Custom Made Minds

Moving

2011-10-10T19:33:00.002-05:00

I've come to the (obvious in hindsight) conclusion that building an audience only works if my audience will recognize my name when I publish my writing.

I don't plan to publish under the name Peaches.

(I don't want people to expect a cookbook or a canning manual or maybe a gardening guide and get upset when they get a story about wizards and dragons and and political intrigue instead.)

So I'm starting a new blog under my own name, also on Blogger. It's right here.

I know I haven't been posting. I'll change that, as much as I can. (Four courses this semester. Also working. Also about to be out of a job. Ugh.)

I'll put something up on the new blog tonight.

Thanks for sticking with me!

Green Nail Polish!

2011-05-31T21:04:00.002-05:00

My empire grows...

Last week, on Tuesday night, I joined my (semi) local Toastmasters club.

Tonight, I gave my Ice-Breaker (4-6 minute self-introduction). It was terrifying. My dad recorded it, and my voice sounds an octave and a half too high. Think bath squeaky toy.

It was wonderful. I loved it. It would be impossible to find a friendlier audience than an amateur speech club. I was able to give most of my talk without looking at my notes, and when I made eye contact everyone I looked at was smiling or looking right at me. I was able to put my nerves aside and do what I've read speakers should do (like walk around, and vary your tone of voice, and actually have fun).

I got three ribbons! Best Speaker, Enthusiasm Award, and Best Humor. (It's unusual for one person to get more than two.) My wonderful wonderful wonderful evaluator gave me her ribbon for Best Evaluator so that I could say I got four. (Did I mention that she's wonderful? So kind! So clear! So encouraging!) The ribbons are very shiny. I've stapled them into my Competent Communication manual so that I can enjoy the shininess forever.

While I was riding the high of nervous relief and discharged stage fright, I signed up (in a moment of madness) for my second speech. At the end of June. I suspect that I won't get three ribbons for that one, but I'm certainly going to try! (Want more.... Wants it...)

As an extra super bonus, the Teacher semi-pressured me into signing up for Toastmasters and then into speaking the very next week, so I was able to leverage her (minor, since I kinda wanted to anyway) guilt into a bottle of nail polish. I have three colors now! Seven more, and each toe will be a different color!

(I don't paint my fingernails. I chew my fingernails when they grow too long, and nail polish tastes bad. I trim my nails twice a week to keep them to a comfortable length, which doesn't give me much nail to hone my inexperience on. And most importantly, I don't like the feel of polish on my fingernails. But I have none of those problems with painting my toes. I'm sure you feel better now that I've cleared up that mystery for you.)

I'm a Genius

2011-02-24T16:37:00.003-06:00

Today as I was walking past my coworker, she called out to me "By the way, I sort of accidentally hit delete on your open document in the office."

In my most soothing tone, I told her, "Don't worry about it, I'm a genius. I'll find a way to kill you and get away with it."

My semi-coworker, (the owner's son), overheard this and said "Nice!"

Doom....

2010-09-09T16:06:00.003-05:00

I have to get a root canal.

This is why you should never, ever mention that your tooth still hurts almost a month after your dentist visit.

In fact, you should probably keep your mouth shut when it hurts, whatever it is.

The Teacher would say I'm drawing the wrong lesson from this.

The Atlas

2010-08-03T12:48:00.001-05:00

I have a driver's license. This means that if I ask my mom to drive me into the scary big city, she mocks me. Mercilessly. So this morning I struck out towards courage instead of fear and claimed the Austin atlas (okay, Mom gave it to me). I located my (two) campuses. I marked them with x's. I chose the safest and most uncomplicated route to and from school. Mom highlighted it with yellow, because she wanted to color too. I highlighted the long edge of every page that had part of that route on it. (Think seminary mastery scripture.) I highlighted it with pink. Because I hate pink, so I won't use it for anything else. (Following this same logic, purple would have been a very bad choice.)

I, Peaches, WILL NOT BE LOST. Even if I have to memorize the entire atlas.

I hope I don't have to. It's pretty thick.

Children (Part 1): Did you know?

2010-07-31T08:19:00.002-05:00

(Context: I was called by one of the women in my church and she asked me if I had found a summer job yet. I said no, I was unemployed but still looking. She promptly asked me if I would babysit two of her sons for two and a half days while she took her daughter to girls' camp. After saying that I was looking for employment, how was I supposed to say no? How do you explain to someone's ear (since we were on the phone it wasn't really to her face) that you never, ever, in a thousand years ever, babysit? Ever. Then she said she would pay me a hundred dollars a day and I was suddenly much less anxious. I accepted the job. I told the Teacher, who had been not-so-subtly hinting that I should find a job. I expected her to be ecstatic and congratulate me on my bravery and determination to Do Hard Things. She did not. She told me they would bake me in the oven and gnaw on my bones. In not exactly those words. I told her they couldn't possibly have an oven big enough for me (I'm six feet two inches) and I'd be fine. In not exactly those words.)

Did you know that kids aren't capable of processing detailed instructions? You can't say "Pick up the towels, wipe down the table, and sweep the floor, and you'll be done." They just look at you like you're Miss Hitler and say "But that will take forever!" However, if you say "Pick up the towels," and wait, "Wipe down the table," and wait, and "Sweep the floor," by amazing chance they've cleaned the entire room all by themselves and- shocker!- it didn't take more than half an hour!

I think children are like robots. They will do what you want them to do, but you have to explain it in extremely simple language that cannot be misunderstood or misinterpreted. And they have no long term memory, so you have to give them one instruction at a time.

Of course, they have an extremely good memory for things like "You can have a snow cone after lunch."

Did you know that children measure things in minutes? I do not have the patience to support and encourage this habit. Whenever they asked me how many minutes until their mom came home, after I had already said tomorrow, I told them "Lots."

Did you know that even though they're in middle school and you're a college freshman, you're actually extremely stupid? And if their mother clearly told you the day she left that they are allowed ONE half hour EACH on the computer, you won't notice when someone who already had their one half hour charges up the stairs to the computer like a rampaging elephant when they hear that the other boy finished his turn. And if you do happen to notice this, and remind him that he already had his half hour, he will assure you that what his mother really meant was that they were allowed unlimited turns on the computer, and each turn was half an hour long. And you're so stupid that you won't wonder why it slipped both their minds to mention it for the last two days. It would have been insulting if it hadn't been funny.

Did you know that even though kids ask you to be mediator, they don't actually need a mediator? They are fully capable of figuring it out themselves. Case in point: I was watching them swim. They kept coming and telling on each other: He's shoving me. He's cheating. He's winning too much. And each time I reminded them that they were thinking creatures with the agency to choose to walk away whenever they wanted to. Okay, not really. What I actually said was "When you stop having fun, you can get out of the pool. Are you still having fun?" They didn't get out of the pool.

Hello Again

2010-07-30T10:48:00.002-05:00

After such a long blogging silence, I feel like I need an icebreaker.

My favorite icebreakers are the questions that make people's eyes kind of bug out. I'm not really the gentle chisel and saw approach kind of person when it comes to ice. I like dynamite.

So a question I asked the Teacher this morning, which was completely out of any spoken context but made sense to my own convoluted way of thinking: "Why does a woman become a prostitute?"

So now that you know what my mother has to be ready for every day, here's my question for you: Aren't you glad you don't have to actually live with me?

14.5

2010-06-20T15:51:00.002-05:00

Wow.

My family went on a 14.5 mile bike ride yesterday. It took three hours. According the Principal's GPS, our fastest speed was 30 mph (that was for maybe three or four minutes on an awesome downhill stretch).

The amazing thing to me is that I'm not dead today. I should be. A year ago I would have been. But I'm lazing around doing slow Sunday things, and the fact that I rode half a marathon just doesn't seem to matter.

I'm still so flabby (weight loss to date: 30 lbs; somehow, I don't think I'm going to make the 100 in one year goal), it's hard to remember or even realize that I'm actually in better shape than I've ever been.

The Principal and I are planning on riding a century sometime in early December. A century, for those of you who haven't caught the cycling mania, is a 100 mile bike ride, usually done in one day.

Ambition for Wealth

2010-06-16T12:28:00.002-05:00

There are some books I shouldn't like that I read for fun. The most recent example is The Millionaire Next Door. I can tell as I'm reading it that it's on the dry side and the authors certainly didn't have me in mind as their audience, but it's interesting and (to me) enjoyable.

Other books I've not-so-secretly read include The Courage to be Rich (so-so) and The Total Money Makeover (awesome!).

And from these books, I've drawn certain conclusions.

1-I'm poor.

2-I would like to be rich.

3-Becoming rich is hard.

4-Staying rich is harder.

5-It's easier to look rich than it is to be rich.

6-Most things you have to do to become rich are boring.

7-So are the things you do to stay rich.

8-Writers usually do not become rich.

9-Sadly, I want to be a writer more than I want to be rich.

10-Rich people usually act poor, especially during the becoming rich stage.

11-Writers traditionally are poor, so no problem there.

12-It would be cool to live in an RV park, wouldn't it? It would be like living in a nomadic village. And Jane Austen said that a small village is just the thing for a writer.

13-Sorry. Sidetracked.

14-I'm going to be a writer and rich. So there. Feel free to call in forty years to ask how it's going.

An unProfessional Opinion

2010-06-11T18:14:00.002-05:00

I plan to be professional, which is why I capitalized the p instead of the u.

Last night after reading most of Stephenie Meyer's new book, The Short Second Life of Bree Tanner (I think that's right) (and it should be against the law to be forced to leave the bookstore when you only have a quarter inch left to go), I informed my parents that the Twilight Saga is an unfortunate blip in Stephenie Meyer's career but that with time she'll overcome it. (I'm assuming that she wants to. I could be wrong. I don't think I am. We'll have to wait and see.)

They laughed at me. How serious I am is directly proportional to how hard people laugh at me. (But someday they'll be sorry... they'll all be sorry.)

But seriously. By a random fluke of chance, Stephenie Meyer's first book (and its sequels) hit it big time, not only making it onto the bestseller list but gathering a cult, fans, and establishing a firm place in pop culture.

This is not a good thing.

I've already talked about how awesome The Host is. Possibly the difference between The Host and the Twilight Saga is that The Host is adult fiction. The Twilight books are YA fiction. Have you skimmed the YA section recently? Do I really need to go farther? (If I ever, of my own free will, write YA fiction, by law I'll have to scratch the 'of sound mind' part out of my will.)

But I think it's more than that. Twilight was Stephenie Meyer's first book. A very good first book, but still a first book. That Twilight was published and basically won the lottery (so to speak) is an unfortunate fluke. The Twilight Saga is basically Stephenie Meyer's learning curve, out there for the whole world to see. And like any learning curve, it went off the road in places. (I know about going off the road even if I'm note technically qualified to give a Professional Opinion.)

I was worried that Stephenie Meyer would never overcome this. Sure, she wrote The Host, one of the best books ever (yes, I am aware that it's a romance; shut up) but that was a while ago. I had nightmare visions of an endless series featuring Bella and Edward and their kid (what was her name?). I mean, all the main characters are immortal- there's no reason the story ever has to end. Besides the fact that, you know, stories that don't end lose everything that made them good when they started.

It's happened. Look at Anne McCaffrey and her Pern books. If you watch anime, remember OnePiece and Bleach. None of those stories were allowed to end because they hit it big, won the lottery, whatever, and success strangled all the good out of them.

Having read most of The Short Second Life of Bree Tanner puts my Stephenie Meyer fears to rest. Because I know how the book ends. Bree dies. There isn't a happy ending for her. Knowing that should make it easy to say 'oh, it's time to go? I'll put this down then'.

They practically had to pry my fingers off of it. My parents have their evil moments. (Sure, I could have bought it, but I let go of money even less willingly than I let go of books. I'm going to wait for it to go to paperback. And you just lost all sympathy, didn't you? I can tell these things.)

But if someone can write a book about someone who's going to die, and you know they're going to die, and still make it next to impossible to walk away- well, that person knows how to write.

Which is far more important than any number of fans or movies. I'm glad that Stephenie Meyer isn't going to let the bestseller list get in the way of success.

(But I hope she branches out more. I'm getting just a little tired of vampires. Why doesn't she write something about witches? Or vampire hunters? I would totally buy a book about vampire hunters. Especially if it's about the hunter that kills Edward. I don't like him, Sam I Am.)

(On a not completely unrelated side note, there were parts of the later Twilight books that I enjoyed. They weren't completely evil. I liked Jasper. And Seth. And Jacob, right up until the last half of the last book. I don't hate you, Stephenie Meyer! Write more awesome books! End of side note.)

My Poor Baby

2010-06-02T09:52:00.002-05:00

The more I get to know Bayan the more I love her. We went to the park this morning, and enjoyed an idyllic ride on the (mostly) flat stretch of road. And then we turned across the dam to face my enemy together for the first time.

The Hill.

The Hill looks harmless. Hills usually do. But The Hill is crooked, so it looks soft and gentle and then you turn and all there is in front of you is more stinking hill. I've gone up The Hill on Old Busted. The bike came to a grumbling stop about fifteen feet from the top, and I had to fight my way the rest of the way up. Old Busted doesn't like hills. At all.

Bayan mocks hills. She laughs at them until they droop in shame. She doesn't walk up hills- she dances up them. She chews them up and spits them out and jumps up and down on them.

I don't dance up hills. I wheeze and puff and wonder if I'm about to have an asthma attack. But Bayan is a nice bike to have on hills, and someday I'll be able to dance up with her. (Clarification: I never got off the bike. I never felt like I had to, or was about to have to. I just wasn't dancing.)

But then tragedy struck (and it didn't even strike on The Hill; life has no sense of appropriate setting).

I took a wide turn, wobbled (have I mentioned that I'm an inexperienced cyclist? it would be hard to find someone who knows less about what they're doing than I do), went off the road, tried to get back on the road because Bayan is a road bike and I was given dire warnings about what would happen to her offroad, but nothing very bad happened because at that point I fell over. Happily, I was next to a nice paved road and landed on some nice soft pavement. Bayan mostly fell on me, and I'm softer than the road, so that's good.

I scrapped my palms and my elbows but other than that (and the embarrassment) I'm fine. But Bayan's chain popped out of the gear or whatever it is, so she's temporarily out of commission. If I knew anything about bikes I could probably fix this in ten minutes. I don't know anything about bikes. The Principal knows about bikes, so I'll ask him to fix it.

And the next time we go to the library, we're getting books on bike maintenance and repair. I need to know how to take care of Bayan.

All About Bikes

2010-06-01T21:00:00.003-05:00

I have a new roommate. Her name is Bayan, which means 'rich with beauty and goodness', and is from I Rode a Horse of Milk-White Jade. She's a beautiful white and black road bike, a Trek Pilot 2.1.

The Principal has been excited about biking since early this year, but I wasn't really all that wild about it myself. A month and a half ago, he rented a bike for me to ride and see what it's like to ride something that's the right size, and honestly, it was like riding music. This morning the Teacher took me to the park to learn how to shift, which moved my opinion of biking from about a four to a seven.

And then about two hours ago I met Bayan (I hadn't named her that yet) and after three laps around the parking lot, seven became a nine, and then after six more laps it became a nine and a half. (I would say I'm at a ten, but I'm still an extremely inexperienced cyclist and there's always more room to love something even more.) Bayan weighs fourteen pounds. (At a guess.) Bayan goes fast (I can already tell she doesn't believe in speed limits- you can break the speed limit on a bike- especially this one).

Bayan is my graduation/birthday present. She's beautiful.

When the Principal was strapping Bayan into the back of the truck I told him he had to treat her nice because she's a lady, and after that, I had to pick a name for her. It was that or have everyone calling her Lady, which is okay, but really not original, and I value originality.

I'm not usually the type to name inanimate objects (calling the Teacher's purse the Purse of Authority doesn't count), but it didn't seem right to call Bayan it. She's definitely a her, and moreover she's definitely a high-class her. But after I started talking about naming her, the Principal decided he needed to name his bikes too.

He declared that his road bike was now Old Busted and his recumbent was New Hotness. The Teacher also has a bike (acquired yesterday in Houston) which is red and yellow and cute but she's just calling it the trike.

I kept looking over my shoulder to admire Bayan on the way home. It was twilight and she seemed to shine out in the darkness, but I'll stop this sentence before I humiliate myself. On the way we went over a rough low water crossing that rattled the truck hard. I whipped around to check on the bikes (okay- really just on mine) and breathed again when I saw that Bayan was still there.

The Principal said "The bikes are still there."

I said, "I know, I just checked."

And then they laughed at me. Some people have no respect for a girl and her bike.

How I Know

2010-05-31T18:39:00.002-05:00

There's a certain turning point in my learning process that I'm coming to recognize.

When I stop concentrating solely on what on earth something is supposed to mean, (and why textbook writers never explain anything with one sentence if they can use five, and why does it matter whether I learn this or not?), (all of these are important questions, but I've never found an answer to the second one), and start thinking about how I would explain it to someone else, then I know I'm beginning to get it.

This shift from learning to teaching never marks the end of learning. Usually when I ask myself how I would teach this principle or that idea, I don't have a good answer. This is good, because when I keep studying in order to teach, the textbook seems like it's been rewritten in a way that actually makes sense. I think there's a secret dimension of knowledge in every book that hides in the binding and only leaks out when you read the book as a teacher and not a student.

I think it's this shift in perspective that let me do as well as I did in College Algebra this semester. The girl who sat next to me somehow got the idea that I knew what I was doing and asked me questions about the material before every class. I usually didn't have a good answer, but she kept asking me, and so it was like being kicked right into that turning point. I don't know if I actually helped her, but I'm certain that she helped me.

Bwahahaha!

2010-05-27T08:49:00.002-05:00

I have a friend. She is short. (You know, relatively speaking. I guess normal people wouldn't think she's short, but who cares what normal people think anyway?)

