tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-173521442024-03-13T17:08:47.412-04:00The Shepherd's DaughterA shepherd's daughter struggles with (or at least blathers on about) love, writing, life in New York City and teaching in The Bronx, and leaving NYC to get an MFA in Poetry.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05500002477132780076noreply@blogger.comBlogger321125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-45636242613722276972011-01-23T18:45:00.017-05:002011-01-23T19:49:32.617-05:00Dr. Who and Torchwood Crossover Guide<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TTy-28sB3WI/AAAAAAAACs0/Xhvy2hRE2gg/s1600/lgpp31882%252Bthe-good-guys-doctor-who-poster.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TTy-28sB3WI/AAAAAAAACs0/Xhvy2hRE2gg/s320/lgpp31882%252Bthe-good-guys-doctor-who-poster.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565533090736102754" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TTy-2he7CHI/AAAAAAAACss/LrxmUvbn20I/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 226px; height: 223px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TTy-2he7CHI/AAAAAAAACss/LrxmUvbn20I/s320/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565533083433371762" border="0" /></a><br /><style>@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }a:link, span.MsoHyperlink { color: blue; text-decoration: underline; }a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed { color: purple; text-decoration: underline; }div.Section1 { page: Sec</style><span style="font-size:100%;">This week, I contracted a terrible stomach flu and was too nauseated and weak to do much but watch Netflix. First, I watched all of Torchwood, as it had been recommended to me. Then, I decided to go back and watch Dr. Who. The thing is, things get confusing, what with a British airing system so different from what I’m used to in the US and time within the shows being all <i style="">“</i><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >wibbly</span></em><i style="">-</i><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >wobbly</span></em><i style="">, </i><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >timey</span></em><i style="">-</i><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >wimey.”<br /><br /></span></em></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >I was inspired by my confusion and the most popular entry ever on this blog—<a href="http://shepherdsdaughter.blogspot.com/2009/02/buffy-and-angel-crossover-episode-guide.html">the Buffy and Angel Crossover Episode Guide</a>— to create a watching guide for Dr. Who and Torchwood. I’ll give the order in which the shows were originally aired, mentioning specific crossover episodes when possible. For dates, I relied on Wikipedia. Note: Sometimes I label it “CROSSOVER” when the label “SEEDS OF FUTURE SPIN-OFF” would be more accurate. Also, I tried to keep it vague, but there are some SPOILERS.<br /></span></em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" ><br /></span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >This is, perhaps, the geekiest thing I’ve ever done. Enjoy!</span></em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" ><br /></span></em></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></em></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:180%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >The Ninth Doctor </span></b></em><span style="font-size:85%;"><b style=""><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Eccleston">Christopher Eccleston</a></b></span></span></p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style="font-size:14pt;"> </span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >Dr. Who- Series 1- </span></b></em><b style="">March-June 2005</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >CROSSOVER: Episode 3- “The Unquiet Dead” </span></b></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >In Cardiff, The Doctor and Rose meet a servant, Gwynneth, played by Torchwood’s Eve Myles. Gwynneth is later implied to be Gwen Cooper’s ancestor.</span></em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" ><br /></span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></b></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >CROSSOVER: Episode 4- “Aliens of London”</span></b></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > “Dr.” Toshiko Sato examines a space pig. Mentioned again in Torchwood Season 2 Ep. 13 “Exit Wounds.”<br /></span></em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><em></em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em></em></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >CROSSOVER: Episodes</span></b></em> <em><b style=""><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-style: normal;">9-13 “The Empty Child,” “The Doctor Dances,” “Boom Town,” “Bad Wolf” and “The Parting of the Ways” </span></b></em><em><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-style: normal;">Jack Harkness joins Rose and The Doctor on their travels. “Bad Wolf” also includes the first mention of Torchwood.</span></em></span><style>@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:180%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >The Tenth Doctor </span></b></em></span><b style=""><span style="font-size:16pt;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Tennant">David Tennant</a></span> <em></em></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></em></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;"><br /></span></b></em></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;">Children in Need Special</span></b></em><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></b></em><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;">2005</span></b></em><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >- </span></b></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >Found the mini-episode <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgmhUsu8uOs">HERE!</a> The Doctor claims he’s leaving Jack behind to rebuild the earth.</span></em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" ><br /></span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;">Dr. Who Special-</span></b></em><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > “The Christmas Invasion”- December 2005- Note: </span></b></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >Although the Christmas special episodes aired in the UK between seasons, on Netflix this is Episode 1 of Series 2. <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><span style=""> </span></span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></b></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >Dr. Who- Series 2-</span></b></em><b style=""> April-July 2006</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></em></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >Torchwood- Series 1- October 2006 to January 2007*</span></b></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></b></em></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;"><br /></span></b></em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;">*Dr. Who Special-</span></b></em><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > “The Runaway Bride”- December 2006. </span></b></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >Although Netflix and boxed sets place this as the first episode of season 3, it aired between <b style="">Torchwood Series 1 </b>episodes<b style=""> 11- “Combat” </b>and<b style=""> 12-“Captain Jack Harkness.”<br /></b></span></em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" ><b style=""><br /></b></span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></b></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >Dr. Who- Series 3- March-June 2007</span></b></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >CROSSOVER: Episodes 11-13 “Utopia,” “The Sound of Drums” and “Last of the Time Lords” </span></b></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >Captain Jack Harkness finally catches up with the doctor and they end up battling The Master.</span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></b></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;"><br /></span></b></em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;">Dr. Who Children in Need Special</span></b></em><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > - “Time Crash” </span></b></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >Found the mini-episode <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X7boeBf5pbQ">HERE!</a><br /></span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;"><br /></span></b></em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;">Dr. Who Special-</span></b></em><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > “The Voyage of the Damned” December 2007: </span></b></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >Although the Christmas special episodes aired in the UK between seasons, on Netflix this is Episode 1 of Series 4.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></b></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >Torchwood- Series 2- January-April 2008</span></b></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >CROSSOVER: Episodes 6-9 “Reset,” “Dead Man Walking” and “A Day in the Death” </span></b></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >Dr. Martha Jones, now of UNIT, comes to help Torchwood investigate a series of murders in Cardiff.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></b></em></span></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" ><br /></span></em></span></p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >Dr. Who- Series 4 April-July 2008</span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >CROSSOVER: Episodes 12-13 “The Stolen Earth” </span></b></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >and <b style="">“Journey’s End” </b>Ianto, Gwen and all The Doctor’s companions (from the new series) work with him to battle a dangerous foe. </span></em><em></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></b></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;"><br /></span></b></em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;">Dr. Who Special-</span></b></em><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > “The Next Doctor”- December 2008- </span></b></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >Netflix includes this special as episode 15 of Series 4.</span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></b></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;">Dr. Who Special-</span></b></em><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > “Planet of the Dead”-</span></b></em><em><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></em><b style="">April 2009 - </b>Easter special <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >Torchwood- Series 3- “Children of Earth” miniseries July 2009</span></b></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;"><br /></span></b></em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;">Dr. Who Special-</span></b></em><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > “The Waters of Mars”- November 2009</span></b></em></span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;">Dr. Who Special-</span></b></em><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > “The End of Time” </span></b></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >part 1<b style="">- December 2009</b></span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > </span></b></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-family:Cambria;">Dr. Who Special-</span></b></em><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" > “The End of Time” </span></b></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >part 2<b style="">- January 2010</b></span></em></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" ><b style=""><br /></b></span></em></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""> </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:180%;"><em><b style=""><span style="font-style: normal;font-family:Cambria;" >The Eleventh Doctor</span></b></em></span><span style="font-size:180%;"> <b style=""><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matt_Smith_%28actor%29">Matt Smith</a></span> </span>**</b></span><b style="">Note:<br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">I haven’t seen episodes past this point, so I don’t know what crossovers might exist.<br /></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style="font-size:16pt;"> </span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><b style=""><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><b style="">Dr. Who- Series 5- April- June 2010</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style="font-size:14pt;"> </span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style=""><i style=""><br /></i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style=""><i style="">Dr. Who Special-</i> “A Christmas Carol”- December 2010</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style=""><br /></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:14pt;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><b style="">Dr. Who- Series 6</b></span><span style="font-size:130%;"> -<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:85%;">First 7 episodes</span>- to air</span><b style=""> “Spring 2011”</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><b style=""> </b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><b style=""><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><b style="">Torchwood “Miracle Day”- Series 4 -</b> <span style="font-size:85%;">to air</span> <b style="">“Summer 2011” </b></span><span style="font-size:85%;">simultaneously in the UK and in the US!</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style="font-size:14pt;"> </span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><b style="">Dr. Who- Series 6- </b><span style="font-size:85%;">Last 6 episodes- to air</span><b style=""> “Fall 2011”</b></span></p>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-60789471411597502392010-11-26T12:11:00.001-05:002010-11-27T12:32:12.152-05:0030 Days of Truth- Day 8: Someone Who Has Made Your Life Hell<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TPEwYEQsafI/AAAAAAAACsc/vdNNdKvfnxQ/s1600/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TPEwYEQsafI/AAAAAAAACsc/vdNNdKvfnxQ/s320/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544265806288546290" border="0" /></a> <style>@font-face { font-family: "Times"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">On day 6, I gave a brief preview of today. Here’s where I spill the beans in detail. Ugh, dredging up junior high/high school angst! Let the catharsis begin: A girl I grew up with, Leslie, decided at some point that I would be her target. Leslie sat at the popular table, but her friends feared her bad side as much as/more than they actually liked her (at least that’s what they told me). She wasn’t like Jill, the homecoming queen, who played the Regina George completely-sweet-until-she-isn’t role to perfection.<br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">No, Leslie was all about judgment. She was, for example, the one who told me I was a blasphemer for saying words like “gosh,” “jeeze,” and “darn.” This wasn’t entirely her fault. When we were 7 or 8, our teacher held a presidential election, and Leslie told us we had to vote for Bush, because her parents said the other guy <i style="">liked murdering babies. </i><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">Me: “That can’t POSSIBLY be true. If he murdered babies, it would be in the newspapers, and…”<br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">Leslie: “But it IS true. My parents TOLD me! He thinks murdering babies shouldn’t even be against the law. It’s called abortion.” Start ‘em young, eh, Pro-Lifers? <span style=""> </span>So Bush won the election in our classroom by a LANDSLIDE, as no one in the second grade had a convincing Pro-Choice rebuttal. What I’m saying is, the judgemental-fundamentalist-Christian part is not entirely her fault. She was fed that rhetoric from birth.<br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">The part that was her fault was her cruelty. On day as she was mocking Chris, one of the most-teased kids in our school, he said, “Didn’t you just leave an FCA (Fellowship of Christian Athletes) meeting? Christianity is about being kind! You’re being a hypocrite.” My ears perked up, as I’d always wondered how Leslie justified her behavior to herself. She replied, “We’re all hypocrites in the eyes of the Lord. None of us is without sin.”