After 150 blog posts (tootin' my horn here, folks), it's hard to recall what subjects have graced this blogspot. Today, though, I've been perusing another of my favorite blogs (Shmitten Kitten, check it out), and I'm feeling inspired to write about men.
We all know that John Krasinski (may his bachelorhood rest in peace) is my ideal man, but let's break it down. Let me give you a run-through of the perfect man. Yes, THE perfect man.
[I know that I pledged to move on, so let me explain. I don't make it a practice to pine after taken men-- in fact, that's a triple no no in Lindsey's Book of Love-- but I've already moved on from one disaster this year, and this one is proving much harder, so I'm just going to indulge a little]
We'll start with John's most obvious trait: his height. Take any average guy, increase his height to above 6', and you have increased his attractiveness infinitely. This height fetish all started when I was a Junior in high school and my hipster boyfriend, Drew, was measuring in somewhere around 6'4. Nothing thrilled my heart more than being picked up into a hug by my very own Jolly Green Giant. Since Drew, no one's quite measured up... and I mean that literally; he gets the height trophy in my ex-boyfriend collection.
Next up: humor. This should really be first because it's possibly the MOST important thing on my checklist of romantic potential. And really, I have a checklist. And a guy could check every box on the page, but if the humor box is gaping open [ ]... sorry, sir. Thanks for playing. This category is tricky, though-- not just any humor will do. Take your bathroom humor elsewhere. I'm looking for puns and classic references... humor that is evidence of your wit and intelligence. One-liners should be like holidays: gloriously cheesy and only a few times a year. Otherwise, feel free to blow me away with your Jack Nicholson impression or your clever pun. John Krasinski is never lazy with his humor, and that's what we're shooting for.
Okay, gentlemen, here's where it gets tough. Our prototype, John, graduated with honors from Brown. So brush off your thinking caps, boys. The ideal man is smart, but not [never] a know-it-all. I don't have a perfect ACT score, and I wasn't Valedictorian, but I like to think I'm a smart gal. And it's tres important that you can match wits with me. Brownie points if you're smarter than me at things I don't want to know about: changing my tires, setting up my router, etc. Bottom line, I need your text messages to be grammatically correct-- because that's how, in my fantasy world, John texts-- everything else is a bonus.
I hate to be shallow, but this after all the IDEAL man, so I'll check my guilt here.
Please take note of John's hair. It is perfectly-coifed. Every time. Awards shows, premieres, out on the town... he probably wakes up with nary a hair out of place. And if he did, it would be perfectly tousled. John is not ashamed to throw in some product, but he does it with grace. No need to be a trigger-happy hair gel Guido. Keep it classy... because that's what John would do. In my ex- collection, I've got to give the hair trophy to Clay, who has a head full of fratastic hair. May it hold on tight, Clay.
And last (mainly because I'm about to leave), show me those pearly whites. My heart melts when John (or Jim, as it is on The Office) gives that sheepish grin to the camera. His eyes sparkle, his perfectly straight teeth gleam. It's like the sun shining through the clouds when his face cracks into a smile. So my last priority for the ideal male specimen: great teeth and a beautiful smile.
Voila. Now, is that so hard?...
And I didn't even get started on being a Christian, liking my friends, charming my parents, taking me on adventures... All things, I'm *sure* John Krasinski would ace... and if he wouldn't, I don't care to know.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
This little blog of mine...
This is my 150th post. I hesitate to write it only because you'll soon see that this blog has no purpose. Some of my blogs are stories I find humorous and worthy of sharing, others are my thoughts on something inspiring I have encountered... This, though, this milestone blog, will be about nothing. It seems fitting, now that I think about it, as the name of my blog is "Much Ado About Nothing" (which, coincidentally, I have never read; I simply relate to the idea of big hype over very little).
So I'm just going to write... er, type... because that's why I started this little diary to begin with.
Last night I had a mind explosion that probably seems elementary to most. As a child, we learn about David and Goliath. We know all about his sling shot and his stones, Saul's armor that was too big, and so on. I can even recall being fascinated by David's friendship with Jonathan. Later in life, having matured some, we hear about King David... about his affair with Bathsheba, how he had her husband basically murdered. I find that I fixate on David's authorship of so many Psalms. To me, he is The Psalmist. Last night I realized that in my mind's eye, there is a great disconnect between David the Giant Killer and David the Philandering Psalmist. There was something very comforting to put two and two together last night... I guess the idea of a Nobody being made not into a Somebody, but a Really Really Big Deal Somebody was what got me. I have no illusions that I will be a celebrity one day, but it's some kind of awesome to worship a God that does that kind of thing.
