Two posts in one day! I'm a crazy woman! Mostly, this one couldn't wait.

Last night, while my parents watched tv, I asked my mom if, after this show ended. I could show her my pictures from my recent trip to New York. She looked down at me where I was sitting on the floor, made a face, and then said “tomorrow.” She returned her gaze to the television.

“Tomorrow? But why not now?” She paused for a long time.

Without taking her gaze away from the commercials, she said, “because I want to go skinny dipping in the pool after this show is over.” Ignore it ignore it ignore it ignore it.

Ignoring was a success, so I said, “but it only takes 7 minutes and 14 seconds!” That’s a fact. I set the slideshow to fit a song that exact length.

Mom made another face. “No, tomorrow.” I looked up at her with a pouty lip, so she continued. “I won’t be able to enjoy them tonight. I’ll just be thinking about how I want to be naked in the pool.”

Ignoring it didn’t work. My brain exploded a little, and I gave in. We would look at my pictures tomorrow.

By the way, the pictures I wanted to show her included this gem:

"But I want you to be happy."

A few days before I left for the trip that stained my car red, I told my grandfather that I was leaving to help my boyfriend move from Staunton to New York. He mumbled his "I am mildly interested in what you are saying" noise, which sounds a little like it lives in his throat, and then nodded. He told me to have a good trip, I assured him I would, and then I started towards my room.

"Lauren," he called after me. "Are you and Justin talking of marriage yet?" At this point, I've been dealing with this question for so long that I alternate internally between screaming while bashing my head against a wall and laughing with a head shake.

"No," I said calmly, letting the laughing and screaming duel it out in my head while I showed no signs of any turmoil.

"Well, is it because you aren't ready to have kids? Because you can get married and put off having kids, you know." This man is determined to debunk any possible excuse I have for not getting married. My only option is marriage, and marriage now.

"No, Poppop. Neither of us are in a place to talk about marriage. I'm not graduating until December, and he doesn't even know where he'll be within the next month, let alone a year from now." I walked away to get some laundry out of the dryer. "Don't worry," I called from the laundry room. "I'll get married one day. I promise."

"Well, I just want you to be happy." Bam. There it is. This sentence actually reads, I want you to be happy according to my definition of happy because you don't know what it means to be happy or how to get happy. Everyone always assumes they know that you cannot possibly be happy and that they know the exact fix for your lack of happy. No one ever considers that maybe you are happy where you are and that rushing things will lead to not happy. It amazes me how much people will not believe me when I tell them I am happy with not being married at the ripe old age of 26.

"I am happy, Poppop. Justin is good to me, and we are in a good place. One day it will be time to talk about marriage, but for now, we're happy."

"Okay," he said with a bit of a question in his voice.

I called Justin to tell him about this conversation. "That's it," he said calmly as if he'd had a good idea. "I'm never going to marry you just out of spite for your grandfather."

Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day(s)

This post has nothing to do with my grandfather, but it is still funny. And it has pictures!

The Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day(s)

After weeks of uncertainty and half-planning, I was finally on my way to Staunton, Virginia to help Justin, my boyfriend, move back to his parents’ house in New York City. I’ll spare you the details on the different variations of the plan surrounding my trip down there; the final plan involved me driving to Staunton on Wednesday, loading some of his stuff into my car, loading the rest of his stuff into the back of a truck that was passing through to Georgia and then back to New York sometime, and then driving with Justin to New York on Friday. A few days after we settled this plan, Justin sent me a text message.

“I have some good news and some bad news. The Shakespeare Theatre Company wants me to come to DC for a face to face interview, but it’s on Friday.”

I responded with glee, as I am overly supportive and dying for him to get the internship with STC. “That’s not bad news at all! We’ll make it work!” I said in response. Making it work involved changing our Friday plans from leaving whenever and driving straight to NYC to leaving by 11 am from Staunton to DC, and then leaving DC sometime in the evening to drive to New York. This is one of those plans that is good in theory.

So I arrived in Staunton on Wednesday late in the evening. I’d had a relatively rough day that involved an early rise, a sudden doctor visit, the inability to eat all day, and a four and a half hour drive, so I was extremely tired. We grabbed food at the only place that would still serve us after 10 pm, and then we met with a friend to say goodbye. According to Justin, I fell asleep so fast that night that when he turned over to go to sleep, I didn’t move a muscle or say good night, which is incredibly strange for me. I had weird dreams all night, and I’m certain I actually sat up in confusion several times throughout the night.

So then Thursday came. Thursday was a full day. We had plans to have a goodbye breakfast with our friend Erin at an incredibly early time, then work on finish packing and cleaning the house, take a load of stuff to the dump, take a mannequin to a local theatre, and have lunch with our friend Kitty. Then I was going to attend a rehearsal of Pericles at a local private school, visit quickly with Bob, and have snacks and drinks with Beth and Prewitt while Justin continued to pack and clean the house. We’d both have dinner with Victoria and Matt, and have waffles at Waffle House with Mike at 10:30pm. There was also a possibility the truck for Justin’s stuff would show up sometime in the evening.

That was the plan. Then life happened.

The goodbye breakfast went off without a hitch if you don’t count us being late as a hitch. Justin enjoyed his meal (I ate a piece of his bacon since I still had a stomach ache) even if it was early in the morning, and then there were sad hugs and promises of visits that I absolutely intend on keeping. We watched Erin leave and then headed back to Justin’s house….

…Where we took a nap. Yeah, well, when involuntary naptime/food coma happens, you can’t really fight it. Also, neither of us likes getting up before 10 am. So then we woke with a start around 11:30 am, suddenly very aware of how much we needed to get done. We decided to go to the dump, then come back to the house for the mannequin, then go to lunch. Then Justin would head back to the house while I watched rehearsal, met with Bob, then visited with Beth and Prewitt. I folded down the back row of seats in my VW Golf and then loaded in the old computer tower, the rat cages, the folding chair, and the gallon can of red paint that Justin’s roommate had left after moving out. Justin grabbed the mail he needed to send, and we left for the post office and then the dump.

While I was sitting in the parking lot at the post office, I was feeling good about life. I was feeling so good about life that I tweeted about it.

Justin came out of the post office and said that a friend of mine was inside and wanted to say hi. When she came out to the car, she looked in the backseat and said, “Did you know that your can of paint is open?” No, no I did not know that the gallon of red latex paint that I had set in a precarious and stupid place on the folded back seat was open and dripping all down the seat cushion in the back row and the back of the driver’s seat, and collecting on the floor behind the driver’s seat into what was currently a puddle of about a half an inch.

Justin and I both jumped out of the car with a few “oh shit” and other profane phrases. I swung open the door and stared at the damage.

“Ohmygood, what do I do?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Justin replied sadly. He looked very concerned, mostly because he was certain the red damage in my car was somehow his fault. Secretly, it wasn’t his fault even a little. Our friend looked at me with concern, and then she said, “Well, I have to go. I’m sorry about your car!” She gave me a hug and left us staring at the red travesty before us. Luckily, for her character and image, she really did have to get someone to the airport.

We stood there a little in shock as my brain raced. Justin wrapped his arm around my waist and said, “I guess I’m buying you a detailing for your car for your birthday.” A woman, who had just pulled up, jumped out of her car and ran to us with a few paper towels. “I am so sorry!” she said, which confused me because for a second I thought she was taking blame for the leaking can of paint that my boyfriend’s roommate never properly closed or disposed of himself and that I never checked before placing in a precarious position. I thanked her for the paper towels and then explained that the damage was beyond that. She saw the pool of paint on the floor of my car, apologized again and then also left us to stare.

I called my dad, but he didn’t answer, so I decided that all we could do was run to a detailer and see if they could rescue us. On our way there, I realized there was no way I would make the 2:30 rehearsal since it is already 12:30 and we hadn’t had lunch, so I called the teacher and apologized and asked him to explain to the students that I had an emergency that involved red paint and my beloved car. He assured me it would be fine and wished me luck. We pulled up to the detailers and headed inside. The young guy asked us if he could help us, and I uttered a phrase I never thought I’d say.

“We have a detailing emergency. Can you get latex paint out of a car?” The guy thought for a second, and then he said, “well, I don’t know if we are allowed. We can’t clean bodily fluid, so I’m not sure about paint. You’ll have to ask the manager.” We asked the manager, and he explained that even if they were allowed, they wouldn’t be able to because they didn’t have the equipment. Great.

My dad called as we were on out way out of the detailer's place. He told me to keep the paint wet and to find a wetvac. When I explained to him that I know no one in this town with a wetvac, he says “well, keep the paint wet and run to Walmart. Buy their cheapest wetvac. When you get back to Justin’s, use the garden hose to soak the paint and then suck it up.” So we did that. I ran through Walmart to find a cheap wetvac, ignoring the greeters who told me to stop running. I raced back to the car, and then we drove back to his house as I cursed at every slow driver we encountered.