Last night was my seminary (and high school) graduation. This friend found me waiting for things to start, and marched up to me. She commanded me to arise, because she was wearing heels and was no longer short, and wanted to see if she was my height or not. (Neither of us have ever worn heels before.)

Guess what pair of shoes I was wearing?

I just about died laughing. Serendipity makes the best jokes.

A Very Nice Day

2010-05-25T18:03:00.003-05:00

This was a pretty amazing day.

For instance, this morning in seminary I was told that tomorrow they're having an end-of-the-year party, full of eggs and bacon and sausage and pancakes and eating... and I made it politely but FIRMLY clear that I won't be going. That felt pretty amazing. (I'm very defensive of my twenty-seven pound weight loss. I'm building thick walls against chocolate and all things fried. And if you know anything about me and m&ms, you know those walls have to be high.)

And then we went swim-suit shopping. (If you hate swim-suit shopping and you know it, clap your hands! Sorry.) We picked out six to try in different sizes.

Two of them were too big. (My heart just broke.)

One of them fit but wasn't modest. (It wasn't very cute anyway.)

Two of them fit and were modest and were cute. I got to choose. And it actually was a choice- they were two actual different swim-suits, not just two different colors.

I walked out and told the world that for the first time ever I felt happier after swim-suit shopping than I had when I started.

A passing shopper heard and muttered "You're the only one." Which did its part to make my day that little bit brighter.

Then we went shoe-shopping. Just a quick back-story synopsis for you about me and shoes and my size twelve feet: I have literally gone to seven stores in one day and found only one pair of church shoes that worked for forty dollars. The question of 'cute' or 'flattering' never came up. I can only vaguely remember a time when my church shoes didn't resemble some variant on the foot canoe. (Too bad there's no diet for your foot size.)

We went to Avenue and I tried on every pair of size twelve shoes they had. This didn't take long. There was one pair of shoes that, aside from being the most hideous things on this earth, were perfect, and another pair that I really wanted to try but they didn't have in my size. We asked them to call a store at another location and see if they had those shoes in my size and the right color.

They did. We drove there. I tried them both on, and aside from technical problems like wobbling wildly, they made me look like a princess. Do you have any idea how hard it is to feel like a princess when you're six foot two inches tall and every half-way nice guy you know is a) immature and needs to go on a ten year mission (I did say half-way nice) or b) shorter by about a foot and a half or c) totally uninterested? (Hint: it's not easy.) I wavered a little bit about getting heels when I'm already so tall, but I hated all of the flats that they had, and it's not like not getting them would make me shorter.

So we bought both pairs. Again, they were different shoes. Not the same shoe in different colors, and yes, I've done that. One of them is a four inch wedge with black interlacing straps; very classically casual. The other one has bronze straps and a buckle that looks like they realized that someone with big feet also has big fingers and those microscopic buckles are of the devil. And it has a three inch wedge on a one inch platform with flowers painted on it. It sounds hideous but it really is cute. The Teacher is convincing herself that bronze is my black (goes with everything) because black really isn't a friendly color for me (makes me look like a corpse without makeup- you didn't know funeral homes put makeup on bodies? they do). She might even be right. I just like the shoe.

Two stores for two pairs of different church shoes. That's better than my shoe-shopping experience has been since, um, ever. And the second pair was ten dollars because we just happened to go on the last day of a sale. Heh heh.

But the true cherry on top? We were meeting the Principal for lunch and I put the casual black shoes on and practiced walking in them while we waited for him. And in these shoes, there is no doubt: the dream I've dreamed since, I don't know, four years old, has finally been realized.

I am taller than my father.

He says I needed prosthetics to pull it off and it doesn't count.

I say taller is taller, and it doesn't matter how, nyaaah.

We have such a mature relationship.

(So I'm seventeen and eleven twelfths before I get my first pair of heels? Is this weird, or what?)

The (End?) of the Math Crusade

2010-05-24T08:18:00.002-05:00

I just got my report card back for this last semester.

(School ended a little over a week ago. Can you say speedy?)

You may recall my decision to stop hating math. It was hard. And not entirely successful. I'm still not very fond of polynomials, and I wouldn't kiss a logarithm if you paid me. (And possibly not even if books were involved.)

But the math crusade was successful enough that I want to take an accounting class.

And I got an A in the class.

Not that anybody cares about that.

(They're taking me out for lunch tomorrow.)

A Mellow Dignity

2010-05-20T09:01:00.003-05:00

We now know that we have the most mellow cat in the continental USA. Deuteronomy is a long-hair, and a few weeks ago we had to shave him for summer. I held him while the Principal shaved him, and not once did that cat bite, scratch, or even make any serious attempts at escape. He definitely wasn't happy, and tried to hide inside my armpit, and began to yowl a little towards the end, but he didn't tear my face off, which is what other cats would have done.

When we were done, Deuteronomy's head and chest was fluffy; his tail and hind-quarters were fluffy; and everything in between looked like a mowed down cornfield. However, he's much happier now. He's jumping on things and pricking his ears every time something moves. He looks so bad it's almost cute, because he has no clue of just how awful he really looks.

Yesterday we went into town for our own haircuts and told the hairstylist about it. She sided with the cat.

I Can't Decide if it's More Satisfying to Freak Them Out Accidentally or On Purpose

2010-04-27T20:57:00.002-05:00

Yes, I really said that today.

I was in Spanish today (shock! I've only been in that class twice a week every week since the beginning of eternity!) and feeling bored because I love Spanish, so I study ahead, so when the teacher covers the material it's difficult to give her my riveted attention. (My life is hard.) Also because at this point in the class everyone was going up to look at a print-out of their grade that she had put together for us. I was first, so I had about fifteen minutes of nothing to fill with boredom.

Boredom should be transported in armored trucks and labeled with warning signs. It always gets me into trouble.

One of my classmates, a semi-friend I will never see again when the semester is over, was standing in front of my desk. I was staring at her. Not on purpose to see if she would stare back (I do that sometimes, but not with semi-friends), but just because she was there and I was bored. She finally looked at me and said "What are you thinking?"

Usually I think about what I say before I say it. But if you hit me with a question when I'm bored, all my self-editing sub-routines are turned off and I'll automatically tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth in all its nude glory.

"I'm thinking that you have very pretty eyes."

(Did I mention that there should be warning signs?)

Everyone (okay, only the few people who sit near me- everyone else is smart enough to be on the other side of the classroom, in case I turn out to be contagious) shouts "What!" Including this classmate that I just (I think) complimented. She mumbles something like "Okaaaay" and holds up her planner as a shield between us. Definite freaking out going on.

At this point I am definitely not bored, and I go into emergency damage-control mode.

"Well, I've noticed that blue eyes are usually shallow, but yours are dark on the edges and pale in the middle and it makes it look like they're glowing, and I like that." Damage-control is successful; she lowers her planner and thanks me and then tells me about her children's eyes, and how she thinks my eyes 'have character'. My eyes are occasionally pretty when they feel like it, so I thanked her, and then it was over, and despite this stern lesson I went back to being bored. (Maybe warning signs wouldn't be effective after all.)

I told the Teacher about this, and she laughed at me. Then she pointed out that 'you have really pretty eyes' is actually a classic pick-up line, and she probably thought I was lesbian. Which totally didn't occur to me until she told me.

It's very hard to appear normal when you've missed out on all the childhood training everyone else gets in the public school system.

The Teacher asked me if I was going to ever tell a woman again that they have pretty eyes. She should know better than to ask that kind of question by now.

"Maybe. It depends on whether I actually think so."

Random Post-script 1: I resisted the siren call of m&ms three times today! I feel like I should get a medal of weight-loss honor or something.

Snakes!

2010-04-26T09:41:00.003-05:00

(WARNING: If you are chronically allergic to tales of horror, woe, mismatched gardening gloves, mighty and fearsome hunters, and, yes, snakes, skip this post.)

The title is slightly exaggerated. It was only one snake.

But it was four feet long and as thick around as my thumb, so I feel entitled to some exaggeration.

This epic tale begins with our two mighty and fearsome hunters, Macavity and Deuteronomy. They used to be two cute orange kittens, and now they aren't. Funny how that works.

A few weeks ago, Macavity actually caught a garden (non-poisonous) snake and brought it to the porch where he could play with it and it couldn't get away. (This is a very cat thing to do. One of my cats once brought a baby barn owl into the house for the same reason, and seemed surprised when we didn't praise him for it.) There was a flaw in his master plan: we have a gap under our front door that's about three-quarters of an inch wide. Where do you think the snake went?

So five days later I'm walking down the hall and I see the Principal's belt in the middle of the floor. That's kind of strange because he either wears it or keeps it on his dresser, and anyway I thought his belt was wider than that. So I slow down to look at this belt but I'm still walking. And then my brain finally gets its shape-recognition act together and lets me know that's a snake.

I stopped walking.

The snake was watching me very carefully, with its head raised up in the air to make sure it could dive for cover if I turned into a cat. To summarize, I called the Teacher and we spent half an hour trying to chase that snake out of the house. It did not want to go. She tried to lift it on a hoe, but snakes are somewhat slippery and they twist around when you lift them up so the snake just fell right back off. (We decided that if you ever see someone carrying a snake towards you on a stick, you shouldn't be impressed because it's a dead snake.) In the end the snake disappeared behind the bookshelves in the hall.

You don't realize how many snake-sized cracks are in your house until you start looking for them, and then you wish you hadn't looked. For two or three days we had no clue where it was. I kept my bedroom door closed at all times, even when I was only going in for half a minute to get something, and I turned the light on before I got out of bed. Even when your mind knows a snake isn't poisonous, your body doesn't care.

We located the snake in the main bathroom before it disappeared again, and I put a sign on the door saying "SNAKE IS HERE" just so people would keep it closed. We shut the cats in there, and when we let them out they looked smug and there were smears of snake blood on the floor, but no actual snake. This was a problem because the main bathroom is the one with the laundry and the shower. The snake never attacked me while I was in there, but I don't think I've ever been so alert that early in the morning.

Finally, almost a week after I first saw it in the hall, the Teacher found it in the open in the bathroom, and this time she called me to take care of it. I put on my closed toe shoes and a pair of mismatched gloves and went in to take care of it.

It's surprising how philosophical you can become when you're looking at a snake. For instance, I came up with a way to prove that we have a soul separate from our bodies, but I'll go into that some other time. Mostly I was trying to persuade my left hand to grab the snake before it went into one of the snake-sized holes I mentioned. The snake started to slide backwards away from me, which I didn't know they could do. I made a grab for it, and I would have had it because it pinned itself against the toilet, but it's very hard to grab something when your hand is being insubordinate and refusing to touch it. The snake was moving very fast now, and ended up cornering itself in our towel shelf, and this time I did manage to pick it up because the idea of another week of constantly looking for a snake under my foot bothered me more than just grabbing it.

After that the story gets boring. The snake didn't bite me. I took it outside and released it into the wild far from our cats. The next morning I was able to take my shower in my habitual mostly-asleep daze. And after the Principal heard that the snake was gone, he awarded my bravery with an Amazon purchase of my choice.

And see, if I'd known that before I had to go stare down the snake, it would have been much easier to do. As in, I'm wondering if I should take the cats to where I put the snake to see if they can catch it and chase it into the house again so that I can get more free books.

We're All Crazy

2010-04-19T12:36:00.002-05:00

In case you didn't already know.

The Principal acquired a beautiful nature picture a few years ago at a company white elephant Christmas exchange. He's had it hanging in his cubicle, but he brought it home a few days ago because he no longer had room for it.

The Teacher and I hung it this morning. She told me not to hang it too high, so I immediately held it as high up the wall as I comfortably could- about six inches from the ceiling. Then I lowered it, but it was too low. We played this game until she took over and showed me where she wanted it. Then I hung it .

It's very nice. Our living room is full of brown and cream, and the picture is full of neutral colors that somehow break up the sameness of the wall without clashing or looking blah. We all like it.

Too bad it's a picture of two mushrooms growing out of a large animal dropping. It will be interesting to see how many people actually notice what it is when they visit.

Uncomfortable Premonitions

2010-04-11T17:42:00.002-05:00

One of my cousins is getting married. Since she's been boy crazy from about, oh, age thirteen, I'm really not surprised. It's sort of funny to listen to the waves this is causing in our family because she's only eighteen. (Wow. Never thought I'd put 'only' and 'eighteen' in the same sentence.) I'm not so concerned about it, because honestly, it's her problem and not mine and it's better to get married young than not to get married at all.

Pretty much during the same time period my cousin was boy-crazy, I was very firmly in the boys-have-cooties camp. (Disclaimer: I no longer believe boys have cooties. At seventeen, I'm a little past that. Now I just think they're from a different planet.) Over the years, I have made certain statements that could be construed as hurtful (if you were a boy and took me seriously, in which case you obviously don't know anything about me), dumb (if you were an adult listening to me) or absolutely hilarious (see last parenthesis.)

I wouldn't be too worried about this because I'm almost certain that whoever I marry won't be someone who knew me then. Except that I have a certain immature aunt (honestly, we don't have enough maturity between us to make one grown-up, responsible person, so we share and take turns being the adult; it works for us) about whom I have some suspicions.

I suspect that she has been keeping a not so little list over the years of all the anti-boy, anti-romance things I've said. I suspect that she's hoarding these innocently-spoken words of mine to turn against me when the time is right (ie, when all the planets are in alignment and I somehow get a boyfriend).

On this list are things I said when I was eleven. And twelve. And thirteen. And fourteen. And, cough, maybe fifteen. Perhaps, cough cough, when I was sixteen as well.

I furthermore suspect that on that list will be this particular misquotation: "I think love makes your brain rot because look how stupid all these people are acting." (Spoken while watching a romance. I don't recall which one. There may have been more than one.)

I think my aunt is a menace and ought to be locked up. For her own good, of course.

A Lone Survivor Returns to Tell the Tale

2010-04-03T14:27:00.002-05:00

Sadly, it is not a tale of success. The last time I did a 24-hr comic challenge I deliberately chose to tell the story of Eddie the Combat Worm, because there's no way to mess up drawing a worm. (Hey, if people can tell stories about rabbits and frogs, why not worms?) This year I took the challenge to the next level by drawing (gasp) people. With hair.

Hair takes forever. If it's black, anyway. White or blond hair isn't too bad.

Anyway, I burned out at 17 and 1/2 pages. And watched lots of silly anime. And had conversations with my friend along the lines of "Wouldn't it be so cool if someone got brain damaged in an accident so that they couldn't make new memories so they got a computer chip planted in their head to record everything for them? What if someone hacked your memories? That would suck" and "What would you do if you were a cannibal vampire and all the other vampires were after you?"

Oh, and I had chorizo with egg (con huevo) because my friend's mom is Hispanic and amazing. And there was a cookie. With sprinkles. And maybe pizza, but I admit to nothing.

It was a very happy 24 hours.

The Challenge: Will Any Return Alive?

2010-04-01T19:08:00.003-05:00

I don't know about Any, but I plan to.

This is your prior notification that tomorrow, at 10 o'clock, I will sit down to wrestle demons and angels (angels are wrestlers too; just ask Jacob) and drive the gentle muse before me with iron-tipped pen as I embark...

That sentence is way too long.

I'm doing a 24-hr comic tomorrow. If you don't know what that is, it's where you draw 24 pages of comic in 24 hours. I'm going over to a friend's house to do it with her. I wouldn't be at all surprised if my main character murders her main character in the process. 24-hr comics strain even the best relationships. Besides, it'll be my best opportunity to avenge that time she wrestled me off the couch three times in a row. I can't wrestle and am therefore obviously not an angle.

On a side note, read this. If you don't get it, look at the date. If it's still not funny, that's okay. I'll love you anyway.

On a more urgent side note, watch this. For context, Suzie and Joanna both work for Janet Reid, a literary agent as interns (I think that's right). And really, it's the soundtrack that makes this movie. Especially the last four seconds.

Will the Circle be Unbroken?

2010-03-30T15:36:00.002-05:00

I've discovered two circles currently happening in my life that are important and pertinent (to me, maybe not to you) and definitely not boring because it's happening right now.

The first circle is the good one. It goes like this:

Enjoy something. Spend more time studying it. Get better at it.

Basically you enjoy what you're good at, and because you enjoy it you work more at it, and because you work at it you get better at it and that leads to, what do you know, enjoying it more.

This is the dark side of that circle:

Hate something. Don't study. Suck at it.

You can probably agree that when you hate something you spend less time on it, which means that you don't do well in it, which means your feelings of hate are validated and strengthened and it starts all over.

I'm currently stuck in the dark circle with math. I'm trying to break out of this circle because

1) life is too short to spend time on something I hate

2) but life is too long to go through with no math skills
2a) especially in a country like this, where you can't do anything without math
2b) and anyway the Principal will disown me if I don't do more math than just college algebra (he's an engineer)

3) I actually have, for very brief moments, enjoyed math

4) but only when I was good at it

5) which reinforces my circle theory.

So anyway, my logical conclusion (be aware that my logic is a completely different brand of logic than what anyone else uses) after considering these points is that if I can't ditch math (where would I go for free food on Thanksgiving if I was disowned?) then I need to ditch hating it.

I have therefore decided to stop hating math.

I'll give you an update at the end of the semester on how well it worked. My teacher is talking about rational fractions, which is a polynomial on top of a polynomial and is graphed like two boomerangs who aren't talking to each other, and I'm having some (very small) doubts that this is going to work.

t3h 3vil

2010-03-24T07:42:00.002-05:00

(Note for the un-l33t among you: this is a shameless Megatokyo reference; if you don't feel like digging through more than five (probably way more than five, actually) years of archives to understand this, then just pronounce those threes like delinquent e's.)

