Summer 2012 : Pt 1 - The Facts

I haven't blogged in over a year...and I don't think it's a coincidence that the last year has also been one of the best years of my life so far. When life is good, you don't have time to blog.

 Junior year was killer, in both senses of the word. I've never felt so stretched, physically, academically, or spiritually. Freshman year was exciting, because everything was new; sophomore year was comfortable and straight-forward...but junior year is where it all came together for me. It was like a giant pot of caramelized onions. I don't know where that simile came from, but makes sense to me. School was so mind-blowingly amazing that I didn't mind the frequent all-nighters, nor the plummeting grades. (Whose brilliant idea was it to take extra classes? Oh, right. Mine.) I got to read the whole Old Testament in 8 weeks and call it school. I could spent most of the day sitting under a tree reading theology. You have no idea how happy that makes me. But as awesome as school was, junior year was also the year I actually had a life. (Hence those plummeting grades.) Yes, it took me three years to get involved with non-school stuff, but better late than never. I volunteered more. I signed up to be a conversation partner with a Chinese girl. I celebrated made-up holidays with my roommates. I went to CRF almost every week. I had coffee with women I respect. I threw parties. Life was always bursting at the seams, and that's just how I liked it.

 And then that incredible school year ended with the best summer a girl with a passport could ever ask for. I don't even know where to begin.

EUROPE
A week after school ended, my friend Cristina and I strapped on our backpacks and boarded a plane to Europe. The afternoon I left, I was pretty terrified. *Who* was letting us do this? Neither one of us spoke Italian! But as soon as I reached the point of no return (boarding the plane, basically), I perked up. Now there was nothing left to do but face the adventures.

 I'm overwhelmed at the prospect of trying to summarize this trip. I can spout off facts, but it was really the commonplace occurrances that made it so magical. But maybe if I can get the bare bones of my summer down on paper, I can flesh them out later.

Italy 
Cities visited: Milan (day trip), Cinque Terre, Pisa (day trip), Florence, Assisi (day trip), Rome, Vatican City, Sorrento, Naples (ish).

Favorite city: Rome.
Least favorite city: Florence..but it was worth it to see the sculptures. Michelangelo's David is incredible in person.
Best honeymoon location: Cinque Terre if you're me, Sorrento if you're Cristina. ;)
Most peaceful place: Assisi.
Least friendly city: Milan.
Kindest city: Naples, surprisingly. I'm convinced in the 24 hours we were there, we met Naples' finest.
Most touristy: Pisa. It's all about the tower.
City/Country that most validated my study of Latin: Vatican City. Nice to know it's still the official language *somewhere* on earth.

England 
Cities visited: Goole, York (day trip), and London.

England was the perfect dessert to our trip. So fun to experience all the charm of Europe without the language barrier. England was particularly special to me, because I was meeting up with good family friends. I was a bit nervous about seeing them again...would it be awkward after so long? But all those silly fears melted away as soon as I saw them.  I only had 48 hours with them, so I only stopped talking on occasion to chew and swallow. They are truly some of my favorite people on earth, and I was thrilled to get to visit them on their own deliciously British turf. I met up with their son in London for a few days...and oh, I need to go back. Two days in London is not enough to see a fraction of the sights. It was hard to leave. But what fun it was to see an old friend again...he had visited us for a few weeks without his parents a few months before my mom's cancer returned, and his visit is one of the last fun memories I have of our family. Super special to be able to reminisce about the "good ol' days."

Idaho
Eventually, I had to head home to Idaho. I only had a week and a half before my next trip, but I knew I would fall prey to post-trip depression if I didn't stay busy. While in Rome, I had received a mass email from a local church looking for counselors for a camp for abused/neglected children in the foster care system. And guess what? It was being held that "dead week" in between trips. Hmmm. Well, it was hard to apply for a job while traveling around Europe, but I emailed the camp director anyway. She told me she wasn't sure if they could use me, but  I should send in my application ASAP anyway. Well, that didn't happen. I was too busy gallivanting around Europe. But the day after I got home, I faxed all the documents to her. Bear in mind, this was the Monday before camp. All the staff would need to leave in six days. I figured there was no way they'd need me this late in the game. But guess what? It turns out that one of their female counselors had fallen ill and wasn't able to come. If I could get my interview and training completed within the next three-four days, they'd take me.

I didn't know a soul at this camp. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. But a common goal and the shared love of Christ drew us all together. As we all waited nervously for these kids to arrive, an older woman grabbed my hand, and we prayed for peace and courage. (I had just been told the night before that my two campers displayed aggressive behavior and occasionally blurted out sexually explicit things...yeah, not gonna lie. I was nervous.) Later on, my two co-counselors and I all started crying as we prayed for "our" kids and asked God to reveal Himself to them. It was by far the most emotionally draining week of the summer...but also one of the best. It's been a long time since I've prayed so much or so fervently. Those kids...oh, I loved them.

One of the most significant experiences was with our most difficult camper. She threw a major tantrum nearly every day. The first day was the worst. She had a complete meltdown when we wouldn't let her turn off the lights. (We were reading the kids a bedtime story and needed to see.) Promises that she could turn the light off in a few minutes didn't help. It escalated to the point where she was calling every other camper in the cabin...well, a part of the body that doesn't frequently get named in polite company. But as a counselor was helping her to calm down, I overheard part of their conversation. This girl, this angry, sad, precious girl was gasping between her sobs, "I wanted to bite them so badly. I wanted to bite them, but I didn't. I didn't bite them."

She didn't bite. This tantrum, terrible though it was, was an improvement in her normal behavior. She hadn't bitten anyone. Strange though it might sound, I was so proud of her. Though her words were unkind, at least she was using language to express anger. That's huge for a child whose normal mode is to lash out like a wounded puppy.

And then a few minutes later, this girl apologized to the entire cabin completely of her own volition. The staff had not even suggested it. She said, "I'm sorry for the way I acted and for calling you all mean names. I know that's not the way to act." All I could think of was this verse: "For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do -- this I keep on doing." (Romans 7:18-19). She is no different than you or I or the apostle Paul. She's on a journey too, and I pray that she will continue to be healed. She frequently spoke about God; I believe her foster parents are Christians.

More and more, I feel a calling to help foster kids, but there's so little I can do right now. I hope at least, I can work at the camp next year...if I'm in the area? Ugh. Can't think that far ahead.

Anyway. There is so much more that can be said. Colorado and Maryland and Taiwan all need to have their stories told too. Another day, I hope.

In which I am a geek...

I need to geek out about something right now.

This is not normal for me. And if you doubt that, then you clearly need a lesson on the difference between “nerd” and “geek.” I can nerd it up with the best of them, but I lack the technological interest and know-how required to be a geek.