As soon as we got back to the house, we tried to plug in the wetvac, but Justin only had a small extension cord and a power strip since he was moving and had already packed up his house and certainly didn’t anticipate such an emergency. We were only able to bring the wetvac to halfway across the lawn. I drove my car up onto the sidewalk and into the lawn and started cleaning. I poured gallons of water into my car and then tried to suck it up, but the wetvac almost immediately lost suction. In a panicked state, Justin and I dismantle the wetvac to figure out the problem. After discovering that there were instructions and loose parts still inside the wetvac, we took a second to put the wetvac together properly. Doing so nearly killed all the patience and ability to think clearly that we possessed in that moment.

Now, about that whole “keep the paint wet” part? It was something like 90 degrees on Thursday and my car is black. So, after about an hour and a half of cleaning, the best I was able to do was lift some of the excess, still-wet paint. Justin and I stared at the damage. “You can’t ever dump me,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I’ll always think of you whenever I see the red in my car. So, really, if you dump me, you have to buy me a new car.”

“Oh. I think I’ll start playing the lottery.”

The car looks like a shooting crime scene, and I’m attempting to embrace it since there is little to nothing I can do about it. Also, I tend to only freak out about things that have possible solutions. The only possible solution here is to splatter the whole back seat with all sorts of colors and sell it to a trustfund hippie. And that’s not actually a solution.

So, at this point, it’s 2:45 and we still hadn’t eaten lunch and who knows if Kitty had actually waited for us. I told Justin the best we could do was load the mannequin in the car on top of the stuff going to the dump, meet Kitty for lunch, run our errands, and then try to meet Beth and Prewitt so that we were back on schedule.

He admitted that he had to run to the program office to print out some documents and that it might take a few minutes, so I ran to the theatre with the mannequin myself. While waiting for him, I ran to visit with Bob, which turned into me visiting with my friend Sarah instead, which is good because it is Sarah, but sad because it wasn’t a real visit with Bob. I hugged them goodbye, and then I ran to meet Justin and Kitty for lunch. Matt was there, and after we talk about how it is 4:15 and we still need to get to the dump and back before 5 so I can meet Beth and Prewitt, Matt suggests that if I’m okay with him loading his junk in my car as well, he’ll take the stuff to the dump. If you are curious about why I hadn’t thought to send Justin to the dump himself, it is because he doesn’t know how to drive. I thanked him profusely, and at 4:45 I kissed Justin goodbye and ran to the restaurant where I was meeting Beth and Prewitt.

Snacks went well with Beth and Prewitt, although having just eaten lunch and about to eat dinner around 7, I wasn’t very hungry. We ate some sweet potato fries while I told them the tragic story about my car, and Beth told me that the dump doesn’t even take cans of paint in the first place. Justin texted me to tell me that the dump closed at 4:15, which he knew because he was sitting in front of closed dump, so we would have to add “run to the dump” to our preposterous list of things to do Friday morning before we left by 10 am. I enjoyed the rest of my visit with Beth and Prewitt, and then I headed home just before 7, which then made me late for dinner with Matt and Victoria. During dinner, Justin had to go back to the house long enough to let friends in so they could take his dresser. The dresser didn’t fit into their car, and then the neighborhood cat, Adorable Orange Kitty, snuck into the house while the door was open.

This resulted in Justin and our two friends scouring the house for the stray cat, who had snuck back out at some point and was sitting on the concrete wall across the street from the house, laughing at the silly humans, I’m sure. Justin returned to Victoria’s to tell me that he found out that the truck for his stuff wasn’t arriving until sometime in the afternoon on Friday, so he’d have to pay a friend to sit at his house and wait for the truck. At this point, however, dinner with Matt and Victoria had been ruined by the fact that we still had to finish cleaning Justin’s house after a day that had been one crappy happenstance after another.

We left Victoria’s around 11:30 pm much against our wishes to relax and enjoy our last night in Staunton. When we arrived home, we stared at the mess and debated whether Justin was the one who should go to bed early because he was the one with the interview or if I should be the one to go to bed early since I was the one driving. Instead, we both went to bed at 2 am, hoping for the best.

Friday started at 7:45 am, as I reluctantly pulled myself out of bed. We ran to the dump, which was an adventure in itself, but not amusing enough to tell here, and unloaded all of the crap except the guilty red paint. We wrapped that in a kazillion plastic bags and dumped it in an undisclosed place. We rushed around to finish everything in the house, and at 11:15, when we were over an hour behind schedule, Justin finally gave in and left stuff for the third roommate (the one who didn’t leave behind a can of paint) to toss. Shannon, the third roommate, gets a million gold stars. We loaded our travel bags in the car, put the car in drive, and pulled away from the Hobbit House for the very last time.

We made it to DC so early we were able to grab a quick lunch with a friend. I met with another friend, Ashley, while Justin had his interview. It was a good visit, and Justin was able to join us after his interview. Things were almost starting to slow down and chill out. Justin’s interview went well, we think, but it is hard to tell. He’ll know in about a week if he got it. I think he did (knock on wood). Keep your fingers crossed if you have any you aren’t currently using.

After the interview and visiting, we had dinner with one of Justin’s friends. During dinner, I started to melt from exhaustion, but I was determined to head to New York. Even though we got back to my car around 10 pm, I was still determined. I was enticed by the thought of sleeping in all day on Saturday. I will always choose the option that lets me get more sleep and lets me sleep in over the option that involves me stopping and starting again. I was certain one more early morning might kill me.
Except somewhere around 12:30 am I thought all of the cars were trying to merge into me even though they weren’t and I suddenly was struggling to change lanes because there were imaginary cars everywhere and everything was confusing and I made some stupid comment complaining about a car I was attempting to pass speeding up to match my 80 miles an hour because clearly that’s what my speedometer said I was going when really I had unknowingly slowed down to 70 and had grossly misread the speedometer. I admitted defeat, and we pulled off at a stop in Christiana, Delaware. Unfortunately, all of the hotels were booked solid except for king beds, and those rooms were hiked up beyond reason. One of the hotel clerks explained that the University of Delaware was having graduation that weekend, so we got back on the highway and continued up to exit 3 on the New Jersey Turnpike. We got a room at The Red Roof Inn, and I crashed into the hotel bed sometime after one.

We arrived at Justin’s house in Queens sometime around 1:30 pm on Saturday, and after some greetings and settling-ins, I took a nice long nap.

Family Obligation and Guilt

One night, during dinner, my grandfather turned to me and said, "Are you getting married any time soon?"

Now, here's the thing about that: I'm the eldest of three and about to turn 26. I have a steady boyfriend who lives 3 states away and just recently grasped the idea that we are a real couple, and I am currently one summer semester and one student teaching semester away from finishing my third master's (this one in education so I can teach Shakespeare to kids in public high schools) at a school in this state. I am stuck 3 states away from him until at least December.

Here's the other thing about that: My little brother and my little sister are both already married. My sister has already popped out her first kid. My brother married his wife on May 2, 2009. My sister married her husband on May 3, 2009. (Yes, the same weekend. It's a long story.) I brought my boyfriend to the weddings, which was three weeks before I would be graduating with my second master's in Shakespeare. I fielded "When are you two getting married!?" and "So what exactly do you do with a degree in Shakespeare?" questions all weekend. Neither of those questions, by the way, are supportive. If you think they are, you are twisted, like torture, or are already married and have figured out your life and forget what it's like to be single, dating, and/or floating around without a career. So, back to my grandfather's horrendous question.

"Are you getting married any time soon?"

I snorted a little. "No." Justin and I are just now casually and quietly dancing around the possibility of moving in together sometime after December. Marriage is no where near the top of either of our lists.

"Is that because you don't want to, or because no one has asked you?"

"Why are those my two choices, Poppop? Why can't I just not be ready yet? It's just not time. Why can't that be the answer?"

"Well, you're not getting any younger." Have I mentioned that I make up none of these conversations? I have a steel trap for a brain when it comes to conversations. He actually said that.

"I'm sorry. What??" I was a bit in shock. I hate these conversations. I hate that people actually feel that they are necessary. I hate that these conversations happen outside of movies and tv shows.

"Well, I have to look over my finances, and I just wanted to check to make sure you didn't need any money." Hi! I'm a full time grad student who is already $78,000 in debt from my last graduate program, and I am currently looking for ways to fund my final student teaching semester for THIS grad program. But you are right, I only need money if I'm getting married.

