break. Wow. A fishing team? Fantastic. Who exactly are we going to compete with, might I ask? There just can't be that many fishing teams in the area. But mazel, GHS; way to step it up in the extracurricular arena. Our cheerleaders can't compete, but thank goodness there will be an undisputed fishing champion in the 4A division.

Music would wake me up, I think, but there are undoubtedly students in my classroom that wouldn't appreciate-- or worse, wouldn't recognize-- the iconic stylings of the Beatles. Taylor Swift causes too much of a stir as it creates a frenzy of students debating over whether or not she is a genius or overrated. Obviously she's a genius, and I'd hate to become part of the frenzy myself. Not so professional. Also, songs referring to sex, drugs, and rock and roll aren't appropriate... so that's pretty limiting. They just don't make songs like they used to, am I right?

To make up for my lack of stature and authority, I wear heels to work. Obviously the heel gives me a boost in stature, rising me up to towering new heights of 5'5, maybe 5'6. But the click-clack in the hallway is a sound of power. Clusters of students scurry like cockroaches when they hear the heels clicking down the hall; they assume someone more important than me is coming toward them, but I'll take it.

I'm going to hit the books now. I'll surely be back when my eyelids start drooping. I give it ten minutes, max.

Winter Woes.

Dear Winter,

Hey, big guy. Listen... we need to have a talk. I've been thinking about this for a while now, and the truth is... it's over between us. I think we both know it, and there's just no point in letting things linger any longer. And I can say with one hundred percent conviction that it isn't me, it's you.

Your clinginess is suffocating me: the way you hang around and overstay your welcome, the way you show up out of nowhere when I think I'm finally getting a break. And honestly, you're holding me back. I'm young, and I need to be experiencing life, but instead I'm getting iced in if not putting my life in danger to travel from place to place.

Aside from putting me in danger, I just can't deal with the constant infliction of pain. My hands ache as I grip my frigid steering wheel, my ears sting as the icy winds blow about me. I haven't slipped on the ice yet, but why risk it? We both know it's inevitable; you're just too volatile to hang around anymore.

Sure, it started out great. I was thrilled to pull out my winter wardrobe: the boots and sweater dresses, the scarves and knit hats, my favorite hobo gloves. But that's all over now. The excitement has worn off. I'll always cherish the good times we had: the snowball fights, the white Christmas, the fires and hot chocolate... but the rays of sunshine are just too few and far between to go on like this.

You'll find someone new, I'm sure of it. Somewhere out there is a lunatic who loves nothing more than a good chill and frolic in the snow, who has no more sense than to want to be snowed in with you for days on end (I mean, really, that seems romantic, but get a grip). And I will hopefully get a tan and one day, maybe, stop shivering. I can only hope the teeth chattering hasn't left permanent damage, but I'll be sure to send you the bill if I have any problems.

Best wishes,

Lindsey

Live with Lindsey

I've said fairly often that if it wasn't for Twitter and Facebook, I would know nothing about current events. True to form, I just scanned through my Twitter feed to find that Regis Philbin is retiring.

Sure, it had to happen sooner or later. The man is, like, a thousand after all. But he is easily the cutest, most likable one-thousand-year-old I can think of (that is, of course, unless my own grandfather makes it to 1,000, and then Regis will obviously take a backseat to him).

I feel like I have lots of memories with Regis, maybe like my parents' generation thinks of Johnny Carson. Back when I still got excited about holiday parades, Regis was the voice that announced Kermit the Frog's arrival. Back when Miss America was less awkward and more inspiring, he was the one singing, "There she is..." And back when my affinity for trivia was just budding, Regis was the one asking, "Is that your final answer?"

He's quirky and friendly, and I think he has one of the most recognizable voices in the world... a voice that I'll miss on the occasional mornings I turn on Live with... Kelly.

xoxo.

Hi, my name is Lindsey, and I've been awkward for 23 years now.