I love subbing. Honestly, I adore it. I love seeing all my old teacher, and I love when the students like me enough to share with me. And that's what I'm getting at. Some part of me, some residual high school insecurity, is begging these kids to like me. My outfits are calculated, my announcements laced with sarcasm and humor and some hope that if I'm genuine and honest my students will cut me some slack. I was never the cool kid in high school, and neither were my friends. I think I had my shot at it once, but it seemed like a lot of effort to me. I'd like to say I didn't care, that I lived my life as who I was, immune to peer pressure. But I did care, a lot. And here I am nearly 5 years later... Twenty-two years old, one degree under my belt and pursuing another, and there's still something inside of me that wants to be the cool kid.
I came home last night so that I could sub today. My little companion, Macy, doesn't get to go on overnight trips with me because, frankly, she travels with as much luggage as I do. It's weird how attached I am to her. I have always loved our family pets, but, unlike my parents, I can't say that I've missed them or worried about them when I was away from them, at least not consciously. Maybe it's my sense of ownership that makes it different with Macy. She's mine, whereas the cats at home are Mom's and Maggie is Dad's. Or maybe it's the other way around, that I'm hers. It bothers me when she's hiding under my bed, like last night, when I leave because I don't get to tell her goodnight. Or when she thinks that I'm trying to play when I bend down to pat her goodbye and she swats away my affection. I'm sure she's fine when I'm gone-- I'm not certain how accurate her perception of time is, and she might actually enjoy a day or two of free reign (not that she lives under any sort of rule)-- but it bothers me nonetheless. [and anyone reading this that isn't an animal-lover can just check your judgement at the door]
There are precious few things I love more than sleep. My favorite place to nap is on my couch, and I prefer to fall asleep watching TV over closing my eyes and trying to nap. It's just more natural to let long blinks turn into mouth-gaping sleep to the tune of Mad Men in the background (how d'you like that visual?). When friends stay overnight with me or just sit on my bed for a chat or a movie, they often comment on how wonderful my bed is. That's what I call an "on purpose." Some people invest in hand bags, some video games... whatever your interest is, I suppose. My interest is the art of sleep, and I invest in it from my feather comforter to my impossibly high thread count sheets. Sleep is a cause I believe in, something I'm passionate about... something I excel at. When you play basketball, it's important to have those unattractive sneakers and those unnecessarily long jersey shorts, and it's essential to practice often. Likewise, I have the necessary equipment-- soft sheets, heavy comforter, therapeutic mattress-- and I work diligently to perfect my art with short naps (sprints, if you will) as well as long naps (marathon-style). When it comes to sleep, I'm a champion, a regular Olympian. Other things I'm good at: watching back-to-back episodes of TV on DVD, procrastinating important assignments to the point of panic attack, Facebook creeping, and managing a blog about nothing.
I have an incurable sweet tooth. Undoubtedly, I get it from my dad, who suffers from the same cocaine-like addiction. I have a relentless compulsion to eat sweets when they're in my vicinity (ever lit up a cigarette around a smoker?), and sometimes even when they're not. Like any addict, I often tell myself I can stop whenever I want, that I'm not REALLY addicted... and I can even believe it, until faced with tiramisu or a homemade chocolate chip cookie. Set those bad boys in front of me, and I turn into a crumbly-faced, chocolate-smudged slob in mere seconds. Add sugar inhalation to the things I'm good at, I guess.
I'm going to actually do work now, I think. I'm holding back some unimportant thoughts to write unimportant blogs about later: books I want to read, places I want to go (I may even include pictures! Blog treat!), and reasons why I love the fall.
So I'm just going to write... er, type... because that's why I started this little diary to begin with.
Last night I had a mind explosion that probably seems elementary to most. As a child, we learn about David and Goliath. We know all about his sling shot and his stones, Saul's armor that was too big, and so on. I can even recall being fascinated by David's friendship with Jonathan. Later in life, having matured some, we hear about King David... about his affair with Bathsheba, how he had her husband basically murdered. I find that I fixate on David's authorship of so many Psalms. To me, he is The Psalmist. Last night I realized that in my mind's eye, there is a great disconnect between David the Giant Killer and David the Philandering Psalmist. There was something very comforting to put two and two together last night... I guess the idea of a Nobody being made not into a Somebody, but a Really Really Big Deal Somebody was what got me. I have no illusions that I will be a celebrity one day, but it's some kind of awesome to worship a God that does that kind of thing.