<br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">BAM! We’re all sinners, so why bother being kind? That’s when I knew something I’d never known before: that she was dangerous and I didn’t want to be around her. You see, before that, I thought there was hope for her. In fact, when her friends ostracized her at one point, I let her sit at the lunch table with my friends and me. I thought our kindness might have an effect on her. It only made her see us as weak once she got back in the cool kids’ good graces. (See yesterday’s post on the weakness/strength of being forgiving.)<br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">Over the years, Leslie mocked me mercilessly, pulled my hair, shoved me up against lockers, and once when a teacher was out of the room she whacked me in the face repeatedly with a rolled-up magazine chanting my nickname, Eek (formed from my initials, E.K.). Cornered, I ignored her for as long as I could. Eventually, I calmly said, “What, Leslie?” <i style="">Whack, whack, whack! </i>“Leslie, if you touch me again, I’m going to hit you…” <i style="">Whack, whack, whack! </i>“…and I’m going to KEEP hitting you until you stop.” <i style="">Whack! </i>went the magazine into my face.<br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><i style=""><br /></i></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><i style="">SMACK! </i>My palm connected with her smug face, but she kept touching me, so I smacked her over and over and over, I don’t know how many times, until she finally stopped. I ran out of the room crying, sure I was going to be suspended and grounded. Instead, the teacher apologized for leaving me alone with “that girl.” Hee! The sad part of the story (besides that I was not good at maintaining pacifism in a stressful situation) is that if I’d stayed and acted like nothing happened or—better yet—laughed at her, it would have changed everything, because it would have been Cool. Instead, I was a geek pushed to the breaking point. Under her leadership, the bullies were determined to make me lose it again.<br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">And sometimes I did lose it. When they soaked my clothes in the showers during gym class, I kicked over a trash can and went on a yelling tirade. On another particularly memorable occasion, Leslie sat behind me on the bleachers, leaned forward and tried to rip a mole off my neck by pinching it between two nickels and twisting. Sometimes their attempts to goad me fell flat, though: they tried to ditch me when I was driving behind them to Boone for some event (Mom’s orders, as it was deer season, and she was afraid I’d hit one with the car or something.) I guess they forgot that I drove to Boone EVERY WEEKDAY to take college classes. </p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">It was Leslie who started the mocking nickname Julia and my Roy Orbison theme song. In DNA Biology, my lab partner Christine was depressed because someone told her she looked like Barbra Streisand. “I hate my nose!” I told her, “Oh, I’ve been told I look like her, too! Don’t worry about it. It’s just something people say when they don’t know what to say. I mean, people are always telling me I look like Julia Roberts or Barbra Streisand or whatever other actress. And these women look nothing like me or like each other. Whatever!” Leslie, who had been eavesdropping turned around. “You think you look like Julia Roberts?” “No,” I replied. “People just keep <i style="">saying </i>I do.”<br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">By the end of the day Leslie had the school convinced that I thought I looked like Julia Roberts. After that, every time I ran out on the field or in the gym to cheer, they would shout “JULIA” and sing “Pretty Woman.” Heck, even if I was just getting up to give a speech in English class, they’d hum it. Luckly, that one didn’t really bother me. They were trying to point out the absurdity of me thinking I looked like someone that beautiful? <span style="font-style: italic;">Oh, no, you think <span style="font-weight: bold;">I think </span>I look like someone dozens of people say I look like!</span></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><i style=""><br /></i> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">The worst part, though, was Leslie’s effect on my friend Dawn (more on that tomorrow). Dawn and I were incredibly close frenemies. When Dawn was with me, we got along well and had so much fun. When she was around Leslie, she would turn cruel. It hurt that someone with whom I shared so many good times could, at any moment, turn against me to mock me with my nemesis.<br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">How did I make it through all that torture? Luckily, I had a ton of amazing friends. I had supportive parents who offered to put me in private school. (Just knowing you have the option of escape is an immense relief). <span style=""> </span>I got out of the building as often as possible to take college classes or do a work-study program at a daycare center. Spring semester of my senior year, I was a page in the State House of Representatives, so I only came to school on Fridays. I had cheerleading, choir and drama to cheer me up. I was a strong person, and the torment only made me stronger and more empathetic. It also helped that I knew the teachers were on my side, even if they couldn’t stop the abuse.<br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">The last week of senior year, our English teacher broke us into teams and had us build weight-bearing structures out of macaroni and gumdrops. Leslie was bragging about g how her team was going to dominate, as she’d gotten a prestigious acceptance letter: “ISU Engineering program, YEAH!” she bragged, high-fiving Brandon. Leslie’s team built some crazy stilt-structure. My team built a bridge-like box with a large surface area for weight displacement, and plenty of crisscrossing spaghetti noodle support beams reinforced with gumdrops that I mooshed up wrapped around every cross and joint. (The other teams just jammed their noodles into the gumdrops.) In the end, every other team’s structures broke, and our structure supported not only our books, but most of the other teams’ books, too. I told Leslie off for being so arrogant, imitating her earlier tone: “Logic! THAT’S how the English majors do it!” After the rest of the class left, the teacher called me to her desk, laughing: “Thank you so much! I’ve been wanting someone to tell that girl off for years!” Hee!<br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">One of my junior high students said to me once, “You must have been a geek in school.” I asked her, “Why do you say that?” She replied, “Because you never put up with bullies in class. You yell at kids whenever they’re mean.” At the time, I thought it was sad that a kid would assume only a former geek would be kind and protect her students. I should have, instead, taken it as a major compliment: I was doing a good job at preventing bullying in my classroom. Students recognized my room as a place where they were safe, and trust me: when you’re bullied, you appreciate any oasis.</p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">I heard Leslie got pregnant in college and dropped out of school.<span style=""> </span>Maybe she went back and graduated; I don’t know. Leslie brought her husband and three kids to our 10-year reunion, and she seemed like a nice mom. She was the first one to come up and hug me when I arrived. She looked like I’d hit her in the face, though, when Dawn and I were explaining our complicated past to her fiancé, Chris. Dawn admitted that she used to pull my hair: “It was me and…” “Leslie,” I finished. “Yep, you guys used to torture me.” I wasn’t mad, but I wasn’t going to pretend it didn’t happen, either.<span style=""> </span>After the reunion, Leslie requested me as a Facebook friend. I figure my life is awesome, and if she wants to read about it, that’s fine.<br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">Maybe being a mom has changed her and made her a better person. I hope so. I hope she’s raising her kids to be kind.</p>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-14413413949641891932010-11-25T11:32:00.000-05:002010-11-27T11:43:01.952-05:0030 Days of Truth- Day 7: Someone Who Has Made Your Life Worth Living For<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TPEwYEQsafI/AAAAAAAACsc/vdNNdKvfnxQ/s1600/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TPEwYEQsafI/AAAAAAAACsc/vdNNdKvfnxQ/s320/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544265806288546290" border="0" /></a> <style>@font-face { font-family: "Times"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">What an appropriate prompt for Thanksgiving Day! Who has made my life worth living? Every person I’ve ever called a best friend, including (but not limited to): Marjory; Harmony; Gwen; Justin; Jan; Amanda; Alexis; Chieko; Dawn; Kari; Margo; Mary-Elizabeth; Calvin;<span style=""> </span>Misty;<span style=""> the women of Heritage 11</span>—Jenny, Jessy, Kelly, Kiyo, Emily and Rachael; Jackie; Lex; Drew; Tom; my NYC girls—Madrid, Laura and Carolina; Todd; and, of course, Rose and Val. God bless you all for the laughter, the letters, the late-night conversations, the adventures and the fun. I wouldn’t have made it without you.</p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">My students, in a weird way, make life worth living. As I help them, I send ripples of good out into the world. Help one kid in the Bronx and you may help his family, not just now, but for generations to come. That kind of hope is inspiring and renewing. Also, my students are often vivacious and kind. I work part time at<span style=""> </span>a daycare center, and the hugs and giggles are a natural antidepressant!</p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">My family makes life worth living. I am blessed beyond measure to have been born into my family. They are one-in-a-million in terms of closeness, supportiveness and camaraderie. They raised me with faith, good values and kindness. They taught me a strong work ethic and a dedication to civil justice and community. They taught me to be patriotic—not an unquestioning drone, but rather an informed, reasonable woman who loves her country and shows it respect.<br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">Over and over again, it strikes me how lucking I was to have parents who were crazy in love and took such good care of us, six grandparents and countless aunts and uncles who teased/doted on us, and cousins who are as close as siblings. Living in New York, I’d hear people say of the homeless, “that could be you.” But I always knew it couldn’t. I was blessed with a support system that would never let my life spin that far out of control. Some of my friends and family members have admired my accomplishments, or my bravery venturing so far from home. To them I say that it’s easy to jump when you know there’s someone there to catch you. </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p><br /><style>@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <style>@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; </style><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Cambria;">Thank you all for the fun, adventures, comfort, time, energy and love. Thanks for the love most of all.</span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-87977495570388862222010-11-24T11:27:00.001-05:002010-11-27T11:31:20.285-05:0030 Days of Truth- Day 6: Something You Hope You Never Have to Do<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TPEwYEQsafI/AAAAAAAACsc/vdNNdKvfnxQ/s1600/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TPEwYEQsafI/AAAAAAAACsc/vdNNdKvfnxQ/s320/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544265806288546290" border="0" /></a> <style>@font-face { font-family: "Times"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">I pray that I never lose a child. Several years ago, my nephew was born premature and passed away before his due date. Noah was in our lives long enough for us all to fall in love with him and to believe that he could survive.<br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> <style>@font-face { font-family: "Times"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> </p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">Loving Noah taught me that sometimes you must love freely, completely, without reservation—even if you suspect your heart will be broken, because love—however fleeting—is worth it. Noah changed the way I lived my life (not long after, I moved and changed careers) and the way I love. For that, I will forever be grateful for knowing him. That said, losing Noah was devastating for all of us, and I pray our family never faces such a tragedy again. </p> <p></p>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-20825054360887663142010-11-23T11:22:00.000-05:002010-11-27T11:24:15.715-05:0030 Days of Truth- Day 5: Something You Hope to Do With Your Life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TPEwYEQsafI/AAAAAAAACsc/vdNNdKvfnxQ/s1600/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TPEwYEQsafI/AAAAAAAACsc/vdNNdKvfnxQ/s320/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544265806288546290" border="0" /></a><br /> <style>@font-face { font-family: "Times"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">I hope to become a tenured professor and a published author: precisely what I’m doing now, just on the pro level. I love my work, I love writing, and that’s what I want to do for the rest of my work-life. No extensive explanation is required. What is required is for me to overcome my fear of rejections and submit, submit, submit and apply, apply, apply. </p>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-73339046122518742972010-11-22T11:13:00.003-05:002010-11-27T11:20:55.139-05:0030 Days of Truth- Day 4: Something You Need to Forgive Someone For<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TPEsGa8iynI/AAAAAAAACsU/0HHtD6By-n8/s1600/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TPEsGa8iynI/AAAAAAAACsU/0HHtD6By-n8/s320/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544261105093888626" border="0" /></a> <style>@font-face { font-family: "Times"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }@font-face { font-family: "Georgia"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">You know what’s tough about being a Christian? The part about forgiving and loving your enemy. It feels weak and doormattish, or as Mark Twain put it, “<span style="font-family:Georgia;"><a href="http://www.quotegarden.com/forgiveness.html">Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.”</a> Mahatma Ghandi has a great rebuttal, however: <a href="http://www.quotegarden.com/forgiveness.html">“The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.”<br /></a></span></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><a href="http://www.quotegarden.com/forgiveness.html"><br /></a></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style=""> </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">You forgive for three reasons: it’s better for you, better for the forgiven, and it’s better for the world—every bit of hate/every bit of forgiveness counts. Ghandi also taught us, <a href="http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Mahatma_Gandhi">“We need to be the hope we wish to see in the world.”</a> If I want the world to be peaceful and forgiving, then I must be peaceful and forgiving. That doesn’t mean I don’t learn from the past and use that knowledge to build a safer, happier future. It just means that I try to let go any anger and pain attached to past wrongs. So here goes.</p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The people I forgive:</span></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">The mean kids I grew up with, whose methods of torture ranged from throwing my clothes in the shower during gym class to violence, mocking jokes, skits and even a theme song. (More about this on Day 8.)<br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style=""> </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">The students who insulted and/or assaulted me when I taught in the Bronx. All I wanted to do was help them. All they wanted was…a million things and none—whatever was running through their heads at any particular moment. To feel safe. To vent all their frustrations in life on a safe person: me. Students, I forgive you.