Specifically, I'm really awkward about touch. Inevitably, when someone goes for a handshake I go in for a two-armed hug, or they go for knucks and I hit them with a high five. I think the root of my problem is my tendency to over-think. From the moment you start coming in for a hug, my mind is reeling with decisions. Are you going for a one-arm-around-the-waist or a full body bear hug? Are you going to put your arms around mine, or should I raise my arms up around your neck? Full-frontal flankage is pretty intense, and just what are your intentions? And where do I put my head-- is this a cheek-to-cheek business, or should I go ear to chest? Heaven forbid you should misinterpret my head placement and think I'm coming in for landing on a kiss on the cheek.

I'm getting anxious just thinking about it.

I think I realized I was awkward sometime in college, and I've decided to embrace. If I'm going to make a situation uncomfortable, I might as well joke about it. So instead of chortling nervously after I've thrown myself into a full-on two-arm squeeze just in time to realize you were going for the side hug, I announce before hand what my intentions are: "Okay, how are we doing this? Two arms? Perfect. I'm going to slowly place my head on your chest, but only for a second. Please, no eye contact necessary. Aaaaaand, we're done. Great. Was that okay for you? Good deal."

I've tried the excuse that I'm just not into touching, that my personal bubble is very important to me. But that's just not true. Actually, I'm very affectionate... my affection is just the result of a deliberate decision-making process. Lauren and I don't hug; we have an unspoken understanding. David and I discuss it outloud: are we going to hug? Let's do this. Those kinds of agreements make my life easier. A little verbal contract never hurt anyone.

So when I sign off 'xoxo,' you can know that those little o's (the x's are the kisses, right?) are calculated cyber hugs, but only if you're comfortable with them.

wanted.

I need a boyfriend.

Spare me your concerns that I have stooped to posting a want ad online. Just hear me out.

It is entirely too cold for me to stand outside and pump my own gas. Getting my oil changed-- and wiper blades and tire alignment and holy-crap-there-are-too-many-things-to-worry-about-- is outside of my job description. Taking my trash out is an icky chore, and that's the kind of thing that boys are for. Furthermore, I'm barely scraping 5'3, and while climbing up onto the countertops was excusable (although not encouraged) when I was a child, it is significantly more frowned upon in my current age bracket. And really, it wouldn't be awful for someone to bring me dinner once in a blue moon.

Maybe I don't need a boyfriend so much as a personal assistant, but who doesn't love a little snug and snog from time to time?

Cut me some slack. I'm not totally helpless. I would gladly repay boyfriend favors with home-cooked meals and maybe even a load of laundry... you know, woman stuff (sorry if I just set the whole feminist movement back a decade or more).

Bama fans need not apply.

Must be present to win.

inked.

I want a tattoo.

I'm going to pause here while my mother and other family members peel their jaws off the floor.

I do; I really want to get inked. A few of my friends have tattoos, and, for the most part, it has fed my desire.

(there are exceptions, of course: unfortunately, I have friends who had the poor judgement to slap a barbwire tat around their bicep, or something of that nature... as far as I know my friends are tramp-stamp-free, though, so that's a plus)

Meanwhile, my cool friends have cool tattoos. One of my friends has "Serve Christ" on her wrist in Hebrew. What a neat witness: What does your tattoo say? Funny you should ask, it's about Jesus... know Him? Another girl I knew in college had 'My daughter, your faith has healed you' inked across her foot in Italian.

Here are the common denominators: Christian message, foreign language.

If I were ever to pull the trigger, I'd have to put some serious thought into it. I don't want to just pick a generic "Bible word" and a random language; it would have to be something deeply personal to me (hello, if you're going to have needles searing into your flesh, it better be important).

Meanwhile, I can't decide what color I want my hair to be or where I want to meet Tyler for lunch tomorrow, much less what word I want carved into me for the rest of my life.

So, bummer, I may never realize my dreams of hitting up the tattoo parlor.... but I also won't be 84-years-old explaining to my grandchildren that the wilted flower on Nana's sagging tummy was once a beautiful butterfly in flight.

clementine.

A clementine is a hesperidium, of a variety of mandarin orange (Citrus reticulata) so named in 1902.^[1] The exterior is a deep orange colour with a smooth, glossy appearance. Clementines separate easily into seven to fourteen moderately-juicy segments. They are very easy to peel, like a tangerine, but are almost always seedless. Clementines are, thus, also known as seedless tangerines. They are typically juicy and sweet, with less acid than oranges.