The Teacher has a cruel and sadistic personality. She knows that while, in a moment of weakness, I enjoyed Twilight-the-book I despised Twilight-the-movie. When I wasn't hysterically laughing at Edward's hair I was howling at Bella that she was an idiot and deserved to die. Funny how things seem okay in books are really, really stupid in movies. "Oh, Edward, someone just told me that you're a vampire, and you've been hinting that you want to kill me, so come with me into these conveniently placed dark woods where no one will hear me scream because, sigh, I just can't stay away from you..."

Ahem. So you would think that a kind mother, a loving and considerate and above all compassionate mother would NOT put New Moon in the Netflix queue, would NOT put it at the top as soon as it came out and most of all would NOT sit on her daughter and make her suffer through the agonizing stupidity. (Twilight was bad. I'm telling you now, New Moon is worse.)

And you would be quite right. No kind, loving, considerate and above all compassionate mother would do anything of the kind. The Teacher is not that kind of mother, so she had no qualms about committing the crime above mentioned. I howled to the Principal to save me, and he did eventually, but he took his own sweet time doing it. The only reason I escaped the whole movie is that I had school and needed to leave.

I did enjoy the part where the camera circles around Bella sulking her chair and flashes the months on the screen: partly because it was a nice device to show time passing, partly because the music was nice, partly because it was beautiful, and mostly because I enjoy watching people suffer. I'm vindictive that way.

A New Metaphor

2010-03-23T21:40:00.003-05:00

WARNING: Not for the squeamish.

I promise you haven't heard this one before.

I like to sing. I can sing well, even. Unfortunately for those around me, I can't sing well reliably. I might nail one note and totally miss the next, and that's assuming my voice doesn't crack or I don't run out of breath in the middle of a note.

I sing when I'm alone. I sing when I'm happy. I sing when I'm in a Mood and want to jump up and down on something. I sing when I feel silly (just an hour ago in the grocery store I was singing a bacon hunting song as I went up and down the meat isle looking for it). I sing when I feel like my heart is breaking and my whole soul cries out "Lord, why don't you just erase the world and start over?" I sing in church, but since that's almost mandatory I'm not sure it counts. I sing when I'm walking and I sing during road trips. Anything longer than ten minutes can be a road trip if I feel like singing.

So here's my way of explaining how it is when I have to sing:

Imagine that you're about to throw up, but not quite. The acid is burning in the back of your throat and you know at any moment you're going to decorate your pants, the person next to you, and the ground with your last meal. That's how it is with music and me: sometimes it just comes up my throat and pushes into my mouth and I can let it out or choke to death trying to hold it in.

I did warn you.

It's... Awesome Kid!

2010-03-23T16:19:00.002-05:00

This morning, or maybe yesterday morning, the Teacher broke down and admitted that I'm an awesome kid.

I don't remember what made her say this. I'll pretend that it's a matter of national security and I'm not allowed to tell you for your own protection.

Anyway, I feel like I need a blue sweater with Awesome Kid on the front so I can run around the house using my Awesome power to make things awesome. But no cape, because capes kill.

So Apparenty Dementia is Inherited

2010-03-19T08:56:00.002-05:00

Because I have it too.

We had a guest this week who was very helpful and well-behaved. She did dishes more than once.

On one level I really appreciated this. On another level, I found myself jumping in to do dishes before she could because she doesn't do them right.

Allow me to elaborate.

The sink on the left is for washing. The sink on the right is for rinsing. Plates go in the drainer next to the sink; they face towards the sink. Silverware goes in the same drainer as the plates until the silverware holders are full and then they can spill into the dishwasher.

Cups go in the top rack in the dishwasher, but I fill up both sides before I ever put them in the middle. Soup bowls go in the center of the top rack, facing towards the dark maw of the dishwasher. After all the soup bowls are in their proper place, I put the salad bowls in next so that they fall over the soup bowls. If somehow a soup bowl escaped my notice I unstack the salad bowls to put the soup bowl in its proper place. Sauce pans and the two small frying pans are also allowed in the top rack. So are lids, plastic containers, and glass jars.

Cutting boards, cookie sheets, the griddle, pizza pans, and any other large flat things go on the bottom rack. So do pots, pans, mixing bowls, and other large things. The bottom rack is always the last one I put things in.

The order of washing is also important. Cups first, always. Then plates. Then bowls and mugs. Then knives. (I do silverware as I go, making sure I've gotten everything out of the sink before I put more dishes in, but I never put knives in. I separate them on the side by the sink and wash them separately one at a time.) Then lids and small frying pans, possibly also the sauce pan. Then, usually, a fresh load of hot water and then all the plastic containers. Plastic holds grease unless the water is really hot, and if it's not hot and clean you're only moving the grease around. I know I could start with the plastic containers in the first load, but I don't want to because it wouldn't be the right way to do it. After the plastic containers I do the large flat things, cutting boards and such. Then I do whatever is left, and if it doesn't all fit in the bottom dishwasher rack I put the extras up with the plates and the silverware. I try to make it all fit.

I think this means I'm not allowed to laugh at the Teacher's Netflix envelope collection anymore.

Further Proof of Advancing Dementia

2010-03-16T10:15:00.002-05:00

The Teacher is convinced that Netflix is run by malevolent ghouls who delight in sending something she can't wait to see by way of Paris, Alaska, and Timbuktu. She is determined not to be vanquished by ghouls, and so she has a plan.

She hordes Netflix envelopes. She does this by sending back two disks in one envelope. Every time one of the ghouls routes a disk through L.A. or Chicago, she throws away the envelope it came in and sends it back in one from her horde. And cackles.

So far she's stockpiled forty-three envelopes. I'm getting worried.

An Invasive Species Appears

2010-03-12T13:33:00.002-06:00

Graham crackers.

The Principal bought a box thinking it would be a nice spin off on the Wild Saltine joke. He informed me that Graham crackers will overpower Saltines because they're bigger. I pointed out that this is only because Graham crackers are cowards, and only move in herds, but if the Saltines are smart enough to cut them into individuals the Saltines are big enough to overpower the Graham crackers.

There was a flaw in the plan. (Don't ask whose plan it was. These things tend to just happen in this house.) It's true that Graham crackers are invasive, but only where they are the dominant predator in the local food chain. These Graham crackers were discovered by the Teacher before they could move in on the Saltines, thus ruining the joke and causing much disappointment (to the Principal, and probably the Graham crackers, because they got eaten).

I have some sad news to report, however. The Teacher and the Principal are both Graham cracker rustlers. They kept stealing my crackers! And they laughed about it! I was obviously unable to protect the Graham crackers in their natural habitat, so I made an executive decision and ate them before anyone stole any more. Because I'm generous and loving that way.

The Saltines have breathed a sigh of general relief: the menace has been vanquished.

Call of the Wild Saltine

2010-03-10T07:30:00.002-06:00

Context: the Principal really likes Saltines. I'm not sure why. He eats them with chili and any other soup I serve.

However, last night he took the last package of Saltines out of the last box of Saltines. And left the empty box on the shelf.

The Teacher has a Thing about empty boxes. Woe to him who uses the last stick of butter from the fridge and leaves the box! So she immediately snatched the box off the shelf and said, from the fury of her soul, "You just leave the box!"

The Principal has always been able to think quickly, and in this family a joke is the fastest way out of a tight spot. "Of course I just leave the box! I want Saltines with my lunch tomorrow! This way, passing Saltines will see it's a safe place to nest and there will be more Saltines in the morning!"

The Teacher put the box on the table (apparently empty boxes are okay if they aren't on the shelf; go figure). "It won't work just like that; you need to give them the right idea."

So the Principal put two whole Saltines in the box and then one half Saltine as a 'baby' so that any wandering Saltines would be able to recognize the box as a cracker breeding ground. Then they turned the box around so that it was facing away from the Principal, because everyone knows that Saltines are very shy.

This morning: I sat down to eat breakfast and noticed that for some reason the Principal's plan for attracting more Saltines hadn't worked: there were still only two and a half Saltines in the box. I informed him of this crisis.

"Did you do the Saltine call?" he wanted to know. No, I didn't know we had one. So the Principal strode firmly to stand behind the Saltine box and struck the I'm-Going-To-Be-Seriously-Silly pose that seems to be part of our family's DNA. Raising both hands to make a trumpet around his mouth, he threw his head back and called, "Salty salty salty crackERS!"

This call has an important twist on most food calls: you hold your hands like doors over your mouth; shut the doors at the beginning of the call, open them for each salty, close them between salties, and leave them standing wide open on the triumphant crackERS! This is important. Don't get it wrong.

So the Principal taught me this call, and then we had to teach it to the Teacher, who kept demanding that we close our eyes, which is when I let slip my own life philosophy: "When she tells you to close your eyes that's the last thing you should do." Finally the Teacher gave the Principal some Saltines that had been hiding on the bar.

The Principal: "But... these are domestic Saltines! I wanted wild ones!"

This is when the Teacher told him he needed to go to work.

The Stare of Hate

2010-03-07T12:22:00.002-06:00

I'm learning to drive.

I'm pretty good at steering. Okay at stopping. Kind of not good at shifting. And I suck at starting. This is normally humiliating but not really a problem.

But today I drove home from church, by the long way, which is an hour drive. I did well until the very last stoplight. And then I killed the car. By the time I got it started and moving again, the light had turned red and I was the last one through. I could almost see steam rising off of the cars trapped behind me, and I don't think it was the rain.

15 minutes later I'm going sixty on a seventy mph road (rain, remember?) And a mysteriously familiar white car appeared behind me. I looked at it in the mirror. Hmm...

And then I recognized it.

I could feel the stare of hate burning into my rear-view mirror, and no almost about it.

I Quake Before Authority

2010-03-03T06:41:00.002-06:00

Yet another example of how 'timid' I am came up this Sunday.

In Sunday School.

(Note: When I say something happened in Sunday School, the Teacher's expression becomes a combination of 'oh dear', 'what did you do now', and 'am I going to have to call someone to apologize?' Sunday School is one of my more famous battle-grounds with my nemesis, Adult-Who-Didn't-Read-The-Lesson-Until-An-Hour-Ago-But-Still-Thinks-I'm-The-Stupid-One-Because-I'm-Not-Twenty-One-Yet-And-They-Have-The Manual-And-They're-So-Going-Down.)

(Another Note: I'm pretty sure this teacher read the lesson ahead of time. And he's been my Sunday School teacher for two months now, so he knows better than to think I'm stupid. Which is more than I can say for some teachers, who never get past the teenagers-don't-know-anything-about-the-church stage, but I won't go there.)

Anyway, he was teaching the story about Hagar and Sarai and how Hagar was going to have Abram's kid because Sarai was barren. And then he said that even though this was Sarai's idea she got jealous and hated Hagar and threw her out.

Um... no. I disagreed. And just so you know, this wasn't both of us arguing off the tops of our heads: it was right there in the verse we had just read as a class.

I continued to disagree for about fifteen minutes, at which point he said "You know what, I concede, I'll look over this later, now let's move on-"

And I said, "I don't want you to concede, I'm not trying to win anything here, I just want you to understand what I'm saying," and it went on for another ten minutes or so.

At which point I finally realized that he was reading "and her mistress was despised in her eyes" (that was off the top of my head, but it was something like that) with the modern meaning of mistress, which is you-know-what, instead of the biblical meaning of the word, which is 'woman of authority; the feminine of master', which I was just taking for granted. And which totally changes all the meaning in that verse. Once he got that he realized what I was saying.

All I can say is that the rest of the class was very quiet and very focused on us while this was going on, which I didn't realize until it was over. I wish I could be a stranger sitting in on my Sunday School class. It would be funny to watch.

And I did apologize to my teacher after class for taking so much time from his lesson. He said that it was okay but he would cut me off if I tried to do the same thing with something that wasn't relevant to the lesson. I love having a teacher who doesn't push me around and won't let me push him around. It makes Sunday School much more interesting.

In Which THE SECRET Comes to Light

2010-02-25T16:16:00.002-06:00

I'm obese.

Before you start imagining a completely round girl with blond hair perched precariously on her head like a mop (although the hair description is kind of accurate- I feel like Raggedy Ann ever since The Haircut) who waddles while she walks and always has some form of candy in her hand- no. That's not me.

But it's who I will be in ten years if I don't stop and do something now.

No one (the Teacher doesn't count) knows I'm obese. I'm over six feet tall, so my extra one hundred pounds has to cover a lot of ground. I look like a giraffe with inner tubes hung around its neck.

This is not THE SECRET. It's no secret I'm overweight. It's no secret that I start panting like a dog after a five yard sprint. It's no secret that I like Milky Ways and chocolate ice-cream (let me point out that because of the Teacher's various health kicks and a childhood rule that I can't spend my allowance on candy, I get those things maybe five times a year; this is the true definition of tyranny).

No. THE SECRET is that I'm no longer 'trying' to lose weight. I'm no longer 'trying' to get in shape.

I'm doing it.

The plan is simple. According to the BMI on Wikipedia, I'm 100 pounds overweight. There are fifty-two weeks in a year. Divide 100 by fifty and you get 2; recall that 2 lbs a week is almost enshrined as the 'safe' and 'normal' amount to lose. It is therefore quite possible that a hypothetical person could theoretically lose 104 lbs in a year. Remember how much weight the contestants on The Biggest Loser lose and it leaves the realm of the quite possible and enters the realm of the 'Well, why haven't you done it yet?'

I'm doing it.

I've lost 13.4 lbs this year. I'm eating normally (for me, which is insanely healthy- see last parenthesis) but I've cut out the seconds and thirds that would happen more than four or five times a week. I've cut myself down to three meals a day instead of twelve or fifteen snacks with three larger snacks interspersed through the day. I've been exercising six days a week. I've changed my exercise this last week from marching in the living room to going on four mile walks. As of Saturday I will have walked twelve miles! Which is the farthest I've ever walked without collapsing!

So you're thinking "Peaches! This is big news! Why haven't you said anything about it?!" (If you're thinking "Blah blah blah- when is she going to get back to the funny stuff about being smarter than the average lettuce?"- that's fine. You're allowed to think that. But keep it to yourself, okay?)

Because this started as a New Year's Resolution; New Year's Resolutions generally occur in January; and everyone feels obliged to tell the world about their resolutions. And when you don't know them and couldn't care less, it's annoying; it's even more annoying when one out of every three resolutions is 'I will lose weight'. I avoid being annoying (unless there's a possibility chocolate or enjoyment involved, in which case all bets are off). Which is why I didn't mention it here. I'm sure my parents wish this restraint extended to them, but some things you just have to suffer for family's sake.

That's the bright and shiny reason. This is the dark one:

Because I have dreams. And I'm paranoid about my dreams. I dream about being a figure ice skater. (Probably will never happen.) I dream about being a graceful dancer. (See last comment.) I dream about being able to kick butt in martial arts. (This will happen, or else. Don't ask which martial art. I haven't planned that far ahead.) I dream about wearing a bright red dress and not feeling uncomfortable that people are actually looking at me.

My motto this year is the same as that old WWII poster: Loose Lips Sink Ships. Because losing weight is my commando raid to take over my life before I lose it completely to my weight. I don't dare tell people because there's no way of telling who's a spy; there's no way of telling who will support me, who will sabotage me, and who will take knowing THE SECRET as permission to oversee every aspect of my diet and exercise, which would sink me more surely than anything else.

If I feel this way, why am I telling you?

I've already lost 13.4 lbs (that 0.4 is very important- the world might explode if we leave it out). I'm beginning to believe my promises to myself: my promise to learn to skate, my promise to take dance lessons, my promise to choose a martial art and stick with it no matter how much it hurts, my promise to buy and wear the reddest dress I can find next January.

I'm telling you because some support from total strangers would be totally appreciated right now. I sound confident, but honestly my mood swings are insane- especially around Weigh-In Day, otherwise known as the weekend. I'm elated! I'm going to do it! I'm depressed. I'll always be fat. Why don't we have any chocolate in the house?

So now you have great power; remember to use it only for good, never for evil; because you, yes you, are the privileged only to know THE SECRET:

I'm doing it.

(I will never, ever, in a million years, get sick of saying that.)

Fear Me!

2010-02-22T10:17:00.002-06:00

I walked four miles!

Fear and tremble, ye New Year's Resolution! I shall see thee defeated until thou liest in thine own hot blood, gasping as ye die a slow and terrible death of agonizing fulfillment.

And let me tell you, four miles is agonizing. Especially since I actually chose to do it. I can't even whine while I do it because it's my own fault!

On the other hand, if four miles doesn't burn off those chocolate chip muffins from yesterday, nothing will.

Discovery #1

2010-02-20T08:25:00.002-06:00

Fact: Bagels with cream cheese are really, really good.

Fact: We have bagels.

Fact: We're out of cream cheese.

Fact: Cream cheese and peanut butter have the same consistency.

Fact: Well, okay, they're both spreadable.

Fact: But bagels with peanut butter- especially blueberry or cinnamon-raisin bagels- don't taste as good with peanut butter as they do with cream cheese.

Fact: Actually, it's pretty nasty.

I discover these things so that you don't have to.

By the way, Janet Reid (see sidebar) has a beautiful video up on her blog. Corny and definitely playing the sentiment card, but beautiful. Make your kids watch it.

Because I'm a Copycat

2010-02-13T18:08:00.002-06:00

I stole The Pioneer Woman's post idea for Valentine's Day. (I know, I sort of already did a Valentine's Day post. Too bad.) To read about The Pioneer Woman's adorable insanity, follow the link in the sidebar. But be careful in her cooking section: she uses butter by the stick.