</p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">Mr. B—I described our breakup on this blog years ago. I cared about and trusted him. He accused me of deceiving him when I did not. I realize now that it was about his inability to trust, not my untrustworthiness. Though his issue hurt me, it wasn’t ABOUT me. Ex-boyfriend, I forgive you.</p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">The employer who tied me in knots. She was just trying to do her job, jumping through bureaucratic hoops— hoops that coincidentally tightened around me neck. The fact is, we both wanted the same thing: safe, happy, well-educated students. We just had different ideas about how to achieve that goal. Former boss who took a chance on me and gave me a job, I forgive you.</p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">The guys who burglarized me, breaking into my apartment and stealing my DVDs, my cameras, my jewelry and more. BOO! I miss my stuff! But I survived the loss of my stuff, just I my family survived the loss of a bunch of our other stuff in the tornado. I love my stuff and find it comforting, but I don’t NEED most of it. Thieves who reminded me of that, I forgive you.</p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">The pickpocket frat boys who stole my wallet in Solas, my favorite NYC bar, and used the info on my ID to mess with my head before taking off. Violated on so many levels! Stupid frat boys, I forgive you. Okay, not entirely yet, but I’m still working on it.</p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">The guy who attacked me at a party in college. I managed to fight him off, but I occasionally suffer symptoms of PTSD, including a couple times while kissing a boyfriend I had flashbacks that left me crying and hysterical. Those moments—scared in the arms of a man I loved—I was so angry. Carrying that anger around is exhausting. It doesn’t hurt the attacker; it only hurts me. I forgive you, bit-by-bit. It’s a struggle, but I keep trying.</p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">Other creepy guys who’ve pushed too far: you make being a woman feel scary and lonely. Stop it! That said, I forgive you for your past icky, slimy, grabby come-ons. That said: cut it out!</p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">Okay, forgiving the last three on the<span style=""> </span>list—guys who made me feel vulnerable and violated—it’s not as easy as saying, “I forgive you!” Or maybe it would be if I let it. Maybe I’m afraid of violet forgiveness: sweet, velvety and crushed.<br /></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">In "Forgiveness - The Power to Change the Past," an article in the January 7, 1983 issue of <i style="">Christianity Today</i>, 7 Lewis B. Smedes wrote,<a href="http://www.quotegarden.com/forgiveness.html"> “Forgiving is love's toughest work, and love's biggest risk. If you twist it into something it was never meant to be, it can make you a doormat or an insufferable manipulator. Forgiving seems almost unnatural. Our sense of fairness tells us people should pay for the wrong they do. But forgiving is love's power to break nature's rule.”</a></span></p><p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><a href="http://www.quotegarden.com/forgiveness.html"><br /></a></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Ghandi said that forgiveness is the purview of the strong, but Smedes remind us that it is also their privilege: <a href="http://www.quotegarden.com/forgiveness.html">“To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.” </a></span><a href="http://www.quotegarden.com/forgiveness.html"><br /></a><br /></p>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-59309986027397731652010-11-21T21:33:00.002-05:002010-11-21T22:44:17.094-05:0030 Days of Truth- Day 3: Something You Need to Forgive Yourself For<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TOnXKicrXEI/AAAAAAAACsM/d99pxk_dKn4/s1600/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TOnXKicrXEI/AAAAAAAACsM/d99pxk_dKn4/s320/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542197392501857346" border="0" /></a>There are a few, specific deeds I regret. In middle school I bowed to mean-girl peer pressure a few times. Once, in the midst of a fight with my friend Alexis, I overheard some popular girls making up a song about her. Their lyrics were so lame. Before I thought better of it, I threw out a perfectly rhyming verse with insults that would hurt my estranged friend. Who knows better than our friends what hurts us? Another time, I threw two birthday parties because I knew my more popular friends wouldn't attend a sleepover with my less popular friends. That must have hurt them, and I'm sorry.<br /><br />I was irresponsible on other occasions: I opened the lambing barn to show a fried a baby lamb and didn't close the door properly. The lamb got out and died, and that loss of innocent life was my fault. In high school, I stayed up too late studying. Sleep deprived and fuzzy-headed, I tried to pass in a no passing zone at dawn. I was sure it was a passing zone, but I was wrong. Coming at me was a car with no headlights on. I managed to avoid a collision my jerking the wheel to return to my lane, but the truck flipped, totaling Dad's Ranger.<br /><br />Yes, I need to forgive myself for those mistakes, but more importantly I need to forgive myself for mistakes in general. Logically, I know that no one is perfect, but I obsess over every mistake I make, and for every dream that hasn't come true, ruing the gap between who I am and who I was supposed to be.<br /><br />I'm not happily married with kids and an impressive, established career.<br /><br />BFF Val reminds me of the things I've accomplished: A MFA in Poetry, an MS in Teaching, a BA in English. Two years as a reporter. A three-year term in the Americorps/Teaching Fellows teaching in the South Bronx. An adjunct job at a state university. Being a good friend.<br /><br />BFF Madrid reminds me that I might not have been any happier if all of my exterior measures of success had been reached. If I'd gone after my dreams of acting, my relationships might be more difficult to maintain, and everyone who has been my student would be a little pit different from learning from another teacher instead (for better or worse). If I'd fallen in love and gotten married years ago, I might have missed many of the academic, service and artistic opportunities I've been blessed to pursue.<br /><br />So I graduated late. So what? It's time to forgive myself. So I'm 30 and my career as a poet and professor is still in its nascency. So what? I need to forgive myself. Each aborted career helped make me who I am today, and I like who I am.<br /><br />As a child in the talented and gifted program, I thought I was going to be some kind of prodigy. I thought that was what people wanted from me, and I desperately wanted to please all those grownups with their high expectations. I prayed that I would manage to create something that would show everything that their faith in my was justified, and that the mean kids I went to school with were wrong: I was special in a good way. Being smart didn't just make me a geek: it meant I was destined for good things, and the world would reward me.<br /><br />I love that the movie Hope Floats because emphasizes the idea that not being special is okay. Birdee, a former beauty queen, takes an ordinary job at the photomat in her ordinary hometown. Yes, her family is quirky and she develops an artistic hobby, but her life isn't glamorous. Justin, formerly a hot-shot architect in a powerful firm, gave it up because the pressure made him hate work he used to love.<br /><br />The external recognition wasn't enough for him. It never will be--not for someone like me. I seek external validation, hoping it will make me happy, but the result is fleeting, like a drug. My best chance for lasting happiness is to find validation within.<br /><br />I know how cheesy that sounds: like a self-help book run amok. I'm not talking about the kind of self validation that leads people to feel justified in every selfish choice. What I'm suggesting, instead, is a stab at self-acceptance. The serenity prayer isn't just for people in a 12-step program; it makes good sense for all of us. Here is Reinhold Niebur's original version: "Father, give us courage to change what must be altered, serenity to accept what cannot be helped, and the insight to know the one from the other."<br /><br />So here goes: I forgive myself for my mistakes and for not living up to my dreams and the expectations of others. Some things I cannot change: I will probably always battle depression and the roadblocks that come with it, but I can work the steps to ameliorate its effects. I may never fall in love with someone who will marry and have kids with me. I can't control that, but I can do my best to get our and meet new people. I will change the things I must and work to accept the things I cannot change.<br /><br />For my mistakes, I'm very sorry, and in this moment I forgive myself. I'll have to work hard to forgive myself over and over; I know this about myself. I will forget who I am and get lost in who I'm supposed to be. Then I will remember again, examine the lacuna between "am" and "should be" and step back from the ledge. I will remember again that I need forgiveness--that we all do. Why is it so much easier to forgive someone else than myself? Because it is hard to believe that I deserve such clemency.<br /><br />The thing is, we don't always forgive because the wrongdoer deserves it. Sometimes we forgive because we need to let go of the grudge. Grudges are burdens that weigh us down, standing in the way of our paths forward. The only way to lay that burden down is forgiveness, but that the place to start is also the hardest place for most of us: we must start with ourselves.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-37744430563404303162010-11-20T23:58:00.001-05:002010-11-21T03:15:56.338-05:0030 Days of Truth- Day 2: Something You Love About Yourself<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TOjEO1YE2PI/AAAAAAAACsE/PxjA6bzPx1Q/s1600/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TOjEO1YE2PI/AAAAAAAACsE/PxjA6bzPx1Q/s320/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541895100604668146" border="0" /></a>I love being an artist. From my first memories, I remember being happiest when I was drawing, sculpting, taking pictures, singing, acting, writing or telling stories.<br /><br />As an actress, being other characters let me explore other lives, and it made me more empathetic. I made people laugh and cry. On stage, you can feel your audience, even when you forget they're there. You can feel what they need from you--what you have to do to give them the emotional release they've been seeking.<br /><br />Being a writer/storyteller bestows that same gift to the artist: helping the audience feel something they've been longing to feel or better understand an idea they've been grappling with. The Kennedy/Gioia Anthology of Literature claims the goal of drama is to lead audiences to a new understanding of what it means to be human. I'd say that's the goal of all art. One of the greatest gifts I've ever received was after my MFA Thesis Reading. Several members of the audience told me my poem Mirrorbox captured their grief: "That's just how it felt," one told me. "Thank you for reading it," another said. Somehow, hearing my words helped. As Julia Kasdorf wrote in her poem "What I Learned From My Mother," "Like a doctor, I learned to create/ from another's pain my own usefulness, and once/ you know how to do this, you can never refuse."<br /><br />When I was a reporter, I had the added bonus of getting to hear other people's stories. I got paid to ask people questions and examine their lives in search of what made them special and beautiful. Every person I interviewed had a great story in them, though some required more digging than others. I mentioned this to Buzz Bissinger, author of the nonfiction book <span style="font-style: italic;">Friday Night Lights</span>, and with a mixture of skepticism and boredom, he informed me he hadn't found that to be the case. Perhaps it was my scant time in the reporting biz (a mere two years) that lead me to believe that every individual has a great story, but I don't think so. You see, in six of the seven years since I left reporting, I had my students write memoirs--hundreds upon hundreds of students-- and each one had a unique story to tell, one that I could learn from.<br /><br />In yesterday's post, I said I hated my depression, and I do, but that's not the whole story. Jacob Clifton, a Television Without Pity recapper, wrote about the season finale of Weeds (he tends to do literary/ psychological analyses of episodes), "<a href="http://www.televisionwithoutpity.com/show/weeds/theoretical_love_is_not_dead_1.php?page=9">The thing that makes you awesome is the thing that makes you suck. 100% of the time. But we hardly ever get to talk about the opposite thing, which is also true: The very worst thing about Nancy Botwin is the very best thing about Nancy Botwin.</a> [...] <a href="http://www.televisionwithoutpity.com/show/weeds/theoretical_love_is_not_dead_1.php?page=12">The thing that makes you suck is the thing that makes you awesome.</a>" His language is crude, but he speaks the truth.<br /><br />Last year, I told a therapist, a quiet Chinese man, that I hated being depressed and feeling so emotional.<br /><br />He steepled his hands and softly asked me, "But you are artist, yes? A poet?"<br /><br />"Yes," I replied, wondering where he was going with this.<br /><br />"And this is a calling that requires understanding of emotions? You must be able to feel things deeply?"<br /><br />"Well...yes."<br /><br />"Okay, then!" he said with a beatific smile.<br /><br />I was flabbergasted. The thing I hated most about myself--my depression and the attendant pitfalls and insecurities--also gave me what I loved most--my empathy and my artistic nature. Go figure! And here he was, a psychiatrist, telling me that it's okay. It's not only okay that I'm depressed: a good thing! A good thing with a hefty price tag, but a good thing, nonetheless.<br /><br />It's a hard lesson to hold on to--hard to believe my depression is a gift even as I'm battling its more detrimental aspects. But in the end, I love who I am. I love my relationships with my friends and family. I love believing in the goodness in others. I love art, both partaking in it and creating it. If depression is the price I have to pay for those gifts, then so be it. Maybe that's the secret to a happy life: learning to love the flaws.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-23660932661425734782010-11-19T23:01:00.000-05:002010-11-21T03:01:15.369-05:0030 Days of Truth- Day 1: Something You Hate About Yourself<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TOiw8FB56SI/AAAAAAAACr8/SlwDg2bJvEo/s1600/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/TOiw8FB56SI/AAAAAAAACr8/SlwDg2bJvEo/s320/30truthdays1-300x297.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541873887668201762" border="0" /></a><br />I can't believe I'm jumping on a meme bandwagon. I haven't posted since March, though, and I've barely been writing. Then, on Facebook, I saw that my former BVU classmate of Micah Chaplin was writing on some challenging topics for her <a href="http://unabashedly--me.blogspot.com/">blog</a>. The postings were prompted by a list from another blog, <a href="http://hope.gr/30-days-of-truth/">Hope Dies Last</a>, which she got from <a href="http://girlvaughn.com/">girlvaughn.com</a>. (Sorry: as an English prof, I'm meticulous about citing my sources.)<br /><br />Following the list seemed like a good way to write brief-yet-substantive posts that might even help me grow as a person. Hey, did I just hear you groan? Well, you can either keep reading or wait for a post without a 30 Days of Truth doily in the corner. With that warning, we're off!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Day 1: What is something you hate about yourself?</span><br /><br />I hate that I suffer from depression. I also hate that I'm ashamed of my depression and I'm nervous that some future employer will Google me, read this post, and decide not to hire me for my dream job.<br /><br />So why post it here for the world to see? My grandfather killed himself in 1955, a time when people thought psychiatry was just for weak, crazy people. More than 50 years later, people are still dying of silence and shame. I'm tired of being ashamed of who I am, and maybe my honesty can help someone else.