If you've never had a clementine, delay the reading of this post and go find them immediately. Then come back and read, duh. This baby takes approximately 12 seconds to peel-- and I can peel the whole thing in one long peel, which makes me feel accomplished and like Meg Ryan in Sleepless in Seattle. It's the perfect snack, and the little gems are marketed as "Cuties." Come on, that's adorable.

Put down your Fritos and grab a clementine. And don't forget to thank me later.

better than Taylor Swift.

Yes, it's possible.

I am a devoted Taylor Swift fan. I, like millions of girls across the nation, am convinced that she reads my journal. Every single song she sings is like a page ripped out of my life. Some of them get me pumped up and some of them, honestly, make me cry-- but that really needed, cathartic cry. I've even been known to email my mom the lyrics of her songs with the tag line, "She just gets me." Can I get an amen?

Last night I was doing my quiet time, and I was reading in Psalms. I love Psalms because it's so human; in a way, it's almost bipolar. The psalmist zigs and zags from elated to devastated in a matter of chapters, and that is so relatable... that is so my life. Last night I was reading the psalmist's plea that the Lord would hear his cries and anguish. So many times in my life I have shaken tiny fists at God and begged him to hear me, to heal my wasting soul.

**See Job post for thoughts on melodrama

But, be what it may, my problems, to me at least, are heavy and dark, and I am commissioned to put them before the Lord. So when I see someone like David-- a Bible All-Star-- doing the very same, I can't help but think, "He just gets me." Every request, praise, and complaint he makes seems to be like a need torn out of my own heart.

So with this revelation last night, I began to praise God for His totally relatable, applicable, living Word, and I hear myself say-- to the Creator of the Universe, the Almighty, Beginning and End-- "Lord, I just thank You that Your Word is better than a Taylor Swift song." And then I laughed at myself, and I like to think that He did too because I've got to believe that our foolish humanity delights and amuses Him in a "Kids Say the Darndest Things" kind of way.

But seriously-- how great is our God that His Word is as applicable today as it was thousands of years ago, as it will be thousands of years from now?? What a treasure that we are given a living document that is His love letter to us, His guidebook for this treacherous and fabulous journey that we're on.

holy macaroni.

Having been distracted by a text message between writing that title, and writing 'Having,' I can't actually remember what I was planning to write about. Shock-- I have the attention span of a chipmunk. In lieu of whatever I was going to write-- something that was undoubtedly earth-shattering in its epicness-- I'll write the first few things that come to my mind.

David and I text each other in hashmarks #asseenonTwitter. It was really just a joke at first, but now I have to remind myself not to do it with other people because it's not exactly normal text etiquette. Furthermore, I'm thinking in hashmarks and kind of talking in them too. That is, I'll make/think a remark, and then have a follow-up explanation remark. As in, "Peyton Manning is clearly the cuter Manning. #truth" This is further confirmation that social media is taking over my life #ivegottogetagrip

Mom and I went to the grocery store tonight after a little shopping spree in Huntsville. With a "winter weather advisory" (whatever that is) upon us, people are starting to freak out a little. Nary a loaf of bread was to be found on the shelves, although I've never been convinced that white bread is what I would want to snack on in the event of a snowstorm. I'm having a hard time getting excited about the supposed blizzard because I find that these things rarely come to fruition. It seems in high school I was often "guaranteed" a snow day only for my dad to wake me up and inform me that it "didn't stick." And even in the event that the school system did shut down-- depending on whether or not a flurry or two was sighted after 6 am-- it seems like my promised snow day was just a wasted day to be made up at the end of the school year. Hurricane Ivan, for instance, was a day out of school for what turned out to be rain, lots of rain. Sure, I enjoyed the hurricane party in the basement; I did not, however, enjoy making up our hurricane day in May. #backtosnow Those in the know (that is, those who watch the news #notI) seem to think that I'm going to get snowed into my apartment. While this seemed like a fun idea as a child, as an adult I'm thinking more along the lines of using my cat for heat and living off old Ritz crackers and melted snow. Maybe I should rethink the white bread...