But tonight I discovered a program for my Mac that has me bouncing off the walls screaming, “I LOVE TECHNOLOGY! YEEHAW!” (This is one of the perks of having the basement to myself…)

It all started when I was cleaning my room. I was overwhelmed by how many books I’ve amassed since I came out here to college, and I really just wanted to get them organized. (I have this weird thing where the rest of my room can be a complete and total wreck…but so long as my books are organized, I don't even notice the squalor in which I'm living)

Since I catalogue books at my job fairly frequently, I’ve used a couple library programs, and I know how tedious it can be to type in all the information (especially ISBN numbers…bleh!)…so, I turned to my friend Google and thus I discovered BookHunter.

Basically, it's a library program for people to catalogue books they own and keep track of what they've lent out (and to whom...super handy!). I've used some pretty clunky library programs, so I really appreciate that this one is sleek and shiny (yes, I'm all about the looks...). It's looks a bit like iTunes, and it's really easy to use.

And if that were all, I probably wouldn't have written this blog post. But that's not all. Oh no. Let me tell you about....the scanner.

Let's say you want to add a book. One click, and up pops a "New Book" window. Now, you could spend the next ten minutes of your life finding all the relevant information and typing it in...but who wants to do that? Instead, you can just click this little button that activates a scanner on your webcam. Hold the barcode of your book up to the camera, and voila! It reads the barcode on your book and automatically fills in all the information from Amazon.com. Author, title, illustrator, publisher, ISBN number, cover art…everything you could possibly need to know. BAM. Just like that.

Is that not the niftiest feature ever?!

Words cannot explain how exciting I find this. You should hear my little giggle of triumph with each book I scan into the system. Who cares if I’m twenty…I can still play Library, right?

Ok. Enough blogging. I have books to scan!

P.S. Turns out I have 101 books (not dalmatians) out here in Idaho. Back in Florida, there are three or four huge Tupperware bins in my dad's garage stuffed full of books. I know what I'll be doing as soon as I get home! :)

The Bus Ride

It’s been awhile since I updated, and I have no real excuse. School is out for the summer. I have very little that needs to be done, and lots of time to do it in. This is the exact opposite of my life during the school year. Feast or famine, y’all.

I got home (“home” here defined as Idaho) about a week ago from my first real trip of the summer—a week in Washington and Oregon to visit family. David, Leah, and Seth came out to Seattle to attend David’s brother’s graduation, and I, not being able to resist the fact that three of my favorite people were going to be one state away instead of…well, however many states there are between Idaho and Maryland, just invited myself to come along and join the party. Luckily for me, the Johnsons are a wonderfully gracious bunch, and I had a blast spending the week with them. Best of all, I got to spend my birthday there surrounded by family and friends and peanut-butter pie instead of, say, reading a book alone in the basement. (Although, to be honest, that sounds fun, too…)

I was a bit loopy, however, because I’d stayed up the night before to attend the midnight showing of a certain movie that I was, oh, slightly excited about….and then I came home, packed for a few hours, went to Winco to pick up snacks, sleepily drove for an hour and forty-five minutes (forcing myself to sing at the top of my lungs to whatever song my iPod shuffled too…I had a sore throat by the time I arrived, but at least I was alive!), arrived at my roommate’s house, so she could drop me off at the bus station, and then….well, then…I met my fellow bus passengers.

The scene: I have just arrived at the bus station. I find my gate (is it a gate if it’s not an airport?), scan the available seats, avoid the ones in close proximity to creepy men, and choose one next to a pajama-clad young woman.

“Are you going on the west-bound bus?” she asks.

“Yep!”

“Oh good! Me too! I was so worried that I was in the wrong spot, so I just wanted to make sure. This is my first time riding a bus before, and I have a long trip ahead of me.”

“Oh, yeah? Where are you headed?”

“Vancouver.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, I lived there for about a year with my fiancé, and then I came back to Spokane…but actually, my fiance and I, like, just had a miscarriage, and I was like *@#$ this, I’m tired of all this *$%&, I’m moving back in with you!”

“….oh…I’m sorry…”

“Yeah. But anyway. See this bag here? It’s full of every single, &*$%ing food you could ever imagine, and I got it all with food stamps! You’re welcome to any of it. Hey, do you think we could maybe hang out today? Like, sit together?”

“Oh…well…sure,” I responded weakly.

After enduring a few more profanity-laced tales, I realized I had essentially signed up for eight hours of craziness and desperately tried to backpedal.

“You know,” I said. “I’ve been up all night, and it looks like there aren’t going to be that many people on the bus. We could probably even each get a row to ourselves. That’s probably what I’m going to try to do.”

“Yeah…but then…what if someone else sits next to you?”

“Well…yeah. That could happen.”

My non-committal response did not sway her. From then on, she and I were a “we.” As in, a few minutes later, “Hey, shouldn’t we get in line now?”

The bus wasn’t leaving for a good half-hour, and although a few people were in line, the doors weren’t even open yet. I told her I was going to wait, but that she should feel free to go ahead. She stayed seated beside me. We were a team, after all.

After approximately thirty seconds of waiting, she sprang out of her chair, turned to me, and said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…I can’t do this anymore. I have to get in line. I’m so sorry.”

And with that, our sitting-together pact was broken. Sometimes fickleness is a beautiful thing.

I boarded the bus and found an empty row, strategically placed my jacket on the other seat, leaned back, and attempted to sleep. It was a good plan. People either assumed I was saving the seat for someone else, or they just didn’t want to wake me up to ask. Yes, I am sneaky and selfish. I’m working on it. But five minutes before our departure, I still had a row all to myself. I was thrilled. Maybe I could catch up on some sleep after all!

And then…they walked in. An elderly couple, shuffling down the aisle, looking for two seats together. They made it to the end of the bus without any luck. “Well,” said the husband. “I don’t think we can sit together.” I was still pretending to be asleep, but I could hear the sadness in his voice.

And I tried to justify it to myself. Oh, I tried. Tara, you were here early enough to get a good seat. You staked your claim, and it’s rightfully yours! You haven’t slept at all…you could actually spread out and get some sleep here! Let someone else give up their row. And hey – it’s your birthday! Let this be a gift to yourself!

But I couldn’t do it. If I were married, I would want to sit next to my husband...and the fact that the couple was elderly just clinched it. I gave up my seat, and with it, my happiness.

Not really. It’s just that I ended up in a broken seat that didn’t recline. It had neither footrest nor armrest, nor was there was no room for my legs because my seatmate and I both had too much luggage. Pajama Lady’s craziness began to look appealing in comparison. I blared gospel music in my ears until I sort of fell asleep. Luckily, the bus stopped thirty minutes later, and I grabbed a seat next to a sweet elderly woman at the front of the bus. Honestly, there must have been twice as much leg room…and the footrest worked! I was just thrilled.

Eventually, the sweet elderly woman got off the bus, and my new seatmate—a woman in her forties—plopped down next to me and asked, “Is this the bus to Seattle? I’m nervous because this is my first bus ride.”

Apparently, I attract people who don’t know what they’re doing. I’d like to think this is because I look so calm and self-assured, but I’m starting to wonder if they’re just looking for someone as clueless as they are. Anyway, this woman and I pretty much left each other alone after that first conversation. The one thing that struck me as odd is that she didn’t bring anything to do while she was on the bus…and if I recall, she was catching a bus in Seattle and would be travelling for another half-day after that. Yet – no book, no magazine, no music. She just had a tiny purse and, presumably, a checked bag. She couldn’t even stare at the window, because my pillow and I were blocking most of the view. She didn’t sleep. She just sat there.