<br /><br />Here are the symptoms of depression, according to <a href="http://www.webmd.com/depression/guide/detecting-depression">WebMD</a>:<br /><ul><li>difficulty concentrating, remembering details, and making decisions</li><li>fatigue and decreased energy</li><li>feelings of guilt, worthlessness, and/or helplessness</li><li>feelings of hopelessness and/or pessimism</li><li>insomnia, early-morning wakefulness, or excessive sleeping</li><li>irritability, restlessness</li><li>loss of interest in activities or hobbies once pleasurable, including sex</li><li>overeating or appetite loss</li><li>persistent aches or pains, headaches<span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>, cramps, or digestive problems that do not ease even with treatment</li><li>persistent sad, anxious, or "empty" feelings<br /></li><li>thoughts of suicide, suicide attempts</li></ul>I was first diagnosed with clinical depression when I was 20, though I'd probably been suffering off-and-on before that. (Depression comes and goes in waves, but many mental conditions strengthen in the teens and early twenties.) That summer, I'd lost my appetite and my weight had dropped below 120 lbs. (I'm about 5'7".) I also suffered from insomnia and had trouble completing my school work. One day, I thought, "It would be easier if I wasn't alive." I probably would have written the thought off, but I remembered my Grandfather Nissen's suicide at the age of 25. I decided to go get help before my problem got any worse.<br /><br />In the ten years since my diagnosis, depression has affected my career, my art and my relationships. Sometimes I feel exhausted, I can't concentrate, and I fall behind. As a result, I feel guilty and hopeless, and I draw away from the people I love. Those "empty" feelings mentioned on the list? At my lowest points, I felt like I wasn't real--like maybe I was just a character in someone else's fiction. It's hard to fight for happiness and for what you want to achieve when you can barely believe that you're real and you matter.<br /><br />Even when I feel good, I have to be vigilant: <span style="font-style: italic;">Am I tired, or am I depressed? Is this a normal backache, or is it depression? Am I eating too much candy because it's Halloween or because of depression?<br /><br /></span>It doesn't help that, unlike most physical ailments, mental conditions can't be proven by a simple blood test or x-ray. I've had people suggest that I should just try harder not to be depressed. When I was on antidepressants, more than one person told me I should get off them and/or that <span style="font-style: italic;">they </span>would never deign to alter their brains via chemicals.<br /><br />Stigmas regarding depression, therapy and the use of antidepressants may have diminished over the decades, but many people still believe that depression is an empty excuse for weakness or bad choices. No one would judge someone with an inherited heart condition, but an inherited mental condition they will judge 'til the cows come home. (Farmgirl tangent: What a dumb saying! Dairy cows will come home by nightfall to be milked, and most domestic cattle will be back for the evening hay or grain. Judgmental attitudes last way longer than that!)<br /><br />When my depression is problematic, I combat it with medicine, therapy and behavioral strategies--which I try to maintain even when I'm not in therapy or on meds. I have to fight for my happiness, productivity and positivity. I've had to go on meds three times, and each time felt like a failure--like maybe, if I'd fought harder, it wouldn't have happened. If I'd been more careful about what I ate and how much I exercised and maintaining my sleep patterns. If I hadn't allowed myself those negative thoughts. If, if, if. But even that line of thoughts-- the what-ifs and the blame-- are a symptom.<br /><br />So I remember my therapy: Some of my depression isn't my fault. I can't help it, and that's okay. Some of it I <span style="font-style: italic;">can</span> help. I can't change what's happened in the past, but I can try to make better choices next time.<br /><br />And I try to remember that people love me, and I love them. That so far, my life has worked out, and it probably will again. That the world is beautiful, and there are a million wonders in it to see, to create, to and be. Every moment is a new opportunity. Each breath is a gift. Just like in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Velveteen Rabbit</span>, it's love that makes you real. Start by loving one breath. Breath by breath, build that love into a life.<br /><br />*If you are depressed or suicidal, please <a href="http://www.hopeline.com/">seek help</a>. The world needs you. Please keep trying.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-26494449840842264562010-03-13T20:24:00.005-05:002010-03-13T20:40:19.296-05:00How Not to Get Published: a Literary Magazine Editor’s GuideI recently became a poetry editor for a new literary journal. One hour as an editor gave me a deeper understanding of several writing pitfalls than the classes I’ve taught, classes I’ve taken and books I’ve read on the subject. We had hundreds of poems submitted, but only 30 slots to fill, and we saw a pattern in the poems we rejected. The fiction and nonfiction editors saw patterns in their rejected pieces, too. I've compiled handy guide, based on our pet peeves.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">How Not to Get Published: a Literary Magazine Editor’s Guide </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1- Address your submission “Dear Sir” or “Dear Sirs” regardless of the editors’ genders.</span><br /><br />The call for submissions listed our names. Two of us are female, and one is male. Our names aren’t misleading like “Sam” or “Chris.” Either the offending submitters chose to ignore the female editors in favor of the male editor, missed seeing our names entirely and just guessed our gender, or simply could not process the thought of women in charge. Either way, writing “Dear Sirs” was a bad call. Perhaps they should go find some “sirs” to publish their work.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2- Ignore the instructions on the call for submission.</span><br /><br />Follow submission instructions, or your work will be rejected. While you’re at it, proofread carefully. I’d think that goes without saying, but apparently it doesn’t.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3- Try to prove your cleverness. </span><br /><br />We read a few poems spoiled by one weird element. Actual dialogue between us at one point (with identifying details removed):<br /><br />“This poem is beautiful, but why did the author do X? Was it a mistake?”<br />“It can’t be. Look: he/she does X in every stanza.”<br />“But why? To suggest some kind of theme?”<br />“I think she/he wants to suggest ‘I am very clever.’”<br /><br />The stunts distracted us from the poem’s meaning and music. Offenses included needlessly obscure word-choice or imagery and bizarre use of numbers, symbols, or capitalization. Clever stunts occur in fiction and nonfiction, too, but in different ways (See 4 -6).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">4- Build your poem/story very slowly. Withhold information.</span><br /><br />We found that several poems with excellent endings had inferior first stanzas. In poetry workshops, we call that “throat-clearing.” It’s okay in a first draft, but not in the final poem. Choosing weak first lines is like showing up for a hot date in baggy sweats. Make a tantalizing first impression!<br /><br />In fiction and nonfiction, by the end of the first few paragraphs, the reader should have a general understanding of the character, setting and situation. If the character or the narrator knows what’s going on but refuses to tell the reader, the result isn’t mystery: it’s annoyance.<br /><br />Withholding sometimes works in a movie (e.g. The Sixth Sense*), but in written media the strategy isn’t as effective. In written fiction and nonfiction, the message of such a revelation is: “Congratulations, reader! I’ve now told you what I refused to tell you before!” Wouldn’t you rather have the character and reader make some kind of discovery together?<br /><br />*I think withholding worked in The Sixth Sense because of the visual medium, but also because the movie didn’t taunt the audience. We made the discovery as Willis’s character did. We weren’t tricked. The narrative wasn’t thumbing its nose at us, singing, “I know something you don’t know.”<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">5- Buy into the imitative fallacy. </span><br /><br />In The Electric Kool-aid Acid Test, a nonfiction novel by Tom Wolfe, Ken Kesey and The Merry Tricksters are frustrated. They want to use footage of their lives to create a psychedelic movie that will open audiences’ minds, but it never works. Why? I’ve seen some of the raw footage— weird but boring because it lacks plot, character or structure. Nothing happens! It’s just a bunch of “heads” tripping. Wolfe’s book, on the other hand, works because he uses an experimental writing style to capture the psychedelic mindset of his protagonists, but gives us a narrative thread to follow.*<br /><br />The text itself needn’t be insane to explore insanity. The story doesn’t have to be boring to explore boredom. You don’t have to distance your reader from the narrative in order to explore the protagonist’s difficulty connecting in life. You shouldn’t torture your reader in order for him or her to understand a protagonist’s trauma (See 7).<br /><br />Employing imitative fallacy in the situations above will likely end up annoying, boring, losing, or traumatizing the reader, respectively. Wouldn’t you rather make readers care about a character’s struggles and/or triumphs and subsequently gain new understanding of the world, being human, etc.?<br /><br />*Some of my friends argue that The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test doesn’t work—that his experimental style is meandering, distracting and annoying. In other words, even Woolf’s skillful negotiation of the imitative fallacy loses many readers.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">6- Preach! </span><br /><br />Some poems seem to proclaim, “LO, I CALLED OUT TO THE MUSE, AND SHE BESTOWED UPON ME THE SOUL OF A POET!” Sigh. My colleague dubbed these “Poetry Poems.” In any case, we don’t need a speaker proclaiming, “This will be my X poem!” Don’t force it. Just get out of the way and let the poem do its work.<br /><br />In fiction and nonfiction, I’m told the preaching problem often manifests either in didactic dialogue or moments when the narrator stops the action to pontificate on a concept. The cliché is “show, don’t tell.” Of course a writer occasionally have to break that rule, but only occasionally…and skillfully. Lecturing the reader is not the way to go.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">7- Get sexually graphic.</span><br /><br />When dealing with sex—whether romantic, erotic or traumatic— please avoid being gross, clichéd, or gratuitous.<br /><br />When writing about rape or incest, don’t imitate a police report. Giving a detailed play-by-play of the crime isn’t the most effective way to help the audience understand the emotional/mental experience of the character. There is a difference between therapeutic writing done for oneself and writing done for an audience. Ask yourself which details are necessary to advance character development or the plot.<br /><br />As an actor, I learned from the Aquila Shakespeare Company not to make stage combat too realistic. If the violence looks too real, the audience is ripped out of the story, because they fear for the actors’ safety. The same occurs with intensely graphic depictions of sex crimes. Give the reader enough space so that he or she can stay in the story.<br /><br />For erotica, check out <a href="http://www.nerve.com/dispatches/almond/howto/">Steve Almond’s amazing advice</a>*. For example, he declares clinical terms like “penis” and “vagina” unsexy, but warns that “genital euphemisms” should also be avoided, “unless you are trying to be funny.” Then what are you supposed to do? “As a rule, in fact, there is often no reason at all to name the genitals.” He then gives examples proving his point. For more sex scene advice, try the link above.<br /><br />*I was going to warn about the naked picture at the top of the page, but I realized that’s ridiculous, as it’s an article on erotic writing. Ha!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Conclusion:</span><br />I’m not trying to discourage anyone. I want make you aware of these problems so you can avoid them and get published! Keep writing, keep submitting, and keep believing. But stop calling me "sir."Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-34879173035666929682010-03-09T00:17:00.004-05:002010-04-19T01:04:27.426-04:00Want to watch my thesis reading?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/S5XZcYFR2pI/AAAAAAAACqk/p9d8AMdtzhI/s1600-h/Wik+Shoe.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 182px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/S5XZcYFR2pI/AAAAAAAACqk/p9d8AMdtzhI/s320/Wik+Shoe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446498405898640018" border="0" /></a><br />Mom had the brilliant idea for me to record my thesis reading, since none of my family or non-Norfolk friends could make it. I set up my laptop on the podium and let it record. After a few moments, though, the screen went black, so we didn’t really know when we were in frame. Still, it turned out pretty well, though the microphone on my Mac only caught the loudest laughs and comments from the audience. Sometimes it sounds like we pause for no reason, but they’re laughing. As funny as we sound on the recording, in real life we were even funnier!<br /><br />Speaking of funny, the goofy intros were Jesse’s idea, yet when it came time to read mine, he chickened out, and in so doing killed the laughs! Boo! BC is to blame for me cursing in his intro…although I’m solely to blame for my use of the “f” word in “The Science of Wearing High Heels.” Sorry.<br /><br />A funny thing about that night: I had planned to drive, but my roomies blocked in my car. I had to RUN there in 3.5” heels and a knee-length dress, despite the chill. (It was too late to go back and change.) As a result, I start out a tad flustered, and my hair in the video is not nearly as cute as it looked pre-run. My BFF Gwen assures me that people cared more about my words, anyway.<br /><br />NOTE TO MY WATCHERS: Remember, poems aren’t necessarily non-fiction, even if they contain the word “I.” Sometimes it’s me, but just as often, the person speaking in the poem is a made-up character.<br /><br />Enjoy!<br /><br /><object height="300" width="400"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=10022684&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1"><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=10022684&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" height="300" width="400"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/10022684">ODU MFA Thesis Reading Part 1- Introduction</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user3340227">me</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</p><br /><br /><object height="300" width="400"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=10018538&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1"><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=10018538&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" height="300" width="400"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/10018538">ODU MFA Thesis Reading Part 2- Me</a><a href="http://vimeo.com/10018538">, Poetry</a> from <span style="text-decoration: underline;">Me</span><a href="http://vimeo.com/user3340227"></a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</p><br /><br /><br /><object height="300" width="400"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=10022517&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1"><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=10022517&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" height="300" width="400"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/10022517">ODU MFA Thesis Reading Part 3- BC Wilson</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user3340227">Me</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</p>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-22759789147777387212010-02-02T16:07:00.004-05:002010-02-02T16:33:50.521-05:00Maybe We Will ShineI should be working right now, not blogging, but my brain is too twirly to focus. I figured venting might help.