I love subbing. Honestly, I adore it. I love seeing all my old teacher, and I love when the students like me enough to share with me. And that's what I'm getting at. Some part of me, some residual high school insecurity, is begging these kids to like me. My outfits are calculated, my announcements laced with sarcasm and humor and some hope that if I'm genuine and honest my students will cut me some slack. I was never the cool kid in high school, and neither were my friends. I think I had my shot at it once, but it seemed like a lot of effort to me. I'd like to say I didn't care, that I lived my life as who I was, immune to peer pressure. But I did care, a lot. And here I am nearly 5 years later... Twenty-two years old, one degree under my belt and pursuing another, and there's still something inside of me that wants to be the cool kid.
I came home last night so that I could sub today. My little companion, Macy, doesn't get to go on overnight trips with me because, frankly, she travels with as much luggage as I do. It's weird how attached I am to her. I have always loved our family pets, but, unlike my parents, I can't say that I've missed them or worried about them when I was away from them, at least not consciously. Maybe it's my sense of ownership that makes it different with Macy. She's mine, whereas the cats at home are Mom's and Maggie is Dad's. Or maybe it's the other way around, that I'm hers. It bothers me when she's hiding under my bed, like last night, when I leave because I don't get to tell her goodnight. Or when she thinks that I'm trying to play when I bend down to pat her goodbye and she swats away my affection. I'm sure she's fine when I'm gone-- I'm not certain how accurate her perception of time is, and she might actually enjoy a day or two of free reign (not that she lives under any sort of rule)-- but it bothers me nonetheless. [and anyone reading this that isn't an animal-lover can just check your judgement at the door]
There are precious few things I love more than sleep. My favorite place to nap is on my couch, and I prefer to fall asleep watching TV over closing my eyes and trying to nap. It's just more natural to let long blinks turn into mouth-gaping sleep to the tune of Mad Men in the background (how d'you like that visual?). When friends stay overnight with me or just sit on my bed for a chat or a movie, they often comment on how wonderful my bed is. That's what I call an "on purpose." Some people invest in hand bags, some video games... whatever your interest is, I suppose. My interest is the art of sleep, and I invest in it from my feather comforter to my impossibly high thread count sheets. Sleep is a cause I believe in, something I'm passionate about... something I excel at. When you play basketball, it's important to have those unattractive sneakers and those unnecessarily long jersey shorts, and it's essential to practice often. Likewise, I have the necessary equipment-- soft sheets, heavy comforter, therapeutic mattress-- and I work diligently to perfect my art with short naps (sprints, if you will) as well as long naps (marathon-style). When it comes to sleep, I'm a champion, a regular Olympian. Other things I'm good at: watching back-to-back episodes of TV on DVD, procrastinating important assignments to the point of panic attack, Facebook creeping, and managing a blog about nothing.
I have an incurable sweet tooth. Undoubtedly, I get it from my dad, who suffers from the same cocaine-like addiction. I have a relentless compulsion to eat sweets when they're in my vicinity (ever lit up a cigarette around a smoker?), and sometimes even when they're not. Like any addict, I often tell myself I can stop whenever I want, that I'm not REALLY addicted... and I can even believe it, until faced with tiramisu or a homemade chocolate chip cookie. Set those bad boys in front of me, and I turn into a crumbly-faced, chocolate-smudged slob in mere seconds. Add sugar inhalation to the things I'm good at, I guess.
I'm going to actually do work now, I think. I'm holding back some unimportant thoughts to write unimportant blogs about later: books I want to read, places I want to go (I may even include pictures! Blog treat!), and reasons why I love the fall.
This one's for the girls.
Today I'm back in the grind: substitute teacher extraordinaire. While my graduate assistant job is convenient-- half tuition and a stipend ain't half bad-- this is what I love. The interactions with students, the interactions between students (yes: the eaves-dropping).
Most days when I sub, I like to write a review of all the appalling things I've overheard. 13-year-olds getting drunk, juniors dying to get a self-proclaimed "tramp stamp," and so on. Today is not much different: I've already wrote my mom an e-mail about how ridiculous it is that these students will have work on their desk and just stare straight ahead. They're not even necessarily talking, just making an active choice to not do their work. They just don't care: not about their grades, not about referrals, not about lectures. One month into school, they're already over it.