When she wasn’t dancing, that is.

About ten minutes after she sat down, I noticed her bopping up and down in her seat. I started to think perhaps she was hinting that my music was too loud. I turned it down. She kept bopping. I turned it down even more. Nope, still bopping. I turned it off – but even then she continued on her merry ol’ bopping way. I shrugged, turned my music back up, and went back to sleep.

So I guess if you don’t bring anything to do on a bus, you can always dance.

Well – eventually, I arrived, and seeing everyone was totally worth enduring the weirdos on the bus. We had dinner and dessert, and I got to sleep in a bed for the first time in 36 hours. It was wonderful.

More later...

Book Review: A Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp

I didn't want to like this book.

Is it bad that I'm prejudiced against the books written nowadays by Christian women? No doubt I've been soured by the likes of Captivating. Gag.

I kept hearing glowing reviews of A Thousand Gifts from Christian woman in the blogosphere. People said it was like The Love Dare only with God. Meh. Sounds corny. And goodness gracious, the author writes for the Christian division of Hallmark? That clinched it. I'd give this book a try...but only to make fun of it.

And so I bought it---not an actual copy of the book, mind you---but the Kindle version. And this from the girl who insists that if a book is worth owning, it's worth the space on your bookshelf. But with this silly book? I figured I'd buy the digital copy, read it, mock it, and promptly forget all about it.

Well. A hard copy of her book is currently on my desk, with a bookmark halfway through. Why? Possibly because I read the Kindle version, decided I wanted to actually own the thing, and have now started to read through it a second time so I could underline all my favorite parts.

Possibly.

Ok, so maybe I was wrong about the author. And maybe I did judge the book by its cover--a cutesy photo of two robin's eggs in a nest.

The title comes from a dare her friend gave her: write down 1,000 gifts you're thankful to God for. I expected a list of trite little happinesses. I didn't imagine she'd tackle the problem of evil--that theological quandary that's plagued people throughout centuries--because after all, this was a just another hokey Christian book, right?

But then she opened the book with her earliest childhood memory: the sight of her baby sister crushed by an oncoming truck.

Not exactly Hallmark material, folks.

And against that backdrop, she asks: where is God? Where is grace? How can we give thanks in all things in a world like this one?

Even without her footnotes and quotations, her influences were obvious: Annie Dillard, C.S. Lewis, G.K. Chesterton, Alexander Schmemann. Um, I'm not sure why I put the least-known guy last. Emphasis fail. But I really, really, really liked what I read of Schmemann last year...and he's got an awesome name, so there you go.

Occasionally her writing veers into overly-flowery territory, making her poetic prose sound forced...and boy, did I have to resist the urge to dot her sentences with commas. (Do Canadians have different rules??) But for a first book...well-done.

It's #11 on the New York Times Bestseller List...and I'm excited. I want people to read this book. It's a defense of joy, beauty, and gratitude. It's inspirational, but not in the Thomas Kinkade everything-is-all-light-and-happy sort of way. It's about finding beauty in the shadows, about being grateful for God's story--whatever that entails-- and your part in it. It's about living sacramentally. To be honest, this book sums up most of what I've come to learn in the past few years here at school...just packaged in a different way. Which means it can reach other people...especially those women who like the schmaltzy Christian books. ;)

And just a sample from the first chapter...

From all of our beginnings, we keep reliving the Garden story. Satan, he wanted more. More power, more glory. Ultimately, in his essence, Satan is an ingrate. And he sinks his venom into the heart of Eden. Satan's sin becomes the first sin of all humanity: the sin of ingratitude. Adam and Eve are, simply, painfully, ungrateful for what God gave . . . we look and swell with the ache of a broken, battered planet, what we ascribe as the negligent work of an indifferent Creator (if we even think there is one). Do we ever think of this busted-up place as the result of us ingrates, unsatisfied, we who punctured it all with a bite? The fruit's poison has infected the whole of humanity . . . but from that Garden beginning, God has had a different purpose for us . . . He means to fill us with glory again . . . that's grace. It is one thing to choose to take the grace offered at the cross. But to choose to live as one filling with His grace? . . . Could I live that--the choice to open the hands to freely receive whatever God gives? If I don't, I am still making a choice. The choice not to."

Ok. Spring Break has ended, and I'm officially getting back to work. Enough of this blogging silliness!

Finals Week, Day 1

Here is today in a nutshell, simply because I need a break from studying.

I woke up.

I ate chocolate cake for breakfast.

I studied Natural History.

I listened to a brilliant thesis defense about women as historical agents.

I studied more Natural History.

I talked about how nervous I was to take my Natural History oral.

I read Psalm 121, because someone heard me freaking out and conveniently had it printed.

I took my Natural History oral.

I did not cry during my Natural History oral.

I cried approximately 5 seconds after leaving my Natural History Oral.

I looked stupid.

I went to the bathroom, looked at the sorry sight of a girl with puffy eyes, no make-up, and seriously poofy hair, and told her to get a grip.

{Don't ask why I was crying. I haven't figured that out yet. I was happy enough with my grade, but I was so nervous going into it, and once I was done--all this pent-up something just came out of my tear ducts.}

I decided to wait in the bathroom until I looked normal.

I realized I didn't have that much time.

I visited the school secretary's desk and raided her candy bowl.

I went home.

I ate chocolate pie.

I watched an episode of The Dick van Dyke Show. "Oh Rob!!!"

I worked on my history timeline.

I went to a study group.

We talked about monks and time and Bede and King Radbod. Okay, I talked about King Radbod. Wikipedia tells me his name is also Redbad, but where's the fun in that?

I ate chocolate pie. Again.

I came home and threatened to put my boarder-brother's name in the church bulletin under the "Expectant Mothers" prayer list.

I decided I like my job too much to risk losing it.

I wrote this blog post.

Next up: history timeline.

Adios.

P.S. Yes, I did have chocolate cake/pie at every single meal. No, I don't regret this.

Stress

Christmas break was so relaxing. No deadlines, no pressure, no assignments. I needed the break. Oh, how I needed it. I felt like I'd been treading water for four months, with my nose barely staying above the water line the whole time.

And so I spent a month in pure, unadulterated sloth. I got up late, spent the days how I pleased, and went to bed whenever I wanted.

This is all well and good...for a time. But toward the end, I was sort-of-but-not-really looking forward to school. Sort-of because I feel antsy without a schedule and a routine. Not-really because with schedules and routines comes stress. I don't like stress...and yet, I always end up going back to him. (Don't ask me why I always turn life situations into relationship analogies. I think it's like guys and sports.)