He continued, "I'm just hoping I get to see you married before I die." Oh, here it comes. "Your grandmother wanted to have great-grand-children before she died, but that didn't happen." My grandmother passed away in 2007. Her first great-grand-child was born to my cousin about a year later, and her second great-grand-child was born to my younger sister a few months ago, but apparently it is my fault that my grandmother didn't have great-grand-children before she died. Or maybe it's my fault my sister didn't get knocked up sooner. I'm not sure. I have three older cousins, by the way. Only one of them was married when my grandmother died, but I'm the delinquent who chose to further my education before I get married, so it is my fault.

Then my mother chimed in with wanting more grand children, and I quipped about how I was going to adopt, and this got my mother going again about how I was required to have my own babies, and then my dad just hung his head and walked away, which is how our dinners end more often than they should.

Later, dad asked me if I'd take him with me to Staunton when I visited Justin, and I said, "as long as you don't ask me when I'm getting married or pushing out babies."

"I'd never do that, and you know it," he said, which is true.

"I know," I said. "That's why you'll be invited to the wedding."

Fire!

Apparently, my grandfather's new hobby is setting things on fire.

This isn't the most healthy hobby, for him or for us, especially since our state is perpetually dry enough for fire warnings. This alone is ironic since the ground itself has been overly saturated since November (making us also perpetually wet enough for flood warnings), but the grass blades keep drying out. We've already had one grass fire on our property because our neighbor decided to burn some brush on a dry, windy day. The fire almost took out our goat pen. So, fire is bad.

A few days ago, my grandfather wanted to clean something with gasoline. Who knows what it was he was trying to clean in the first place. He poured gasoline on a crappy old sweatshirt that was some sort of synthetic mix. He cleaned whatever it was that so desperately needed to be cleaned with gasoline, and then didn't know what to do with the now gasoline-soaked sweatshirt. So he took it out to the rock driveway, laid it out, and then SET IT ON FIRE WITH A BLOW TORCH.

Yeah. My dad came home, saw this black gunk stuff on the driveway, and asked my mother what that was about. My mother explained to my father what HIS father had done. My father shook his head and then headed out to his garage where he could tinker with the car he's building and pretend like his father doesn't think setting gasoline-soaked sweatshirts on fire is a good idea. Later, my grandfather came out to join my dad, and he said, "did Paula tell you what I did today?"

"Yeah," my dad said with a little sadness in his heart.

"That was really stupid of me," my grandfather replied. My dad asked him what he had been thinking, but I don't think there was a response.

While one would think that my grandfather's lack of response would mean that he had learned his lesson, one would be wrong. No, he did it again. This time, it involved a shoe.

One day after the gasoline incident, my grandfather discovered some sticky substance on his shoe, so he headed out to his wooden shed where he keeps all of his chemicals and tools and golf clubs. He used some paint thinner to rub the sticky substance off of the sole of the shoe. He got the sticky substance off, but now the shoe was wet! So he grabbed his blowtorch AND DRIED THE SHOE WITH FIRE. And by "dried the shoe" I mean "set the shoe on fire". He had to put out the fire with his fire extinguisher.

Yesterday he wandered out of his wooden shed after a fire-free visit and announced that he was finally feeling old.

DId anyone else see that shift?

I haven't blogged in who knows how long. Or, well, I guess over to the right it could tell you exactly how long it's been, but that isn't in front of me right now, and I can't even begin to guess.

Either way, it's been a long time, and now I'm back. I've decided to focus this blog to something specific: conversations with my grandfather.

My grandfather will be turning 87 in a week. He is incredibly healthy for his age, and his mind, while not as sharp as it used to be, is more in tact for his age than I often like to remember. The problem is two-fold: a. he has the habit of saying things that are most certainly a result of his generation, and b. within minutes of having said one thing, he will change his mind about how he feels or thinks or what facts are true. When he does change his mind, whatever he currently believes has always been true. Always. Without a doubt.

As my grandfather spends almost all of his time locked in his room with the TV blaring, our awkward conversations happen during dinner, much to my father's chagrin. My father, my grandfather's son, feels that he must play referee and is torn between telling my grandfather to shut up and being a good son. Sometimes he is forced to interject (I used the passive voice there because I hate to admit that often I'm the one forcing him), and sometimes I do everything in my power to not put him in a position to referee. Sometimes I swallow my pride and let my grandfather say preposterous things.

So tonight. I was telling my parents about how I received a call from the automated subbing calling system at 5:30 am for a subbing job at the local high school. I said that the automated voice told me I'd be in for a Spanish teacher.

My grandfather pipes in, "You taught Spanish today?" I have several degrees in English Literature and Drama, so maybe his shock was founded, as long as he was incapable in believe that I might be multi-talented. "Do you even know Spanish?" I should have said something in Spanish to show my level of competence, but I didn't. Instead, I continued to explain because obviously my grandfather does not understand the difference between a teacher and a substitute teacher. Now, I always go above and beyond the normal subbing call of duty; I never just babysit, and I have found that I can still be useful in a Spanish class even when the material is beyond what I remember.

"I had 6 years of Spanish through high school and undergrad. I'm at least competent in the basics. And besides, I wasn't actually teaching. I was just subbing. I handed out worksheets and then supervised them while they worked on projects. But last week I subbed for a Spanish teacher, and that time I had to teach a small lesson because apparently the regular teacher doesn't teach them much." There. That should explain it.

"Well, I think it's a shame that we -" (I'd like to interject here that I thought for sure I was about to get a lecture about bad teachers in this country, but that is not at all what I was about to hear. Not even a little. Now, sorry for the interruption. Let's start that sentence over again.) "Well, I think it's a shame that we teach Spanish to American children. We should be teaching English to the Mexicans!" It's possible that when he finished that sentence, my jaw dropped just a bit. Just a wee, tiny, little, gaping, Grand Canyon-sized drop.

I had to collect my thoughts. My knee-jerk reaction was to flip out. To school my grandfather in how the world works today. But then I saw my dad's eyes dilate a little, and his forehead tighten a smidge, and his nostrils flair just a wee little bit. So I grabbed hold of my knee-jerk reaction, and I sought a new, more passive response.

"Yes. Well, they do. There are lots of programs for Spanish-speaking children who live in America to learn to speak English. But, ya know, it's good to be bilingual. There are many benefits." There, that was calm. That was a happy medium, right? I hoped....

"I'm bilingual, ya know!" he said proudly. Technically, he means he grew up in a household where Italian was spoken on a regular basis, and that he still knows how to say certain words in Italian, almost all of them relating to food. Ultimately, this means he can say "penne pasta" and "mozzarella" with an Italian flair. I'm not trying to be mean; I asked him to teach me Italian about 10 years ago, and he said he couldn't remember hardly any of it, so he couldn't help me. I said none of this at the dinner table tonight, of course. He continued, "and you know, I read an article once that said that if you're going to teach kids another language, you gotta start when they're young. You know? Like in 1st, or 2nd, or 3rd grade."

"Yep," I said. "I worked in a preschool about 4 years ago where the teachers taught the kids words here and there in Spanish. It is a great place for kids to start; elementary schools are doing it a lot these days. It's hard to teach them to conjugate at that age, but it builds a very strong foundation."

And that was that. The end of the conversation. I was left wondering if he really felt that American children should not learn Spanish, or if he thinks kids should learn Spanish at a younger age, or if he actually thinks anything about any of it because secretly he just wanted to sound intelligent and opinionated and important for a minute.

So, there will be more to come. I will revisit the ones I remember, and provide new ones as they occur. I love my grandfather, but I am an opinionated intellect who believes in voicing her opinion, which is very much against my grandfather's point of view, which is "I'm right. Stop arguing with me."

Get me out of here

So, as my previous post indicated, I spent last week alone. My sister and her husband were around, but for the most part, it was just me. On top of that, my sister and I had to function, get things done, and so we stopped our bickering and got along so well we were even hanging out when things didn't need to get done.

And then I was so excited to go back to school that I griped only a little on Monday morning when my alarm went off. And by Wednesday, I was back in full swing of being okay with my life. I even started thinking that I like it here.

This is all important because I'm thinking about applying for a job that could possibly deter my graduation until the winter of '11. That, I would like to put out there, is a year and a half, almost two, from now.

The job is super awesome. The beach area tourist office around here is looking for someone to travel the area and blog about the experience for two months. They're also offering free housing and a nice chunk of change. I would love to take on this job. I hesitated when I discovered how it would throw off my summer class schedule, thus pushing back my student teaching and graduation by a lot, but my boyfriend convinced me that I should apply anyway.

His reasons were that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and that one day I might look back and regret not applying. Also, if I get the job, there's a strong possibility he'd get to join me. We'd get to enjoy two months together. Plus, I'd have money in the bank to pay for my student teaching semester. I agree with him on all accounts and I've been feeling okay about living with my parents, so I started to look into making the video application.

