This One's for the Ladies

Do you ever have those moments when you just have to write something down before you burst from all the thoughts swirling around in you head? This is one of those late-night-sappy-quote posts, and just the tip of the iceberg for all I've been thinking about lately. So, as your late night blogger, I'll say, "This one's for the ladies"....

"I want someone who will be monogamous and nice to his mother. And I want someone who likes musicals, but knows just to shut his mouth when I'm watching Lost. And I want someone who thinks being really into cars is lame, and strip clubs are gross. I want someone who will actually empty the dishwasher instead of just taking out forks, as needed, like I do. I want someone with clean hands and feet and beefy forearms like a damn Disney prince. And I want him to genuinely like me--even when I'm old. And that's what I want."

--Liz Lemon "30 Rock"

"You know, honestly, by the time you're 34, all the physical requirements just go out the window. You secretly pray he'll be tall than you. Not an 'asshole' would be nice. Just someone who enjoys my company--comes from a good family. You don't think about that when you're younger. Someome who wants kinds, likes kids, wants kids. Healthy enough to play with his kids. Please let him earn more money than I do. You may not understand that now, but believe me, you will someday--otherwise that's a recipe for disaster. And hopefully, some hair on his head. I mean, that's not even a deal breaker these days. A nice smile, yeah, a nice smile just might do it."

--Alex Goran "Up in the Air"

"Jane I want a wife. I want a wife, not a nursemaid to look after me. I want a wife to share my bed every night. All day if we wish. If I can't have that, I'd rather die. We're not the platonic sort, Jane."

--Edward Rochester "Jane Eyre"

"I love that you get cold when its 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle in your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend a day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And its not because, and its not because its New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

--Harry "When Harry Met Sally"

"Look, I guarantee there'll be tough times. I guarantee that at some point one or both of us is gonna want to get out of this thing. But I also guarantee that if I don't ask you to be mine, I'll regret it for the rest of my life. Because I know, in my heart, you're the only one for me."

--Ike/ Maggie "Runaway Bride"

"I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair.
I hate it when you stare.
I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind.
I hate you so much it makes me sick; it makes me rhyme.
I hate it, I hate the way you're always right.
I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you laugh, even worse when you make me cry.
I hate it that you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call.
But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you.
Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all."

--Kat Stratford "Ten Things I Hate About You"

I'm An Auntie!

Woo-hoo! It finally happened! I'm an auntie! My sister had Baby Jude Isaac on March 31, 2011, and my! What a sweet baby he i! I just can't help myself, I want to kiss his little face all the time.

I am definitely NOT in a place in my own life that I want to have kids or even be in a relationship, but by golly, I LOVE being an aunt. (Of course, this has nothing to do with the fact that I can pass a dirty diaper off to his parents.)

I feel so overwhelmed with emotion when I see his little hands and his little feet--feet that have never touched the floor--and I think about all the things God has in store for him. I wonder how many people his hands will comfort and how many places his feet will go in the name of Christ. I am so in awe of how my Father works.

Cardboard Jungle

Yep, it's true. Moving sucks. When I was little, moving was an adventure...Sure, Mom and Dad went nuts trying to get five of us to help pack our stuffed animals and building blocks, but it was still fun. I'm 22 now, and it is officially not fun.

My house has been in complete shambles for the past several weeks. With my bedroom being across the foyer from the backdoor, naturally the get-rid-of pile accumulates outside of my door. I have a little pathway to get outside or to the rest of the house. All I'm saying is that I could have been a gymnist with all the weird contortions my body must undergo just to check the mail! (Better yet, I think I would make a great thief. You know, the ones who have to slide under invisible lasers that will sound the alarm if broken. Yeah...I think that sounds cooler.)

Anyway, with all this packing, I have to go through everything--absolutely everything. High school boxes of memories? Check. Creepy catch-all draw? Yep. Christmas decorations? Mhm. Every childhood toy and article of dress-up clothing? You betcha. What's weird is how much living has happened while I wasn't even aware. I found letters from little campers from my first year at camp, and pictures of "BFF's" who I haven't seen in 5 or 6 years. It's hard to throw things away that think are significant, but I can't hold onto anything in the end. All I can do is appreciate the times I've had and let it go. (Talk about a therapy session!)

So, as I wade through this cardboard jungle of boxes, I'm thankful for all the things that I have, but most of all, for the people I love. That's it for "lessons in spite of packing" for today. I need to grab more packing tape...and motivation! Peace.

Wanted: A Grandfather

I want a grandfather. I always have. I mean who is suppose to say politically incorrect things? Who is suppose to tell me about going "a-courtin'" and point out all the landmarks in town as he tells me about how things "used to be?" Who is suppose to teach me random things like how to whittle, shoot a gun, or spit? Who is suppose to fix things or tell me about how life was before television and computers? Who is suppose to scare me and intrigue me and love me just the same? Seriously...

Thoughts Amongst The Shelves

There is something deliciously forbidden about a library. Sounds crazy, no? I'm sitting in a library in Somewhere, USA. The building holds the tell-tale signs of 1960's architecture. There is a main reading area with dim lights to illuminate the work of writers, readers, and fussy teenagers whose parents dragged them to the dreaded building. To the left, there is a wall of doorways, one right after the other, leading into one big section for the shelves. On the right side, a wall of tiny, narrow windows that eventually culminate into a children's section, closed off with a dark, heavy door. Everything about this place screams "Mystery!" Like the pages of a Gothic novel.