<br />
<br />I keep bouncing back and forth. One moment, I feel love and joy rolling off of me in waves that I just want to share with the world. The next, I don't feel real. It's like I'm a character in some story, and the book could close and I would cease to matter. (I know I sound manic depressive. Well, that's never been the diagnosis by the professionals thus far.)
<br />
<br />Just when I feel irrelevant, though, I remember moments when people told me that I made their lives better. I know I'm blessed to have been told such a thing. Most people never know the good they do.
<br />
<br />For example, I once ran into my friend Olga after several years apart. She told me, "What you said changed my life." I didn't know what she was talking about. "You told me, 'If someone is bored, it's their own fault. You choose how you react to the situation. If you <span style="font-style: italic;">decide </span>to enjoy something, you <span style="font-style: italic;">will </span>enjoy it." I remembered the context of the comment. We lived in Spain, and our class was discussing our proms for some reason. My senior prom was lame (in terms of decorations and music), so most people were sulking. A few of us decided we were going to have fun and dance anyway, and we had a fabulous time. We realized that happiness can be a choice. I had no idea, but my little anecdote changed the way Olga lived her life. A moment that I had thought inconsequential made her a more joyful person.
<br />
<br />I recently received an e-mail from someone who was plagued by self-doubt, and I gave him advice. Now, I'm the one drowning in doubt, so I must give <span style="font-style: italic;">myself</span> the same advice I gave him:
<br />
<br />"Sometimes I cringe because my work isn't as good as that of some of my colleagues, or when they win awards and get publications I do not. There's always going to be someone better. I became a poet because I read (and fell in love with) Lorna Dee Cervantes' 'The Body as Braille.' Maybe, someday, someone will read my work and it will be what they need--it will become a part of them--the way 'The Body as Braille' has become a part of me. You never know what part of you, what gift, the world needs. As such, you must give your all."
<br />
<br />The Bible says not to hide your light under a bushel. Enough of us hide our lights (even from ourselves) that it needed to be said, recorded in a holy text. Why? Let me quote a text I hung on the wall of my classroom in the Bronx:
<br />
<br /> <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/erinkiley/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>110</o:Words> <o:characters>632</o:Characters> <o:company>Old Dominion University</o:Company> <o:lines>5</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>776</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.257</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Verdana; panose-1:2 11 6 4 3 5 4 4 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:"Book Antiqua"; panose-1:2 4 6 2 5 3 5 3 3 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} h2 {mso-style-link:"Heading 2 Char"; mso-margin-top-alt:auto; margin-right:0in; mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; mso-outline-level:2; font-size:18.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; font-weight:bold;} p {mso-margin-top-alt:auto; margin-right:0in; mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} span.Heading2Char {mso-style-name:"Heading 2 Char"; mso-style-locked:yes; mso-style-link:"Heading 2"; mso-ansi-font-size:18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:18.0pt; font-weight:bold;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/erinkiley/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>110</o:Words> <o:characters>631</o:Characters> <o:company>Old Dominion University</o:Company> <o:lines>5</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>774</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.257</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} h2 {mso-style-link:"Heading 2 Char"; mso-margin-top-alt:auto; margin-right:0in; mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; mso-outline-level:2; font-size:18.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; font-weight:bold;} p {mso-margin-top-alt:auto; margin-right:0in; mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} span.Heading2Char {mso-style-name:"Heading 2 Char"; mso-style-locked:yes; mso-style-link:"Heading 2"; mso-ansi-font-size:18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:18.0pt; font-weight:bold;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <h2 style="text-align: center; font-family: courier new;" align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Our Deepest Fear is That We Are Powerful Beyond Measure.<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></h2> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: center; font-family: courier new;" align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><b style="">From <u>A Return to Love</u> by Marianne Williamson<o:p></o:p></b></span></p> <p style="font-family: courier new;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""><span style=""> </span></span><span style="">"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.</span><span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: courier new;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""><span style=""> </span><span style="">It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: courier new;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="">[…] Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. […] </span><span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: courier new;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="">It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. </span><span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: courier new;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="">And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. </span><span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p><span style=""><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: courier new;">As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." </span></span>
<br /></span></p><p>Work to set yourself free from fear, and I'll do the same. Maybe we will free each other. Maybe we will shine.
<br /><span style=""></span><span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-30862253240641702392010-01-10T19:18:00.001-05:002010-01-11T21:24:43.954-05:00Top Ten Reasons I'm Psyched that Chuck Returns to NBC tonight, January 10!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/S0vdP5F29NI/AAAAAAAACqc/QTh3xAsu4vA/s1600-h/chuckseason3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 309px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/S0vdP5F29NI/AAAAAAAACqc/QTh3xAsu4vA/s320/chuckseason3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425673441191064786" border="0" /></a>10. Chuck finally gets a decent haircut. Zachary Levi is a handsome man. They gave him that awful haircut (see photo at left) to make him look dorky. Well, hot geeks exist, and they’re the best, so bring on the haircut and the hotness!<br /><br />9. Jeffster, a.k.a “Sam Kinison and an Indian Lesbian.” The band rocks every venue they play, from the Buy More to a church on a wedding day.<br /><br />8. Chuck gets spy skills! It’s bugged me for a while that the government didn’t just put Chuck through spy training. Then he’d be better at defending himself. Heck, Casey and Sarah could have at least taught him basic self-defense. But did they? No. Thanks for remedying the situation, Intersect!<br /><br />7. Maybe this year, they’ll have Chuck sing. Zachary Levi used to be a musical theater actor, and his voice is beautiful. I’ve seen an ad for the new season in which the Intersect allows Chuck to play guitar. Maybe it will allow him to sing, too. Shows with singing are in this year! Pretty please?<br /><br />6. John Casey. Oh, how I’ve missed that cranky man, with his love of Reagan, bonsai trees and his Crown Vic. How will Casey react to Chuck’s dominating new skills? I can’t wait to find out.<br /><br />5. Wait, Chuck’s magical spy skills will sometimes malfunction? Hee! Let the hilarity ensue.<br /><br />4. Spies + Romance + Humor = Awesome!<br /><br />3. Speaking of which: the return of Captain Awesome. Captain Awesome (a.k.a. Devon) can do sit-ups hanging upside-down from a doorframe. He’ll teach you how to tuck in your shirt, use hair product or dance the tango. Devon will come to your party wearing nothing but a fig leaf, and on top of all that, he’s a doctor! Oh, and his fumbling at keeping Chuck’s secret (something he’s not awesome at?) makes Captain Awesome all the more lovable.<br /><br />2. Chuck and Sarah’s chemistry. It makes my heart flutter!<br /><br />1. It’s a miracle we got Chuck back at all! (Thanks, Subway!) And even after NBC renewed it, Chuck wasn’t supposed to air until spring. They moved it up! How? Why? I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’ll just thank my lucky stars and soak up the sexy, goofy spyfun.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-53175418233249222862010-01-09T00:00:00.008-05:002010-01-11T21:14:32.721-05:00On shooting oneself in the foot: (a.k.a. "I Call My Writer's Block Jordan Catalano.")<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/S0vaxiXzlXI/AAAAAAAACqU/SM5XAI_NBJA/s1600-h/images-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 119px; height: 113px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/S0vaxiXzlXI/AAAAAAAACqU/SM5XAI_NBJA/s320/images-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425670720672994674" border="0" /></a> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>274</o:Words> <o:characters>1567</o:Characters> <o:company>Old Dominion University</o:Company> <o:lines>13</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>1924</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.257</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment-->AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!<p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Seriously, I wish I could scream my fool head off, but I have roomies and neighbors. I have a good scream, too. I’ve been told it's blood-curdling.* In fact, I've been a stunt screamer in a play. The girl whose character was supposed to scream didn't have my mad shrieking skills.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m tired of fucking up, of standing in my own way. Once upon a time, I didn’t know failure was an option, but now it is, and I flirt with it—the boy who smokes under the bleachers: dangerous, unsuitable, easy. And the more I’m warned that he’s all wrong for me, that he's my doom, and that I’m throwing my life away, the more irresistibly I’m pulled away from the limelight of the cheerleading squad to linger with him in the dark, the gravel and smoke—to let him touch my clean, chaste skin even though God and my grandmother wouldn’t approve. Even though it makes me feel dirty.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You’re not a fuck-up,” Val assures me. “The world is fucked up. They try to use fear and negative reinforcement as a motivator, and it doesn’t work! That’s what the prison system is based on, and it does it work? No, but it’s not going away anytime soon. You and I, we’re sensitive to negative reinforcement, so when we face it, we shut down. You’re not a fuck-up. You’re a talented, accomplished, dedicated woman."
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">As long as she was talking—as long as I could hear her soothing voice—I could believe it, but as soon as we hung up, the shame would rise again. Well, fuck that noise! I wish I were the kind of girl to shout, “FUCK THIS!” and go out drinking. Hell, maybe later tonight I will.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am human. I can only do what I can do. I need to stop worrying about others and just worry about myself. Maybe I’ll reread the Tao of Pooh. There’s a part in it about how Pooh never works, but somehow always finds what he needs. I’m going to try to do that: joy my way through life. Follow my bliss. All that hippy bullshit.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">*I seriously doubt anyone screams like that in real life. It's certainly not how I scream. When startled, I have let out a quick shriek (like the blood-curdler, but only a millisecond long) or--more often-- a low, hoarse "AAH!" (Perhaps I subconsciously want to seem tougher and think a low shout is more effective than a high scream?) My weird rant on screaming technique is now complete. As you were!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">P.S. I can't believe how many times I just wrote the word "fuck." I can hear my mother scold: "Inappropriate!"