And then today happened.

Now, before I start explaining today you need to understand that nothing about today is out of the ordinary. I'll get back to that point.

This morning at 8:30 am, on a morning when I really needed to sleep in and rest, I woke because my grandfather (who doesn't like to wear his hearing aid or admit that he can't hear anything) turned on his country music. It's 3:23pm. I'd kinda like to take a nap. But guess what's still playing? Yeah....

Then I headed out to my mom's studio to help her get it cleaned up and organized after the big winter/Christmas rush. My sister came in with her 3 month old baby to tell my mother about all of her friends who are pregnant. My mother proceeded to tell me how I need to give her a baby one day, and adopting is cheating. I have to push the baby out of my crotch. Her words, not mine.

My sister also mentioned how excited she is about this cruise she just booked for her and her husband. My sister struggles to pay my parents the small monthly rent they charge her, and yet she gets to go on a cruise. Because we live in a world where those who accidentally get pregnant, get married at a young age, and struggle to pay their bills can still go on luxury cruises when the child is still not old enough to crawl.

After my sister left, my mother told me all about this fight she had with my sister just a day or two ago. This fight sounds exactly like every other fight my mother and sister have ever had. And I realize right then and there, as if I'd just caught the brick wall that'd been chucked at me - my sister will never change. Nor will my mother.

Nor will my grandfather.

And I kinda secretly am over teaching college freshman.

And if I don't graduate in December, I will be teaching in a high school classroom as a certified teacher for the first time when Obama is fighting for his position as President against some unknown Republican candidate.

And I'm exchanging the ability to move next New Years to wherever my boyfriend is for two months of vacation with him followed by a year and a half of weekend visits when possible.

So I'm not applying. And I am full steam ahead for graduating December '10 because *OMG* get me out of here.

The Blizzard of 2010

Everyone is in a panic about the impending blizzard, but no one is freaking out more than my own parents. They have a special reason; they are scheduled to leave for a cruise out of Baltimore on Sunday and they didn't buy the insurance that would let them move their cruise if they miss the boat. So...panic.

Yesterday is when the general panic set in. Two other couples were going to drive to our house on Friday and Saturday, and then they were all going to head out on Sunday in one car. My mom and I decided to go to the grocery store around 2 to get food for two large meals that would feed everyone. The store was crowded, as one would expect. We grabbed some food, and mom decided that she had a ham and a brisket, so we just needed some side dishes. We grabbed what we needed and headed home.

When my dad got home from work, he started panicking about not being able to get to Baltimore if the government calls a state of emergency. He convinced my mother that they need to leave on Friday and get a room until Sunday. They call their friends and make the appropriate plans. I start to feel, for the first time, a pang of panic in my heart. I'd be utterly by myself all weekend. I'd have no interaction with other human beings for the entire time I'm snowed in. I might as well live in a cabin in the woods at this point.

Then the prospect of being by myself brought on another fear. Our property is 5 acres. Our driveway spans 2 acres. Our snow-blower is finicky and unreliable. And that's even if I knew how to start it in the first place. "Dad. How am I going to get all the snow off the driveway?" I asked. He looked at me for a second, and then began to mime a shoveling action. My eyes grew like saucers. I would have to shovel the entire driveway by myself. A month ago I barely survived when I had to shovel out a spot big enough for my car. Bwah!?

Also, food might be an issue. We have lots of food for big meals, but very little in the way of individual servings. Also, also, I've never made a ham. Or a brisket. At this point, I'm certain that before this is all over, I'll be eating a meal consisting entirely of Stove Top Stuffing and Poptarts. But that was the least of my worries, apparently.

My mother started panicking about all of the other details that I hadn't thought of. "What if we lose power?" she asked. Power? I could lose power? When I'm all by myself? But I'm just a girl! I won't know what to do! My mom turned to me and said, "honey, if you lose power you have to build a fire in the fireplace to stay warm." Ohmygod. I'm going to freeze to death in my own house. To be fair, I was a girl scout and I know how to start a fire, but still. There's the possibility that I could run out of wood. You don't learn how to use an axe in Girl Scouts (that's another issue...but I won't digress). And then I thought about what food I could eat in the event I have no way to heat it. We have hot dogs, so I can roast those. But then I wondered if we have a non-electric can opener. If it gets down to it and I have to start eating canned food, would I even be able to open them? And then what about sleeping? I'd have to sleep by the fireplace all night. On the floor? Could I drag my mattress into the living room to the fireplace? Also, if there's no power, there's no water. Which means the toilets will be unflushable.... I'm going to die. I'm suddenly second-guessing all those times I laughed at that Bear soandso guy on Man Vs. Wild. Its not so ridiculous now that I'm facing possible death at nature's hands.

So now I'm fairly certain that my parents are going to return from their cruise to find me dead on my mattress in front of the fireplace. I'll have a can of beans in one hand and a butter knife in the other. Hopefully the dogs won't have started gnawing on me by then.

The Future of Books

Today, a friend of mine posted an article about the future of books. In this article, Adam Penenburg says that in the future, books as we know it will live in museums, and in their place will be multi-media experiences. Authors will intertwine words with pictures, videos, sound clips, music, and so much more. The author will be "acting more like directors and production companies than straight wordsmiths." Penenburg claims that mere words will suddenly seem stagnant on the page.

Truly, I believe that the future is headed in that direction, and for non-fiction works, nothing could be better. Could you imagine reading a text book about Louis Armstrong and clicking on a link that immediately beings to play the song the author is discussing? Or watch a clip of the first steps on the moon while reading about how the astronauts got there? Cookbooks will now have videos that can demonstrate a cooking technique. Footnotes will no longer be at the bottom of the page or limited to a tiny amount of information, and students can interact with history and science like never before.

And then there's fiction. Artists have been tweaking, changing, toying with, experimenting with all mediums of art since the beginning of time. This could be another avenue. A poet could choose exactly what image is in your mind and what music plays in your ears while you read his poem. He can craft almost every aspect of your experience with his poem. A novelist could show you exactly what the town in the book looks like, or what every character looks like far beyond descriptions through words. A writer no longer has to just be a writer - he can, as Penenburg says, direct every detail of your reading experience. This, however, is where my fear lies.

Reading is an individual experience. An author is a wordsmith. He crafts a world using only words. But words are fluid. They are anything but stagnant. Words change meaning from generation to generation. They change from culture to culture. They even change from individual to individual. No two people will have the exact same experience from the same work, and I love that. I love that my own personal experience of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is mine and no one else's , and that it doesn't stop anybody else from having their own personal experiences as well. Thank you, Eliot, for not including pictures of what those mermaids look like.

For example. Take a room full of people. Hand them a descriptive paragraph from a novel, and ask them individually to sketch whatever it is the paragraph describes. Each person will bring his or her own individual view and experiences and imagination to that drawing. None of the sketches will be the same. Elements will be the same; for instance, if the paragraph says that the scruffy man wearing a blue coat walked down the dark sidewalk on a snowy Christmas eve, every person will draw a man (who will be some kind of scruffy) wearing a blue coat and in an upright position, a dark sidewalk with snow, and probably something indicating Christmas. But even within those limiters are worlds of possibilities.

When the author begins to litter his work with limiters through images and other added elements, the experience of reading a novel becomes a controlled experience - much like watching a movie. Yes, authors have for eons included images with their works. Cover art and artist inserts have been part of the publishing industry for quite some time. Outside of picture books, however, they don't paint the entire book for you. The first Harry Potter book had a picture of a boy with glasses and a scar on his forehead, so that was probably what you imagined when you read it [and thank god daniel radcliffe was born when he was because otherwise we'd have to find another kid who was the spitting image of the cover art]. But what about those other characters? Hermione? Or the settings? How about the school? Do you remember the reading experience you had before you saw the movies? What did Snape look like to you? What did his voice sound like? And then you watched the movies, which were so closely released with the books that after you watched the first movie, the rest of the books had specific images in your head that matched the movie. Daniel Radcliffe spoke when you read Harry's lines. You knew what Hermione looks like. And she looks exactly like what the person next to you thinks she looks like. But how about those characters who didn't make it to the movies? If we all sat down and sketched THOSE characters, would they be as similar if we all sat down to sketch out what Harry looks like?

When a director makes a movie out of a book, he is giving you his interpretation - his personal experience with the book (yes - other elements such as box office, budget, and audience appeal play a part, but it is based on his experience). He is not giving you THE book. His interpretation could be different from yours, and that is why no movie adaptation can ever really destroy a book for you. It can still be your world and your imagination as long as you actively choose to leave behind that director's experience. The director is not the author, and only the author can say, "yes. Willy Wonka looks like Gene Wilder and Veruca Salt looks like Julie Dawn Cole. They are exactly who I imagined when I wrote that novel."