{Random story that is slightly-related, but didn't fit anywhere in this post: During my fall break, I started a documentary called “Stress: The Silent Killer.” Yes, I watched a documentary about STRESS during a break week. Or, that is, I tried to watch a documentary about stress during break week. I had to turn it off about 5 minutes into it. It was making me stressed.}

During break, I was reading this book about mothering little ones. (Don’t judge me. I’m just storing up wisdom that I might need later. Besides, I can’t help reading books that are right there in front of me. It’s a compulsion.) Anyway, in one of the chapters, the author mentions how overwhelmed she was in one particular season of her life, and how she realized she needed to ban the word “overwhelmed” from her vocabulary.

Well, "overwhelmed" isn't the trigger word for me. I'm definitely on Team Stressed. It's my go-to word for whenever I feel lazy or grumpy.

So. I've been consciously trying to...not necessarily ban the word...but just be way more aware of using it. I've used it so many times over the past seven-ish years, that it just needs to be retired from my mouth for awhile.

Stress is my excuse to grumble (“Ahh, how am I supposed to get all this reading done? Why did the teacher even assign this book?”), which is ultimately rooted in disbelief. Do I really believe that God ordains my circumstances? Not just in a classroom where we're discussing Calvinism, but in my life? And not just the big events, but the little itty-bitty details, like reading assignments and paper deadlines? Because if I do, then why am I stressed out? Why don't I just do my best, and let Him take care of the outcome? Sure, the circumstances won't always turn out the way I wanted. I might end up with a B instead of an A. Oh, the horror. But a B cheerfully earned is worth more than an A fretfully pursued. Can someone please translate that into Chinese and tattoo it on my face?

So, I’m determined to keep my priorities straight (none of this skipping Bible reading for school reading, no more fudging on keeping the Sabbath), work hard, trust God, and let the crumbs fall where they may. I'm done with giving into the stress, finished with masking a grumbling spirit with a stupid little word.

It's only been Week 1 (admittedly the easiest week of the term), but I've noticed a change in my attitude. Stress has been one of the major motivators in my life. I've always worked better under pressure, under stress. But now - I'm reminding myself that I have a different motivation. I need to be working hard because it's the right thing to do, not because the consequences of not working hard frighten me. I'm supposed to be working heartily as unto the Lord, not as unto stress. And that same Lord was the one who said, "Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light."

Stress, on the other hand, says things like, "Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you more to stress about. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am a harsh master and proud, and you will find turmoil for your soul. For my yoke is heavy, and my burden is even heavier."

I think I'm going to go with the Lord on this one.

All these revelations have come to me at an interesting time. You see, this term is going to be by far the most stressful one yet. I nearly doubled the hours at my job, and I’m taking an extra class. Let me remind you that I was stressed with the normal coursework and 3.5 hours of work a week. Without a shift in attitude, this would have been the term that stress would have done me in. Conversations with me would look something like this.

Hey Tara! How are you?

Oh, stressed. You?

Oh, not too bad.

Oh, good for you. You’re not stressed like I am. Must be nice to not be stressed. I wish I weren't stressed.

Um, yeah. Hey, are you coming to the party tonight?

Nope, I’m feeling too stressed.

Oh, but maybe the party would do you good?

Nope. I’d be too stressed. I’d spend the whole time there thinking about how stressed I was, and then I’d get more stressed, and then I'd collapse in the middle of your floor in a giant fit of stress.

Ok. Well…we’ll miss you.

Yeah, well...I’ll probably be too stressed to miss you. But have fun!

You too!

I will. Stress is so much fun, you know. Nothing like a big ol’ glass of stress to wash the schoolbooks down with.

Um...ok. Sure. Bye!

Yeah, I have to leave too. We've been talking too long already...hopefully stress won’t kill me before we meet again!

And then I would lose all my friends, because who wants to be around THAT person?

I feel like I should clarify...I don't believe, not for a minute, that I'm going to frolic through life stress-free for the rest of my days. Even if I were to ban myself from saying the word aloud for the rest of my life, I will still say it in my heart. Just give me a few more weeks...finals week will loom ahead, and stress will wind its snaky fingers 'round.

But I'm more aware of it now. And as every single breaking-addictions group will tell you, admitting you have a problem is the first step.

Also, refusing to be stressed doesn’t mean that I’m not going to be studying and working like crazy. I've been starting my days at 5am, and I'm planning to keep that up as long as possible. I'm going to be skipping out on parties. I'm going to be doing school on the weekends. I'm going to say "no" to some things that I would have otherwise liked to do. Honestly, on the outside, it's not going to look like much has changed. But it has.

So after a week full of finals (culminating in a 3.5 hr Latin test that sucked out every last bit of brain I possessed) and a 10-11 hour overnight journey across the country, I am finally home.

I'd just like to take this time to thank a few people along the way.

Dear Hispanic, High-School Soccer Player,

I’m sorry for so assertively cutting in front of you as we were all lining up to board. I thought about letting you go ahead of me, but I really wanted to get on the plane first so I could claim a space in the overhead bin. I have a history with overhead bins. I didn’t realize that you were going to be so kind as to offer to help me with my bag before I even attempted it myself. Thanks also for being one of the few guys to sit behind me and not kick my seat or stretch out your legs so far they hit the backs of my ankle.

Dear Older Man who Has a Short Wife,

The fact that you helped me with my suitcase because you would have wanted someone to help your equally short wife made me smile. You must have noticed when High School Hispanic Soccer Player helped with my suitcase, because at the end of the flight you stepped into the aisle (I presumed to get your own stuff) and said "Yours was the purple one, if I recall," and let me off first.

Dear Shaggy Indie Kid with Skinny Jeans,

Thanks for laughing at me when I tried to turn my overhead light on, but realized that I couldn't reach it without unbuckling and standing up. I thought it was pretty funny, too.

Dear Man in the Air Force,

Thanks for accepting the stewardess's offer to move up to first class, so that I could scoot over a seat and not have to sit directly next to Shaggy Indie Kid with Skinny Jeans. No offense, Shaggy Indy kid, but I’m not going to sit next to you for 2+ hours unless I have to.

Dear Honeymooning Couple,

Thanks for taking a red-eye flight, ensuring that the person next to you would most likely be sleeping and thus wouldn’t be subjected to your massively public displays of ardent affection. To the new bride, I’m glad you’re happy, and the ring is pretty. I also feel like you should be told that your new husband looks just like Mr. Incredible from the nose down. Maybe y'all could do a Mr. Incredible/Elastigirl couple's costume for Halloween next year.

Dear Large Awkward-Looking Young Man who Looked an Awful Lot Like the Birkenstock-wearing Weirdo I Once Sat Next to who Kept Dropping Cashews on my Thigh and Trying to Retrieve Them,

Thanks for not eating cashews, dropping them on me, or trying to retrieve them. Thanks also for making small talk with me at the beginning of the flight, but then letting me sleep the rest of the way. Thank you also for apologizing about poking me to wake me up to inform me that I needed to close my tray table. I don't like being poked by strangers, but the fact that the stewardess put you up to it combined with the fact that you apologized makes it okay. Also, good luck with your niece at DisneyWorld. I have a feeling she’s going to be the biggest brat in the happiest place on earth. I base this assumption on the fact that she is currently a brat and the chances of her turning into Shirley Temple by the time we de-plane are very slim.