But here's the difference. Here's the inspiring difference brought to me by just five girls in one class. These girls are sitting nearest to my desk, so they're easiest to observe, and they have no idea that they've blessed me. These girls are stand-outs. They're not bad-mouthing their classmates, they're not talking about boys or their weekend plans. They're talking about Full House reruns, mission trips to Mexico, and Wednesday night church. One is talking about her quiet time in Philippians, another has her Bible on her desk showing one of the others.
I'm a-likin' what I'm a-seein'. A+, ladies.
Most days when I sub, I like to write a review of all the appalling things I've overheard. 13-year-olds getting drunk, juniors dying to get a self-proclaimed "tramp stamp," and so on. Today is not much different: I've already wrote my mom an e-mail about how ridiculous it is that these students will have work on their desk and just stare straight ahead. They're not even necessarily talking, just making an active choice to not do their work. They just don't care: not about their grades, not about referrals, not about lectures. One month into school, they're already over it.
But here's the difference. Here's the inspiring difference brought to me by just five girls in one class. These girls are sitting nearest to my desk, so they're easiest to observe, and they have no idea that they've blessed me. These girls are stand-outs. They're not bad-mouthing their classmates, they're not talking about boys or their weekend plans. They're talking about Full House reruns, mission trips to Mexico, and Wednesday night church. One is talking about her quiet time in Philippians, another has her Bible on her desk showing one of the others.
I'm a-likin' what I'm a-seein'. A+, ladies.
Friday, September 10, 2010
to Steve Martin, with Love
Laughter is like a drug for me. I live for it; I thrive on it. There is no better place- regardless of setting, town, or country- than a room full of laughter. It's one of the many reasons I love my family: on my dad's side, my cousins and I share muttered jokes and suppressed giggles at every gathering; and on my mom's side, my mother and her siblings are the center of attention as they tell the same old stories followed by the same old uncontrollable laughter. It's one of the many reasons I love my friends: our inside jokes can leave me gasping for breath, and no one is safe from a friendly dig. I feel most successful in life when I can make the people around me laugh and most satisfied in life when I'm surrounded by those that make me laugh.
My love affair with laughter has instilled in me a need to seek out laughter. A drive to the beach is the perfect opportunity to listen to a Bill Cosby CD. I will never, ever go see a horror move, not because I'm a ninny but because I don't want to spend money on something that doesn't make me happy (also, because I'm a ninny). When SNL is good (and let's all agree that these days it's hit or miss), there's practically nothing I'd rather watch. Every night before I go to bed I watch Whose Line Is It Anyway?, and I laugh out loud (LOL) every time.
Somewhere along the way, I was introduced to Steve Martin. For years, he was merely the funny, lovable dad on one of my all-time favorite movies, Father of the Bride (Parts I and II). Since then, I've been a fan but only as a young adult did I start getting into "classic" Steve Martin. My dad forced "The Man with Two Brains on Me" not too long ago, and I've recently been reading the comedian's autobiography--which I highly recommend. And I won't even get started on "The Jerk."
There's something perfect about Steve Martin. He's charming and easy on the eyes; he's self-deprecating and incredibly intelligent; he's physical but his punch lines are subtle. It's possible that some of my love for Steve Martin stems out of how I identify him with my own funny man, my dad (Steve doesn't know that Tim's his banjo soulmate).
His book is a really great read. It's light and witty, more like a conversation with him about his struggle and ascent to fame (if you didn't know, he wasn't exactly an overnight success). And his stories about the turbulent change in decades (the drug culture of the 60s to the post-Vietnam atmosphere of the 70s and so on) provide a really entertaining commentary on the changes in our nation. I love how he drops names from time to time-- Sonny and Cher, Ann-Margaret, the Allman Brothers Band-- to emphasize his "nobody" status among the celebrities of the era. His stories are shockingly honest, often delving into his experiments with drugs and his one-night stands on the road, but even at his lowest points, those when all I could think was, "Not you too, Steve..." he is every bit as lovable and magnetic. Oh, and there are pictures!
So this is my tribute to Steve Martin, inspired by my time reading "Born Standing Up" in the lobby of the tanning salon. I'm going to say, off the top of my head, that he's my favorite stand-up comedian and his George Banks is definitely my favorite on-screen dad. And I'll leave you with a little Steve Martin wisdom:
"Were they beautiful? We were all beautiful. We were in our twenties."