These are random things that I love (abbreviated version):

chickens (from a distance)

cows (also from a distance)

horses (from a slightly smaller distance)

rose bushes

baked potatoes

clouds

toned photos

thrift/antique stores

music

Spanish

drawing

arguing

being with someone and not saying anything and not feeling uncomfortable about it

words

people who are interesting (some of these are better from a distance, but it depends)

writing

good stories

the way my dad's eyes crinkle at the edges when he thinks something's funny

my grandpa for not yelling at me for going into the ditch in his truck

barb wire fences

cactus

people who push me

people who don't mind me pushing back

the cutest, most lady-like Spanish teacher in the world (mine)

hot chocolate, popcorn, and unconcerned calorie intake

chocolate ice cream

Thanksgiving

trying a new Pioneer Woman recipe

laughing at my mom's amazing ability to see things that aren't there (examples: bad handwriting and silver hair)

making people's brains hurt

making a connection between two unconnected things

knowing something

answering questions

asking questions

singing (badly) along with songs on the radio

Words of Encouragement From My Oh-So-Supportive Dad

2010-02-12T07:48:00.002-06:00

Context: I was talking about a piece of Spanish grammar that has no English equivalent and that I can't figure out with the Principal.

The Principal: It's just grammar. You'll figure it out. You're a smart girl.

Me (feeling warm and fuzzy): You think so?

The Principal: Oh yes. You're definitely smarter than a head of lettuce.

Me: . . . .

The Principal: And I know you could give a turnip a run for its money.

Me: . . . .

The Principal: I'm not talking about any average turnip here. I mean the big kind.

Me: How kind of you.

The Principal: Isn't it?

I Really Wish I Had Said That

2010-02-09T15:24:00.002-06:00

Last night the Teacher and I were giving the Principal a hard time for I-Don't-Remember-What. He put on a hurt expression and said, "I'll have you know I had a very trying day Sunday."

The Teacher and I: "Oh yeah?" (You can just hear the sympathy, right?)

The Principal: "Oh yes. I tried and tried to take a nap and I couldn't. It was very trying."

The Teacher and I: wordless

The Teacher and I: can't breath

The Teacher and I: laughing way too hard to come up with a worthy retort.

Valentine's Day Thoughts

2010-02-08T15:46:00.002-06:00

Let me just say that I don't like Valentine's Day.

Firstly, because people expect me to like it. I'm seventeen, I'm a girl, QED, I must count the days until the fourteenth of February. I despise being shoved into a mass stereotype without my permission.

Secondly, I have never had a boyfriend. I do not have a boyfriend. I do not currently want a boyfriend, although I perceive that the time may come when I change my mind.

Especially since I've decided I want five kids.

Thirdly, while I think the idea of a day set apart for people to express their love and appreciation for each other is sweet, Valentine's Day has been so commercialized that it really turns me off. I have to admit that the same is true of all other holidays. (Except Easter, ever since the Easter Bunny started visiting our house.)

But this morning I was pretending a conversation with an invisible friend (yes, I'm strange) about Valentine's Day.

And this is what I told them:

"The two most romantic gifts my dad has ever given my mom are a garbage disposal and a set of sharp knives.

"The garbage disposal was romantic because at the time her sink would clog up a lot and get gooey, stinky, stagnate stuff in it. It made a nasty job significantly less nasty.

"The sharp knives were romantic because she couldn't do anything (fibromyalgia) in the kitchen, and being helpless happens to severely impact my mom's self-esteem. With the knives she didn't have to push down hard to cut stuff, so she could do some stuff in the kitchen, which, incidentally, made me happy too.

"Cut roses are pretty and all, but even if you baby them they die after a week. But if you take care of them, sharp knives are sharp forever."

I shared this conversation with the Teacher, and asked if this means I'm an unromantic person. She laughed at me. Such is the fate of a great mind.

A Perfect Example of Poetic Justice: Or, The Universe is Out to Get Me

2010-02-03T07:41:00.002-06:00

Yesterday we were out running errands as a family. This is never a good sign; in horror movies this is like the sunny farm, or the newlyweds kissing in the kitchen, or someone playing the piano.

At the library I hit my head getting out of the car. The Principal laughed at me.

I told him it's wrong to mock other people's pain.

He said no, it's fun. So I hit him with the book bag and said "Ha! Ha! Ha!"

And then I fell down.

Nostalgia

2010-02-01T16:26:00.002-06:00

I've always been weird. I will now present one more piece of evidence in my plea to the judge not to convict me as normal.

Ahem. When I was learning to count I assigned the numbers one through ten personalities. And these personalities linger with me as ghosts. Observe:

1 is a stuck-up, self-absorbed dork. Never stops studying, never stops reading, never hears anything you say.

2 is a whiny, dependent girlfriend who hangs on 4 all the time. I hate her.

3 is the giggle of girls passing in the hallway: straight blond hair, purple plaid miniskirts, and pink bubblegum. They go everywhere together. They are the ultimate clique. They always leave everybody out.

4 is basically 2 twice. Did I mention that I don't like 2? 'Nuff said.

5. I love 5. He is awesomely cool. Or she. I'm not really sure.

Nooo, I think 5 is a he. 5 is my favorite number. Don't tell anyone, okay?

6 and 7 have some jealous rivalry going on. They've been fighting for so long you can't really say anymore that one or the other is in the wrong. They both deserve time-out.

8 is the Cool Guy. Everyone has a crush on him. He's the guy who dates everybody casually but doesn't ever have a girlfriend. It's my opinion that all the nice girls won't take him because he dates constantly and faithlessly.

Never mind.

9 is like 5 but better if that's possible. He's like a prophet: he's always relaying 10's messages and trying to keep order in the room. Like a kindergarten teacher. But with a long-suffering sigh and sad smile.

10 is like God. Don't laugh at me. I had a hard, hard time remembering 10. I'd go, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9...... 10? I think? 10 was like an invisible presence in the sky, someone who was there one day and gone the next and hard to believe in.

I actually told myself stories about these numbers. 9 and 10 were never big characters in them, except one of the smaller numbers might run to them for authority/protection. Geeze, I should abandon novels and go for soap operas, right?

Hello? I Exist Even When You Don't Look at Me

2010-01-29T08:09:00.003-06:00

I talked about this last semester. For some reason, people assume that as long as they don't look at you and you don't look at them, you don't exist. It turns out you don't even need to draw for this to happen.

The most exciting thing I overheard this week was a girl on her phone in a crowded elevator. She said something along the lines of "Last night was really, really bad. He was totally drunk. One of his friends died a few days ago and then another friend offed himself yesterday because this guy died. Listen, I gotta go, I'm in the elevator and you're breaking up."

Ten people in this elevator and no one was looking at anyone else.

That's not the only conversation I've overheard. One of them was in the library. One of them was a phone conversation that someone was discrete enough to take around the corner but not smart enough to remember the sound goes around corners even if sight doesn't.

Most people are on their cell phones constantly. Speaking as someone who uses her cell phone for about a minute twice a week, I have to wonder what they talk about. If you're on the phone, texting or talking, you don't see what's going on around you. Neither, presumably, does the other person. What is there to say?

Maybe there's a kind of game world in the telephone lines that sucks your brain out through your ears, so all these people on their phones are actually semi-vegetable brain-dead zombies living in a simulator world the non-cell-phone-dependent population can't access. That would explain why they don't run into things even though they don't look up from whatever they're texting.

Although me walking around them probably helps with that.

Eavesdropping is when you go out of your way to hide and listen to conversations. What do you call it when other people's conversations (no matter how interesting) are shoved in your face?

Does Anyone Else Do This?

2010-01-25T11:55:00.002-06:00

The Teacher wants to teach me to run her blender.

I don't want to learn.

This is because I glory in my ignorance and the sure knowledge that as long as I can claim not to know what I'm doing she'll make her own smoothies in case I break it. It's a nice blender.

But if she teaches me to use it then I KNOW that first once a week, then twice a week, then every single day, she's going to ask me to make her smoothie for her. I won't be able to say no because 1) I'll know how, 2) she'll know I know, 3) her smoothies are essential to her continued survival, and so 4) if I refuse I'll feel like a selfish, small-minded git.

(I don't know what a git is. I read it in Harry Potter. I'm assuming it's a blood-sucking insect related to the common mosquito, but bigger and bright blue with a tiny head. If you know what a git is and I'm wrong, please don't correct me. I have learned from sad experience that I always like my definitions better than the 'official' ones.)

You could argue that I'm being selfish now, and you wouldn't be wrong, but this way I only feel slightly bad about it, instead of very bad.

Happiness is an Upside-Down Question Mark

2010-01-21T19:18:00.002-06:00

It's true.

I'm studying Spanish. I love Spanish. I don't really love how much time studying it eats up, but I love it anyway.

Last semester I couldn't write upside-down question marks at all. They were puny, scraggly, sick looking scribbles with a dot on top. Next to the graceful dancers that are my right-side-up question marks, they were sad and sorry creatures indeed.

Today in class I wrote out a bunch of questions in Spanish. Which, if you were unaware of but probably weren't, begin with upside-down question marks.

What happened? My upside-down question marks are beautiful! They're like abstract sculptures. Their grace takes my breath away and makes me dizzy with happiness.

They must have had a growth spurt during winter break.

An Encounter With An Unfamiliar Species

2010-01-17T19:16:00.005-06:00

On Saturday there was a dance with a speed-dating activity. I attended. After all, why not?

(Attention to anyone who has known me during the ages of, oh, five to fifteen. Do not choke on your tongue. Restrain your hysterical laughter from frothing forth into the comments section. Believe me: I know. Oh, how I know.)

My group went to the Room of Dating Peril last, at the end of the dance. Which is too bad because otherwise I would have just ditched the rest of the dance. Very few people were there. Apparently they heard I was coming.

First of all, I got there late. That's always a good start, right? There's no point in making a Grand Entrance if no one is there to see you. There were about thirty people crammed into the Room of Dating Peril which doubles as the Primary room on Sundays. Each couple had a table. I did not have a table. I had a chair wedged into the only open space left: the middle of the room.

My first 'date' was named M and he was blond. Or maybe his hair was brown? Something like that. I said four words to him: "Nice to meet you." And then the bell rang and he escaped to a different girl.

My second date was T. His hair was somewhere between brown and black and blond. Or something like that.

Did I mention that we were tightly packed? The first time the bell rang to rotate, he stood up and looked around helplessly. Every time he leaned towards a table like he was going to go there, someone else was already sitting down. So he sat down. We talked. The second time the bell rang, he stood up, looked around, shrugged helplessly, and sat down again. The third time the bell rang, he didn't stand up. The fourth time the bell rang, we both just ignored it. The problem was that there was no way for him to get to other tables without climbing over me, which solution I did not encourage.

If he could strand someone else on a desert island it would be his mother. If he had to choose to be sick with something he would be insane so that he could be in an asylum and bully the nurses. He wants to join the Marine Corps Infantry (I'm pretending that's supposed to be capitalized). He wants to go on a road trip from coast to coast on a motorcycle. When he goes to college he's going to study pharmaceuticals. He would like to run a shop that does custom work on motorcycles.

The Principal pointed out that I must not have done too badly because a) I know something about him (for a given value of something) and b) if I had been doing a bad job he would have found a way to move on. But here's my question: When, exactly, does he (or whoever; I doubt we're going to see each other again) get to know me? Getting a guy to talk is like dragging rocks uphill in the mud and wearing iron boots. Yes, I really didn't know that. I was so busy getting him to talk that I never threw in any information about myself into the conversation and he was too shy (I think he was being shy) to just ask.

My overall conclusion: I really don't know how this dating thing works. At all. But it's probably not going to be that hard to figure out. Apparently, you just ask questions. And more questions. And try as hard as you can to be interested even though you know nothing about motorcycles.

...Maybe You're Just Demented

2010-01-16T09:11:00.002-06:00

The Teacher, for the first time in I don't know how long (what, you think I monitor her every move?) is writing in her journal. Unfortunately, we're currently experiencing something called winter, which is known for being cold and wet. The things that make the Teacher hurt most? You guessed it.

Finally it was all too much for her poor over-worked mind and she snapped. She held up her journal from across the room and showed it too me.

"Look at how bad my handwriting is! It's so baaaaaad!" (I may have taken the liberty of adding a few extra vowels there.)

I looked at it. It looked like her handwriting always does, irritatingly perfect and completely illegible. She learned cursive on a different planet.

"I mean, look at it compared to this day," (imagine a page of identical writing), "Except that day wasn't very good either." (She never has a good day.) "Okay, how about this-" (more identical handwriting) "-No, that's not it either.... Okay, here's before I got so sick. Look at this compared to this."

I looked at it. I looked at her. I looked at it again. I thought about how my handwriting, while usually very legible, resembles earthworm tracks in mud.

And guess what my suggestion to soothe her troubled mind was?

I swear it will be a miracle if I survive to be twenty-one. At some point she's going to decide that no jury will convict her, and then I'm in trouble.

So I Was Thinking That Government is a Lot Like Sewage

2010-01-13T17:14:00.004-06:00

Seriously, hear me out.

Like sewage, there is nothing you can do to keep government out of your life except stop eating and die. However, you will never meet people who wearing a t-shirt that says "I heart sewage!" When you meet someone who makes a living handling sewage, either as a plumber, or... as a plumber (I have not spent much time learning all the different professions that revolve around sewage disposal) you do not jump backwards and cross yourself to ward off the evil eye (if you do, shame). You find out that a plumber is an interesting person with likes, dislikes, and a job that pays almost 40,000 a year. (Okay, the comparison isn't perfect. Politicians get paid more than that.) You do not, however, consider plumbing a pleasant or desirable job. You pay plumbers to deal with what you like to pretend does not exist.

Sewage, as previously stated, is part of our lives. We spend lots of money making this unpleasant fact as pleasant as possible. Hence indoor flushing toilets, porcelain sinks with shiny fixtures, pleasant lighting, mirrors, bathroom rugs, and perhaps most important, deodorizer in a variety of scents.

BUT (this is the important part) we do not like sewage. We do not want it in our water. We do not want it in our food. We don't want it in our medicine. We treat it as toxic and rightly so. We teach our children as early as possible not to paint with it on the wall, eat it, or rub it on their face. We make up long fancy words about it so that we don't make our mouths feel dirty. We consider conversations about sewage juvenile and crude. We go out of our way to avoid contact with sewage as much as possible.

Politicians are plumbers. They get paid lots (too much) money to do a very unpleasant and contaminating job that no one else wants (except other politicians; go figure). You really don't care what or how a plumber does his job so long as he does it and you can rest secure in the knowledge you won't end up with a stinking flooded house. If you're like my dad, you go to Home Depot and handle your own plumbing, but since I'm not sure how this applies to my government analogy- people usually frown on it when you try to write your own tax laws- skip it.

When the sewage does get into the rest of the house, the plumber should expect to lose the job and his reputation.

Gone Shooting

2010-01-06T09:46:00.002-06:00

There are rumors abroad (because rumors are always abroad, not drinking lemonade in your living room; after all, we're all far too kind and wise and whatever to let rumor into the house) that my father, the Principal, is taciturn.

Untrue. Just this last Saturday, I heard him and a friend from church, who is also 'taciturn' talking like girls. Chatter chatter chatter. The small talk questions came, fast and furious:

"Is that what I think it is? I've read about those. What's the range like? Where/when did you get it? How much did you pay? What are they laws on those? What do you think of Gibberish model? My son is in Iraq, and he's using a Technical Gobbledygook; when he was home on leave I got to try it out, and I'm telling you, it was sweet. You want to try mine? I've got an extra clip. It's lots of fun, you'll have a hard time stopping once you start. Did you hear about so-and-so's slide-bite? He had a big chunk torn right out of his hand. Yeah, I saw it the next day; it was quite impressive. That's a good grouping you've got there. How much do you keep in your clips? It holds seven but I stop at five on general be kind to the spring principles. When do they close? How much is membership? Such-and-such an amount for the whole family, but you have to belong to Acronym. I've had this for twenty years. It sounds like a staplegun." And as we drove away from the range: "We shot three times as many rounds as anyone else there, and it probably cost four dollars to do it. We should do this again sometime."

So you see, my dad is not taciturn. They talk more than I do when it's about guns and related subjects. And that's a lot of talking.

If anyone ever holds my dad up at gunpoint he'll probably compliment them on the make and ask what dealer they got it from and how much they pay for ammo.

Advertising

2010-01-04T08:39:00.002-06:00

I have found a calling.

(It would be really nice if I could believe that this is my only calling, or the best calling, or the most important calling, or the one I'll enjoy most, but I know better than to make statements with superlative words when I'm talking about myself.)

During opening exercises in YW's yesterday, I told the person conducting that I had an announcement. (In a loud voice.) She said, okay, what is it. I stared at her. "It's a secret until I announce it. I just wanted you to know I have one."

She said: "Okay." And went on to do her other conducting things. Which proves that I've thoroughly broken in this YW group. My work here is almost complete.

When it was announcement time, I stood up and said in my sweetest voice, "For those of you who don't know me, my name is Peaches," and I wrote it on the board. Then I wrote my email and my home phone number.

"I am advertising," I announced. (It's fun to announce. I want to do it more often.) "I've got my Personal Progress finished already, but as so-and-so said, they're coming out with something new called the Honor Bee, and I really want one." [Note: These are not exactly my words, but this is the gist of it.] "I am looking for people who want/need a mentor. As a mentor, my services include encouraging you, reminding you, nagging you, helping you, finding ways to do more than one goal at once- leaders, if you didn't want to hear that, just close your ears- cornering leaders to sign things off, and general mentoring. If you're a Laurel and you want to rush your Personal Progress so you don't have to work on it during your Senior year- that's what I did and I can help you with that. If you're a Beehive-" Here I looked at the back of the room- "I love you guys! I'll help you too! I don't care if I know you or not. I don't care if you don't know me. You will know me by the time we're done, which may or may not be a good thing, but we'll take care of that when we get there. And that's all."

And then I sat down.

Advertising is fun.

I Was Thinking

2010-01-01T08:16:00.003-06:00

...which, as you know, is always dangerous for those around me or at least within throwing range.