<br /></p> <!--EndFragment--> Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-51378112887699757232009-10-19T21:45:00.003-04:002009-10-19T22:07:52.901-04:00Cute Overload!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/St0bLQ9d_8I/AAAAAAAACqM/DSvqhvx2xeg/s1600-h/100_2140.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/St0bLQ9d_8I/AAAAAAAACqM/DSvqhvx2xeg/s320/100_2140.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394497809005019074" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/St0Z-Ba2d2I/AAAAAAAACpc/hEiWCv6v0G0/s1600-h/100_3749.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/St0Z-Ba2d2I/AAAAAAAACpc/hEiWCv6v0G0/s320/100_3749.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394496481983362914" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I adore the web site <a href="http://cuteoverload.com/">Cute Overload</a>. If you're ever <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/St0bKlB9RjI/AAAAAAAACqE/0CU4J7dIAv0/s1600-h/IMG_0010_2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/St0bKlB9RjI/AAAAAAAACqE/0CU4J7dIAv0/s320/IMG_0010_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394497797212685874" border="0" /></a>having a bad day, click on over and soak up the adorability.<br /><br />The site has its own vernacular and some unusual obsessions, including animals' tongue, paw pads and rear-ends ('tocks), but has plenty of warm fuzzies to spare. Just beware of the 'nuffers (judgmental individuals for whom nothing is cute enough).<br /><br />I've recently submitted a few pics there. I don't know if they'll ever display my parents' pretty pets, but here are some pics just for you. More are available on <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/12950351@N04/sets/72157622622435818/">Flickr</a>.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-82698488270598684052009-08-24T18:28:00.000-04:002009-08-24T18:29:26.888-04:00Article about me!I know I haven't blogged in forever, and I promise I'll catch you all up soon, but for now, here's <a href="http://www.odu.edu/ao/news/index.php?todo=details&id=17589">a link to an article about me on my university's web site</a>!Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-19648638334582015922009-05-10T13:41:00.006-04:002009-05-10T13:54:15.555-04:00Birthday and Hybrids<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcSGUZq_uI/AAAAAAAACoE/VUYeB7BFISo/s1600-h/100_2615.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 174px; height: 132px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcSGUZq_uI/AAAAAAAACoE/VUYeB7BFISo/s200/100_2615.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334252183408541410" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcT0kuYOKI/AAAAAAAACpM/7sQqAmVuAKM/s1600-h/100_2619.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcT0kuYOKI/AAAAAAAACpM/7sQqAmVuAKM/s200/100_2619.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334254077575968930" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />No time to write it up yet, but I can post the pictures!<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcT02tCa4I/AAAAAAAACpU/_Ko3I7jsOvM/s1600-h/100_2623.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcT02tCa4I/AAAAAAAACpU/_Ko3I7jsOvM/s200/100_2623.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334254082402184066" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcSTDqY2gI/AAAAAAAACoU/8ZfHZGpgqlk/s1600-h/100_2627.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 376px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcSTDqY2gI/AAAAAAAACoU/8ZfHZGpgqlk/s400/100_2627.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334252402253552130" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcS9fIMvcI/AAAAAAAACpE/K_MPsdwClEA/s1600-h/100_2628.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 263px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcS9fIMvcI/AAAAAAAACpE/K_MPsdwClEA/s320/100_2628.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334253131180850626" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcSvNWv-5I/AAAAAAAACok/yNsW0CykN64/s1600-h/100_2632.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcSvNWv-5I/AAAAAAAACok/yNsW0CykN64/s320/100_2632.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334252885891873682" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcSvTVTSOI/AAAAAAAACos/RB6vNbTOwHQ/s1600-h/100_2631.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 257px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcSvTVTSOI/AAAAAAAACos/RB6vNbTOwHQ/s320/100_2631.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334252887496411362" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcSv5QIHvI/AAAAAAAACo8/fheRRRkjUq4/s1600-h/100_2629.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcSv5QIHvI/AAAAAAAACo8/fheRRRkjUq4/s320/100_2629.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334252897675255538" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcSugkTk_I/AAAAAAAACoc/8k0L9Y4Xx3w/s1600-h/100_2633.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcSugkTk_I/AAAAAAAACoc/8k0L9Y4Xx3w/s320/100_2633.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334252873869136882" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcSvo5UBEI/AAAAAAAACo0/RjhjLFCQSF4/s1600-h/100_2630.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SgcSvo5UBEI/AAAAAAAACo0/RjhjLFCQSF4/s320/100_2630.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334252893284598850" border="0" /></a>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-9337248531880379162009-05-10T07:08:00.004-04:002009-05-10T07:11:00.306-04:00Happy Mother's Day!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sga1KrcXc1I/AAAAAAAACn8/5ZePFiB2uxE/s1600-h/Dad,+Jeanie,+Mom,+Me_2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sga1KrcXc1I/AAAAAAAACn8/5ZePFiB2uxE/s400/Dad,+Jeanie,+Mom,+Me_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334150003731952466" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I know I'm way behind in my blogging, but schoolwork has to come first, and I'm not done yet. That said, I had to post for Mother's Day.<br /><br />Most years, I send flowers, but this year I saw something on Amazon that reminded me of fun times Mom and I have shared together. I can't think about this thing without hearing my mother's voice and laughing. Unfortunately, the package didn't arrive in time, so I can't say what that item is.<br /><br />Well, until her package arrives, this essay I wrote for my creative nonfiction class will just have to do. In class, we were supposed to list every pair of shoes we'd ever owned. Then we had to pick one significant pair and write an entire essay about them. I went in another direction. This was first semester, but the story stayed in my professor's head so distinctly that when I told him this week that I'll spend my summer in Iowa, he asked, "Going to try on your mother's shoes again?" Here's why:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;" >Echoes</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">As a child in Iowa, I attended the school where my mother taught. She often wore high heels back then. My mother’s clack was distinct from that of any other woman I’d heard. I would hear her steps echoing down the hall and know she was coming to pick me up and take home, when we would sing “You Are My Sunshine,” driving up the driveway of our farm.</span> <span style="font-family:courier new;"><br /><br />I loved to wear Mom’s shoes as a girl. I teetered happily in her heels, hiking up her old prom dress so I wouldn’t trip on the hem. By my teen years, we were the same size. I wore my mother’s navy pumps to my first job interview after college, when all of my shoes were either too casual or too sexy. Her shoes were grown-up shoes, professional.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">A few years later, I became a teacher in New York City. One day, when walking to class, I heard a familiar sound. It was my mother, striding quickly down the hall. But it wasn’t. She was a thousand miles away. The sound I’d heard was me, wearing my own high heels, clicking down my own school hallway. The shoes, the path and the pace were mine, but the walk was hers.</span> <span style="font-family:courier new;"><br /><br />This summer, I returned to the farm to stay for three months. I’d been away for years, with only brief stays for holidays. A few years ago, a tornado destroyed our family home, which had been in the family for 120 years. A new house was erected in its place, but I couldn’t picture it when talking to my parents on the phone, or when I dreamed at night. I hoped that a summer in the new house would make it more real to me, make it home.</span> <span style="font-family:courier new;"><br /><br />I would stay all summer and help my parents on the farm. Every pair of my shoes I had that were suitable for farming had been lost in the tornado. Mom loaned me a pair of grungy white sneakers. I slid in my feet and laced them on. I was surprised at how uncomfortable they were. The dips and rises of Mom’s feet didn’t match mine at all.</span> <span style="font-family:courier new;"><br /><br />The first few times I wore her shoes, picking up rocks from the pasture, or helping my dad build livestock pens in the new barn, my feet ached. Day by day, I wore her shoes as I worked the farm, watered the garden, or fed and watered sheep.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;">By the end of the summer, the shoes fit perfectly. Whether my feet had adjusted to the shoes, or the shoes to my feet, I don’t know. It was time to leave home again. Now I could picture the farm as it stands— changed but still my home.<br /><br />My mother’s shoes were no longer things of glamor, items that hinted at who I might become. Now, they were tools of daily work, to reconnect with my past and the land. They let me be who I’d been: a girl in her mother’s shoes. I walk new paths, but always carry her rhythm.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span>Mom, you are strong and lovely and kind. I'm a lucky woman to have such a wonderful mother, and I am thankful for you, always.<br /><br />Love,<br />Your Daughter<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /><br /><br /></span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-91926465104532419052009-04-19T10:10:00.004-04:002009-04-19T11:06:59.368-04:00Check, check, zzzzzzz, check!I know I didn't do a proper Easter posting, so let me take a moment to say that I hope yours was happy and spiritually fulfilling. I didn't go to church after last year's <a href="http://shepherdsdaughter.blogspot.com/2008/03/happy-easter.html">fiasco</a>. I was going to try to find a new church, but I accidentally slept in. Instead, I just spent some time in prayer and reflection.<br /><br />This week was like one giant checklist that I was fighting to complete, check-by-check:<br />File taxes-check. (I did it online last weekend and now await my modest returns.)<br />Visit doctor- check.<br />Poetry workshop- check.<br />History presentation- check.<br />Student conferences- check (19 times).<br />Grade papers- check (countless times).<br />Apply for summer job- Check (after doing the 20 necessary sub-checks).<br />Find new roomie- check.<br /><br />But I made it through. The most important items all got checked off (although the "Grade paper" entry has a few more "countless checks" to go). It felt good to get so much done, but there's still so much left to do! Yesterday's mishap didn't help.<br /><br />When I went to the doctor, nothing serious was wrong, but he did give me a prescription. Yesterday, my nose was really stuffy, so I called the Wal-mart pharmacy to make sure it was safe to take Benadryl with my prescription.<br /><br />Wal-mart parmacist: Sure you can take it. Benadryl is just an antihistamine.<br />Me: Cool! Oh, if I get a back spasm, is it safe for my to take my [extremely low dose of] diazepam?<br />Wal-mart parmacist: Hmm...you should talk to your doctor before you do that. But Benadryl can actually serve as a muscle relaxer.<br /><br />What I thought: Cool! Benadryl is safe, will clear my sinuses and will relax my muscles.<br /><br />What I <span style="font-style: italic;">should have</span> thought: 'Benadryl is safe with your prescription, muscle relaxers aren't. P.S. Benadryl is a muscle relaxer.' This suggests a logic problem. Perhaps I should not trust this woman with my health.<br /><br />Okay, it crossed my mind, but I thought I was being paranoid. I took the Benadryl and woke up many hours later. Coincidence? Maybe, but as I'm not normally a napper, I have my suspicions. Was the Wal-mart parmacist trying to kill me? What if I'd been <span style="font-style: italic;">driving,</span> pharmacy lady? What about <span style="font-style: italic;">that?<br /><br /></span>Heh<span style="font-style: italic;">. </span>I basically lost my Saturday to a Benadryl coma and the ensuing grogginess. I had things to do yesterday! Oh, well. At least I'm well-rested<span style="font-style: italic;">.<br /><br /></span>In other news:<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span>Thursday, Nikita came by to check out the apartment. She'll be a senior next year, majoring in Spanish. She seems considerate, and she brought her mom. I like that, because now I've seen the source of her rent money. I think her mom has slight delusions of me being a surrogate mommy to Nikita. She asked who cooks, and Rakel announced that I do. "So, do you all share food, then?" I told her, "Only on special occassions."<br /><br />Listen, I'll make Thanksgiving dinner if everone pitches in some cash. I'll give roomies some cookies from my latest batch. But I've got too much on my plate to become the cook. Not happening. I know some people who run their apartments that way--more like families. Sometimes I'm jealous of their closeness...but I've tried food-sharing roomie-situations in the past. In college, despite being great friends, when sharing food we ended up arguing over triffling nonsense like name brand vs. generic peanut butter. Now I just share food when the mood strikes me. It's fun when there's no pressure or expectation.<br /><br />Anyway, I'm thrilled I found Nikita. She was the first person to answer the ad. The summer before I moved here brought a deluge of desperate prospective roomies for me to sort through, and I was dreading a repeat performance. Could I have stalled looking for a new best friend to place in the room? Yes, but I could have lost Nikita in the meantime, and ended up with someone less suitable.