My love affair with laughter has instilled in me a need to seek out laughter. A drive to the beach is the perfect opportunity to listen to a Bill Cosby CD. I will never, ever go see a horror move, not because I'm a ninny but because I don't want to spend money on something that doesn't make me happy (also, because I'm a ninny). When SNL is good (and let's all agree that these days it's hit or miss), there's practically nothing I'd rather watch. Every night before I go to bed I watch Whose Line Is It Anyway?, and I laugh out loud (LOL) every time.
Somewhere along the way, I was introduced to Steve Martin. For years, he was merely the funny, lovable dad on one of my all-time favorite movies, Father of the Bride (Parts I and II). Since then, I've been a fan but only as a young adult did I start getting into "classic" Steve Martin. My dad forced "The Man with Two Brains on Me" not too long ago, and I've recently been reading the comedian's autobiography--which I highly recommend. And I won't even get started on "The Jerk."
There's something perfect about Steve Martin. He's charming and easy on the eyes; he's self-deprecating and incredibly intelligent; he's physical but his punch lines are subtle. It's possible that some of my love for Steve Martin stems out of how I identify him with my own funny man, my dad (Steve doesn't know that Tim's his banjo soulmate).
His book is a really great read. It's light and witty, more like a conversation with him about his struggle and ascent to fame (if you didn't know, he wasn't exactly an overnight success). And his stories about the turbulent change in decades (the drug culture of the 60s to the post-Vietnam atmosphere of the 70s and so on) provide a really entertaining commentary on the changes in our nation. I love how he drops names from time to time-- Sonny and Cher, Ann-Margaret, the Allman Brothers Band-- to emphasize his "nobody" status among the celebrities of the era. His stories are shockingly honest, often delving into his experiments with drugs and his one-night stands on the road, but even at his lowest points, those when all I could think was, "Not you too, Steve..." he is every bit as lovable and magnetic. Oh, and there are pictures!
So this is my tribute to Steve Martin, inspired by my time reading "Born Standing Up" in the lobby of the tanning salon. I'm going to say, off the top of my head, that he's my favorite stand-up comedian and his George Banks is definitely my favorite on-screen dad. And I'll leave you with a little Steve Martin wisdom:
"Were they beautiful? We were all beautiful. We were in our twenties."
Monday, September 6, 2010
Today at the beach...
I did homework.
It's not ideal, but I suppose I'd rather bury my head in a textbook with my toes dug into the sand instead of knees crammed under a desk.
So after a day of school-free bliss, I put my game face on and loaded up (read: weighed down) my beach bag with my Theories textbook and my massive three-ring binder and headed down to the beach. Hopefully my pale skin soaked up some sun while my brain tried desperately to soak up some psychoanalytic theory. Don't get me wrong, Freud is pretty interesting... but I still haven't finished Gone with the Wind and my Steve Martin autobiography is so light and fun. And you know I've always got a Beth Moore book in my bag.
Speaking of Beth-- yes, if she should ever stumble onto this blog, she might be alarmed by my slight obsession-- I had a really exciting thought today. In December, I am potentially going to visit a friend in Dallas (because you gotta take advantage of friends in big, exciting cities). Today as I rambled on to my mother about how my dream job is to be Beth's assistant (yeah, yeah, save your judgement for someone else), a lightbulb suddenly flipped on in my head: Beth Moore. Texas. Beth lives in Texas. I'd need to live in Texas to be Beth's assistant. Oh my gosh, I'll be in Texas in December. What part of Texas is Beth in? I need to put Clay on a mission to find Beth's church immediately. I could meet Beth Moore. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.
So I did a little research. Beth's church is in Houston, not Dallas. Now, if this was a matter of Birmingham to Huntsville, sure. But my understanding of Texas is that it's big (admittedly, I've never been to Texas... I've driven through it once on a mission trip to Mexico, but I slept my way through most of it... my ability to sleep anywhere I choose is remarkable...). So my Beth Moore hopes and dreams have been crushed for the time being.
It's slightly disappointing that my beach day was spent with my nose in a textbook and then on an emotional roller coaster from Dallas to Houston, but I DID get a four-page paper banged out... so I can at least go to bed with a sense of accomplishment.
PS- if you're concerned about my Beth Moore fixation, just know that I'm currently on a detour into the mind of C.S. Lewis via his Mere Christianity. Once you get your mental voice into the flow of a British accent and lingo, this man's stuff is something close to brilliant... and really quite witty (my mental voice said that in a British accent because now that it's there it seems to be stuck).