[WARNING: This post is completely unrelated to the ones before it and will most likely have no effect on the ones after it. If you are in any way, shape or form subject to mental and emotional whiplash, consult with your doctor so that you won't feel guilty about skipping this post. In fact, if whiplash is a problem for you, just skip my blog altogether. Go watch something predictable, like CNN, and feel warm and fuzzy inside that other people are supplying the necessary weirdness to keep the earth from wobbling.]

[If that last line didn't make sense, be aware that 1) the stories on CNN and every other news channel carry basically the same stories all the time with only names, dates, and places changed and 2) it's my personal belief that if everyone on earth was reasonable, sane, and normal ALL THE TIME the earth would crack under the strain, half of our world careen into the sun, half would rocket off to find out how far it is to Kolob anyway and the core would stay in orbit as a throbbing broken heart, mourning our folly. Oh, and we'd all be dead. Don't you feel better for knowing that?]

So I've heard that mothers always think that their first baby is absolutely perfect and the best baby ever born. Hence the phrase, 'a face only a mother could love'. This makes sense to me. Newborn babies are so ugly there needs to be some insanity involved or procreation and continuation of the human race would grind to a stop.

I normally avoid mothers with new babies so that when they say "Isn't she/he CUTE!" I don't have to lie. They get upset when you say something like "He/she will be. I guess. Most likely."

I like kids. I like teenagers. I like old people (defined as the ages between twenty-one and a hundred). I like babies, once they're no longer bright red and wrinkly. In fact, I'm willing to befriend anyone who isn't bright red and wrinkly. Red and wrinkly, for me, sends a message: Uncute: Interact At Your Own Risk. With some sirens thrown in.

Before you start complaining about how narrow I am, or point out in a smug voice that when I have children they will be red and wrinkly and I'll be totally besotted with them, let me mention that there is no expiration date on the red and wrinkly warning. I have seen four, six, ten, thirteen, eighteen, and seventy-five year-olds turn red and wrinkly. It is always uncute. It always means Interact At Your Own Risk.

Ah... the earth feels steadier already.

An Excerpt From My 'Work' Known as NaNoWriMo

2009-12-29T20:06:00.002-06:00

Suddenly, The Author was hauled away from her computer by two big thugs in purple striped suits, and thrown at the feet of A Parent, who demanded of the Innocent Author what she had done with a little doohickey The Parent wanted for the sewing machine. There were Words, and then The Author told The Parent that it was really annoying to be immediately assumed guilty EVERY time something goes missing, and The Parent rolled her eyes until The Author, who is taller, could only see the whites, and said that it was only REASONABLE to ask the last person who had it what they did with it, at which point The Author said she DID NOT KNOW, and stomped out. No one likes to be yelled at when they're writing.
And I tell you all of this to explain why the quality of The Author's work may or may not drop, because she is mad and feeling sorry for herself because everything is always her fault and she is considering running away except that it would probably be uncomfortable to run away at this or any other time of year, and if she's stuck it out for almost sixteen years, surely she can stick it out for another three.
End of commentary.

This is from a year ago.

I'm going to hit the NYT's bestseller list any day now, aren't I?

Warning Still in Effect

2009-12-26T21:13:00.002-06:00

I don't remember learning to walk (or crawl, in case you were wondering) but I think it wasn't too frustrating because I was surrounded by people who encouraged me to "Come to Daddy! Go to Mommy!" And also because I hadn't learned perfectionism yet.

I don't remember learning to read, but I suspect that it was on par with learning to walk: hard and painful but I had fun while I did it. Especially since the Teacher considered Asterix and Obelix good learning-to-read material for quite some time. Probably longer than was technically necessary, but I certainly wasn't going to tell her that. I was already catching on.

I won't go into learning to swim. Suffice it to say that I can float and doggy paddle with the best, and my marine skills end there.

Learning Spanish (still on-going) is mind-numbing with brief flashes of just how amazing it's going to be when I can speak it without saying 'um' every third word. But mostly mind-numbing.

Having considered these monuments of learning in my life, I'm prepared to make a sweeping, all encompassing statement:

Learning to drive stinks.

I would say it stinks more than anything in my entire life, but I haven't lived the rest of my life yet so I have no data to back that up. But it's certainly very odorous.

Public Service Anouncement: Stay Off Roads

2009-12-15T13:27:00.002-06:00

So in my family's most recent attempt to kill me (past efforts ranging from pickles to dark chocolate to baked mushrooms), they're teaching me how to drive. At this moment, 'teaching' means putting me behind the wheel and telling me what not to do whenever I do it.

On Friday nothing really happened. I learned to drive in a circle. Then I learned to do it backwards. According to my grandpa, the sacrificial lamb in this exercise, I was learning where the edges of the car were. I'd buy that. I threatened a few stop signs, but since this is the hill country, home of the utra-rich-and-almost-inescabably-silly-looking-housing-development, these stop signs were encased in totally-tasteful-don't-you-believe-a-word-of-it-when-people-call-them-tacky stone, I don't think they were particularly worried.

On Saturday I was spared.

On Sunday I had a disagreement with a barbed wire fence, which we also have a lot of, but that's just because it's Texas. (This was the day I was transplanted from automatic to manual transmission.) I managed to kill the engine before I killed the fence, and we hauled the truck (did I mention it's a truck? It's missing the right rear-view mirror- totally not my fault before you even think of saying anything, I have a cast-iron alibi- and the wheel pulls-literally- right.) back onto the road. It was a washboard road, which is a technical term that dates back to when women pummeled their clothes on the river bank and got the dirt out of them by scraping them- along with any unwary or unfortunate knuckles or fingers- on a washboard, made with waved layers of metal framed in wood. When a road resembles this washboard of pioneer days, it's a washboard road. You probably know this but everyone needs a reminder.

On Monday my family decided that they needed to hurry things along or I was going to actually learn how to drive before they got rid of me. They decided to have me drive (on back roads) from our house to Fort Worth to 'visit your aunt'. I love my aunt, or they never would have gotten me in the car.

The thing about back roads? They think straight lines are for the unenlightened and passing lanes are for citified wimps. And the speed limit is an uninformed suggestion. I was driving at the break-neck speed of 47 whole miles an hour for maybe ten minutes before I had someone trying to climb inside my tail-pipe. (So, all you sweet people who turn into frothing, raging maniacs whenever you're stuck behind someone who apparently can't read the road signs? That's me you're crowding. Metaphorically. Consider what follows your last dire warning.)

So hear I am on this windy road, going faster than I've ever gone before, with an increasingly grouchy (I know he's grouchy because calm people know better than to get that close) driver behind me cussing me out for being a little old lady. And my only support in this time of national emergency is completely unaware that anything's wrong because he can't see our friend (missing right rear view mirror, did I mention) so he starts playing with the GPS so that it will stop telling us to turn around at the next opportunity. Which, incidentally, means I now don't know how fast I'm actually going. (The speedometer is also broken. The GPS tells me how slow I'm going.)

It is in these circumstances that I come to a fork in the road. And this is where I make a really dumb mistake that, if I had been calm and cool and collected and free of distractions I totally wouldn't have made. I saw a sign blur past that I thought was for the road I wanted. I whipped the car around to make the turn, going somewhere between 40 and 50 miles an hour. The (does it matter if I call it a car when it's a truck?) vehicle went into a skid

The truck ended up with the passenger side wedged on top of a culvert and my side up in the air. Those billboards that talk about click it or ticket aren't kidding. I wedged myself in place, since I figured landing on my grandfather would probably be an infraction of the fifth commandment and I might not have much time left to repent. The guy who had been tailgating us stopped, strapped us to his truck to keep us from rolling over- the car was teetering and shaking and all in all it wasn't much fun at all- and gradually winched the car from being at a ninety degree angle to a forty degree angle. He and another passing truck driver helped us out. A lady (who mysteriously had reception when no one else did) stopped and called a tow truck for us.

The first official to arrive was a constable. Then a fire truck. Then another fire truck. The firemen replaced the kind tailgater's strap with some heavy duty chains. The tailgater, who was also a deer hunter, left at some point. Neither of us noticed him go. I was busy crying and sobbing that it was all my parents' fault, it was an assassination conspiracy, and I wanted to go home. Well, not out loud, because I didn't want the police to think I was drunk, but I was thinking it very loudly.

The sheriff's deputy and the ambulance arrived at roughly the same time. The ambulance left again pretty quickly when they realized neither Grandpa nor I were bleeding to death. Then came the tow truck. Then the state trooper. Meanwhile I was wondering if I really had survived, or if this was the newest ring of hell reserved for beginning drivers. Grandpa claims there were three firetrucks, and since it was his truck I crashed, and his life I endangered, I'm not going to disagree, so we'll pretend it showed up now. At one point I saw the police- don't ask me which ones- measuring my skid. It looked impressive to me, but maybe it wasn't. I wouldn't know.

The tow truck lifted the truck out of the ditch. Once it was out, the firemen lost interest. I heard one of them ask someone "Can we go now?" Like me when the Teacher drags me to one of her ultra-boring whatevers. They did eventually go. When Grandpa opened the hood of the truck I freaked out because there was this huge gaping hole right there. Grandpa told me it was supposed to be there before I had time to hyperventilate too badly.

The fun now over, the emergency responce vehicles evaporated. (We didn't really need them, but it's nice to know that if I ever do, they'll show up then too.) I got two warnings. One for making an unsafe turn. One for the expired inspection sticker.

I sang the first verse (which was all I could remember off the top of my head) of 'How Great Thou Art' as we drove away. It seemed appropriate.

Grandpa drove for the next half hour while I convinced my body that I was alive after all. I took over again on 16 (which is a 70 mph road) and drove almost all of it up to 20. At that point I figured the worst had already happened and I might as well just get on with it.

The fastest I went all day was 66. I stepped on the brake as soon as I noticed.

Now I'm just waiting for the whole thing to show up in the newspaper.

Good to Know

2009-12-03T18:45:00.002-06:00

When you're about to give a presentation in front of your Spanish class... it's not a good time to chew on tough, stringy beef jerky which will get stuck in your teeth.

When you've spent three minutes explaining how good your cookies are, be prepared to jump backwards quickly when you open the container.

Final Exams

2009-12-02T09:32:00.001-06:00

Three more days. Three more days.

I can do three more days.

I have to do three more days.

I don't know if I can do three more days.

2009-11-30T08:13:00.003-06:00

What is it like to live with a Writer?

2009-11-30T08:13:00.002-06:00

You get little comments like these without warning and (mostly) free of charge:

"I like this time of year. All the colors come out and it's a different quality of miserable than what we have the rest of the time."

The Teacher, to whom this was addressed, almost swallowed her tongue.

People laugh at me the most when I'm being completely serious. I'd be lying if I said I didn't know why.

The Creepy.... Thing

2009-11-25T08:02:00.002-06:00

Mr. Nood began young in life with an allergy to cotton. His mother couldn't keep him dressed without resorting to duct tape, and when she did so, he would scream bloody murder.

By the time Mr. Nood reached high school, he was following his relatively chaste role model, the generic man on the front of every commercial romance. He suffered pants, but refused anything resembling a shirt. This led to a certain amount of scorn and disgust from his peers, so Mr. Nood began to spend six hours a day in the gym. People don't mind if you have philosophical objections to clothing as long as you are seriously ripped.

Mr. Nood went to college in Hawaii, and his three years there were the happiest of his life. No one looks at you twice if you wear swim trunks all day long in Hawaii. He was expelled just before graduation for public indecency.

Mr. Nood went on to work as a temp, modeling for broke artists who couldn't afford a professional and for beer commercials. When he had saved enough money, Mr. Nood joined a nudist colony, where he found his spiritual leader, Father Birthday.

Father Birthday gently chastised Mr. Nood for his shame of his allergy/spiritual alignment. Slowly, Mr. Nood found the courage to reject all clothing all together, and even to reject his desire for public appreciation. The ancient Greeks believed the human body is the most beautiful form in the world, Father Birthday pointed out. If you have respect for beauty, than hiding it is surely a sin.

After Father Birthday absconded from the nudist colony with all the membership dues, Mr. Nood found himself lost in life, without direction. He threw himself into modeling, turning his disadvantage into a vocation.

After battling depression for years, Mr. Nood decided to commit himself to his ideal for all time. He killed himself, leaving instructions that his body should have the skin removed and be encased in white plastic so that he could model on after death.

So now, years after his death, Mr. Nood continues to display himself in all his glory and creep out aspiring art students. His expression is still horrified by Father Birthday's betrayal.... or maybe it's just that no one looks good without skin, no matter how beautiful the human body is.

Important Questions

2009-11-15T15:56:00.002-06:00

True story:

I'm thirsty. I walk into the living room and see my water glass with a few swallows of water in it. I take a big swallow. I lower the glass and stare into it.

"Mom? Why does this taste bad?"

The Teacher leans around the doorway, looks at the water glass and then glares at me. "That would be because that's my medicated water."

"Oh."

I put her glass down and find my real water glass in the kitchen. I sip cautiously.

Fortunately, it's only liver medicine and she says it won't hurt me. But it tasted bad.

Aren't you glad you aren't me?

Better than Invisibility

2009-11-13T14:40:00.003-06:00

I've always thought invisibility would be more difficult than useful. People would step on your foot all the time and never say sorry. They might try to sit on you. They would freak out every time you got hungry and tried to eat, and let's not go near the clothing issue.

It's much better to be ignored than to be invisible.

The Teacher is too sick to drive me to college on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so the Principal has been taking me when he goes to work. Which means I'm getting four or so hours of non-classtime at college. Most of the time I sit outside my Spanish classroom and do the Art homework I've neglected the rest of the week. I am not inconspicuous. With an 18'' by 24'' drawing board and pad on your lap and a 20'' by 30'' (I think) portfolio, a full book bag, and a tackle box that keeps falling over, you wouldn't be either.

But the thing is, as long as your hand keeps moving, people seem to assume that since you're using your hands and eyes your ears must be turned off. Which is completely not true. So I've been overhearing all kinds of conversations in the hall. Which I probably wouldn't if I didn't look so preoccupied. I would feel guilty about this except that I'm in the open where everyone can see me- it's not my fault that they apparently choose not to. Also, it's amazing to me the kinds of things people say in public.

I would try to find a more abandoned hallway, but I like not having to feel like I need to hurry to get to class- it's right there- and anyway, as a writer I need to listen to how people phrase things. It's called dialogue research.

And nosiness. Yes, I was a great admirer of Harriet the Spy. No, I've never gone that far.

Yeah, We Really Didn't Know This

2009-11-07T09:59:00.002-06:00

I over-think things. Very, very occasionally this is a strength. Most of the time it shoots me in the foot, but I can't seem to cut it out. Most of those embarrassing moments in my past that make me writhe to think about came from over-thinking things.

Part of my over-thinking is planning. What if I become a published writer? What if I'm a NYT Best-Seller? What if someone asks me to give a workshop at a writing convention? Oh no! What am I going to say?

Then I sit down and write out the speech. Aren't you glad you aren't telepathic? It would be impossible to think straight around me.

I've received both discouragement and validation in the last few days. I read that you have to do something for 10,000 hours before you master it. I would have to write 3 hours a day to master writing in ten years.

This is discouraging. Ten years seems forever. I'll be twenty-seven in ten years. That's ancient.

On the other hand, ten years? Three hours a day? Where will I find three hours a day? Do they have to be consecutive hours? I already get up at five and I don't want to get up earlier than that. Maybe if I hacked the games out of my computer...

It's discouraging that it's going to take so long. It's encouraging that I'm not giving up and I'm actually thinking about how to do it.

Take that, universe. I am a writer!

"The... Silverware Drawer"

2009-11-04T13:05:00.003-06:00

I am blocked. This is November. In November is something called National Novel Writing Month.

The Teacher has been telling me that I need to do NaNoWriMo. She can be very persistent. I've resisted based on two counts: I wasn't planning to do NaNoWriMo and therefore have no story, and I have no story.

I now have a story.

I'm going to do a spoof. So what book/movie have I read/watched so much I don't need to reread it to get an idea of the outline?

And on that note, here's my outline for my story this month:

Girl is sad.

Girl meets very handsome Boy.

Boy is a brat.

Girl resolves not to obsess over bratty Boy.

Girl fails miserably.

Boy confesses love to Girl.

Girl decides that love will overcome all, and loves him back. Because she's stupid.

Evil Murderer targets Girl because (as far as I can tell) every- one/thing does.

Boy miraculously saves Girl.

They live happily until the next book.

Yep. That's right. I'm spoofing Twilight. It's a good thing only one person reads this because the weight of the hate mail would crush me. As far as plagiarism goes, there's a word for this sort of thing. 'Fanfic'.

But the thing is, Twilight has some desperate needs. For instance, it needs vampire hunters. And witches. And fiery preachers with crucifixes. And possibly Ents, although the Teacher says I have to read that part of the book before I put Ents in anything because she loves the Ents and doesn't want them misrepresented and I say the Lord of the Rings trilogy is forever long and I don't have time for that and there's no way I can read only part of it. So probably no Ents.

And see, this way I can kill off Rosalie! What could be better?

My working title is The Silverware Drawer because I can't take a name like that seriously and I'm taking too many things seriously and the first draft of Twilight, according to Meyer, was called Forks, and I hope she would know.

There are so totally going to be vampire hunters.

Ughh...

2009-11-04T09:03:00.001-06:00

It's November. It will be December soon. I want it to be December.

I'm exhausted. I can't say I don't know why, but I wish there was something that could be actually done about it. But there isn't. The Teacher is still high maintenance. The house is still a wreck. I still have to study.

And I'm not writing.

And life sucks.

And someday I'm going to leave home and then it will all magically be better.

And if I believed that I would run away.

I hate being realistic.