What if Shakespeare had included a drawing of what Macbeth should look like? Or Hamlet? Thank god he didn't actually ever specifically describe Cleopatra. We can all individually decide what absolute beauty is, and then we can agree or disagree with a director's casting choice. But we wouldn't be able to argue with Shakespeare if he had included a picture of a specific blonde, tall, busty woman wearing a red toga because then that specific woman is what Cleopatra would have to look like.

Reading is already interactive - the best kind of interactive. You take the words the author has given you, toss them in your brain, mix them with images and your imagination, and then create images and movies and sounds and smells and music. You could decide that Huck Finn looks like your little brother or the old man in "The Old Man and the Sea" looks like your grandfather if you want. Sometimes you share those images with others, and they are allowed to say, "oh, well when I read that, I see this," or "I always imagined Titus Andronicus to be tiny, yet fierce instead of big and tall and built like an ox." Unless they have decided to interpret the author's use of the word "tall" to mean "short", they are not wrong, and that's the beauty of it.

Please do not think that I feel this form of media morphing is completely wrong or has no place in the world. In fact, sometimes it would be fun to have a 360 experience from an artist (think Hitchhiker's Guide). But this future medium should not completely replace books as we know them. An author should not always want to completely control their audience's experience with his words. If they do, they're in the wrong medium and should sign up to direct the next film Hollywood will give them.

Penenburg says, "And ask yourself: Which would you rather have, the hardcover book of today or this rich, multimedia treatment of the same title? Suddenly mere words on a page may feel a bit lifeless." I say, "Penenburg, my imagination works just fine and words have never seemed lifeless to me. Please hand me the hardcover book filled with endless possibilities and interpretations."

Strangers Who Assume the Worst

I spent Thanksgiving in NYC with my boyfriend and his family this year. I love NYC, and we went into the city every day to do something fun. Saturday was no exception, and we headed into Manhattan for some shopping. We braved the crowds for a while, and managed to get three of the things on our list. One of those things was a Blackberry phone for my boyfriend. I'd never wanted one. I always thought it was silly, or only for business people. And then I held it. And now I want one.

I insisted we go to Little Italy for dinner. We found a cute little restaurant that I can't name now if my life depended on it, and the waiter sat us at a table two inches away from another table with a 40-somethings couple who were madly in love with each other. It was like really being in Italy again.

Dinner was delicious, but we were both tired, so conversation was short. I hadn't been feeling well at all, so I was useless other than to eat the food in front of me. Justin received the text message he was waiting for, which included the address of the apartment we were headed to for games and general hanging out after dinner. I headed to the bathroom.

When I got back, Justin was attempting to navigate his new toy to find some sort of map system so he could figure out where we were going. He was utterly confused, and it was taking a while, but that did not bother me. I sat quietly, content with the food in my belly and the chance to rest. Suddenly I realized that the couple next to us was talking about us. I heard the woman say, "I should help them." And then they were talking to us.

"Excuse me," said the woman, "but are you two on a date or just friends hanging out?" We looked at each other. How to answer that one? We were not necessarily on a date, but we are dating.

Justin answered, "Uh, kinda both?"

"Well I'm going to help you out. You," she said as she pointed to my boyfriend, "need to get off that phone." Justin and I both stared at her, blinking, unsure of what exactly what was going on.

A few moments later, we gathered our wits. Very smoothly, Justin responded, "no." The woman began to protest, but he cut her off. "If I don't figure out where we are going next, this date cannot continue."

"Well, I just see so many couples separated by their phones. They're sitting right there with each other, and they never look up from whatever's in their hands!" Now it was my turn to jump in.

"Oh, no. Thank you for the concern, but we've been dating for a while, and he never does that. This is a brand new phone, and we aren't sure how to use it, and we need to find directions to our next destination."

She sighed a breath of relief. "Oh good. I just didn't want to think you were sitting here on this date and he was ignoring you. Too many couples are like that. We've been seeing it happen all day! It's just so sad!" I politely agreed. She continued on for a bit longer, and then finally they rose to leave. We said our goodbyes, and turned back to finding the navigation program on the Blackberry.

Once we figured out where we were going, we left the restaurant to wander up and down Little Italy for a bit. I bought him a cannoli and myself a cupcake filled with marshmallow fluff. We walked arm in arm and had a lovely conversation, and then we continued our "date" by heading towards our destination.

Welcome to Aunthood

<---I'm an aunt! My baby sister had a baby of her own!!

I mentioned this news briefly in the last entry, but I was being all whiney about being the misfit, so I barely glossed over it instead of truly embracing it.

Kaylee Marie was born at 5:15 pm on November 20th, 2009. She weighed in at a whopping 8lbs 15oz. I hear that this is big, but since my mother always complained about how big we were (me: 9lbs, my brother: 9 lbs. 5oz, my sister: 9lbs 14oz), Kaylee doesn't seem all that impressive. But she is chubby and not alien-like at all! Alien babies freak me out a little, I'm not gonna lie. So when Kaylee came out all chubby and looked like she was a month overdue, I was excited. I don't know and have never cared about the length of any baby, so don't ask.

My sister squeezed her out in an hour and fifteen minutes. Not too shabby for my sister's first go at childbirth.

Kaylee is all kinds of healthy and robust. She certainly doesn't look newborn, although that probably has to do with the almost 9lbs. thing.

So far I am in love with being an aunt. I will get to play with her, corrupt her by teaching her intelligent bad words, feed her candy, and then I get to give her back. Right now, though, she sleeps a lot. Last night I positioned her blankets so she looked like Yoda, and said "Look like Yoda, I do" several times. Then I positioned the blankets so she looked like Jabba the Hut. She never woke up. Katie (Kaylee's mother/my sister) may have thought it was funny, although she was probably just loopy on pain killers.

Wedding Weekend Extravaganza

I realize now that I've never explained how I am the odd one out in my family. How I am the misfit. Most of what I'm about to tell you happened during the time when a. I was really busy, b. blogger.com wouldn't let me in, and c. I'd forgotten to be good about keeping up with my entries.

Very specifically, the most important part of this story happened in May. But first, I must back up.

I am the eldest of three children. I am 25, Michael is 23, and Katie is 21. I was always the educationally driven child, even growing up, so it is no surprise that I went to college and then continued on to grad school. My brother attempted some online courses, but quit because his English class was too hard (never mind that his older sister is an English major and writing center tutor). My sister tried a semester at a large university as a business major because people in this country have the false belief that you need a degree in business to open a business. Finally, she quit and started attending a local community college for Culinary Arts while living at home. She's going to be a great chef. The traditional 4-yr college experience is an oddity in my family. My father went to mechanics school to learn how to work on cars, and my mother quit college after a semester. They are both very successful, my father as one of the top auto fire investigators on the East Coast, and my mother as a successful photographer with her own studio on our property. But I'm the only one in my family to complete college, let alone head off to grad school. Plus, I focused on Shakespeare. My mother once thought that some guy named Macbeth wrote the play A Midsummer Night's Dream. So...I'm on my own here.

My brother dated the same girl for years. She wrapped him around her little pinky and never let go. So he proposed, and they set the date for May 2, 2009.

My sister dated the same guy for years. They argued a lot, but it was because they are both stubborn as oxes. He loved her, tho. It was easy to see. He moved into the barn with my sister. Halfway through her first semester as a culinary arts student, Katie found out she was pregnant. Adam immediately proposed. My family is difficult to gather in one place, so my parents suggested that Katie and Adam tie the knot the day after my brother's wedding. May 3rd, 2009.

I have failed miserably at the game of love. I was not going to get married any time soon.

I did have a boyfriend at the time, however. Originally I thought inviting him to the wedding weekend extravaganza was a bit like asking a guy to willingly jump in the trenches, so I didn't ask him. But then I realized that since I was graduating at the end of May, and because he was doing some traveling of his own later, that this week (because I had to stay home after the weddings and watch my parents' house, who were justifiably skipping town as soon as the weddings were over) was our last guaranteed time to spend alone before I moved.

So he bit the bullet and came along.

Imagine being the eldest, in your mid-twenties, bringing your boyfriend to your younger brother's and younger sister's wedding(s) within the same weekend. If one more relative asked me when I was going to get married, I was going to snap. Just...it's as bad as you would imagine.

To top it off, I was not in my brother's wedding, and I was only a bride's maid in my sister's wedding. Katie's best friend was her maid of honor even though I had offered to fill the role (also when my sister gave birth to my niece a few days ago I was not allowed in the delivery room, but her best friend was).