Dear Kid who Shouted “Mayday, Mayday, We’re Going Down” Everytime We Experienced Turbulence,

You woke me up, but you made me laugh, so it’s all good.

Dear Continential Airlines,

Thanks for the full can of soda…but the cookie? I’ve seen postage stamps bigger than that.

Dear TSA Official,

Thanks for feeling as awkward touching me as I was feeling being touched by you. That must have been your first time. Good job getting all the steps right—and your little speech beforehand was very well memorized. I could tell that your boss was proud of you, even if she did keep reminding you of all the steps. Also, thanks for not finding a bomb in the waistband of my jeans.

Dear Phoenix Airport,

You are stupid. If people are going to have to switch terminals to catch their connections, you should probably look into installing a tram system between the terminals. It really isn’t efficient to have to exit the airport, wait around for a bus, and then go through the whole rigmarole of security AGAIN. On the other hand, thanks for not having a body scanner installer yet. I was really stoked that I only had to have my personal space invaded once that day.

Dear Outgoing Blonde and Friendly Asian Man and Sympathetic Bald Guy,

Thanks for joining in my rant against the Phoenix airport. I hope you all made it to Atlanta.

Dear United Airlines Flight 3766,

Thanks for NOT singing Jingle Bells all together just like the stewardess suggested. 6:30 in the morning is really not the time for such tomfoolery. Especially when it feels like 3:30 in the morning for me.

You may have noticed that most of my thank-yous had to do with bags and overhead bins. There is a reason for this. Typically, the scene goes like this. Tara can barely reach overhead bin. Tara struggles and almost drops bag on nearby sleeping passenger’s head. Tara sets bag down. Tara tries to see if there is already a bag in that overhead bin. Tara can’t see. Tara tries to make her best helpless woman face to see if someone will respond. Tara is left alone, while her helpless woman face fades and is replaced by her angry woman face. Tara asks stewardess to help. Tara is rejected by stewardess for legal reasons. Tara loudly asks the stewardess how in the world Tara is supposed to get her bag up, if she’s too short and nobody will help. The last spark of chivalry in some man’s heart is fanned into flame—or perhaps he’s just afraid Tara will drop the bag on his head—and Tara’s bag finally makes it into aforementioned overhead bin.

That whole scenario actually happened once…I’m pretty sure that that airplane just had really high overhead bins, because I’ve never had that much trouble.

And if you think I'm overreacting, then perhaps you just don't understand that it's harder to do when you're my size. If YOU were 5'2 and weighed...well...if you were me, you'd understand!

The Yums and Yucks

I was asked to bring dessert for Thanksgiving, so I decided I'd make a couple pumpkin pies. I know, that's totally cliche...but when you think about it, so is turkey. Because I had lots of time, and because I didn't want to venture out into the snowy world to buy a pie crust, I decided to make my own. It was surprisingly easy. Not the healthiest thing in the world (hello, Crisco!), but it's not like pie has ever had a healthy reputation to begin with.

I had a little extra pumpkin filling, so, as you can see, I made a couple mini-pies.

Two little heart-shaped pies. Isn't that romantic? Let's just gloss over the part where I eat both of them myself.

Well, the pie crust recipe made enough for three pies, but I only had enough pumpkin for one. So I sat there, looking at the leftover pie dough, and decided to make chicken pot pie, because that's one of my comfort foods. I just made everything up as I went along, so it wasn't the best ever, but since I was the only one eating it...it was good enough.

Well, I still had more pie dough left over, so I decided to decorate the top of the pie. My sister told me that a few nights ago she decorated her chicken pot pie with some snazzy leaf cookie-cutters, and I was not about to be outdone by her domestic goddessness. So I looked high and low until I found some cookie-cutters of my own.

Unfortunately, all I found were Christmas shapes and....the state of Idaho.

See those lumps at the top? Those are potatoes. I'm so clever, it kills me.

I enjoyed the irony that I was making a pie to celebrate this state I'm living in, while inside I was cursing the first settlers who ever decided that this place was inhabitable in the winter time. It's NOT.

Anyway, I decided to make another dessert, since my plan to bring 2 pumpkin pies fell through. I rummaged around and found a red velvet cake mix.

I don't get red velvet cake.

Like, why is it red? I would understand if it were tomato cake. Or beet cake. Or blood cake (caked blood?). Yeah, I know...that's nasty. But at least we'd all understand why it was red.

What if we made the red velvet cake and just left the red out? I think I'd understand just velvet cake. But since mine was a cake mix, the red was there to stay. Oh well.

But one day, I'm going to make two cakes: one red velvet cake, one not-red, red velvet cake. And then I will gather up some friends, blindfold them, and give them bites of each. And they will all be like, "Oh, Tara! They taste the same! I feel so dumb to think that I was eating superfluous red dye my whole life!" And I'll be like, "Yeah, that was pretty dumb of you." And then they won't be my friends anymore, but that'll be okay, because that means more leftover cake for me.

Anyway.

I saw online that red velvet cakes are often frosted with a butter roux/cooked flour dressing. It sounded weird, but I decided to embrace the weirdness of this whole red velvet cake situation and just make the frosting.

My first attempt resulted in a big glob of paste. How perfect...if I'd been making a paper-mache red velvet cake, that is.

So I tried again and got a fairly decent roux. The problem came when I added the butter and sugar. This picture doesn't do it justice.

It looked like curdled...something. Plus the vanilla gave it a really weird brown color. It tasted fine, but there was no way I was going to frost a cake with that...not even a red velvet cake.

So I turned to my trusty ol' buttercream, and thus my red velvet cake was saved from weird, curdled disgusting frosting.

Oh, I should also add that I burnt a cake in the microwave today. Those 5-minute chocolate cake in a mug thing is not as easy as it looks. I think it did say "Kids, ask your parents for help." Guess that's what I get for not having a grownup nearby.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I know, I know, two posts in two days. It's purty clear I'm on break and have nothing better to do.

Oh, wait. I do have better things to do. Like taking care of the pile of dishes by the sink. Or cleaning my room. Or starting on school. Psh, whatever.

I just wanted to link to a fantastic Thanksgiving article by the one and only Lisa Anderson.

Thanks for Nothing | Boundless Line

Really good perspective on thankfulness.

And along those lines, I've decided that I'm glad it snowed so much this week, because if I have to learn to drive in snow, the best week to learn is break week. I don't learn well with other people watching me. I'd rather figure it out by myself.

And if your first thought was "Uhhhh, why does she keep talking about snow?"....well, then you just need to get used to it, because snow is taking over my life.

I hope everyone had a fantastic Thanksgiving. To my dear family, I love you all, and I really, really missed you.