Okay

2009-11-01T06:24:00.002-06:00

Halloween is not a big holiday in this house. No holiday is a big holiday in this house; we forgot to get the camera out for the last two Christmases. The biggest perk of Thanksgiving is staying home. When Easter comes we wonder what we'll do, and the answer is usually... nothing.

I would like to say that this is because we are enlightened people who have eschewed fuss and hassle in search of higher knowledge.

Mostly, we're just lazy.

Yesterday we went out to eat, and it was interesting because we were waited on by a devil, a gothic barmaid, a cow, a fairy, and someone in a striped shirt who is obviously a kindred spirit because he didn't bother to dress up.

Roadblock: New and Improved

2009-10-30T09:01:00.002-05:00

Every morning we leave before it gets light. Every morning there are at least two (usually three) furry mounds waiting outside the door waiting for us to come out. I say outside the door- I think I mean on top of it. Her Majesty the cat is spooky- she's been stepped on too often- and usually gets out of the way when you wave a foot over her head. But the not-really-kittens-anymore still completely trust that of course we won't step on them. So they don't move. The only reason they aren't very flat is that they glow in the dark.

I think I should write about this to the Texas road department, if there is one. Their roadblocks don't keep moving to cut you off. They don't meow or purr or stare up at you with huge eyes either. They're obviously obsolete.

Mourning Darkness

2009-10-24T13:07:00.003-05:00

I admire sad stories. Stories that make you cry. Stories that seem absolutely hopeless and yet have an intrinsic, I'll-give-up-on-it/you/me-when-I'm-dead-and-cold-and-buried brand of optimism. Stories that recount epic battles, the labyrinthine complications of politics, the class of foreign cultures trying to unite against a common evil. Stories that make you feel noble and strong and silent just by reading them.

Then I go and try to write one of these. And then I cry, because....

Well, the best example would be Eddie the Combat Worm.

Eddie the Combat Worm was (is?) a comic I wrote/drew a year ago on a personal challenge. Eddie began as a dark, drinking, glowering character, someone who was angry over the end of the war. He had a pet silverfish named Murphy, who ate newspapers. I think Eddie was a seargent in the war who led new recruits across the front lines and watched inept officers get them all killed, but I never knew, because a 24 hour deadline on this story and my inability to take dark seriously hijacked the story. Eddie turned out to be speed-happy, trigger-happy, war-happy, cynical, sarcastic, and daring-only-in-that-he-did-things-no-sane-person-would-ever-dream-of. I also had a French centipede (munitions expert and illegal immigrant), a female worm (Lola Spie, because she was a government agent and I'm very imaginative when I'm under deadline), a hayseed dragonfly veteran (pilot) and the infilitration and destruction of a beehive. The first five, six pages were classic twenties detective novel imitation. The rest was a farce. A badly drawn farce.

That, admittedly, I enjoyed very much. But I still admire darkness. I just can't write it.

It's very sad.

Forget the Plumbing

2009-10-22T08:11:00.002-05:00

I came out of mutual last night very upset. Quivering, about-to-scream-or-cry-or-both upset. I won't go into why.

My dad knows me well. I'm not sure how, but he could tell how mad/upset I was, and then he talked me out of it. In twenty minutes he turned me from a sulking, raging mess to something vaguely human who could sing with the radio.

Forget plumbing. I need to marry someone who can help me when I can't help myself. Someone who can talk me out of a bad mood. Someone who knows when to agree with me and when to keep me off my sorry butt.

I'm not entirely sure there are two people in the world like that. But then, it was a surprise that there was one, so maybe there is.

It's Contagious

2009-10-21T15:02:00.002-05:00

All growing up I observed the symptoms of move-it-itus in my mother. (More commonly known as if-I-don't-rearrange-all-the-furniture-right-now-I-will-go-insane-but-not-before-you-do-so-start-hauling-buster. It's a very common maternal disease.)

This disease shows most clearly (for my mother) in the living room. At one time it was so bad that her visiting teacher (who visited monthly) said that the furniture was different every time she came. I'm not sure even now if she was appalled or amazed or admiring.

For years I prided myself on escaping this one female fault. I was still perfectly sane and willing to let the furniture stay in one place for years on end. If I wanted change, I sat upside down. More fun than moving furniture and much less work.

I can't feel that way anymore. I've detected three separate occurrences of move-it-itus in the past week. First I switched the crock-pot (used twice a week) with the elephant of a juicer (used never) so that the crock-pot was in the actual cooking area. Then I cleaned out a sort of shelf/drawer/bin area and reorganized things so that I could move the cutting boards from the other end of the kitchen to be in the area I actually use them. Then, this morning, I moved the toaster oven a full four feet (to the other side of the sink). Never mind that each of these moves makes perfect sense from the point of view of the person who cooks all the meals and would like it to take less time, thank you very much.

I have move-it-itus. My only comfort (and revenge) is that if I keep going at this rate I'll be the only person who knows where anything is and when I leave home the Teacher won't be able to find anything. Ever. And it will serve her right for teaching me (oops, I mean giving me) this disease.

My husband will think I'm insane. So will my children.

On the other hand, they would have thought that anyway.

Story

2009-10-20T13:40:00.003-05:00

I am a storyteller. I can't say anything without telling a story. When I see something strange, it looks like a story. When I hear a new name, I wonder what a character named that would be like. When I find out about something that makes my insides seethe and boil and yearn to lash out and spread the burning, I wonder how to tell the story that will light the wildfire.

I have always been a storyteller. Many well-intentioned people have tried to change that, but since they aren't God and they don't know anything about rewriting DNA, they haven't had much success. One of their last ditch attempts to recall me to normality, to force me into a shape they can cope with, is a quasi-question: "But what is story good for?"

I say quasi-question because they believe they know the answer: Nothing. And that's what I usually say, because to me this is a question like "What's the good of oxygen?" or "Why do we bother with this whole living thing anyway?" The only response I've ever had is a long, blank stare. I'm good at stares.

I have an answer now. It's a story.

I'm taking Drawing. We work with 18" by 24" drawing pads, which is small in the world of Art but huge when you only have forty minutes of class time left. One of the things about drawing is that you have to be close to the paper to work, but you can't actually see what you're drawing without backing up at least six feet. (Someday someone will make a bird's eye view of an art class and it will look like a firework of people running back and forth.) You can draw or you can see what you're drawing, but you can't do both. It's like working blind.

When you're alive, it's like you're drawing. Every action (line) or inaction (negative space) makes a mark on your paper. Your paper might be huge or it might be small, but either way, you can't really see what you're drawing. You only see each individual mark. This is like looking back on the last week and to you it looks like milk in the living room carpet and too much chocolate, and to someone else, standing six feet away, it looks like mentoring a desperate teenager looking for more than he has and not yelling at your kids for being persistently, well, children.

This is what story is good for. Story steps back. Story says, yes, this looks like hodge-podge normality from where you stand, but over here it's beautiful. Or hideous. Or confusing. Or boring. Story can't lie. It can try, but you wouldn't believe how hard it is to tell a lie with story. Story is, by it's nature, truth.

True 'stories' include Uncle Tom's Cabin. Stories look at something accepted and/or ignored, and tell you what it looks like from six feet away. And once you know what it looks like six feet away, you still remember that even when you're up close. It changes everything. That's how one novel, a harmless, helpless story, swept a nation and planted the spark to light the wildfire. That's why slavery is no longer an acceptable resident in the United States.

This is what story is for. And this is what I would tell the people who try to reshape me, except the people who try to change me aren't the people who listen to me anyway, so I won't.

But at least my stare won't be blank anymore.

The Ages of Growing Up

2009-10-19T09:03:00.002-05:00

When I was ten, I first started staying home. Sometimes I would be home alone for four whole hours. It was very exciting.

When I was eleven, I spent a week away from home with no parents, relative, or friends in the company of lots of strange people. (This is otherwise known as 'girl's camp'.) This was also exciting, but not nearly as much fun. I felt much older and grayer at the end of it, and proud of my survival- the crying hardly counts.

When I was thirteen (a week away from fourteen; my birthday has put me on the shy side of a lot of these age limits) I went to my first dance, which was also exciting but almost no fun at all.

And now, at seventeen, I have reached the next coming-of-age marker.

I went on a walk. A two mile walk. Which took an hour. By myself.

Can't you just feel the antiquity radiating out from me?

On my scary and dangerous walk I met: one man, two cars, four excited dogs, and one pony who might've come to meet me except it had expended a lot of effort in finding the absolute sunniest spot in its yard and wasn't going to budge.

The adrenaline is still rushing through me.

I Don't Even Get a Pension

2009-10-16T17:52:00.002-05:00

Grilling used to be a manly job. Something that only the Principal did, and we only ever had hamburgers/steaks/hotdogs/chicken breast/pork chops when he was home to do battle with the grill.

But I'm older and taller and older now, and am generally considered to be fire-capable, so it's my job to handle the grill now.

This is not a good thing.

We have a gas grill- that is, there's a metal canister underneath and when you turn the knobs to Light I can smell gasoline- not a briquette grill. This should make cooking food fairly simple. It's not. Because our gas grill is also an old grill. The things inside that shouldn't come apart are rusted/burned through and mostly held together by old charred meat and grease. It would be disgusting if you could tell anymore what's metal and what's not.

Lighting it is the most exciting part. First, as I already said, you turn the knobs to Light. Then, standing well back, you carefully light one match. The grill is now hissing like an enraged rattler and will remove your fingers from your hands if you let it. Still standing well back, line the match up with the gaps in the grill. Then carefully throw or drop it. If you throw it, you risk setting the yard on fire or putting the match out, neither of which is the result you're after. If you drop it, be prepared to pull your hand back very quickly. Remember the rattler metaphor.

When the lighted match reaches the interior of the grill, fire will spurt out of the sides, bottom, and top of the grill. It's exciting, in a it's-a-good-thing-the-fire-warden-doesn't-know-about-this way. After the fire has sullenly retreated, you throw the meat onto the hot spots (you can have two pieces of meat on that grill for the same amount of time and if you don't know where to put them one of them will be black and one of them will barely be thawed) and slam the lid down. Every time you turn the meat with the spatula (iron, with a handle that isn't long enough) you will risk your meal and your knuckles. When you remove the meat and turn the gas off, the fire will live on, devouring the grease I mentioned before. Close the lid. It'll go out eventually. Probably.

And for this, I don't get a medal. I don't even get a pension. Sometimes I don't even get leftovers.

The Things I Do

2009-10-15T19:13:00.002-05:00

I (more than) once wrote 50,000 words in one week. I ate a three pound bag of m&ms to keep the words coming that quickly.

I once wrote a character who was lame. I spent (I think two) days wearing a long strip of fabric tightly wrapped around my left knee to see what it would be like to be lame.

Now I have a character who can write with both hands. So I'm practicing writing backwards with my left hand. Backwards as in hold it up to the mirror and you can read it. With my left hand. I am not left handed. To say my handwriting is juvenile insults juveniles everywhere.

This character is also a mathematical genius, but you notice I'm not hitting the math books. Devotion to art has its limits.

Things That Make Me Happy

2009-10-15T07:50:00.002-05:00

Getting a 100 out of 102 on my Span Vocab.

Stippling. I will never look at grapes the same way again.

A chocolate malt.

Getting a 100 out of 102 on my Span Vocab.

Oh, Obviously I Have No Personality

2009-10-13T08:31:00.002-05:00

The Teacher has a very strict parenting style. So strict that when I was little and you couldn't tell yet how things were going to turn out, she appalled her in-laws. They thought (but probably never came right out and said) that she was Ms. Hitler, and I was going to be a timid, nervous person with all the personality squished out of me.

Yeah.

Two examples of just how very squished I am:

About a year ago, my YW leader pinned me down and tried to get some information out of me. I gave it very unwillingly (there's a story about that, but it's for another day), and she could tell. 'Cause, you know, she had these things called eyes. So she told me "Rachel, you know you can always ask and come to me for help with anything, right?" Trying to pressure me into promising to always tell her when I have a problem.

I thought about it and came back with "If I ever have a problem you can help me with I'll let you know." (Because she lives an hour away and most of my problems involve keeping the house clean and doing school, neither of which she can do for me.) She had to be happy with that because that was all she was going to get. The result is that none of my leaders have a clue of just how sick the Teacher is and how much I'm having to do. Because they can't help and I've never told them.

A few months ago, up on the stand waiting for Sacrament Meeting to start, the woman next to me, who was also giving a talk that day, started asking me about different people. She asked me about one girl in particular, who had become inactive while she was gone. She wanted to know how she was. And then she wanted to know what her 'problem' was- trying in the subtle way (maybe guys don't know what I'm talking about) women do to get me to give her the inside scoop. She wanted this girl's vital statistics and psychiatry analysis served on a platter. (This was actually the same girl the YW leader wanted to know about, and the only reason she had any success was because she was the YW leader and had a Need To Know.)

I'm not comfortable talking about people's problems to other people. It makes me feel like a turn-coat. I don't like feeling that way. It makes me feel angry inside. And I don't like feeling pressured. That makes me angry on the outside.

I was mostly polite. I told her I didn't feel comfortable talking about it because it felt like being a tattle-tale, so basically shut up and talk to her yourself if you will really, absolutely expire on the spot if you can't know everything.

In roughly that order. In maybe those words.

Yes. I'm so timid. And so squished.

And we all know I have no personality whatsoever.

A Hundred Years Ago I Would Be An Adult (Part 2)

2009-10-12T10:15:00.002-05:00

There are three different kinds of teachers. (There are bajillions of different teaching styles, but every teacher, whatever their style is, falls into one of these three groups. Because we're human, they probably skip back and forth, but if you're a teacher, you are always in one of these categories.)

There are teachers who encourage you to do your absolute worst.

These are the teachers who never accept responsibility for their own state of preparedness, their own attitude, or their own life. These are the teachers who announce at the beginning of class that they read the lesson an hour ago, but they're sure we can 'all work together to learn something' anyway- and then jump on anyone who tries to contribute or help or pull things out of the lesson ('Excuse me, excuse me- I'm the teacher; this is my class; shut up'). Then, when everyone gets the hint that their views are unwelcome they shut up and refuse to share; in scenarios where the teacher has acted like this for some time, they will refuse to answer questions or even read text from the book or manual. Having achieved this, the teacher will then proceed to tell anyone with ears, including her own students, what a terrible, delinquent class she has, how they never work with her, and how can anyone teach a good lesson in this atmosphere?

I've had teachers like this, and I'm not bitter at all.

There are the teachers who encourage you to do no less than the absolute minimum, will be concerned and constantly try to help you if you do less. But if you do more than the minimum, you're a freak, a genius, someone above and beyond. Pretty soon, you are doing the minimum- the minimum to be praised and admired without ever going so far as to actually break a sweat.

These are the teachers I and most people get most of the time. They're good people, but they never inspire you to greatness. They inspire you to boredom and mediocrity, and never realize they're doing it.

The thing is, mediocrity is different for different people. If someone with a learning disability reads the Book of Mormon in a year, that's amazing. It's above and beyond. It is their personal best. But if I read the Book of Mormon in a year, it isn't amazing. It's good that I'm maintaining a habit of regular scripture study, and that I'm acheiving my goals- but I could be setting those goals higher. When I read the Book of Mormon in a year and expect public recognition, besides being a jerk I'm being mediocre. I'm expecting praise for doing something that comes easily.

Mediocre is what you are when you do anything less than your best. Your best might be better or worst than someone else's best, but if it is really your best, it doesn't matter.

The third kind of teacher is the one who sees you falling into the habit of mediocrity, calls you on it, and both bullies and inspires (it requires both when you're in the habit of coasting) you to do your absolute best.

This is what I mean when I say that a hundred years ago I would have been an adult. A hundred years ago, doing less than your best was a good way to get killed/starve to death. Maybe life wasn't as fun then as it is now, but people did their best. On a personal level, they were better than us.

People tell me that things have changed and there's no comparison. We need more education now; that requires a longer 'growing up' period.

I disagree. I think we only need a different education. Do you know how to keep a fire burning through the night? How to milk cows? How to shear sheep? How to clean the wool, spin it, weave it, and sew it? Do you know how to hunt a deer through the woods without an automatic rifle? Do you know how to make hats? Do you know how to ride or shoe or train a horse? Do you know how to keep a house clean without modern soap or electric help (dishwasher, washing machine, dryer, vacuum cleaner)?

None of these things are things we have to know now; we have our own set of things to learn. And if you try to tell me that modern life is more complicated, try sailing a ship without a GPS.

I don't wish I lived back then. Life is certainly more comfortable now. But I wish that as a culture we had kept that attitude of always doing our best in everything. We can do our best individually anyway. But when we are surrounded by an attitude of good enough, it's hard. People resent it when you rise and do your best, because it makes their mediocrity look and feel bad. And so, through peer pressure, our teachers, and our culture, we are constantly told to do the minimum and no more.

I hate that. I want more than that. I'm going to be more than that. But I'm not going to have the automatic support or encouragement or understanding I would if I were to settle for less.

A Hundred Years Ago I Would Be An Adult (Part 1)

2009-10-11T14:23:00.002-05:00

I feel really cheated. A hundred years ago, girls my age were married and had their own house and their own kids. They cooked on a fire and made elaborate quilts and waited for husbands as young as they were to come home. A hundred years ago, boys my age were officers in the army, schoolteachers, business owners, independent farmers, captains in the navy, scholars, writers, newpaper editors, scientists- anything you would think of as being 'Adults Only', people my age did it.

(Let's overlook the fact that a woman's life was much less interesting and varied than it is now.)