It's not ideal, but I suppose I'd rather bury my head in a textbook with my toes dug into the sand instead of knees crammed under a desk.
So after a day of school-free bliss, I put my game face on and loaded up (read: weighed down) my beach bag with my Theories textbook and my massive three-ring binder and headed down to the beach. Hopefully my pale skin soaked up some sun while my brain tried desperately to soak up some psychoanalytic theory. Don't get me wrong, Freud is pretty interesting... but I still haven't finished Gone with the Wind and my Steve Martin autobiography is so light and fun. And you know I've always got a Beth Moore book in my bag.
Speaking of Beth-- yes, if she should ever stumble onto this blog, she might be alarmed by my slight obsession-- I had a really exciting thought today. In December, I am potentially going to visit a friend in Dallas (because you gotta take advantage of friends in big, exciting cities). Today as I rambled on to my mother about how my dream job is to be Beth's assistant (yeah, yeah, save your judgement for someone else), a lightbulb suddenly flipped on in my head: Beth Moore. Texas. Beth lives in Texas. I'd need to live in Texas to be Beth's assistant. Oh my gosh, I'll be in Texas in December. What part of Texas is Beth in? I need to put Clay on a mission to find Beth's church immediately. I could meet Beth Moore. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.
So I did a little research. Beth's church is in Houston, not Dallas. Now, if this was a matter of Birmingham to Huntsville, sure. But my understanding of Texas is that it's big (admittedly, I've never been to Texas... I've driven through it once on a mission trip to Mexico, but I slept my way through most of it... my ability to sleep anywhere I choose is remarkable...). So my Beth Moore hopes and dreams have been crushed for the time being.
It's slightly disappointing that my beach day was spent with my nose in a textbook and then on an emotional roller coaster from Dallas to Houston, but I DID get a four-page paper banged out... so I can at least go to bed with a sense of accomplishment.
PS- if you're concerned about my Beth Moore fixation, just know that I'm currently on a detour into the mind of C.S. Lewis via his Mere Christianity. Once you get your mental voice into the flow of a British accent and lingo, this man's stuff is something close to brilliant... and really quite witty (my mental voice said that in a British accent because now that it's there it seems to be stuck).
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Beach Bums and Football Fanatics
For days, weeks even, people have been counting down to this day: Game Day. As I drove through campus this week, the air was abuzz with pre-game festivities. I have to give credit where credit's due: there was electricity in the air even at my new university here on the other side of the state. I didn't get the same chill bumps as I do when I see those RVs drive up Donahue with Auburn flags a-wavin', but it at least got me in an SEC state-of-mind. The sun shone a bit brighter, and the air smelled a little cleaner (yes, even on my side of the state...).
Since my first student ticket got me into a game against County High School... er, San Jose St., I gladly skipped town to meet my parents at the beach. With the immense stress I've been under, this little weekend trip to the Coast has been the light at the end of my tunnel for weeks now. Thursday night after class I got all my ducks in a row and baked a few [dozen] cookies for Dad and I to snack on at the beach, and then I barely slept in anticipation for my Friday morning departure. I jumped out of bed Friday morning, made sure Macy was taken care of, and headed south. I met up with the parentals, feasted on Jim-N-Nick's, and then proceeded to our little beach getaway. After a brief stop at the outlets, we finally arrived at 8:30 Friday night.
I noticed as I approached our condo door that it seemed to be ajar. This was cause for some concern, but I could've never guessed what waited for me behind the door. Immediately as I shoved the door open I saw my twin bed head boards against the hall closet doorway, and as my eyes shifted around the room and adjusted to the dark I saw two twin mattresses in the kitchen along with my dresser and chair, my bathroom sink in the kitchen hallway, my parents' king-size bed atop the dining room table, and their dressers and other furniture in the living room. Along all the walls lay baseboards, nail side up. The most upsetting part was that the water had been turned off, and if I'm within 1-hour of my destination I happen to refuse to use public restrooms. So there I was, in a condo turned upside down, somewhere between peeing in my pants and crying.
As it turns out, the renovations in our time-share condo were supposed to completed a couple of weeks ago but there had been some kind of delay... and, oops, they failed to notify us. Dad went down to do a little man-to-man negotiating with the people at the office while Mom and I sulked and sat atop the luggage carts. We managed to get a condo out of Dad's wheeling and dealing, so after an hour of squatting in the hallway we rolled into our new home (and more importantly, working bathroom) two floors down.
