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.

It's been awhile...

I vowed to never use my blog to complain, so this might be a short post. Haha.

I love school. Really I do. But right now, I don't care about it at all. I don't want to write papers. I don't want to take finals. I just want to go meet my nephew. And hold him. And snuggle. And listen to all those cute little gurgling sounds that newborns make. And then hand him to his mother when he has a messy diaper. Phooey on school--I want to go be an aunt.

Blood is thicker than schoolbooks. What more can I say?