Mumble, grumble

Since I last updated, my dad and I have driven across the country. It was fun. Somewhere between Georgia and Kentucky, we had a conversation about this blog. I have a love/hate relationship with blogs. I don't want to talk too much about school on here, for the sake of other people's privacy. I don't want to talk about work, for the same reasons, as well as the issue of reader interest. ("So today, I stamped five letters and took them down to the post office. And then I e-mailed some people, and I even scanned a few documents!!!!) And since basically all the events in my day are connected with school or work, what else is there to blog about? Only all that stuff that happens between my two ears.

Hence, posting has been scarce.

~~~~~

A few months ago, a friend of mine e-mailed me. She hadn't heard from me, and the best explanation she could think of was that there was a young man in my life. I had to write back and tell her that no, I'm just a lame friend who forgets to respond to e-mails.

But what's funny is that I apparently think I'm in a relationship. A few weeks ago, I was sitting in library, talking to my roommate, and these words came out of my mouth: "You know, if I were single..."

I was about to continue my sentence when my roommate helpfully reminded me that I am, in fact, single.

But I don't feel like I am. Nope. I'm in a deeply committed relationship with School. We're together all the time. To be honest, he's a bit possessive. I feel like I'm always taking care of him, and he never lets me go out and do other stuff. He insists on dates every night except Sunday. I'm constantly trying to make him happy. Sometimes, I just want to dump him. In fact, our relationship has been on the rocks lately, so we're taking a week break. And we are definitely NOT spending Christmas together. I'm going to catch up with an old buddy of mine named Sleep. School gets jealous and tries to keep us apart, but we always find ways to meet secretly. But in spite of his possessiveness, I really do like School. Somehow, we always patch things up. Still, I'm planning to break up with him in about 2.5 years...that is, unless he breaks up with me first.

I'm pretty sure that entire paragraph is proof that I need to get out more.

~~~~~

Sometime this autumn, I decided I wasn’t going to grumble about the upcoming winter. It didn't make sense. Complaining wouldn't change anything, and I might as well get used to winter weather. After all, God brought me to Idaho, and He could very well lead me out of Idaho and into another land equally cold and snowy. No sense in kicking and screaming. And you know, I don't even really want to live in FL for the rest of my life. It would be far more exciting to find a job in some random state (country?) and move there. When opportunity knocks, I don't want to be too fettered by snow-hatred to answer the door.

I do believe "fettered by snow-hatred" is one of the weirdest phrases to pop out of my brain and onto this blog. The more I look at it, the less sense it makes. Anyway.

Say I get married, and my husband take a job in Snowville, Utah. By the way, I don't know anything about that place; I just really (dis)liked the name. I've seen women bitter about their husbands moving them to hot, humid FL (a bitterness which I don't understand), and I really don't want to be like that. And since I have a slight problem with people leaving their spouses for better weather, it looks like the only option is to cheerfully accept one's circumstances.

And it looks like I wouldn't be ready to do that, since I apparently can't even cheerfully accept my circumstances when I'm the one who moved myself out to Idaho in the first place. Clearly, some sanctification is in order.

Grumbling is grumbling. The fact that I'm from FL doesn't make it okay for me to grumble. (It does make it okay for me to utterly fail at driving in the snow.) God created snow, and there's a side of Him that I'm not appreciating when I hate snow. It's closeminded.

And so, with all these thoughts percolating in my head, I was all ready to attack this winter with a perky, Pollyanna smile.

And then….we had our first snow. And the first words out of my mouth when I got up that morning and saw the white world waiting outside my window? Let’s just say they weren’t exactly, “Thank you, Jesus.”

It's not that I utterly despise snow. There are a few things I like about it. It’s fun to play in. It makes nights brighter. It’s pretty. It makes me feel like I’m living in a Hallmark Christmas special.

But I hate driving in it. I don’t enjoy unearthing my car every time I want to go somewhere. I don’t like scraping ice off my windshield. I don’t like slipping and sliding all over the road. I don't like not being able to see, because I feel like I'm driving in a snow globe. I don't like feeling like I could get into an accident at any second.

All of this after one day of driving in it.

But you know, I feel like I've come a long way, since I distinctly remember saying that I'd never be able to drive period. But that's another blog post for another time. I'm sure - with time - I'll figure this whole snow-driving thing out. It's just frustrating. I'm hoping my Florida license plate is functioning like one of those "STUDENT DRIVER" magnets, because I need extra grace from people on the road.

And all you people back home, now that I’ve bared my soul to you …just know that every time you gloat about the 80 degree temperature, you’re causing your weaker sister to stumble. So there.

Loss

I just found out that Sono Harris died yesterday. I never met her, but I have greatly benefitted from the books her children have written over the past decade. Josh Harris wrote I Kissed Dating Goodbye in the late ‘90’s and twins Alex and Brett Harris wrote Do Hard Things just a few years ago. My heart grieves for their family. Please keep them in your prayers.

When I heard the news, it was hard not to reflect on my own experience of losing my mom. There are just some things I've been thinking about lately...

People far too often treat bereavement like it’s a broken leg. Something fixed by a cast, some physical therapy, and time. They expect you to hobble around for a little while, but soon enough, they expect you to be running and playing just like you used to.

But it’s more like having your leg amputated. Sure, the bloody stump will heal, but it’s not growing back. You will forever be crippled. Your task is now to accommodate your new way of life, with the knowledge that for the rest of this life, you will be without.

Does that seem melodramatic? I don’t think it is, though it took a long time to give myself permission to write those words. I have been feeling like I can’t be truly honest about how traumatic my mom’s death was because I don’t want pity, and I don’t want to underemphasize God’s grace. The horror of losing my mom and the peace that God is in control have figured out a way to coexist in my mind, but I struggle with how to communicate that to others.

I have long since passed the timeslot for socially acceptable grieving. And yet, I ache. In some ways, my grief has even intensified. I started to wonder if I was normal and my intellectual interest in death was born. This school year I checked out armloads of books on bereavement and stayed up late reading and researching. I wrote papers, creative sketches, and poems, scribbling notes in composition books about “secondary grief” and “anniversary reactions.” I became an amateur thanatologist, evidenced by the fact that I even know what the word thanatologist means. I think some people started to worry, but it was something I needed to do.

I learned a lot. Unfortunately, part of what I learned is that a great deal of bereavement “help” is nothing but moronic psycho-babble. But I’ve also seen glimpses of truth. Glimpses of myself.

I have always been wary when labeling myself, because it’s so easy to read yourself into vague descriptions. Try reading a newspaper horoscope; chances are that you can find yourself in a Taurus just as well as in a Gemini. That’s why you need to use caution…nobody wants to be the person who reads a book and suddenly sprouts issues like therapists are going out of style.

But it’s an entirely different thing when you know before you read a book that you have issues, and you’re reading the book for guidance. Just because you recognize yourself in the pages of a book doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve fallen into the trap of obsessive self-labeling.

One of the books I read was called Motherless Daughters. I heard about the book shortly after my mom died, but I put off reading it until just a few months ago. Like I said, I wanted to be cautious. I didn’t want my grieving to be dictated by a book.

Motherless Daughters had a lot of liberalism, strong language, and a heavy dose of humanistic bosh. I’m not rushing around buying copies for people. I only recommend it if the title fits you, and you want some reassurance that you’re normal. And from what I know of my blog readership, I don’t think that’s a huge demographic, so anyway...