My mother is about babies and getting married. She got married when she was 20, and she popped me out 2 years later. I'm already 5 years behind schedule. When my mother tells people about her children, she goes on and on about the weddings and the baby, and can only think to say that I'm living at home right now. Nothing about my accomplishment of earning two masters in Shakespeare by the age of 24. Or that I'm working on a third Masters (in Education this time). Nope. Just..."and then there's Lauren. [read here: the one who can't seem to find a husband or who can't seem to muster the wants to have me another grandbaby]".

I am loved. Very very loved. My parents help me whenever and however they can, and currently they are providing me with a roof over my head and food in my belly. They are also quite proud of me. But they don't quite know what to do with me except look at me with sad eyes. I don't fit into society's norm, and I certainly don't fit into this family's norm.

In this family you get a job. You get married. You have babies.

I want to find a fulfilling career(s) while searching within myself to find out who I am. I want to marry eventually, but not right now. And I want to adopt a young child (between 3 and 5 years old) after I get married. And I want to live in a bustling city, not slower lower backwater hometown, USA. I want to do more than just exist.

Life is tough when your brother and your sister fulfill your societal role before you do.

Clash of the generations...and levels of sanity

It has been a terribly long time since I've written. I blame partly that blogger.com would not accept my email and password even though I knew they were correct. So I let it be for a while. I've been busy living anyway.

Life has not slowed down. Poppop was in rare form the other day when I told him I was driving down to Virginia where my boyfriend lived.

"Oh, you two are dating again?" We had just ended a 4 month break and were back to being a brand new shiny couple, and as we were never a real "hey, we're a couple" couple before, we were covering new ground every day.

"Yep," I said.

"Well, long distance relationships don't work out anyway." I was floored. I should expect my grandfather to say the wrong thing at the wrong time by now, but it still floors me. Still. How does he pick the exact thing to not say to me? We had separated partly because we weren't sure we could make it after I moved back to Delaware, and just a couple of days after we decide to try it again, my grandfather's throwing that sentence in my face. But I am getting better at recovering from the kick to the gut fast enough to retort.

"So I should just give up, huh?" I never said my retorts were good ones. One step at a time.

"No, I'm saying that he should move here. Why is he still down there?"

'Because he is still in school." We met in the same program, and I was a year ahead of him, so he's just a few months away from graduation.

"He's still in school? Well, is he going to get a job after he graduates?"

"He's not sure yet. He'll either look for a job or apply to grad school for a PhD."

"And then he'll still be in school? Doesn't that take a long time? You can't get married when you're in school." When did this turn to marriage? And why does education automatically exclude marriage? Then he asked, "are you two going to get married?" I swear to you, if he wasn't an 86 year old man I would have punched him. I had sworn that I would punch the next person who asked me when I was getting married. I am the only child left in my immediate family not married. And I'm the eldest. Society dictates, then, that I am an anomaly. The eldest always gets married first. Or at the very least second. Not me. I'm the third to go, and I'm in no rush. For me, marriage is the step after I've settled into my career and I can support myself. But I'm still young. I have plenty of time. But I digress....

"Married? I don't know. That hasn't really been..."

"Well when marriage is concerned, the woman should go to where the man is!" What? Did anybody else just feel the time warp back to the 1950's? And that's when I knew there was no point in arguing. One minute he wants my boyfriend to move to Delaware, and the next he says I'll never marry him because he might continue his schooling, and then finally he declares that I should move to him when I marry him. There's nothing to argue, nothing to discuss; he's having a discussion with himself in front of me. And so, I nod, think about biting comments that involve me asking him if I could scrub his socks by hand, and then head back to my room where I can close the door and shut out the insanity.

The little old lady in an Italian cemetery

Just a few days ago someone mentioned communication between parties who did not speak the same language. I don't remember the context, but it did make me remember one of my favorite moments on my trip to Italy.

We were in Venice. We'd only been in the country for a few days. We decided to check out the island where Ezra Pound is buried. You know, the island that is nothing but a cemetary? Anyway, I don't have a particularly strong need to see where famous people are buried but I didn't want to leave the group, so when we got there I found a nice quiet place to sit with my journal. Some seemingly magical moments happened while I sat on that little wall. I saw a little lizard, and watched people enter and exit the cemetary. Birds flew in, chirped a bit, and then flew out. It was all incredibly picturesque, as is most of Italy.

As I sat there, I heard the sound of a woman's heels clicking along accompanied by the sound of little wheels hitting small cracks in the pavement. Suddenly, as the sound grew closer, I heard the sound of the woman trip. I spun around to make sure she was okay. She was still standing and was taking a moment to regain her balance. She was a little old lady with grey hair, not much taller than the average Italian grandmother. She saw me, smiled, and then began rattling off to me in Italian. She paused for a moment, waiting for a response from me. I smiled and politely shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. She understood. I didn't speak Italian.

She could have just smiled and walked away. But instead she did something much more touching. She started the story over again, this time acting it all out while she talked (still in Italian). She took a few steps back, began to walk, tall this time with her shoulders back, and then, woops!, she trips. She mimes brushing off her knees and wiping off her forehead. Then she grabs the handle to her wheelie bag, smiles at me, and walks away.

That woman, whoever she was, will be with me forever, and we've never shared a single word.

Elevated Temperature

My normal body temperature is 96.5. I'm always cold. I have an impressive sweater collection, and I don't understand why people get excited when fall rears her ugly head. So when my body temperature rose to 98.3, and sometimes 99.1, and stayed there from Friday to Monday I got worried. I also suddenly understood why people liked air conditioning. And I suddenly had the strong urge to take an ice bath, which had always seemed like the most effective use of torture one could use on me. Was this what it felt like to have a normal body temperature?

My appointment happened on Tuesday, and of course, by the time I got there my temperature had already lowered to a 97.9. Still high for me, though. I explained to the nurse that my normal body temperature was much lower. She nodded and led me to my exam room.

When the doctor came in, we went over my symptoms again. We got to the temperature part, and I explained once again that my normal temperature is much lower. She looked at me and said, "yes, but you don't have a fever."

"Yes, but my temperature is elevated."

"But it's not a fever. Anything below 99 is not a fever, regardless of normal body temperature."

"Well, my body temperature is elevated, and it must be elevated for some reason, right? I mean, my body is reacting to something."

"Probably not." Now all I can think is there has to be something wrong with this. My body is exuding heat at an astronomical rate, and I still want to take an ice bath, but it's for no reason at all? But then she said the one thing that is certain to piss me off. "Is your period about to start? Because the woman's body elevates its temperature up to two weeks before the period begins."

Yes, doctor, in fact it is! You're a genius! In the past 12 years I've been a menstruating woman, I've never noticed the 5 day long heat wave before! How unobservant of me! I must be crazy. I'll stop wasting your time and go home now. And take a nice ice bath.

It is like the time I went to the women's center to talk to the nurse practitioner about the possibility of me having PMDD. Her response? "Here's a pamphlet on PMS." The end. No discussion, no probes into why I would feel that way. Just a pamphlet on the symptoms I should be experiencing once a month, and in theory have been feeling every month for the past 11 years at the time. Because at the age of 24I wouldn't have a clue as to what PMS is, or that I'm sure the symptoms are getting worse.

But I'm not that mean ever in person to say the cynical things I'm thinking, so I just nodded. The doctor diagnosed me with some mysterious virus, told me if I developed a skin rash to stay home from school, and asked me if I wanted a flu shot.

Overall, she was very nice, and awfully compassionate, and she even looked at the warts taking over my heel for me for free. But why do doctors think that women don't know how their bodies react to their cycles? Nothing in a woman's life is more personal and nothing is a woman more aware of than how her body and her uterus work together. Just, FYI.

Tolerating Intolerance

I feel it is time to introduce you to my grandfather.

There's no particular outline or timing I'm following. I felt it was better to tell you what he just did rather than get out of my be to go yell at him. My parents tell me I'm not allowed to do that. They tell me he's old, and so I need to be tolerant.

I have trouble being tolerant towards people who are not tolerant themselves. And my grandfather's intolerance has little to do with him being 86. Or rather, it's not that he's old, it's that he was born a long time ago. And that's why I don't tolerate his hate, because it's not a result of his old mind slipping. It's been there all along, and I don't think we should tolerate hate just because that's what they learned back then. Just because most people did it or believed it back then doesn't make it right. Old dogs need to learn new tricks.

Briefly, before we get started on today's story, I'd like to share with you some history between me and my grandfather. When I was in high school I had a black boyfriend. My grandfather disapproved, and harassed my parents about it continuously. My parents did make me end things with the boy, but not because of his skin color, like my grandfather thought. It was because the kid was into drugs. That's a fair reason to make your daughter stop seeing someone. But I'm certain to this day he thinks he won. I've never forgiven him for what he put my parents through.