I'm their age. I could be a politician, a captain, an editor, a scientist, an 'Adult Only' anything. Instead, I'm seventeen. People act surprised when I use words longer than three syllables. (They act surprised when I use words shorter than three syllables. I was the only one in my class who knew what the dole was. How sad is that?) I've never worked outside of my home (volunteering and digging my neighbor's garden doesn't count). I'm nowhere near ready to get married, let alone have children. I start to sweat inside when I consider getting a job and working my way though college. My tongue ties itself in knots in every social situation. (Communication I can do, no prob. Conversation, not so much.) I've had twelve years of education but I don't know how to drive or do any kind of plumbing.

I'm a child. I'm their age. But they are immeasurably older than I am.

Why? Is it because humans have evolved so that childhood has gradually extended into what could and should be the beginning of our adult years? Or- more believably- is it something self-imposed?

It's easy (as a homeschooler) to point at the public school system as the cause of this extended childhood. But it goes farther than that. Even after school, people are encouraged to be childish. If you feel like it, do it. If your class is hard, drop out. If your boss doesn't like you, find a new job. Buy things before you have money- a grown up version of endlessly 'borrowing' money from parents. Put off 'getting old' as long as you absolutely can. Side step responsibility.

This is the culture I'm growing up it. And it's hard to rise above it and grow up. It feels like defying gravity. No matter how hard I flap my arms, gravity will win.

Maybe having a long childhood doesn't seem bad to you. I'll explain why I- and everyone else- is being cheated by this attitude in the next post.

Why Hollywood Hasn't Returned My Calls

2009-10-09T16:59:00.002-05:00

There are too many James Bond movies. They keep getting redone, newer, better, bigger, and shinier. The James Bond format is a parasite draining creativity out of Hollywood's scriptwriters and only giving stupidity and cliches in return.

I have a solution. Give me the next James Bond movie. I'll write the script; I'll even direct it. And to show how my way would solve this problem, I'll give a sample of my script-writing.

Bond: My name is Bond. James Bond. I have a stupid way of introducing myself, but you're going to sleep with me anyway.

Stupid Woman #1: Yes, I will, even though I'm dating/living with/married to the bad guy and know that you're working to discover his evil plan, because I think that I can actually get something useful out of you.

Bond: Heh heh. By the way, I'm very picky about my drinks. I might kill you if you get it wrong.

Stupid Woman #1: That's okay, my lover/husband will kill me in the next scene anyway. Now let me tell you about a mysterious lair (could be factory, mansion, launch site, or just a well decorated cave) where the unknown as yet evil plan will begin/become unstoppable.

Bond: Gee, thanks! That saves a lot of trouble.

Stupid Woman #1 dies horribly.

Bond's Boss: Very interesting, Bond. Now that you've gotten us the information, let us send in the experts to take care of it.

Bond: But I must have screen time! The people love me! They need me!

Stupid Woman #2: Why don't you sneak in without telling anyone? And oh, look, I have a boat/airplane/helocopter/jeep you can use to get there. But you have to promise to take me with you.

Bond: You will undoubtedly get me caught and nearly killed, and you're almost certainly in the pay of the bad guy, but sure! Come along! The CIA always involves civilians in its operations. Besides, you're cute.

Stupid Woman #2: Sniffle, wiffle, wiff. I'm sorry, James. He has my uncle/aunt/parent/relative of your choice/the mortgage on my business/friend/fiance/child/pet cat. I must betray you now.

Bad Guy: Bwa ha ha! That will teach you to trust stupid women!

Bond: Curses! But don't worry, Stupid Woman #2; I know you're actually a good person, even though you're getting me killed. When I break out I'll come to find you and we'll escape together. Because I'm the good guy, and couldn't possibly leave anyone to suffer the consequences of their actions, and because we haven't slept together yet.

Stupid Woman #2: Now that I've given you what you want, pay up!

Bad Guy: Oh yes! How silly of me. Here- take what you deserve!

Stupid Woman #2 dies. Horribly.

Bad Guy: Now, Mr Bond, let me tell you everything about my plan, exactly how to stop it, and also just how terrible my childhood was; because having a neglectful parent (or any other significant/insignificant) justifies and excuses killing lots of people. Because you are truly the only person who could ever understand me. And because Bad Guys have a built in inferiority complex that demands that we bask in constant admiration and receive validation of ourselves and our goals from everyone and anyone.

Bond: escapes.

Stupid Woman #3: Bond! Quick! The big red button to stop the evil plan is this way!

Bond: But I don't know how to push a button! What will I do?

Stupid Woman #3: I'll give you step-by-step instructions if you promise to take me with you when you escape and to love me forever.

Bond: But we just met.

Stupid Woman #3: I've admired you from afar ever since I figured out that the Bad Guy is a sinking boat, and rats are survivors. To the red button!

Bond: Okay! But just to warn you, I'll discard you the moment the movie is over. And of course, once we've slept together.

And there you have it. I hate James Bond. And no one sympathizes. But if this script hit the theatres, I'm sure the eyes of the people would be opened.

A Personal Style

2009-10-08T19:43:00.002-05:00

I've already commented, possibly not here, that it's a good thing I have my Spanish class before Art. Spanish swells me up, and Art deflates me, and I come out of college with a head that's the right size.

However, halfway through the semester, I have finally identified my personal style of Art. (Maybe I should call it an approach to Art- as in, 'before I was robbed blind, a smiling stranger approached me'.) I didn't know I had one, but I know now.

First I observe Art. I listen eagerly to details of its daily life, and in which settings it is most likely found. I hear about shading, gradations, highlights, and 'specificity'.

Then I stalk Art. I slap down an outline (not literally- my teacher hates lines) of what I'm supposed to be drawing. Having cornered Art in the dark alley of my drawing pad, I proceed to approach slowly and speak soothingly.

Art never buys it. It's smart that way.

So I tackle Art around the knees, and bring it down to the ground. I pin its arms- receiving several blows to the gut in the process- and begin to go through its pockets. And I talk to it, because everyone needs a friendly voice and I like to talk.

"Look, Art," (I say), "There's an easy way and a hard way to do this. The easy way is for me to slit your throat, take you to a taxidermist, and keep you in a formaldehyde acquarium as a conversation piece." (Insert Art making whimpering noises here.) "The hard way is for you to get out there, front and center, strut your stuff for the class critique, and promise it'll go well. 'Cause Art, I don't know what'll happen if it doesn't go well... but I'm sure I'll rise to the occasion."

At this point, Art tries to make a break for it. I'm ready for it though, and slam its head against a handy outline (literally this time) until it's too weak to resist my evil will and I work my desire for a decent grade upon it.

The other students in my class have a gentler approach, but like I said, it's all a matter of personal style.

The Days of Honor Have Returned!

2009-10-08T08:41:00.000-05:00

Honor! Duels! Seminary Tournament!

(Quick summary: everyone's name was randomly drawn from a bucket and listed on the whiteboard. You may challenge anyone one to two places ahead of you to a scripture chase duel. You may not challenge anyone below you, but they may challenge you.)

I am a knight in black armor, carrying a gold flag and riding a burgundy-rose horse (my three-in-one). My honor goes untarnished as I charge through the ranks, unhorsing all comers! My honor is challenged but goes undefeated!

(I've read the Book of Mormon five times this year. We're covering the BOM in seminary. To say that I have an edge is like saying a samurai blade is sharp.)

People flee before my ascending glory! (I challenged one girl and she literally ran away, because, oh darn, it was time for her to go. It reminded me of Potipher's wife.)

P.S.: I need to buy some hamsters. The Teacher must be punished. I will not say why. Honor is discrete.

A New Reason

2009-10-07T08:54:00.002-05:00

My room is not clean. The only time it has ever been clean was when I had it as a Personal Progress goal. It is not clean anymore.

Normally I pretend this is the way I like it. "It might not look organized," I tell myself, "But if I can find what I want, who cares if no one else can? I don't want them in my room anyway."

This works right up until, ahem, I can't find what I want. Or when I notice the quarter inch thick layer of dust. Or the drifts of books, paper, and laundry. Or I stab myself on a drawer that refuses to close.

But now I have a new reason for why I never clean my room. For why things end up in such bizarre places.

From now on, when I lose something and find it in somewhere that makes no sense, I will hold my head up in pride and say "It was the lucky place to put it." And my parents will still mock me, but I'll feel better.

Usual Suspect

2009-10-05T08:34:00.002-05:00

I'm a teenager. Therefore, I'm the Usual Suspect in our house.

I wouldn't be so bothered by this except that I've always been the Usual Suspect, and have no hope of growing out of it until the Teacher can admit that she has anterograde amnesia.

Yesterday morning, while I was on the computer, the Teacher was hunting around her door and on the floor. "Peaches!" she said. "Where's my [embarrassing piece of clothing]?!"

"What do you mean, where's your [embarrassing piece of clothing]?" I returned. "I wouldn't touch your [embarrassing piece of clothing] with a ten foot pole!" (Which isn't exactly true, since I also do laundry in this house, so I probably have touched it at some point, but it made my point.)

Every time the Teacher or the Principal lose, forget, or misplace anything, from embarrassing pieces of clothing to forks or miniature keyboards or keys- keys are a favorite- they always ask me where it is. I'm the Usual Suspect and back-up memory rolled in one.

This is annoying. Someday I will have my revenge. It will involve hamsters. Because hamsters are cute and mildly insane. (Why else do we keep them in lifetime solitary confinement in impenetrable rolling balls?)

Out of Computer Time

2009-10-02T09:26:00.002-05:00

What can you say in one min

fifty-two sec

forty-

What can you say when you have no computer time left? What's most important to say?

fourteen-

five-

Life is good.

And it's okay to be corny.

The Value of Time

2009-10-01T08:31:00.002-05:00

This is how you make a Schedule. You write down what time you wake up. (What time you really wake up, not what time you want to wake up. There's always a difference.) You write down what you do the very first thing after getting out of bed. Maybe it's staggering to the bathroom or to the kitchen for the Coffee of Life. If it's longer than five minutes, it goes on the Schedule.

Determine how much time you think you can get dressed and ready for the day. Add five minutes. Add it to the schedule. (You should be putting clock times on here, not '15 min- shower', because then it's just a to-do list.) Decide how long it takes to cook and eat breakfast. Add it to the schedule. Is there somewhere you have to go? Is there a gap between when you'll be ready and when you leave? Put it on the Schedule and decide what you're going to do in that spare time. For me, it's fifteen minutes of writing before I leave for seminary.

And so on and so forth. Write it all down. If you don't Schedule it, it doesn't happen, or worse, it does happen, and then you feel bad for throwing off the entire Schedule. And this isn't a list of chores. Schedule time to crochet (after you've studied, or whatever it is you do). Schedule time to read (during mealtimes for me, which is heathenistic, I know, but I don't care). Schedule time to get on the computer and waste time. Schedule!

I made a Schedule. Can you tell? And I would tell you how wonderful it is except I don't really know yet. I'm treating it like exercise. I'll do it for a month, and then I'm free to jump off the wagon if I want to. It's much easier to commit to a month than to a lifetime. But if you commit to a month, soon you'll commit to a year, and the next thing you know you're ninety-seven and dead and your children are marveling over the beauty of all those old, yellowed schedules, carefully preserved for posterity.

Or not. Probably they'll just throw them away. But don't dwell on that.

A Recent Invention

2009-09-30T11:00:00.002-05:00

You never knew personal privacy was a new-fangled gadget, did you?

I didn't.

But apparently it is.

First one nameless person, who dies her hair and is therefore old (I have no idea how old she is and I won't try to guess because I always offend people when I do that) says that I'm 'prickly' because I don't share my innermost thoughts the moment I enter her presence.

Someone else has complained to me on multiple occasions about how secretive her grandchildren are, because they don't want her in their room(s).

Uh, hello? Teenager (thirteen is a teenager, okay)? Room? Can we say 'Holiest of Holies'? 'Remove shoes before thou treadest on this ground'? How about 'Entry by express permission only; permission must be renewed for each entry; this means YOU'?

A younger woman from Mexico warned me not to leave my journal where my mom could find it, because she got in trouble all the time with her mom for things written in her journal.

So, either personal space is a new invention, or it's an American thing, or I'm an extremely private person. Or all of the above.

Is anyone surprised, or am I alone?

Suspicious Mind

2009-09-29T19:30:00.002-05:00

I'm a very suspicious person. If you ask to read my writing- any of my writing- I'll give you a long, slow, cowboy-deciding-whether-or-not-to-go-for-that-iron-on-her-hip look.

And then I'll say no.

And I won't change my mind.

I wonder why I have a blog?

On another suspicious note, I was at college today waiting for the elevator when I heard- from one of the elevator shafts- a female scream. No one else waiting for the elevator (or an elevator- there are four) seemed alarmed or even to notice. But immediately I thought "Murder!" and imagined the elevator opening to show a bloody, still warm corpse. Of course the police would be involved. We would be questioned. Remembering a scream would be important to determining the time of death (I regretted once again the death of my watch).

But then! What should I say if asked what I thought when I heard the scream? That my first thought was that someone was attacked? Surely that would bring more suspicion towards me, which would slow the capture of the real murderer. But you're supposed to be honest with the police. But....

The real question here is, which came first? The writer, or the suspicious mind? No one else seemed to think someone had just been stabbed (never mind, garroted; a stabbing would have given the victim time to scream louder and longer than that), or to worry over their statement to the police. But I do this a lot. I hope I never do cross tracks with a real murder. I've plotted so many in my mind that a real one would surely be a disappointment.

PS: It lives! My watch has been resurrected! Bwa-ha-ha!

PS2: The Teacher acquired three new hens today, and found three glossy eggs in her nesting spot. She is mildly ecstatic.

Something To Look Forward To

2009-09-28T11:34:00.002-05:00

I am a writer. I'm not starving, I'm not beaten, and while I am mocked on occasion, I mock back so for the most part people don't pick on me. I'm not very poor and I don't live in a drafty, dusty attic with creaking floorboards (although my room is dusty because I'm too lazy to dust; sometimes I'm too lazy to put my clothes away). I don't have to walk to school in the snow. I don't have to work in a coal mine to earn money for my family. I've never had a traumatizing, scarring experience. I've never had a) an illicit love, b) an unrequited love, or c) a love that died/moved away to never be seen again.

I am obviously seriously handicapped.

I've often agonized over this. How can I be a great writer when I can't be self-pitying with a straight face, when I don't hate anyone, and when I don't look good in black? I have mood swings, but they're never very inspiring. And I'm too practical to work myself into a healthy fit of black despair.

(Being practical is a curse of Titanic proportions when you're trying to court the muse. Or a muse. Any muse will do, I'm not picky.)

And being cursed with reason, I'm not very interested in seeking out a traumatizing, scarring experience.

As a writer, I'm not very writerly.

But! There's something most writers do that I can do to!

(Drum roll.)

I can go on a writing retreat!

Except that I can't drive, and I don't have that much money, and a real retreat would have crowds and would be therefore uncomfortable. I'm not comfortable with crowds.

But I could give myself a writing retreat! I could write by candlelight. I could listen to music over and over and over (not that I don't do that, but I could do it without someone yelling at me, which would be nice). I could make a tent and write under the kitchen table. I could go write in my treehouse. I could (gasp) outline one of my ideas into book form! I could write bad poetry. I could write blog posts for those days when I don't have anything to say. I could break out one of my old first drafts and practice editing. I could write alternate endings to my favorite stories. I could do anything!

(On the more practical side, I could cook all my meals ahead of time so I wouldn't have to stop writing to cook or clean.)

I need to start leaving bed&breakfast pamphlets around the house for my parents. It could take a while for them to get the hint, but I can be very persistent.

The Purpose of Life

2009-09-26T17:59:00.003-05:00

There was a time when I sincerely believed that my purpose in life was to make people laugh. No joke. I thought that was the whole reason I had been sent to earth: make people happy. (I think this was when I was around nine. But then, most things I'm not sure about when they happened I think they happened when I was nine. I was a very busy nine year old.)

Probably I got this idea from a well-meaning teacher who said that Heavenly Father gives us talents to use and develop in life and that's our job. The Parable of the Talents. But I'm not sure, so I won't point fingers. It's possible I thought it up myself.

But the point is, there was a two or three time period when I was specifically working to make people laugh. Not just cracking jokes, but training in the Martial Art of Happiness.

I'm glad I did. I have a friend who is very depressed. So depressed that one of my nightmares is getting a call saying that she killed herself. I'm not talking white make-up and Shakespeare and angsty wallowing in the fun of being depressed. My friend isn't wallowing. She's drowning.

And so when I'm with her, I try to make her laugh. I practically turn cartwheels (I don't, because I have a bad back and I don't know how anyway). And I'm glad I've been in training for this, because it's hard.

I wish there was a happy, up-lifting sort of note to end this on, but I can't think of one.

Spanish

2009-09-25T08:42:00.003-05:00

Spanish is both making me sing and making me cry out in despair.

I watched a movie this morning. There was a brief- like twenty seconds- scene in Spanish, where first an ambulance and then a ride to the hospital was offered to the bloody main characters, and turned down. And I understood every (almost) word! After five weeks of Spanish class, I can understand twenty seconds of conversation! Yayyy!

But just now, I couldn't remember how to spell salad. There is a direct ratio between my knowledge of Spanish and my spelling ability. Spanish goes up, spelling goes down.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

100

2009-09-24T10:18:00.003-05:00

This is my 100th post! And I actually swore when I started my blog that I wasn't going to do those lame cop-out 'it's the anniversary' posts some blogs (and web-comics) do. Just as I don't plan to ever sit down and do a specific post for Christmas, or Thanksgiving. You know what a holiday is. You can figure it out yourself.

But 100 is just cool. I'll feel the same way about 1000. Sorry.

10 things (I'm not doing a hundred, sorry) I plan to do someday, and that might get blogged about here:

1: Publish my first book.

2: Own a dog. The Perfect Dog, so this will take a while. I want it to be a her so I can name her Lacey.

3: Have a husband to cut the brisket for me. (Do you have any idea how long it takes to slice brisket?)