Facebook is killing me. I mean, yes, it may actually be killing me by rotting my brain out and numbing my sense of socialization, but what I mean is... Facebook statuses are killing me. Every time I sign on, which is more often than I care to admit, there are 20 new updates along the lines of "Boarding the plane for Glendale! War Eagle!" I mean, honestly, how many people can that town hold? When I was little, my brother's friends fit me into a tuba case; I feel like I could've tucked into someone's luggage (too cliche?). I missing the most EPIC family reunion of all time, and if you know me, you know how I love a good family gathering. And if you're a Duck, you should know that I'm pretty handy with a shotgun.

In conclusion, I still don't know what I was going to write initially. So much for my Nobel Prize.

woe is me.

I've stumbled onto a website recently called "Stuff Christians Like" and, as a Christian-- you guessed it-- I like it. While my sweet students are silently working, I'm sitting in my ivory tower perusing blog posts, so I gave SCL a look-see.

Now, I should be upfront and say that I'm new to this website, so I can't attest to it Scriptural validity and whatnot (you've gotta be careful about that stuff, ya know), but so far so good, I think.

The first post is by a writer named John Crist (who I will be googling shortly), and it really hit home with me.

I'm a woe-is-me kind of girl. If I've got three tests in one week, it's a crisis. If my roots are showing, a meltdown. I've compared myself to dear old Job more than once in the past 365 days, and I honestly thought I had a right. It's funny how hindsight's 20-20.

This is what Crist said in part of his blog:

Let’s get one thing clear. Job lost all his family, his house, his livestock, his wealth and his own health. My girlfriend of two weeks dumped me. Those are not comparable situations.

As Christians, Job has become so commonplace to us. If my waitress forgets to refill my glass of tea, I'm tearing sack cloth. If Granny is stopping up traffic by driving in the fast lane, I'm cursing the day I was born... or more likely the day she was born, but you get the point.

In his post, Crist makes an illustration of Job helping Jesus sort through prayer request. I can just imagine his smirk, his eye rolling when he sees my request to pass my Individual Appraisal class or my fervent plea that I will suddenly lose all desire for sugar. When you really think about it, at our lowest point, regardless of the circumstances, there should be an uncontainable joy that we're not in a comparable circumstance as Job rather than being so trigger happy to think, "That Job... he really gets me." Job does not get you. Job is laughing at you. Job wants to punch you for thinking you two could compare notes on misery. Okay, if I were Job, that's how I would feel... In retrospect, Job's probably a really nice guy and not as prone to sarcasm as I am.

My Prerogative

I know that I said I wasn't going to make any resolutions.

I also said that I went I make an absolute statement ("I'm not going to make any resolutions"), I feel driven to do just that.

So here's a quick resolution or two; nothing major, nothing I can really fail at.

This year, I want to wear heels more often. A friend of mine told me once that she didn't feel feminine unless she was wearing heels, and I have kind of begun to subscribe to that notion. I've always avoided them because they're painful to wear, like I would avoid a shot at the doctor's office or cupping a bee in my hand until it inevitably stings. I have often watched my friends-- Alice and Chasley come to mind immediately-- prance around in 4" heels and wondered how they possibly did that without complaining. As it turns out, you kind of get used to it. My heel tolerance has increased exponentially over the break, and I think I'm well on my way to being a heel-wearer. Look out, world, I'm about to reach heights I've never seen before... like 5'5. Whoa.

Along the same lines, I'm going to dress up more often. With classes only three days a week and at night, it's so easy to stay in my pajamas all day long. In high school, some teachers had a "Dress for Success" policy in which you got extra points for dressing up for the day of a test. The idea there is that you will do better if you're more polished, and I really think that's true. I'm more productive when I've done my hair, dabbed on a bit of make-up, and changed out of my favorite sweats, even if it just means doing a little bit of laundry.

So this year, I'm embracing the feminine. Chasley, I may even out-glam you. A girl can dream, anyway.

yikes.

This time of year gets people thinking about life changes: lose weight, work out more, read the Bible in a year, spend less time on Facebook, give up chocolate, etc. I'm no good at resolutions, though, because as soon as I say, "I'm only going to drink water," the only thing in this world that I want is a Coca-Cola Classic. Maybe I have a problem with authority, but something about absolutism just makes me want to rebel.