Today all that trauma is just a dim memory. After a morning run with Dad-- hello, I'm training for a 5k now-- I showered and pulled on my favorite Auburn t-shirt. I bought this shirt at my first Auburn game in tenth grade. It's classic navy and softened with age, and the screen-printed orange letters are slightly cracked. I was pleased to find my mom in navy and white as well, and she even accessorized with an orange purse. Dad-- in mourning the loss of his family to Auburn, I suppose-- wore all black. We lunched at LuLu's and headed back to the outlet, all along the way being greeted by members of the Auburn Family with friendly War Eagle's-- there's really no way to describe the instant kindred feeling you get when you have a War Eagle moment. I even bonded with some LSU fans over our Tigers (we're a Tiger family, maybe?) and a few Florida fans because we were all wearing the right colors.
You know, it wasn't the same as being on the Plains for game day... seeing tents set up with the finest tailgating fare up and down College Street, the flood of orange and blue throughout campus, a shaker in every hand you pass... nothing can compare, truly. BUT... seeing all the colors of the SEC out loud and proud here at the coast isn't the worst way to kick off the college football season.
As I write this, the LSU-UNC game is playing on the TV in front of me. Just moments ago Kirk Herbstreit started giving his rundown of the SEC, and I got to hear him say once again that Auburn might just take the West this year. Here's hoping, Kirk, and War Eagle to you too.
Since my first student ticket got me into a game against County High School... er, San Jose St., I gladly skipped town to meet my parents at the beach. With the immense stress I've been under, this little weekend trip to the Coast has been the light at the end of my tunnel for weeks now. Thursday night after class I got all my ducks in a row and baked a few [dozen] cookies for Dad and I to snack on at the beach, and then I barely slept in anticipation for my Friday morning departure. I jumped out of bed Friday morning, made sure Macy was taken care of, and headed south. I met up with the parentals, feasted on Jim-N-Nick's, and then proceeded to our little beach getaway. After a brief stop at the outlets, we finally arrived at 8:30 Friday night.
I noticed as I approached our condo door that it seemed to be ajar. This was cause for some concern, but I could've never guessed what waited for me behind the door. Immediately as I shoved the door open I saw my twin bed head boards against the hall closet doorway, and as my eyes shifted around the room and adjusted to the dark I saw two twin mattresses in the kitchen along with my dresser and chair, my bathroom sink in the kitchen hallway, my parents' king-size bed atop the dining room table, and their dressers and other furniture in the living room. Along all the walls lay baseboards, nail side up. The most upsetting part was that the water had been turned off, and if I'm within 1-hour of my destination I happen to refuse to use public restrooms. So there I was, in a condo turned upside down, somewhere between peeing in my pants and crying.
As it turns out, the renovations in our time-share condo were supposed to completed a couple of weeks ago but there had been some kind of delay... and, oops, they failed to notify us. Dad went down to do a little man-to-man negotiating with the people at the office while Mom and I sulked and sat atop the luggage carts. We managed to get a condo out of Dad's wheeling and dealing, so after an hour of squatting in the hallway we rolled into our new home (and more importantly, working bathroom) two floors down.
Today all that trauma is just a dim memory. After a morning run with Dad-- hello, I'm training for a 5k now-- I showered and pulled on my favorite Auburn t-shirt. I bought this shirt at my first Auburn game in tenth grade. It's classic navy and softened with age, and the screen-printed orange letters are slightly cracked. I was pleased to find my mom in navy and white as well, and she even accessorized with an orange purse. Dad-- in mourning the loss of his family to Auburn, I suppose-- wore all black. We lunched at LuLu's and headed back to the outlet, all along the way being greeted by members of the Auburn Family with friendly War Eagle's-- there's really no way to describe the instant kindred feeling you get when you have a War Eagle moment. I even bonded with some LSU fans over our Tigers (we're a Tiger family, maybe?) and a few Florida fans because we were all wearing the right colors.
You know, it wasn't the same as being on the Plains for game day... seeing tents set up with the finest tailgating fare up and down College Street, the flood of orange and blue throughout campus, a shaker in every hand you pass... nothing can compare, truly. BUT... seeing all the colors of the SEC out loud and proud here at the coast isn't the worst way to kick off the college football season.
As I write this, the LSU-UNC game is playing on the TV in front of me. Just moments ago Kirk Herbstreit started giving his rundown of the SEC, and I got to hear him say once again that Auburn might just take the West this year. Here's hoping, Kirk, and War Eagle to you too.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The lows are complemented by highs.