4: Know enough Spanish to visit Colombia without a guide. Or any hispanic country without a guide. I want to see those dancers with the loud shoes and the red skirts that look like roses would look like if roses danced.

5: Spend four to five to six months in Washington, D.C. The capitol! The Library of Congress! The Smithsonian Museum!

6: Graduate from high school someday. It's a stretch, hard to imagine, but it might happen.

7: Join a critique group. With real writers. The awesomeness of that overwhelms me even as I write.

8: Write one poem a day for a year. Just to see if I can.

9: Find out what it's like to be in love, and see if my theory that it damages your brain is correct. (All my current observations bear out this hypothesis, but more testing is necessary before it can become Scientific Law. Or so I'm told.)

10: Publish my second book.

Abandon All Sense, Ye Who Read Here

2009-09-23T09:51:00.002-05:00

I used to worry about people reading my journals. I wrote long, agonizing entries about it. I almost had a phobia about it. I planned to cut people out of my will if they read them before I died, and worried that wouldn't be enough either.

No more.

If you think that my blog is erratic, you have no idea how much I filter this. You're getting the good senseless meanderings. I've even spared you the long, incoherent brainstorms about half-named characters. And that's not all.

I can't put stickers on my blog. I can't tape poems, quotes, postcards, or letters into my blog. (The letters are like a fold out picture book; I tape part of it down and write around it and it unfolds when I want to read it. My journal isn't going to close when I'm done with it.) You don't get mental whiplash on my blog.

You don't see a postcard of a sailing ship taped in the middle of an entry about cooking experiments. You don't see a quote about eternal marriage next to one of my entries about how I've never dated and apparently never will. You don't see a poem about suicide next to one of my lists of things that make me happy. (I love making lists. Making lists is like chopping life up until it's smaller than you are.) Heck, you don't have to read my poetry, for which you should be eternally grateful. Even the stickers and postcards can't coordinate. I've got everything from misty mountain stickers to Winnie the Pooh and Tigger (I love Tigger), and postcards of oil-painted landscapes (lots of misty light that says 'magic can happen here') to watercolor coastal stuff (lots of faded boats and docks that says I don't know what but I like it anyway) to bright pink and yellow flowers from a cancer-survivor card. (I used to hate pink. I still don't love it. But some pink is less evil than other pink.)

So I don't worry about people reading my journal anymore. Their brain would bleed. Unless they were like me, and like feeling like they're on a mental merry-go-round with no way off, in which case I'm sure we can be friends.

Warm Fuzzy Feeling

2009-09-22T09:01:00.002-05:00

The Teacher and I were talking on the way to seminary this morning. (We do that sometimes. Another way in which we are *gasp* not normal.)

She recounted an incident I didn't remember. At a mutual (Wednesday night) activity, everyone was sitting on the floor. I and one of my friends (she was the kind of friend you feel certain you always knew and you were just waiting to meet all your life) were rolling on the floor laughing helplessly about some joke one of us had told. (Knowing us, one of us told it, the other built on it, and we collaborated until there's no telling who started it.)

And the Teacher said that she saw that a lot of the other girls were giving us sideways looks, that translated as "What do you think you're doing?" with lots of snobbish sniffing. The Teacher said she couldn't tell if I didn't notice or if I didn't care, and I don't remember this so I can't enlighten her.

And she said that it was an incident like this that led one of my favorite leaders to say "Peaches lives in a different world than us, and she has more fun."

Stop for a moment and let the warm fuzziness sweep over you.

This is how I am with all compliments. If you tell me I'm pretty I'll thank you and smile and not really believe you. If you tell me I'm smart I'll smile and say "I know". And I might thank you. But if you tell me that I'm weird, strange, abnormal, or otherwise different, whether you intend it as a compliment or not, I will treasure that comment forever because I know that you've seen me- not my clothes or my face, but me- and recognized who I really am. Even if you don't like that person much, or understand her at all.

And I like to be recognized.

Really Random

2009-09-20T20:30:00.001-05:00

Things that make me happy:

Geckos on the window screen faithfully chasing bugs.

Two orange kittens who almost love me more than food.

Stickers on my scripture mastery cards.

Five dollar jewelry. (I bought a pearl seagull and felt guilty about it until I saw something at Sam's I also liked for four hundred and seventy dollars. Relativity is everything.)

Spanish class. Because my teacher reminds me of Sister Gere, and I don't know why else.

Comments on my blog.

Things that make me unhappy:

My watch died. I dropped it and it came apart in pieces and when we put it back together it was cold and dead. Sob.

Thing that made me laugh today:

N, who sprayed me with smelly blue glitter stuff because I was asking what time it was every ten minutes. During class(es). Because my watch is dead. And because apparently having a watch has made me addicted to knowing what time it is. It just makes me feel better. And she also thought I would be less likely to murder her than A would. And I was wearing a black shirt. And she could.

Two orange kittens.

Life.

You?

I'm A Horrible Person

2009-09-16T10:56:00.002-05:00

But we already kind of knew that.

I've been sick enough since Sunday that I haven't gone to seminary this week. If it were closer, or if I hated any of them enough to give them what I've got, I would probably have gone, but because of our drive time, seminary is a two hour ordeal. Not up to it.

But I got to hear lots of war stories. If you want to hear the whole deal, talk to the Teacher. I'll summarize: Two of the boys in class are 'currently behavorially challenged'. The climax of their behavior challenge was Tuesday, when one of them lashed out at the Teacher in front of the whole class. As I understand it, it was a public temper tantrum that revolved on several points: You have no right to call my mom when I skip seminary; I was just gassing up my car; you must hate me because you're calling me on the carpet for my behavior; and you're not normal and your daughter isn't either.

Remember that I'm still sick when I hear this story, so I'm not in the mood to be easily amused.

But the whole thing kept me chuckling after I heard it for most of the day. Well, kind of the whole thing. Mostly that last bit.

I'm not normal? You don't say. And how long have you known the sky is blue, sir? And you expect this information to wound or insult? Uh-huh. In fact, I consider this a compliment. A big compliment, because he was obviously being honest if he expected this to be a bomb and he said it anyway.

Mostly this proves what I already knew: he's not as cool as he thinks he is. Or as mature as he thinks he is. (I'm currently estimating his age, based on behavior and not stature, at three and a half.) And he DEFINITELY doesn't know as much as he thinks he does. Not if he thinks that I care about being normal. Or that I care whether or not he approves of me.

Meanwhile the Teacher sniffled and sobbed most of the day- not because he upset her, but because.... I'm not sure exactly why. She explained it more than once, but it didn't make much sense. All I could make of it is that she's upset that they're upset and she's also upset that she can't- being the Teacher- back down or hand the job over to a sub. And she's upset that she has to deal with this at all.

She figured out I thought it was funny pretty quick. She's perceptive that way. And she gave me a variation on the Mother's Curse: someday you're going to have a class like this. And we'll see who laughs then, missy.

I really do enjoy confrontations like this. Not because I enjoy watching people make a fool of themself- which is basically what he did- or because I enjoy having the Teacher sniffle around the house all day- which is what she did. Just because I love it when other people run up against the Teacher and come to a screeching halt. It's a sort of validation. Like getting someone else to eat unsweetened chocolate after someone tricks you into having some. But more funny.

And yes, I'm a horrible person. Enough said.

Nooooo!

2009-09-14T06:12:00.002-05:00

This is so not right.

My throat hurt yesterday. I have two tests in college this week, so I was paranoid about getting sick. I ate six oranges (vitamin C) and drank drank drank.

Today I have the flu. My throat hurts and my head hurts and my bones hurt and my eyelids feel swollen and I'm going back and forth between burning up and freezing to death.

To add injury to injury, I still have most of a drawing to complete before tomorrow (if we're optimistic and I'm not dead by then) and three pages of vocabulary I need to polish my memorization on before two Spanish tests in a row.

To add insult to the first injury, today is food day at seminary. The Teacher is taking two huge breakfast casseroles and some bacon and cheese muffins that I helped make. And I'm not going. And one of my friends is a scavenger (in my current mood, I feel like comparing her to a vulture, but that's not really fair; she's much cuter than a vulture) and the odds of me getting any leftovers without me being there to speak for them seem... insignificant, at best.

To add insult to the second injury, we made fresh, hot, homemade rolls yesterday. With butter on top. And they're still in the kitchen. And I can't eat them.

This just sucks.

My Parents Are Gross

2009-09-12T08:09:00.002-05:00

They are. Even putting aside the green olives, sauerkraut, and pickles of every flavor.

There is only one computer with internet that I have access to. I'm on it every day. Sometimes not for very long, but every day.

The Principal put on a new screen saver for the Teacher:

Smoochie-woochie Hugsy-wugsy Lovie-love! (Dearest Snookums)

I'm pretty sure this falls under public indecency. And I'm also sure that if I change it my life won't be worth a donuts box at seminary.

PS- it's raining. I love rain.

'The Future Is Your Responsibility'

2009-09-11T07:53:00.003-05:00

WARNING: Teenage griping, cynicism, and over-reading-into-things ahead! Read at your own peril!

(Unless you're also a teenager, in which case break out the kevlar and skateboard helmets and join the revolution.)

Most 'inspiring' speeches are really, really boring. Anything written to inspire is 70% likely to fail miserably. Firstly, people aren't stupid and don't like to be manipulated into inspiration. Secondly, most of the trite sayings designed to make you feel warm and fuzzy- 'Jesus loves you', 'We're a big happy family', 'don't worry, be happy'- make good bumper stickers but miserable inspiration. Thirdly, true inspiration inspires because we hear it and we recognize- sometimes unconciously- the Truth.

'The Future Is Your Responsibility' does not make me recognize the Truth. Instead, my hackles go up, my head goes down, my elbows go out and I start to snark- because I recognize a big, fat, slimy- think huge glistening slug slimy- LIE.

I don't like being lied to.

And this is the kind of lie I hate most. It isn't a 'No, that dress doesn't make you look fat' lie, meant in kindness and desire to keep a relationship intact. It's not a lie to make you feel better.

This is a lie to make the liar feel better. Right up there with 'I can quit at any time' and 'I know I'm a good writer because my mom said so' (I actually struggle with that one), this lie is completely and totally self-serving.

You don't get why? Then let's start dissecting the slug.

The Future. What, exactly, do you mean by that? Do you mean half an hour after dinner time? Do you mean our career and family? If so, then yes, the future is our responsibility. But this isn't what you mean. You aren't talking about our future- you're talking about The Future. Global warming, national debt, world peace, and so on- these are the things that make up The Future. Things that are, mostly, out of the control of small, harmless teenagers like me. (Okay, I couldn't even write that with a straight face. But it's still true. No one consults a child or teenager on national policy. They consult voters. And the voters can consider themselves privileged to be involved in the process. Heavy sarcasm.)

Your Responsibility. I don't have a problem with responsibility. Sure, it's a heavy burden sometimes, but it's much more fun to have responsibility and be in control than to not have any responsibility and have to live in a pink bedroom. So to speak. (I despise pink.)

However, in this context, Your Responsibility is code for Your Problem, Not Mine.

So put it together. An adult intent on inspiring a bunch of adolescents with moral messages of hard work, long life, and the benefits of homework decides to throw this slug in for seasoning: The Future Is Your Responsibility.

Yes, that's true. The mess you're making today will be dealt with by me and my peers tomorrow. That's how it is and that's how it has always been. The sins of the parents on the heads of the children. But whoever you are- because The Future Is Your Responsibility is a favorite lie of many adults- if you want to keep your teeth in your mouth, I suggest you shut your mouth before you tell this lie.

Teenagers (and children) have very sensitive hypocritical/self-serving/manipulative jerk radar. If you want to inspire? Don't set it off.

And in Darkness You Will Find Light

2009-09-09T14:16:00.002-05:00

It rained this morning. (Although it was so early this morning I'm tempted to call it last night. It should be illegal to have to go somewhere at six.) And since this is Texas, and we're in a drought, it didn't just rain, it dumped. Buckets of big, fat drops. And lightning. And thunder. And squeaky windshield wipers.

Everyone got to seminary all right, although there was lots of squealing involved. We had opening exercises (the mastery scripture this week is 2 Nephi 2:25, and I've issued an ultimatum to the class that they have to memorize it before the end of the week) and the lesson started.

And then the power flickered, came back, and then went out for good. After a few hopefuls asking if we could cancel seminary, (the Teacher said NO), and a few more people called back into seats (why do people jump up when the lights go out? do they think their chair has become a bear trap, or that the electricity will come back if they flip the switch a few dozen times?), we had seminary in the dark. We used the lights of open cell phones to read the board and the few scriptures the Teacher decided were too important to miss.

Now, having seminary in the dark seems really cool. It could have been an amazing spiritual experience for everyone to talk about scriptures and eternal truths in the dark. It could have been like an impromptu testimony meeting. (Of course every seminary day could be like that, but seminary in the DARK seems so much more.... cool.) It wasn't, of course. The class isn't ready for that yet. But it was still cool to sit in the dark and watch the rain stream off the roof and see lightning and thunder... I spent the first thirteen years of my life in and around the Dallas/Fort Worth area. I still miss tornado season.

Anyway, maybe we'll get lucky. Maybe Heavenly Father will give us another chance in the spring when the class is ready for more and He'll short out the electricity again. We can always hope.

Ask For Humility, And Thou Shalt Receive Humiliation

2009-09-06T17:35:00.002-05:00

There's a joke that you should never pray to receive patience in adversity or humility.

This is the reason why:

In art class on Thursday, we cut out pictures of people from magazines. Then we taped out a square on the picture. I don't mean a grid, I mean a square- like a grid. The inside of the square was the same size, according to ratio, as the drawing pad. That meant that everything inside that square should go on the paper. Before we started drawing, we turned the pictures (everyone had their own) upside down. The purpose of this exercise was to show how well we could draw proportions when we couldn't see what it was we were actually drawing.

I went into this exercise strong and fearless. I felt like one of those billboards for the Marines: the few, the proud, the totally-done-this-before. Because I have done something like this. You take a picture, turn it upside down, and draw the shades of light and dark until you run out of picture or paper. But when I did it, the point was to practice drawing light and dark. Getting the picture to fit exactly on the paper-no white margin and no chopped off heads because I drew too big- was a completely new kettle of fish. (Why on earth would you cook fish in a kettle? Fry it, man. With lots of butter.)

I drew a line. It was completely off. I erased it. I drew another line. I erased that one too. I drew and erased for about an hour, until I had lots of erased lines and no picture. I started to cry. Not because I wanted pity or anything, but because every time I put charcoal on paper, it was wrong, I could tell it was wrong, I could see it was wrong, I could feel that it was wrong- but I couldn't see how to make it right. I was extremely tempted to leave the class, hide in the bathroom, and not come out until I knew everyone would be gone. But I enjoy pain and humiliation, so I stayed. And oh, the humility I keep asking for- I was swimming in it. I couldn't even ask anyone for help because I knew the minute I started talking, I was going to dissolve in noisy, slobbery, incoherent, even more humiliating sobs.

At last the teacher came by when I was struggling with the head and showed me how the head happened to be in the center of the page, with the same amount of space on either side. With that, I managed to get the head right. And everything followed from there. I still need to work on it before Tuesday, but it will no longer break the Geneva Convention to make my classmates critique it. Ask and thou shalt receive. Even if you would actually really rather not.

Chicken update: the little red hen survived, but now that we've figured out how to fox-proof a coop, we're stumped as to what to do with her. We can't merge her with a new flock- ours or someone else's- because chickens will peck to death any strange freak they find among their number. We don't want to slaughter her because that's a lot of work for just one chicken. Messy, stinky work. We might give her away, complete with fox-proofed coop, to one of the neighbors, since we need to make a brand new coop for the next batch anyway. That's all still up in the air.

During fast and testimony meeting, someone mentioned how tolerant and kind their husband is because he doesn't care if all there is for dinner is pancakes, so long as there's something. Immediately- being slightly hungry- I decided that sounded wonderful. So we're having pancakes, ham, and eggs for dinner. And we might make bacon too, since we'll be making a mess anyway.

The Tale of Three

2009-09-05T19:57:00.002-05:00

Once there where three small chickens and two small cats. They grew up together as happy siblings with an Understanding. Sometimes the Understanding was that the chickens were hot and annoyed and were about to start pecking, and then the cats would nonchalantly remove themselves farther outside of the chickens' personal space. All was peace and fluffy clouds and buttery sunshine. The chickens clucked happily to each other: "Cluck cluckcluck CLUCK cluck cluck!" Which is chicken for "My bug! Mine! I saw it first! Stop trying to steal it!"

And then, yesterday there were only two chickens. Two very, very, VERY unhappy chickens. And the sad, stiff body of a chewed-upon chicken. The chickens were released, the body bagged and removed, and then the coop was moved and fortified. All day long the chickens clucked nervously to each other, mourning their lost companion and avoiding the dreaded word fox. The two chickens roamed free that day, were coaxed back into the coop that night, and left safe and secure for the night.

But this morning, there was only one chicken in the coop. A panicked, terrified, traumatized chicken that knew she was going to be next.

The coop is more stringently fortified now. And while there are still two kittens running around under fluffy clouds and buttery sunshine, happy in their lack of dependence on a flock.... there is one chicken alone in the coop, clucking mournfully to herself. "Cluck.... Cluck... cluck CLUCK.... Cluck...." Which is chicken for "I know I'm going to be next; he said so last night as he chewed her head off. I just know it. Why are you locking me in here again? It's not safe. Nowhere is safe now. I'm doomed. I'll never lay an egg. I'll never eat another grasshopper. I'll never compete with the kittens for scraps again. Oh me! Cruel world, why hast thou treated me so? I'm a good chicken, I am, so let me out of this place...."

There were once three chickens. Now there is one. Tomorrow, depending on how clever foxes really are, there may be none at all.

The Teacher is not a happy chicken farmer.