So I'm trying to avoid making a resolution, but I can't help at least doing some reflection. I think reflection leads to growth, and doesn't everyone want to grow? A stagnant life is no life at all... or at least it's quite boring. Some reflection is rather painful though, and I'm afraid that's where this is headed.

**caution: this is a downer blog.

I'm sensitive, okay? I always have been, and I might always will be (see, there I am avoiding the urge to resolve to not be sensitive... ah, this no resolution thing is so simple). As a small child, if I even thought someone was talking about me I would burst into tears. Maybe I suffered from paranoia as it seems I assumed all comments about me were negative. As an older child, I moved schools twice, which ultimately led to the discomfort of being the outsider as well as some blatant bullying. And then as a high schooler, I always felt like I was on a different page than everyone else. Maybe it was life experience-- having been the new kid, having experienced extreme loss-- or maybe I was just awkward, I'm not sure, but I had a very hard time connecting with kids my own age. In fact, I spent a lot of time with older kids... which meant that by the time I was the "older kid," I was in quite a fix.

So, yes, I'm sensitive. I blame it on having been bullied and an inherent inability to take criticism. Sarcasm is my native tongue, and I can go one-on-one with someone any day in a battle of wits... but you put two people against me, and you have a meltdown on your hands. Being ganged up on or left out, as it turns out, is something of a phobia for me.

But I'm too sensitive, really. I'm much too old to pout the way I do when the boys are giving me a hard time-- and frankly, that would be entirely too much time pouting. They know how it riles me up, though, when they pick on me... and they've learned what really bothers me-- calling my high school friends weird (people, just because you preferred ultimate frisbee and a moe. t-shirt over football and a camo jacket does not make you weird. open that mind up.), telling me how I feel about a situation-- and they love to push those buttons. Knowing this, you'd think I would get over it and roll my eyes. But no. It gets me every time.

So there, the cat's out of the bag. I really dislike this little characteristic of mine, and I can't imagine that my friends like it either, and I'm going to work on it... really. It's not necessarily my New Year's resolution, but I see no harm in a little self-improvement.

i'm a loser, baby

Holy night, I love The Biggest Loser. Yesterday, there were a thousand Facebook statuses demonstrating the love the female race has for a little reality show called The Bachelor.

Blah, blah, blah. Save the drama for your momma. I don't care which Size 0 gets the second-time Bachelor; I don't care who's secretly dating the show's producer or which girls "just happens" to be a struggling actress. I don't need the tears about how they're falling in love with a man that's dating 20 women. Yeah, that would make me cry too, moron. You signed up for this insanity, but I'm sure you had good reason. It's totally logical that you'll fall in love and get engaged in a span of 6 weeks, in the company of 20 competing girls, in front of a national audience. That relationship is bound to work, really... just like the other blissful Bachelor(ette) relationships.

But I digress.

The Biggest Loser is what's up. It is, in fact, the bee's knees. These people are so unhealthy; they are literally clinging to life. On the first episode, a doctor gives them a full check-up and life expectancy. It is astounding how dangerously the contestants are living.

Everything about this show is inspiring. I want to gain 400 pounds just in hopes that I could be on this show. Just so Jillian can yell and spit in my face that "every time [I] bitch and moan it makes [her] hungrier for [my] blood." If you read my last post, you'll notice that I talked about how much I like working out... but all of that had to do with how I feel after the work out. The work out itself is always a struggle. I would love to have Jillian and Bob in my face. Of course, it would also make my weight loss efforts easier if I lived on a ranch and had nothing to do but work out...

I can't wait to see how the contestants fare this season. The before and after shots on the season finale are the most inspiring things I've ever seen. Nothing makes me want to run faster and longer then seeing someone who is morbidly obese finish a 5k faster than I can.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to be inspired by my fat friends and Bob and Jillian.

**Let the record state that, contrary to my Bachelor rant, I have absolutely no room to criticize a reality show of any caliber as some of my favorite guilty pleasures include the Real Housewives and a number of terrible shows on E! and TLC.

Tuesday thoughts.

It's Tuesday, the holidays are behind me, and it's time to hit the grind again. But first, I thought I'd organize some thoughts.