Alright, party people, somebody out there has been praying for me, and I demand that you reveal yourself. Who here has an in with the Big Guy?
But for reals, I am on a high right now. This is the part of the sitcom where you'd hear one of the main character's voiceover "Previously on Dawson's Creek..." or "Previously on Gilmore Girls..." (those are the two that come to my mind, obviously). So, previously in Wonderland-- yes, it's really what I call my little universe, it wasn't a blog joke so many moons ago-- I was questioning my career path, holding back tears, and frustrated beyond words-- and I am RARELY without words. My multicultural class had pushed my to the end of my rope, or rather the professor had by intentionally embarrassing me in front of my peers. I left with, and blogged about, tremendous feelings of discouragement. A little Mom love and some wise counsel from a dear friend lifted my spirits slightly, not to mention a much-needed bubble bath, but I have lived the last week in dread of returning to the class.
I mean, really, DREAD is an understatement. As I am an incurable perfectionist, I am not a quitter. I would've finished this program, like it or not, simply to prove that I could... but last week I didn't want to. Last week the light wasn't at the end of the tunnel. Last week the light was elusive, out to lunch or off for the day. I didn't want to finish the program, I didn't want to be a school counselor, I didn't want to even go to class the next day.
I can't say that I'm completely cured. I still question things... Do I want to be a school counselor? Absolutely. For the rest of my life? Eh, probably not. Will I ever stop changing my mind about what I want to be when I grow up? Back off, buddy, there's no talk of growing up around here.
Tonight my professor called me her Gold Star Student. I know it may seem elementary to some, but you have to experience this professor to know what high praise that is. You have to know that I shook a little bit as I walked into the classroom tonight, that I literally made myself sick thinking about it all day. With this behind me, the rest of my week-- even the 8 articles and a few chapters I have to read for tomorrow's class-- seem like child's play.
And you know, I may leave class next week in tears. I may come home and beg my mom not to make me go back like I did when I was the new kid in second grade (oh, that makes you feel bad for me, does it? Second grade's no joke). But, thankfully, most of my lows are complemented by highs... which interestingly enough was a lyric to a song on a CD Trey burnt me this summer... and I'd never listened to it until tonight on my way home from class. Weird, huh?
Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go bask in the glow of my Gold Star.
But for reals, I am on a high right now. This is the part of the sitcom where you'd hear one of the main character's voiceover "Previously on Dawson's Creek..." or "Previously on Gilmore Girls..." (those are the two that come to my mind, obviously). So, previously in Wonderland-- yes, it's really what I call my little universe, it wasn't a blog joke so many moons ago-- I was questioning my career path, holding back tears, and frustrated beyond words-- and I am RARELY without words. My multicultural class had pushed my to the end of my rope, or rather the professor had by intentionally embarrassing me in front of my peers. I left with, and blogged about, tremendous feelings of discouragement. A little Mom love and some wise counsel from a dear friend lifted my spirits slightly, not to mention a much-needed bubble bath, but I have lived the last week in dread of returning to the class.
I mean, really, DREAD is an understatement. As I am an incurable perfectionist, I am not a quitter. I would've finished this program, like it or not, simply to prove that I could... but last week I didn't want to. Last week the light wasn't at the end of the tunnel. Last week the light was elusive, out to lunch or off for the day. I didn't want to finish the program, I didn't want to be a school counselor, I didn't want to even go to class the next day.
I can't say that I'm completely cured. I still question things... Do I want to be a school counselor? Absolutely. For the rest of my life? Eh, probably not. Will I ever stop changing my mind about what I want to be when I grow up? Back off, buddy, there's no talk of growing up around here.
Tonight my professor called me her Gold Star Student. I know it may seem elementary to some, but you have to experience this professor to know what high praise that is. You have to know that I shook a little bit as I walked into the classroom tonight, that I literally made myself sick thinking about it all day. With this behind me, the rest of my week-- even the 8 articles and a few chapters I have to read for tomorrow's class-- seem like child's play.
And you know, I may leave class next week in tears. I may come home and beg my mom not to make me go back like I did when I was the new kid in second grade (oh, that makes you feel bad for me, does it? Second grade's no joke). But, thankfully, most of my lows are complemented by highs... which interestingly enough was a lyric to a song on a CD Trey burnt me this summer... and I'd never listened to it until tonight on my way home from class. Weird, huh?
Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go bask in the glow of my Gold Star.
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