So back to today. My grandfather has a tendency to talk out loud when he thinks no one is around. Usually, it's because he forgot that I was in the other room. Often he's bitching about how horrible my mother is as a house keeper. My mother is not a horrible house keeper. My mother is running her own business, working around the clock, so sometimes the dishes don't get done right away. My grandmother was a house keeper. She raised my father, cleaned the house, and cooked dinner. That is what she did. She was an excellent cook, and she kept her house spotless, but mostly because that was her job. And so my grandfather can't figure out why my mother can't do her job. Not as a photographer. As a house keeper.

Today, though, it was a different rant. He was on the phone with the newspaper people. Something about not getting his Friday or Sunday newspaper. He explains the situation, gives them the required information, and then has trouble hearing the last question. "I'm sorry I didn't hear you....What? I still didn't understand you...oh, no, that'll be all." He hangs up the phone and then says, "Can't they get people who speak English?". He mutters a few other things about being in America, and then falls silent, reading the newspaper he did get.

Certainly it is frustrating when someone on the phone has a thick accent. And certainly immigration into this country is a touchy subject, especially with the fact that many immigrants have not gone through the proper channels. I get that. But here is what made me mad: my grandfather's parents didn't speak English.

My great grandparents are straight from Italy. "Off the boat," as they say. I've found them on Ellis Island's passenger logbook. I have heard countless stories about my dad being able to communicate with his grandmother even though she knew no English and he knew no Italian. My great-grandfather had to learn English, but he certainly never mastered it, and I'm sure his accent never went away. So why is my grandfather so intolerant of people who have not mastered English? The person on the phone certainly knew enough English that he was able to understand them up until the very final question. So why, oh why am I required to be tolerant of his intolerance?

Ignorance Breeds Ignorance

My happy image of the strong, intelligent America is slowly being shattered. Shattering is an interesting verb to slow down. Imagine, one big piece of glass slowly crack, and then slowly, one by one, pieces crawl towards the ground.

It began when I spent the first half of 2005 in England. Nothing helps you see your country better than leaving it. Now, I certainly do not agree with much in relation to W. Bush. But then there was this incident. There was a picture of Bush holding hands with a man from Saudi Arabia (I think?). The man had come from his country to Bush's ranch for a meeting or visit. To show respect to this man, Bush held his hand. Holding hands between men shows trust and respect in some countries. What did the American people do when this picture hit the papers? They made fun of Bush. Some called him gay. Others simply laughed at him. Why, someone please tell me why would we all laugh at Bush for holding a man's hand when we had done nothing but ridicule him for his inability to show respect towards other cultures. Bush has done a lot that deserves ridicule; his ability to speak in public alone has offered years of fodder. But this time he was stepping out of his comfort zone, taking a step in the right direction towards international diplomacy, and we, like a bunch of 5th graders, laughed at him and called him names. We were the laughing stock of the world. Not Bush. I was horrified and ashamed for all of my fellow Americans. And I was suddenly embarrassed to be out in public in a foreign country.

Recently, the health care reform issues boiled my blood. People sported signs reading, "leave my health care alone!". How selfish are the people in this nation? So because it is working for you we should let all the millions whom it's not working for suffer? They aren't even willing to look at possible options. They don't care what kind of reform it is, or what the reform entails. They just don't want anything to be different. And the lies. The length people went to to get their way. Death panels? Really? And because one draft of said reform isn't perfect, we should just give up and go home? We're Americans. We're supposed to fight. Fight for each other. Fight for what is right. Not cower behind our set ways. There is a solution, and I may not know what it is, but I do know that "leave my health care alone!" is not it.

But I think the thing that boils my blood the most right now is the petty, ignorant behavior I've seen in people who do not like President Obama. This is most evident in the recent uproar over Obama's scheduled speech to the youth of America on the 8th. Parents are refusing to let their children go to school. Schools are prohibiting their teachers from showing the speech in their classes. The reason is they feel that Obama wants to brainwash and indoctrinate the children of America. Many presidents have addressed the students in the past, telling them to work hard and stay in school. Obama will probably say the same. He will probably also tell them that they have the power to change their world, which is not a lie. But the parents are so blinded by their hate for Obama, they cannot bring themselves to let their children hear what will probably be a positive and encouraging message from the President. Instead of stepping up to the plate and telling their children how to formulate their own opinion, how to constructively disagree, these parents are teaching them to simply not accept other views. Never has there been such an uproar about a presidential speech aimed at the youth of America. Ironically, this is because now more than ever parents are trying to shield their children from the real world.

Did you know that America is one of the leading nations when it comes to banned/censored books? Thought that only happened in dictatorships, didn't you? But no, it happens right here in our schools all the time. We are not talking about censored for age appropriateness. What are we talking about? Here is an example. "Fox" is a picture book written by Australian author Margaret Wild. It is geared towards adolescent readers, not small school children. It is a story about two friends, Magpie and Dog (who are a magpie and a dog, respectively). The two have a mutually beneficial relationship because Dog cannot see well and Magpie cannot fly. Magpie rides on Dog's back directing him as Dog runs. One day Fox shows up. He tries to get Magpie to leave Dog and ride on Fox's back instead, saying that Fox can run faster and can show her what it's really like to fly. Magpie says that she will never leave Dog, for she is his eyes and he is her wings. On the third time Fox tempts Magpie, she gives in. After running very fast and very far, Fox drops Magpie in the middle of the desert. He laughs at her and as he runs away, says, "now you and Dog will know what it is like to be really alone". Magpie realizes what she's done to Dog and wants to give up, but she gets up anyway and begins the long journey home to Dog. Why is this book banned? Because of the allusion to an adulterous affair? Maybe the mild thoughts of suicide at the beginning of the book I didn't mention? No. It's because it doesn't have a happy ending. This book is banned from high schools because it doesn't end with a happily ever after.

Parents are sheltering their children. What is wrong with this? What could be so bad about a kid who has never read a book that didn't end happily? Or what about a child who has never seen the President of the United States speak? A lot. A hell of a lot is wrong with that. Sheltered children turn into closed-minded adults who cannot function in the face of different opinions or real turmoil. They cannot think for themselves. They accept whatever is handed to them as fact. They are, ironically, brainwashed. This is the reason racism has lasted for as long as it has in this country. What eleven year old boy can hate another child just because his skin is a different color? Children are not born with hate. It is handed to them by the ones they love and trust the most. Visit that child's house and I guarantee you the parental figure in that house feels the same way. It a scary proposition to ask a parent to let go of the control over their child. But by letting go of that control, we are doing what we should be doing as parents in the first place: teaching the children how to live in the real world, and how to make their world a better place.

We cannot program our children to be robots. We need to expose them to the world little by little as age allows, guiding them through the reality, teaching them how to cope, helping them sift through the noise to find their own voice. They cannot choose their life, their beliefs, their opinions if they do not know the options. Give them all of the options, and then guide them. Show them how to navigate this world instead of hiding from it. They, and this country, will be better for it.

Student Teaching Abroad (or 3 words that can make my mother cry)

To finish my Master's in Education (M.A.T.) I must complete student teaching hours. Generally speaking, that means they'll assign me to some local high school. There's certainly nothing wrong with that. Or rather, for the average person there's nothing wrong with that.

But I'm not and never will be the average person. I debunk the system all the time. I hate rules. I hate red tape. I hate program models and requirements. I want to do it my own way. Someone once said rules are meant to be broken. I believe that you cannot break a rule until you understand that rule. Then you know and understand when it is okay to break that rule. Rules exist for a reason. They exist for the people who need them, for the people who do not know how to safely cross the street. I know how to safely cross the street, so I'm not going to use the crosswalk or wait for the little green/white man to tell me to cross. So, I do things my own way.

So, student teaching. How are we going to make this a different and unusual experience? I know! I know! Teach abroad!

There are several perks to teaching abroad. First of all, it's an excuse/reason to live in a foreign country. Now, I have done a semester in England, traveled around Italy for 3 weeks, and visited all the smaller parts of the UK. I love traveling. I love living in different countries. And I love any excuse that lets me do so. Secondly, it gets me out of my hometown at least 4 months ahead of schedule. This alone is reason to go.

But that is also the reason that broke my mother's heart.

I got the idea in the first meeting of my second ED grad class. The professor of that class is in charge of a global program. She travels all over the world. Shortly after class began, she offhandedly stated that if anyone was interested in doing their student teaching abroad they should let her know. I lit up like a Christmas tree. It was brilliant. It was hope. So I let her know.

I knew this idea would upset my mother. She loves that I live at home, even if I'm rarely there. She likes to buy food for me and talk to me in person about my day and her day, and she likes to know that I'm in the house. So I knew this would not make her happy. I had said all along I was guaranteed to be home for at least a year and a half, and now I was attempting to cut it short.