But the book helped me gain insight into motherless daughters. I realized anew the importance of mothers, and just how much they shape their daughter's life. The mother-daughter relationship is so special...typically the longest-lasting relationship in a daughter's lifetime. In a way that helped to justify my continued grief. I'm realizing that it's okay to still hurt, and I haven't given myself that permission in a long time.

Please understand. I'm not writing this to get attention or pity. I just feel like I needed to say it, because lately, I've met some new people and in the course of conversation, I've had to tell them about my mom. Some of them have been shocked and said things like, "But you're so happy!" I don't want people to get the wrong idea. Yes, I'm happy. God has blessed me greatly. But no...that doesn't mean that I'm "over it." Not at all. This is going to be lifelong journey, and I think I've come to terms with that.

Seth's Baptism

Little child, for you Jesus Christ came to this earth, struggled and suffered;

for your sake He crossed Gethsemane and went through the darkness of Calvary;

for your sake He cried: 'It is finished';

for your sake He died and for your sake He overcame death;

indeed for your sake, little child, and you--still--know nothing of it.

And thus the word of the apostle is confirmed: 'We love God, for He loved us first.'

(French Reformed Baptismal Rite)

musings from a nostalgic former mime

I was a twelve-year old mime. Because when you’re homeschooled and in that horribly awkward, angsty middle-school stage, and you really don’t have tons of friends because (let’s be honest) you’re a bit “unique,” and you’d rather wear long dresses from Jane Austen’s time period than anything that was in style at any point during the last three centuries, clearly the best way to up your coolness points is to join a mime troupe.

So a bunch of homeschoolers got together at a church every Monday morning, and we practiced getting stuck behind invisible walls.

As exciting as that sounds, I would come home from mime practice every week frustrated. People weren’t listening to the teacher. Now, I’m not the firstborn. I’m not really even a strong type-A personality. But whenever the giggly girls in the back were being disruptive, the whole group got reprimanded. Week after week, we got the same lecture, and I was getting sick of it. Whenever I heard the other kids talking, completely ignoring the teacher, I wanted to ask them if they were actually aware of what the word mime meant, apparently operating under the assumption that saying “Shut up!” isn’t nearly as effective as referencing the dictionary.

Looking back, I needed to lighten up. Instead, I wrote the teacher. That’s a whole ‘nother story, but it actually helped the class situation. Unfortunately, the end result was that I wasn’t the most popular kid in the mime troupe. And when you’re the least popular one in a mime troupe, you know it’s bad.

I am so glad I’m not twelve years old anymore. Or a mime.

But I stuck it out until the end of the year, and I distinctly remember our last performance. The whole week had been full of extra rehearsals and practices. We’d performed at a nursing home and a church already. Now, we were the opening act for an award-winning ventriloquist performing at the largest auditorium in our county.

Maybe being a mime wasn’t so bad after all.

Anyway, the excitement and nerves that I shared that one week with my fellow mimes changed something. I was having fun. We were bonding. And at the end of our last performance, as we stood there in our striped shirts and suspenders, washing off our white faces for the last time, we all started feeling nostalgic. Promises of “we’ll all be back together next year” echoed through the room.

And I went home and told my mom that I wanted to do mime again next year. Being the wise person she was, she told me to wait and see how I felt in the fall.

It only took a few weeks to make my decision. Mime? Um, no. Never again.

I don’t know why, but nostalgia hits me at weird times, in weird places, and about weird things that I never really liked in the first place.

So here I am, about to enter into my last week of freshmen classes. And I’m feeling nostalgic. Immediately, I am suspicious. Is this just mime nostalgia all over again? I’ve been thinking about this a lot over the last few weeks. It’s not. It’s nothing like mime. But the school librarians might prefer it if I worked a bit more on my mime-like qualities.

I am nostalgic about freshmen year in a good way. I’m not idealizing it. I don’t want to go back to the beginning of freshman year, or continue in a state of perpetual freshmanliness. (Freshmasculinity?) I want my robe and sophomore title. But freshman year has been awesome, and the end of awesome things is bittersweet.

I've learned that it's possible to read hundreds of pages in a day, and that it's possible to write papers overnight, but not advisable. And flannel and fleece PJ pants will be your best friends in the winter, but no matter how comfy your pajamas are, you shouldn't stay up all night in them writing papers. And you should definitely not do that twice. But on a more serious note...

I really don’t know how to describe it without sounding sappy, but worlds have been opened up to me. Things have clicked. I have a deeper understanding of God now, one that doesn’t rely on understanding alone. I’ve been encouraged, admonished, and loved by students and faculty who genuinely care about me.

Quintilian describes the perfect teacher, saying

Let him adopt a paternal attitude towards his pupils, and regard himself as taking the place of those whose children are entrusted to him. Let him be free of vice himself and intolerant of it in others. Let him be strict but not grim, and friendly but not too relaxed, so as to incur neither hatred nor contempt. He should talk a great deal about what is good and honourable; the more often he has admonished his pupils the more rarely will he need to punish them. He must not be given to anger, but he must not turn a blind eye to things that need correction; he must be straightforward in his teaching, willing to work, persistent but not obsessive. He must answer questions readily, and put questions himself to those who do not ask any. In praising his pupils’ performances he must be neither grudging nor fulsome: the one produces dislike of the work, the other complacency. In correcting faults, he must not be biting and certainly not abusive. Many have been driven away from learning because some teachers rebuke pupils as though they hate them. He should himself deliver at least one speech, preferably several, a day, for his class to take away with them. For even if he provides them with plenty of examples for imitation from their reading, better nourishment comes, as they say, from the “living voice” and especially from a teacher whom, if they are properly taught, the pupils love and respect. It is difficult to overestimate how much readier we are to imitate those whom we like.

Those are my teachers.

And when students have teachers like that, they can't help but

love their teachers as they do their studies, and think of them as the parents not of their bodies but of their minds. This feeling of affection will do much for their studies. They will be ready to listen, have confidence in what is said, and want to be like the teacher; they will go to classes cheerfully and eagerly, they will not be angry when corrected, they will be pleased when they are praised, they will try to earn affection by their application. As the teachers’ business is to teach, so theirs is to make themselves teachable. Neither is sufficient without the other. And just as it takes two parents to produce a human being, and seed is scattered in vain if the ground has not been softened in advance to nurture it, so eloquence cannot develop unless teacher and learner work in harmony together.”

Quintilian and I had a tumultuous relationship, but he was spot on here.

I've been taught to appreciate God’s creation more…though my stubborn Floridian heart still resists the snow. I’ve rediscovered how awesome Latin is. I’ve learned that poetry isn’t stupid, and that there are some things that poetry alone can convey. Not only that, but I can actually write poetry. I used to think my poetry skills were confined to limericks and Dr. Seuss knock-offs. Goofy poetry. Then I wrote a serious poem. A sad poem. And my teacher liked it, and he asked me to read it again at Disputatio, but all that paled in comparison to my father’s response when I e-mailed him my poem. “Favorite poem ever,” he said. And maybe he only said that because I’m his daughter, but I don’t care, because I wrote it for him.