<br /><br />Summer update: Last week the school counsellor suggested I apply for the summer English Adjunct position at a local community college. It would be PERFECT for me, so I did. It's a long shot, since I submitted pretty late in their application process, but all I can do is try. It was hard work tracking down references and transcripts from all my universities, but I did so at dizzying speeds. If I get the job, I'll stay here until August. If I don't, I'll probably be back in Iowa as early as June. Although I'd love to come home sooner, this position would look great on my resume, I'd enjoy the work, and it would probably pay better that most other summer jobs I could find. We'll see.<br /><br />Well, now that I'm wide awake again, there's a new week of tasks to accomplish. I'm off to try. Congratulations to us all on the return of Spring.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-3559573769810936042009-04-12T14:13:00.000-04:002009-04-12T14:14:08.475-04:00Maybe we aren't putting our flock to its best use...I mean, who knew there were so many possibilities?<br /><br /><object height="340" width="560"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/D2FX9rviEhw&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/D2FX9rviEhw&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="340" width="560"></embed></object>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-75061698053495013022009-04-07T20:19:00.006-04:002009-04-08T09:21:42.283-04:00French Toast for One and Work Excitement<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sdye9cnocuI/AAAAAAAAClM/wxDCp4kPlzg/s1600-h/100_2582.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sdye9cnocuI/AAAAAAAAClM/wxDCp4kPlzg/s200/100_2582.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322303638136713954" border="0" /></a>Enjoy some random recent pictures I've taken at left.<br /><br />Over the weekend, I made French toast by myself for the first time. I figured out the perfect recipe to make a single serving of French Toast. Here it is:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">French Toast for One</span><br />Combine one egg, ¼ c milk, a smattering of sugar (1/4 teaspoon maybe?), and cinnamon and nutmeg to taste. Beat the mixture, and pour it onto a plate. Place the first bread slice in the egg mixture, carefully turning it over to let the mixture coat each side for a few seconds. Then it's "toasting" time. Spray a little Pam <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sdye9GGdeeI/AAAAAAAACk8/4Y_FJ4yV_gU/s1600-h/100_2610.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sdye9GGdeeI/AAAAAAAACk8/4Y_FJ4yV_gU/s200/100_2610.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322303632092002786" border="0" /></a>on a frying pan (ore use a little butter or margarine), and fry each side of the bread until it is golden brown. Dip the second slice of bread while the first is frying. Repeat the frying process on the second slice.<br /><br />After frying my two slices of bread, I lightly buttered each, then layered on sliced bananas. I crumbled a few pecans, and sprinkled the pecan bits, too. Then I dusted on more cinnamon and nutmeg, drizzled a wee bit o’ syrup and voila! Yum, yum, yum, yum, yum. French toast is so delicious and easy to make! I don’t know why I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">didn</span>’t figure that out sooner.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sdye88zNc3I/AAAAAAAACk0/YVzItPvTOJw/s1600-h/100_2584_2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sdye88zNc3I/AAAAAAAACk0/YVzItPvTOJw/s200/100_2584_2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322303629595341682" border="0" /></a><br />Today I continued my cooking streak, making scalloped potatoes and turkey kielbasa. I almost keeled over from the deliciousness. Then I noticed Todd’s bananas were turning brown and stinky, so I whipped up banana bread using Mom’s Bisquick recipe. It was way quicker than my old recipe. Banana bread is Todd’s favorite food, so he’s very happy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sdye9A5ZLVI/AAAAAAAAClE/8nSey-tcWiM/s1600-h/100_2590.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sdye9A5ZLVI/AAAAAAAAClE/8nSey-tcWiM/s200/100_2590.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322303630695017810" border="0" /></a>I’m happy, too, but not just about the bread. Today I went in to talk to my supervisor at work. I asked him whether I could try teaching some different classes next year. He agreed that it would look good on my resume, so in the fall I’ll be teaching rhetoric.<br />I'm looking forward to the challenge of teaching new classes.<br /><br />In the spring, I might get to teach literature, which I've been requesting to teach since Fall '07. Hooray! Not <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SdykC2PZDZI/AAAAAAAAClc/t939y3kiuOY/s1600-h/100_2586.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SdykC2PZDZI/AAAAAAAAClc/t939y3kiuOY/s200/100_2586.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322309228471848338" border="0" /></a>only would lit be fun to teach, but having three courses (composition, rhetoric and literature) on my resume could only help me find a job after graduation. Keep your fingers crossed for me. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><br /><br />P.S.- Does anyone recognize the plants in this picture? (Click the picture to see it blown up.) They are tiny and grow in my yard, and I have no idea what they are.<br /></span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-53124888774471597932009-04-04T08:09:00.005-04:002009-04-08T09:27:51.455-04:00Erin Dust<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SdwcPoS4V_I/AAAAAAAACj8/hNrPsB1TEz0/s1600-h/100_2581.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SdwcPoS4V_I/AAAAAAAACj8/hNrPsB1TEz0/s320/100_2581.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322159914485307378" border="0" /></a>Last Sunday, Todd got back from Florida, where he’ll start getting his <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Poli</span>-Sci PhD next year. I’ll miss him. I hope I like my new <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">roomie</span> as much. Anyway, we celebrated his academic victory at La <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Herradura</span> (The Horseshoe?), where we had tacos and daiquiris the size of our heads. Mine was peach, and it was breathtaking.<br /><br />I had a busy, run-around workweek. I exercised every day, which is a nice accomplishment. On Thursday, I had some therapy because I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ve</span> been depressed this semester. My therapist says I’m hard on myself, and I need to let go of other people’s expectations. I was trying to explain that it’s not as easy as it sounds. Then, she asked why I left my job in New York. As I was talking to her about teaching and the problems with the system, her face lit up, and she went on a tangent about what a great administrator or education policy wonk I’d make.<br /><br />“Okay, this is what I’m talking about. This is the problem. It’s easy to say that I should ignore the expectations of others, but people just expect things from me…even you.”<br /><br />She apologized for getting carried away. She says with all my accomplishments and such, I “sprinkle [my] Erin dust all over the place.” <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Hee</span>! Like I’m <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Tinkerbelle</span> or something. Well, now that she’s been caught up in Erin-based expectations, she knows what I’m up against. I like her, and I've found our sessions helpful. Sometimes it's just nice to talk to an impartial person.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SdwcP61tYeI/AAAAAAAACkE/5nNLrCEACro/s1600-h/100_2592.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 302px; height: 227px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SdwcP61tYeI/AAAAAAAACkE/5nNLrCEACro/s320/100_2592.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322159919463227874" border="0" /></a>Friday was the best day I've had in a while. After work, my office-mate Jacqueline invited me over to her house to have lunch, play with her kitty and help her clean out her closet. Free shopping, hooray!<br /><br />I played with her pretty cat. I tried on the clothes she was giving away and helped her cull a little more. Then we baked cookies using Mom’s <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">cakemix</span> cookie recipe and had supper.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SdwcQbGY8NI/AAAAAAAACkc/0AYr5L_Y5Nk/s1600-h/100_2601.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 217px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SdwcQbGY8NI/AAAAAAAACkc/0AYr5L_Y5Nk/s320/100_2601.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322159928123125970" border="0" /></a>We rushed off to an MFA reading. Graduating students present their work, and this week it was Christian, Andrea and Paula. Their writing was so impressive. Andrea and Christian are in my workshop, so I was already aware of their awesomeness.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SdwcQPKs5CI/AAAAAAAACkM/IoQnkhi1N64/s1600-h/100_2594.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 208px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SdwcQPKs5CI/AAAAAAAACkM/IoQnkhi1N64/s320/100_2594.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322159924919985186" border="0" /></a>Christian’s poems are sharp and modern, and incorporate thoughts and concepts seamlessly. Andrea is a master of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and kayaking, with natural themes prevalent throughout. Paula is the stereotypical Southern woman writer: sweet manners, but a tongue so sharp it could split diamonds.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SdwcQVpzOiI/AAAAAAAACkU/_Z47UFhujJg/s1600-h/100_2598.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SdwcQVpzOiI/AAAAAAAACkU/_Z47UFhujJg/s320/100_2598.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322159926661036578" border="0" /></a>I felt a twinge of jealousy at their talent and accomplishment, but that jealousy was overwhelmed by my pride in their accomplishment, and my happiness for them.<br /><br />After the reading, they threw a party. Most of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">MFAers</span> were there. They are all such fun, fascinating people to talk to. At the party, I ended up singing karaoke with the program director Sheri Reynolds (her book The Rapture of Canaan was an Oprah book pick). We sang Pink’s “Get This Party Started,” which is not really in my range, but I was game.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sdwcp_eee-I/AAAAAAAACks/UbvNf4rGh-8/s1600-h/100_2608.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 216px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sdwcp_eee-I/AAAAAAAACks/UbvNf4rGh-8/s320/100_2608.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322160367384558562" border="0" /></a><br />I had a lot of entertaining conversations and even got to play with Sheri’s standard poodle <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Rumi</span>. It’s amazing that Scooter (my parents’ mini poodle) and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Rumi</span> are the same <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sdwcpjr3O0I/AAAAAAAACkk/CBFNpDygeJI/s1600-h/100_2607.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 207px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sdwcpjr3O0I/AAAAAAAACkk/CBFNpDygeJI/s320/100_2607.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322160359924513602" border="0" /></a>animal, as one could knock me flat, and the other would fit in my purse. Not that I’d put Scooter in my purse. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Scootie</span> thinks she’s a sheepdog, so being relegated to bag-dog status is an indignity she <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">wouldn</span>’t suffer lightly.<br /><br />It was good to be out, having fun with my peers, and served as an important reminder: this will all be drawing to a close before I know it. I need to make the most of it while I can!<br /><br />The school counselor is right:I probably should put less pressure on myself, and I need to let go of other people's expectations. Grandma <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Carmie</span> gave me a card at Christmas reminding me that the judge I need to satisfy is the woman in the mirror. The thing is, as the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Spiderman</span> franchise tells us, "With great power comes great responsibility." I'm not saying I have <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Spiderman</span>-level power, of course, but I believe we all have unique gifts for a reason and we need to use them to the best of our ability. Well, that's the operative phrase:<span style="font-style: italic;"> the best of my ability</span>. I guess the key is to be realistic about what my level of ability is. Time for me to go sprinkle some "Erin dust" around. You go sprinkle your magic <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">elixirs</span>, too.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-84416708873622577642009-03-28T22:01:00.003-04:002009-03-29T09:37:35.907-04:00Still raining.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7VBD_0v8I/AAAAAAAACjs/-39U5xlZus4/s1600-h/100_2520.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7VBD_0v8I/AAAAAAAACjs/-39U5xlZus4/s320/100_2520.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318422424200724418" border="0" /></a>It's still raining. Not with the thunder or lightning I love, just rain--drumming and drumming outside my windows, splashing against the central air conditioning unit in the yard. The rain is loud, dropping straight down from the high second story. (The landlord never cleans the gutters.) That's why grass doesn't grow properly back there: hard rain running off the roof and too much shade.<br /><br />It's quiet today. Rakel and Todd are both out of town. Rakel's in D.C. for her niece's birthday, and a university in Florida has flown Todd down there. Their PhD <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7VANPuIlI/AAAAAAAACjc/7kk6Fbiv8_Y/s1600-h/100_2556.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7VANPuIlI/AAAAAAAACjc/7kk6Fbiv8_Y/s320/100_2556.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318422409503449682" border="0" /></a>program wants him so much that they've offered him $20k per year, flown him down there and even provided a hotel room. In this economy? Yowza. Good for Todd! It's sad to think about what it will be like without him next year. Not only does he drive me around, he's also my best friend here.