She was making dinner when I came home. Dad was also in the kitchen, so that made it easy. One swift blow. "So I have a great idea! I'm really excited about it!" Often if I make it about how excited I am, they take my unsettling ideas easier. "But you're not going to like it," I added, trying not to catch them off guard. They mumbled back prompting questions about the idea. And then I spilled it. And then there was silence.

Suddenly the coarsely chopped onions became minced as my mother asked, "and where will you go?"

"Not sure. I have 34 countries to choose from. I'd like to go somewhere where the native language is English so I can concentrate on teaching literature."

"Somewhere safe?" My mother has this inherent fear of anywhere not in the US. She has this inane belief that the rest of the world is utterly unsafe. It's a little embarrassing at this point, especially since I'm such a world traveler and, knock on wood, have yet to experience anything truly unsafe or horrible.

"Yes, somewhere safe. Plus, this professor says she has had great success. Several of the students got jobs in the US immediately after finishing their student teaching. One student was offered a life-long position at the school abroad."

"So she never came back? That's what I'm afraid of. You'll never come back."

I tried to explain to her that this was only an idea, and that I had almost a year to think about it. The onions weren't getting any smaller. So I tackled it head on. "I love you, mom. I love being near you. But I hate being here. In this small town."

She brushed the onion pulp into the pot. "So where do I need to move to?" she asked. I think there were tears in her eyes. Sadly, I know for a fact that chopping onions has never made my mother tear up. Ever.

"I don't know, mommy. But as soon as I do, I'll let you know."

Wondering about this thing called Love

So, love. Some get to experience it. Most get to, anyway. I never thought of myself as being one who never experienced love. And then I fell in love. And now I'm painfully aware of how many people I did not love in the past.

But I've fallen into the unrequited category. It should be outlawed. The universe should not let your first love experience be unrequited. How can I feel so strongly about someone who claims he does not feel the same? Or doesn't know what he feels. How can you not know what you feel? Are you trying to be nice? Trying to protect me from the truth? And if that's so, then why do you hug me like you never want to let go? Or come up with clever ways to put your arm around me, touch your thigh against mine? Why do you send me conflicting messages?

I understand why women stay in abusive relationships. It is wrong. It is very very wrong, but I get it. I understand loving someone so much you'll forgive them for anything. When it comes down to it, it's your responsibility to take care of yourself. Respect yourself. If you don't respect yourself and stick to how you feel people should treat you, then other people will have the opportunity to disrespect you. So why is it so hard to stick to those rules?

My rule is that you love me and you show me that you love me. This is easy. It involves holding my hand, hugging me close, and being totally committed to me. So why am I able to let him go about his life as he peruses the market and sends me mixed signals and still love him? Or still be ready in an instant to let him back in if he wants to after finding no one else he likes?

As of right now I am not a fan of Love, and until further notice he and I will have a tumultuous relationship that will involve me pretending that he doesn't exist and him grabbing hold of my heart and squeezing for all he is worth. Grrrr.

Strange Happenings

Every time I leave my house something strange happens. The problem with this is not that something strange has happened, but that no one is awake to explain to me what exactly is going on when I get home. Generally speaking, I am a night owl. Add to this that I work about 4 nights a week, and don’t get home from said job until after midnight. All around, I see my family for a few hours in the middle of the day after I emerge from my room in the afternoon and before I set out for the night. They also all seem to not know how to use their phones to communicate. So I’m left in the dark when I get home at 12:06 am.

Two nights ago I had no idea anything was wrong. I left in the early afternoon to go to a ball game with some friends, and didn’t return until close to 1 am. Nothing seemed out of sorts. Both cars were at my sister’s barn, so I assumed that she and her husband were home. All of the cars at the main house were there, and the porch light was on, as it is when I’m out late. Nothing seemed out of sorts. My mother always hears me come in, as her bedroom is right next to the front door. I sneak in as quietly as I might, but she always hears me come in. Or at least that’s what she claims. I stayed up until 3 am goofing around on the computer, and then turned over for sleep that I figured would last until at least noon.

9:30 am my parents come in to my room with the phone. Both of them. They tell me PNC Bank is on the phone with some questions about some suspicious activity on my account. I take the phone and listen to the woman list off 3 transactions that happen the same day, and I verify that all of those were, in fact, of my own doing. I appreciate their alert attention on my account, but is it really that far fetched that I would buy candy at the beach in the morning, pay ETS for the PRAXIS I test in the afternoon, and buy gas in a town an hour away from the beach much later that night? I guess most of their customers are nowhere near as mobile as I am.

Once I’ve verified my ability to be in more than one place within a 24 hour period, I hang up and hand the phone back to my mother. My mother then sits on my bed and says, “honey, we didn’t want you to find out on facebook, so we wanted to tell you now.” I am one of those lucky 20-somethings who is friends with her parents on facebook. I find out things through my mother’s status updates. One night, while I was on my computer in my room, which is just off of the living room, I received a wall post from my mother, who was in the office, which is just off of the kitchen, which is right next to the living room. The post said, “Hey Lauren! Dinner is ready and we’re having barbaque (sic) spareribs, homemade mashed potatoes and cheezy (sic) mixed veggies and we’re sitting on the couch to eat!” I’m not making that up. So my mother’s concern that I would find something out on facebook is, in fact, a valid one.

“Your sister was admitted to the hospital last night around 8:30.” My sister, by the way, is 6 months pregnant.

“What?” I was still half asleep, and now I was also confused. I was confused about my sister being in the hospital, but more importantly, how no one decided to call and tell me. Certainly there was nothing I could do, but now I felt guilty for hanging out with my friends and then so peacefully sleeping when my sister and my unborn niece were in the hospital. How could I be so selfish? How could I not tell something was wrong? Where is my ability to subconsciously sense when something was amiss with someone in my family? What is wrong with me?

“It was a severe urinary tract infection. She’s okay. So is the baby. As soon as she can keep down food she can come home. I’m going to go sit with her right now.” Should I go with her? I felt guilty that I wasted all that time when I didn’t know she was in the hospital not caring that she was in the hospital. Maybe if I sacrificed sleep and sat at the hospital with her until she stopped puking I’d redeem myself for being so ignorant of such a medium level family emergency.

“Okay. I’ll be here,” I said. I’d remembered that it was my parents’ decision to not tell me that my sister was in the ER, not my decision to not worry about her, and thus felt it would be okay if I kept sleeping. Plus, I really like sleep much more than I like watching my sister puke. When I woke up later my dad told me that my sister had been released and was on her way home. She was doing so well, in fact, that she went to the state fair later that afternoon.

I wish I could tell you that that isn’t a running theme in my family, that my family told me things, or contacted me to give me a heads up about things. But they don’t.

Last night I got home from work just after midnight. I head through the living room when I notice a semi-tall cage next to the bathroom door. The only thing in the cage is a small pile of blankets in the bottom left corner. Now, my household is mostly comprised of furry, two- and four-legged creatures. Cats, dogs, goats, chickens, ducks, ferrets, a rabbit. We have a lot of pets. My mother is Dr. Doolittle. For reals. The problem, though, is that I seem to have developed an allergy to the ferrets. Plus they stink. And I’ve been trying to convince her to find them a new home for several months. Now I come home to find a new cage with a mystery animal. Because we need more animals.

At first I ignored the cage. If I pretended it wasn’t there then it wasn’t there. But I had to go to the bathroom. So I went to the bathroom. Before I got to the bathroom, though, I was met with a horrific sound. I can’t even describe it other than to say it sounded like something small and mean that could bite me and give me rabies. I jumped back, muttered some profanities, and then found myself stuck. I had to go to the bathroom, but every time I moved, something from under the blankets in the cage told me to stop moving. And it didn’t matter that that thing was behind bars. I was still scared.

Eventually I was able to take a wide enough path around the cage to appease the mystery creature. I noticed a box of stuff on the dining room table, and moved closer to inspect it. It was food. And the bag was labeled “Sugar Glider Feed”. A clue. I went back to my room and got onto my computer. My mother’s facebook status said, “sugar bear!!!!” Another clue. Now, lucky for me I’ve seen enough police procedurals. I googled “sugar bear” so I could see what this little hissing thing looked like. Damnit. They’re cute. I heard noise out in the living room, and snuck out to see what was going on. The sugar bear had come out of hiding. Again, damnit. It was cute. And it was curious about me. So we stared at each other through the bars for a while, him deciding whether or not I was safe, and me deciding whether or not I’d accept his existence.

I told my parents this story when I got up, and they laughed. My mom said she even thought about contacting me and letting me know. Those bastards think its funny. They know how to use their phones, they just know the amusement they’ll get out of the results when they don’t contact me.