I love-love-love What Not to Wear. I want a make-over so bad I can barely stand it. And, huh-lo, I wouldn't complain about a $5000 shopping spree in NYC. Normally, I change my hair every few months (fear of commitment much?), but this time around I'm determined to stick with it. Meanwhile, I'm getting a little restless with putting my make-up on the exact same way every day and cycling through my favorite outfits every week. If I can't be a participant on the show, I'll settle for just having Stacey London's hand-me-downs.

The longer my hair gets, the funkier I get. Or maybe I should say it makes me lazier. Something about longer hair makes me feel artsy or something (Annie and I had lots of talks about the "artsy" look this weekend, so I'm a little fixated on it right now). If my hair isn't perfectly straight, I think to myself, "Funky chic." If my hair is flat, I think, "So Euro." If my hair's is in a sloppy ponytail, I imagine myself being Kirsten Dunst chased by the paparazzi. Also, I see a lot of knit hats in my future.

A few days ago I said something I thought I'd never say... ever. Talking to Wade about our 6-to-4 ratio of girls to guys on our New Year's trip, he told me to feel free to invite more guys. And that's when I said it. That's when "I just don't have that many guy friends" tumbled out of my mouth. Whoa. Who am I? For the first time in my life, I'm not really "one of the guys" anymore. And I've got to be honest here... I kind of love it. I love girl talk and girls' night... I love borrowing each other's clothes, dolling up, and talking about our weddings and what we'll name our kids. My girlfriends are such an inspiration, such a beautiful example of the femininity that the Lord blessed our sex with. No dirty jokes, no spitting or farting... delightful.

As it turns out, I have the Midas touch. Every couple I touch turns to gold. Wade says I sit in my ivory tower and orchestrate matches between my friends. It really is incredible that every time I introduce my girl friends and guy friends at least one relationship ensues. They call me the puppeteer. How lucky they are to have a friend like me...!

After five days of a work-out hiatus, I have realized how addicted I am to exercise (another thing I thought I'd never say). Nothing compares to the high you get after a great gym session. It puts me in a better mood, and I feel so much healthier: I have more energy, I sleep better, I crave better food. And it's hard to beat the feeling of pulling on your favorite jeans and feeling like you have a little wiggle room. I even like feeling sore the day after a great work-out: hello accomplishment!

I have one more week to finish my joy reading, and then it's back to the textbooks. So if you need between now and then, I'll be in a quiet corner with my nose in a book.

Today I wrote...

... 2011 for the first time.

Weird. So, so weird.

This year I rang in the new year in Asheville, North Carolina, with some of my very favorite people. We skied, we ate, we hot tubbed, we laughed, we lounged. Morgan and I started an alliance and laughed until we cried; David and I overcame our fear of hugging each other-- we're both so very awkward; Wade, more commonly known as Papa Bear, took out the trash and kept us all in line; the girls sat in a line and played with each other's hair for hours (this is what my version of paradise looks like); JoJo, Kim, and I "sacrificed" and slept three to a bed... an extremely large, comfortable king-size bed; Clay talked me through a terrifying skiing experience-- next time, I just want to ride the ski lift up and down; and my team dominated at Fish Bowl. The hot tub broke more times than I can count, Kim cooked ziti for our family dinner night, and we visited a beer garden that was out of most beers. At midnight on New Year's Eve, we watched the ball drop at Pack's Tavern with a champagne toast and sang 'Auld Lang Syne' (well, David and Katie sang the actual lyrics... Annie and I just sang 'Na na na na' to the tune of 'Auld Lang Syne'). On the ride home, Annie, Jordon, and I subjected Wade to an earful of girl talk and song after song of classics like 'C'est La Vie' by B*Witched and 'Say My Name' by Destiny's Child. While he couldn't dial down our chatter, the volume did seem to mysteriously decrease periodically.

All in all, the trip was a success. Many memories made, many jokes told, many Oreo balls eaten. I wish there had been more snow-- there was a snowman on our porch when we arrived; by Day 2, it was just a scarf and some twigs in a puddle-- but I'll settle for beautiful weather and crisp mountain air... and be thankful for ice-free mountain roads.

A trip with ten people doesn't exactly provide the best atmosphere for reflection, but now that I'm home again for another week before school starts up, I feel predict some serious reflection in the forecast. Maybe I'll make a few resolutions. I'll let you know.