<br /><br />At least my parents are arranging a car for me. Mom and Dad are so generous. When J.B. and I graduated from college, we each got to take one of the cars our parents had on the farm. When I moved to NYC, I left mine with Mom and Dad, and the tornado got it. Oops. Now my parents might have a vehicle to spare again. (YAY! Have I written about this already? If so, sorry.) Dad thought he might send the parade car, the awesome '70s car with a working 8-track, to Virginia with me. The thing is, he loves that car, and I'm a little afraid it might attract too much attention (aka CRIME) in my neighborhood. As such, I have requested the slightly-tornado-damaged Buick...assuming it runs well. I have terrible luck with vehicles, so a car with a tempermental engine wouldn't be a good call.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7V1tZGZGI/AAAAAAAACj0/ZpVYd5sjVdg/s1600-h/100_2521.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7V1tZGZGI/AAAAAAAACj0/ZpVYd5sjVdg/s320/100_2521.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318423328665789538" border="0" /></a>Last week I mentioned my students' recent lethargy . Wednesday I joked, "What do I have to do, bring cookies?" They laughed, and one member of the armed forces perked up so much at the mere mention of cookies that I had to laugh, too. Friday before class, I whipped up some chocolate chip cookies. As I handed out napkins, one student asked with disbelief, "Wait a minute. You didn't actually bring cookies, did you?"<br /><br />"Would I do that? Would I get up this morning and bake you chocolate chip cookies from scratch?"<br /><br />The soldier could barely contain himself. "You really brought us cookies?"<br /><br />"Still warm from the oven," I assured him as I passed out the treats. His reaction made me want to ship cookies to the front line. Hopefully tasty pastries bought me some goodwill, and my students will associate writing and composition class with happiness.<br /><br />Meanwhile, I'm still home alone, listening to the rain. A train's whistle blows in the distance. Maybe it's headed to where you are.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-33818625279155799922009-03-22T21:05:00.013-04:002009-03-28T21:17:39.040-04:00Portsmouth Reading<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7GAe7mD1I/AAAAAAAACic/OJBOJ3WBN04/s1600-h/100_2557.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 198px; height: 260px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7GAe7mD1I/AAAAAAAACic/OJBOJ3WBN04/s320/100_2557.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318405921576456018" border="0" /></a>I've been back in Norfolk for a week and a half. I guess it's nice to be back to my grown-up autonomous life. I like what I'm learning in my classes, and I like teaching.<br /><br />My class has been in a weird funk, though, lately. Their attendance has been dropping, and their quiz grades are tanking. Is it me? I've tried using fun videos in class and asking for their suggestions, but nothing seems to fix it. When I asked for suggestions, most students said I was doing fine. (One said we should do all the reading in class. Heh. Good luck with that, kid.) Oh, well. I'll keep <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7GAbiY8tI/AAAAAAAACik/dAqiW5I5Z34/s1600-h/100_2555.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 196px; height: 260px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7GAbiY8tI/AAAAAAAACik/dAqiW5I5Z34/s320/100_2555.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318405920665432786" border="0" /></a>at it.<br /><br />Yesterday, there was an ekphrastic poetry and nonfiction reading at the Courthouse Gallery in Portsmouth. Ekphrastic means (roughly) art inspired by/relating to other art. We were supposed to visit the gallery, pick a piece and write in response to that piece. I couldn't get a ride, so I had to use their web site. They had a few quilts posted, each entitled "Biography," so I wrote a poem called "Quilting Memoir."<br /><br />I'd never been to Portsmouth before this weekend. It was a glorious, sunny day, and Mary was <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7HYFRHSBI/AAAAAAAACjU/uZh5U_xxnew/s1600-h/100_2524.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7HYFRHSBI/AAAAAAAACjU/uZh5U_xxnew/s200/100_2524.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318407426515879954" border="0" /></a>nice enough to give me a ride. About a dozen people read, and there were even a few people in the audience who didn't take part in the reading. Heh. The gallery accidentally listed the date wrong on their web site, but I'm not sure listing in correctly would have helped much.<br /><br />We poets joke that we mainly write for each other, because the people who buy poetry are poets. I read <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7HW2Uof7I/AAAAAAAACi8/9jkL6POUnKY/s1600-h/100_2542.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7HW2Uof7I/AAAAAAAACi8/9jkL6POUnKY/s200/100_2542.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318407405324238770" border="0" /></a>recently that only 5 percent of poetry books bought in bookstores are written by living poets. Living poets tend to make the majority of their sales when they give poetry readings...which, like I said, are mostly attended by other poets.<br /><br />Anyway, it was so Springy out. Recently, it's been COLD. Not Iowa <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7HX6HzCfI/AAAAAAAACjM/b5peC5CNacs/s1600-h/100_2546.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7HX6HzCfI/AAAAAAAACjM/b5peC5CNacs/s200/100_2546.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318407423524014578" border="0" /></a>cold or anything, but 20 or 30 degrees below the average temp here. The crocuses and hyacinths have bloomed, and I was afraid they would freeze, but they seem to be doing alright. Trees are blooming all over town. My professor, Luisa, says her daughter calls them dandruff trees, though they look more like snowballs to me. Portsmouth was pretty, and I'd love to check it out sometime.<br /><br />I enjoyed listening to my colleages and other area poets. Their work is so inspiring. I had to keep my pen <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7HXXnBZTI/AAAAAAAACjE/nGSdTHIKfBw/s1600-h/100_2543.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7HXXnBZTI/AAAAAAAACjE/nGSdTHIKfBw/s200/100_2543.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318407414259737906" border="0" /></a>in my hand the entire time to jot down ideas for new poems. I was a little nervous as I read for some reason. I try to get in character like I used to in theater, and it didn't work too well, but I don't think anyone could tell.<br /><br />Afterwords, a handful of us went over to a <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7GA4wMZlI/AAAAAAAACi0/Cj0VxBWNAWw/s1600-h/100_2550.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 161px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sc7GA4wMZlI/AAAAAAAACi0/Cj0VxBWNAWw/s320/100_2550.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318405928507958866" border="0" /></a>local German restaurant for beer and snacks. The pretzels, lunchmeat, liverwurst, pumpernickel bread and spicy mustard were surprisingly satisfying. Mushy meat...yum!<br /><br />All-in-all, it was one of those days that remind me why I'm here. I'm here to interact with other writers, become a better writer, and better connect with my audience. Just sitting at a table full of women, all of us laughing, was worth a lot.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17352144.post-46076669860333137252009-03-13T16:30:00.010-04:002009-03-13T18:59:54.400-04:00Great grandparents, and a return to Virginia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SbrW0K93qoI/AAAAAAAACg0/oE6oG4mXKo0/s1600-h/HPIM0971.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SbrW0K93qoI/AAAAAAAACg0/oE6oG4mXKo0/s320/HPIM0971.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312794902222318210" border="0" /></a>Sunday, I'd planned to go visit my wonderful grandparents. My dad was even going to come with me. The weather was not on our side, though. The temperature had been dropping steadily since I arrived in Iowa. Northern Iowa was icy. In Woodward (where our farm is), it started out rainy. The rain turned to sleet, then hail, then snow. Days ago, I was sitting in the 70-degree sun. Then, in a few hours the ground was white. Iowa's weird like that.<br /><br />Since we couldn't travel, I spent half of the day filling Mom's new mp3 player (a generic iPod) with music and half the day helping Dad on the farm, mainly just filling buckets with water. It was actually fun to spend time with him and see the lambs bounce around. Then we went to Unkie's house to take care of our she<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SbrYubjHdvI/AAAAAAAAChM/QnRrsfjhJfE/s1600-h/Me%26GrandmaCarol.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 176px; height: 265px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SbrYubjHdvI/AAAAAAAAChM/QnRrsfjhJfE/s320/Me%26GrandmaCarol.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312797002617550578" border="0" /></a>ep there. (Some have been living there ever since the tornado.) I quickly popped into the house to say hello and get a last round of hugs.<br /><br />I had rescheduled my visit with my grandparents for Tuesday, but Monday I woke up to weather predictions of an ice storm on Tuesday. I decided to head up there while the going was good. Grandma Carol and Grandpa Kenny met me halfway by coming to Algona, where we had lunch at the Pizza Ranch. Grandpa even cancelled a doctor's appointment because he wanted to see me. Aw!<br /><br />We sat and talked for hours until we were the last ones in the place. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SbrYur-zvvI/AAAAAAAAChU/odzJYS4ENR0/s1600-h/Me%26GrandpaKenny.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 172px; height: 256px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SbrYur-zvvI/AAAAAAAAChU/odzJYS4ENR0/s320/Me%26GrandpaKenny.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312797007028666098" border="0" /></a>The woman who ran the place didn't mind. I also gave them their Christmas presents, as our gathering was canceled for weather at Christmas, too. It would have been nice to spend more time together, but it was a short trip to Iowa. I didn't even get to see my friends, which was the biggest bummer of the whole trip. (I should have gotten the Pizza Ranch lady to take our picture. I forgot to, so I had to dig out the pictures at left from the summer of 2006!)<br /><br />After leaving my Gilbaugh grandparents, I got together with my Kiley grandparents (their picture is from summer 2007). Grandpa Russell had been in the hospital for heart trouble. It was very stressful for Grandma Lenora, who collapsed and broke her leg. It's been hard on her, maybe it's kind of a blessing.<br /><br />You see, Grandma is supposed to stay off her <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SbrYuM8UjYI/AAAAAAAAChE/iZxirEk2Mbo/s1600-h/100_1674.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SbrYuM8UjYI/AAAAAAAAChE/iZxirEk2Mbo/s320/100_1674.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312796998696734082" border="0" /></a>feet and rest. Grandpa is supposed to move around and get exercise. This way, he has to move around to help her. When I arrived, he made me a cup of tea. We chatted while they opened their Christmas presents. At supper time, I volunteered to cook, and made egg sandwhiches for us all. Then I hit the road again, trying to get home before the weather turned.<br /><br />Tuesday, I tried to catch up on my reading while my parents were at work. Then, I helped Dad with farm work again, filling buckets, moving <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SbraXXxcGPI/AAAAAAAAChc/T77PKYh-RPE/s1600-h/100_2495.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 301px; height: 227px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SbraXXxcGPI/AAAAAAAAChc/T77PKYh-RPE/s320/100_2495.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312798805490145522" border="0" /></a>sheep, and helping Dad to build a new pen. It was cold that day, the temperature plummeting fast. At one point, Mac (the border collie) dropped a ball at my feet, and I stepped on it, sloshing cold water down my leg. I tell you, that is not fun when it's below freezing. I eventually went in to change and get warmer gloves. Nonetheless, by the time Dad and I were done, I was ready to go in and have hot chocolate (though I did linger in the garage for a bit to play fetch with Mac). Mom brought home Chinese take-out, which really hit the spot. Then it was time to pack.<br /><br />Wednesday morning, I was up before 6 a.m., <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SbraXhpUMtI/AAAAAAAAChk/gIdbPdczVNY/s1600-h/100_2517.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 310px; height: 248px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/SbraXhpUMtI/AAAAAAAAChk/gIdbPdczVNY/s320/100_2517.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312798808140427986" border="0" /></a>gathering up my stuff and getting ready to fly home. I even had time to mix up replacer and feed the lambs. I gave my dad hugs and kisses before he went to work. Then Mom and I hit the road. It was 8 degrees F when we said our goodbyes at the airport. My flight was delayed by hours, and I was told I'd have to get a 5 p.m. flight from Detroit to Norfolk. When we got to Detriot at 2, I decided to give it a shot, and ran for my original 1:50 flight to Virginia...which I managed to catch. Boo-yah! I was cozy in my apartment before 5 p.m., and because I'd only used carryon luggage, all my stuff made it, too. It was gorgeous out, 70 degrees and sunny.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sbra-hLmYRI/AAAAAAAACh0/ScyROGzmFn8/s1600-h/HPIM0964_2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 209px; height: 313px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Z4Zwpl8nEJ0/Sbra-hLmYRI/AAAAAAAACh0/ScyROGzmFn8/s320/HPIM0964_2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312799478030688530" border="0" /></a>Of course, by the next morning the temperature had fallen 25 degrees. Today it is cool and rainy. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm a bad-weather magnet. Oh, well. Maybe that will help me focus on my studies.<br /><br />P.S. I've done pretty well with my Lenten goals, but I slipped today and posted a new Facebook profile pic. Because I usually wear glasses, I've been wanting a profile picture of me in glasses. The thing is, I usually don't wear my glasses in pictures because there's alway a glare. Well, on my trip home, someone snapped a good one, so I decided to post it. It took less than a minute, but my friends were quick to call me on it. Todd even chastized me from London. Isn't Facebooking while on a trip to London as bad as cheating on a Lenten fast? Okay, maybe not. Sigh. What can I say? I'm weak. Well, their teasing scorn has strengthened my resolve. I can do better, and I will!Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0