Tomorrow is Sunday. And so starts my last week of classes. Then a week of finals and then . . . home.

The speaker at Convocation told us freshman year would be like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. I didn't make it to Disney before they closed the ride, but if Mr. Toad's Wild Ride was anything like freshman year, I think I would have liked it.


Freshman books...

Wait, where did break go?

The other night I was making pizza when someone knocked on the door. As Leah went to answer it, I cautioned her to look through the peephole first. After all, we weren't expecting anyone, and who knows...it could be someone scary. She obediently looked through the peephole...and burst out laughing. I came over to see what was so hilarious...and the door opened. The idea that this person could be a crazy ax-murderer hadn't exactly left my mind, so I was really startled by some tall guy just bursting into our house. And then I realized... it was my brother. Yep. On his way back from his Spring Break fun in Florida, he took a detour through Atlanta to see me and Seth. It was a fantastic surprise.

Today we all went to Stone Mountain. Stef got a workout carrying Seth up. I got a workout just carrying myself. Whew. But it was super fun, and a decided improvement over my last trip. I was seven years old, and hiking was not one of my favorite activities. Hellooooo, you can't read and hike at the same time. I also tripped and cut myself pretty badly, and I was scared of heights. Bad memories. But we were so cute!



Since then, Stefan has stopped wearing Puffy Paint shirts, Leah had learned that ladies sit with their ankles crossed, I've learned that hiking isn't the worst thing in the world, and Tomas has learned...hmm, he's so stinkin' cute in this picture that I can't think of anything to make fun of.

It's my last night here in Atlanta. I leave tomorrow bright and early. Except more like dark and early. I've printed off my boarding passes, packed a lunch, and stuffed clothes in my carry-on. I'm going to set a reasonable number of alarms (perhaps seven) to ensure that I will actually wake up...and then I'm going to bed.

Here's hoping for a safe flight that doesn't involve sitting next to creepy and/or obese men.

So, what's new?

1. I've made it through 3/4 of my Freshman year. Third term was hard for me. It started off really well, but somewhere around...oh, I don't know...9:27AM on February 8th, I suddenly because very homesick. But I wasn't homesick for home. I was homesick for a person. And I'd never even met him. So I plodded away at the books, even though my heart wasn't in it, and hopped a plane as soon as I could to go visit my nefoo. Ahem. Nephew.

2. That nephew is kinda cute, by the way. And by "kinda," I mean that no matter how cute you think your son/grandson/nephew is, Seth is cuter. In fact, he is the cutest kid to ever roam the earth. Although he hasn't really started to roam. He's still working on the whole holding-up-your-own-head concept.

3. However, almost peeing all over your Aunt Tara's face while she's trying to give you a bath = not cute.

4. Jet lag is annoying, particularly when combined with Spring Forward. Speaking of which, why do we did we give such a horrible situation as losing an hour of sleep such a peppy name? Spring Forward. Really? I suggest "Groggily stumble out of bed an extra hour early and make plans later that day to stomp on Ben Franklin's grave for ever coming up with the idea of Daylight Savings Time in the first place." Not quite as catchy, and it doesn't help you remember whether we lose an hour in the Spring or the Fall, but I think it sums up the situation quite nicely. (FYI: "Fall Back" shall be rechristened "Merrily skip out of bed having had an extra hour of sleep and make plans later that day to lay flowers on Ben Franklin's grave").

5. Don't be fooled. I'm living in denial that time zones and Daylight Savings Time exist. Hence my not making an appearance until somewhere around 11:30 each morning.

6. Will I ever be old enough to NOT be freaked out by Twilight Zone episodes? I kept asking Leah to turn the volume down, because it's the creepy music and sudden screams that freak me out. Case in point: I watched Psycho when I was home alone at 11:00PM one night. I just turned the sound down as soon as I saw the shower, and I was fine. Trivia: the blood was chocolate syrup.

7. The Biggest Loser is scary in another way. The biggest thing that show needs to lose is the drama. The emotional scenes are so heavy-handed, (hear the gentle piano music? That means something is going to be touching! Wait for it!) and sometimes the drama is so manufactured that all you can do is roll your eyes, sigh, and wait for it to pass. And then tune in next week for a new episode. Sigh. It's like eating Cheese Puffs. You know it has absolutely no substance and it's bad for you..but you like to secretly indulge anyway.

Warning: over-consumption of actual Cheese Puffs will lead to contestant eligibility on The Biggest Loser.

8. Dad and I came up with a March Madness Bracket tonight. It was strongly suggested (I believe the exact words were "complete this or you will fail") for one of my classes. It was actually really fun, and for the first time in my life, I will probably be checking Sports news. Random sidenote: our bracket is freakishly similar to the President's. At first, I thought that was bizarre, but now I know exactly what happened...

DISCLAIMER: The following story is intended for comical purposes alone and is not meant to imply certain character traits in certain people. Most of the time.

Once, there was a president who couldn't come up with brackets for March Madness. He didn't want to be wrong...after all, he was leading an entire country! If Americans couldn't look to him to predict sports winners, who would they turn to? As you can see...he was very distressed.

Suddnely, a thought occurred to him. "I know just who to ask!" he exclaimed. "Michelle! Get Al on the phone!"

Then Michelle calmly reminded him that she was not his secretary.

Moreover, she explained that in addition to being America's Favorite Trend-Setter, she was also the First Lady and that there are dozens of administrative assistants who could find Al's phone number and that she needed to go coordinate some diversity somewhere.

Luckily, Al was free. He calmly explained the whole situation to the President, using a ballpoint pen to draw visual aids and occasionally to gesture with.

At last, it made sense to the President. He smiled appreciatively at Al.

In fact, he was so excited he called a press conference to announce his bracket, making sure that Al was sitting nearby, just in case. Despite the fear lodged in the pit of his stomach that he would accidentally say "Kansas State" instead of "Kansas," he held his chin high and looked confident.

As cameras flashed and people oohed and aahed, one reporter asked the President if he had received any help in determining this fabulous bracket. Al quickly turned to the President, smiling, anxiously awaiting his moment in the sun. Al was so excited about being recognized for his efforts that he didn't realized he was turning in the wrong direction. Blame it on the excitement.

"No, I basically came up with it all by myself," the president said. The more the president talked, the grimmer the expression on Al's face became.

Finally, Al couldn't hold it back. Al was not happy. You could even say that he was sad.

He'd had enough. He was going back to Florida. Or maybe to Idaho to visit his daughter. The president realized what a treasure was slipping out of his hand. "Please don't go, Al," he pleaded.

And there, on National TV, they shook hands and made up.

And then the President backed away from the microphone and gave Al his change to shine. And shine he did. The President made affirmative grunts throughout his speech, just to prove that he understand what was going on.

And then Al went to Idaho and visited his daughter, just like he planned.

And they all lived happily ever after.