Although this library isn't far from my home, it's in a different city, and I can be anyone I like, here. A writer, a mother, a movie star, or someone's cousin just visiting for the summer. Who knows what these people think! And the best part is that it doesn't matter.

Places like libraries make me think about suppressed feelings and desires in life. No talking! Be quiet! Whisper! Whisper! Whisper! I glide along the dark, shadowy shelves and run my fingers over the spines of book, after book, after book. This author is from Thailand that one is from Chile, and I--I am here seeing, touching, reading the work of authors I will never meet. Yet, their work influences me. Frustrates me, makes me cry, bores me, makes me think wild thoughts. Words are powerful things. I think of all the forbidden books tucked discreetly into place--alphabetical--pretending they belong. Just begging to cast their spell on someone, perhaps me.

The hum of the fluorescent lights create a white noise, but I fear if I were to stay here too long, it would drive me mad. I imagine the librarians are sick of questions. Sick of staying in a cool, dimly lit fortress of a building with its' cave-like hums and drips and unpleasant visitors. Or maybe, like me, it intrigues them. Perhaps the whispers of ancient words in crumbling books draws them too. All I know is that a storm is coming, and I should be on my way.

A Summer Snapshot

This blog is a portion from a journal entry:
____________________________________________________________


I'm sitting on the dock at a friend's lake, and I can't believe how beautiful it is here. This is my third time out here and I am still awestruck. The sky is filled with purple-gray clouds ripe with rain. Somehow the insects don't seem to mind; they just keep buzzing and humming and skating across the black mirror lake. Frogs are croaking and just over my right shoulder, I hear a bird calling louder than the evening symphony.

My first time here I couldn't seem to place one of the sounds that seemed so prevalent, but now, as I sit here with my feet causing gentle ripples in the cool water, I realize what it is. It is the sound of nature absent of cars or planes, or even voices. The only man-made sounds are the scratch of my favorite black pen across my journal...a book filled with hopes and dreams, fears and frustrations. How strange to be part of a world that has so few cares.

I look across the slick wet surface of the lake and I am surrounded by wilderness. Not the kind that lost men dread--where the elements are cruel. But rather a wild wilderness of graceful flowers and rugged shrubbery. Beauty and strength. Just behind me a bushes of unripened blackberries are nurtured among the briars. My leg hold the tell-tale signs of their existence.

The moon looks down upon me as the sun sets leaving a brilliant array of stained glass clouds. The moon sees everything, and I am reminded that I have "miles to go before I sleep."

"Now Is The [Spring] Of Our Discontent"

Greetings Dear Reader!

I am currently avoiding reading for the worst subject in the history of the universe: Chaucer. Although no one knows for certain how Chaucer died, scholars believe there is a possibility he was murdered. I haven't a doubt in my mind this is true. In fact, maybe I'm the one who did it! Maybe sometime in the future, I'll be part of a "Time Machine" research program, I'll volunteer to be a pioneer, and then I'll end up killing Chaucer because he almost killed me when I was in school. An eye for an eye, right? (Wishful thinking...I know.)

These last few weeks have been some of the hardest of my life. Not necessarily "horrible." Difficult? YOU BET! After researching, writing, presenting, and defending my senior thesis, I do not care about The Secret Garden or archetypes or Carl Jung or comma splices or long rambling sentences that never seem to end despite the fact the writer made her point way back at the beginning of the thought. I sit here and complain about the work that everyone has had to do, but I shouldn't be so negative when our professors had to read and comment on the first couple of drafts we cranked out whilst jacked up on coffee, cashews, and carbonated beverages. Anyway, I am so glad that I have people in my life who love and care about me enough to correct me--or ask me to redo something when they know I can do better. I am quite proud of the work I have been able to accomplish (although not without tears and LOTS of prayer).

In other news: I finally got a diagnosis! A diagnosis I have felt certain about for several years, now. I have a problem with doctors telling me that "it's just in my head." (I'm sure I'm not alone in feeling this way!) The only downside is having medicine that makes me so darn tired! I may have to start drinking motor oil to stay awake...and by "motor oil" I mean "coffee."

Oral Exam. [Cue dirge] The oral exam was death. Imagine a dimly lit room with dark shadows lurking in the corners. A trickle of water from the leaking pipes above running down the wall. The lone window with cracked and dangerous glass protruding is so dirty that no sunlight graces the bare earthen floor. And a single, swinging light bulb casting shadows along the ocher walls (which were once white before the mold overtook them)...What you just imagined is a five-star hotel compared to that wretched room!

Thank goodness the Good Lord didn't see it fit that I should literally die from such experience (although, I'm sure people have). In my short years upon this earth, I have done plenty of extemporaneous speaking. Most of the time such "interviews" are a lot of BS, but at least, they were about topics I felt confident. Alas, with intense stares from piercing-blue-eyes-that-can-see-to-the-very-depths-of-your-soul (somewhat similar to Dumbledore's eyes), it became next to impossible to create coherent sentences. I purposefully wore a long necklace with chunky beads so that nervous energy would abandon my tear ducts and move to my fingers. (Note to self: Try this strategy again! Twas a success indeed!) I am quite thankful the whole experience is finished! It was just another reminder that I am NOT cut out for doctoral work. When I scooped myself off the floor and left the room, I was so thankful that I actually LIKE my content area, but little did I know that in a few short days the saddest event in my life would take place. To quote Biron, "The scene begins to cloud."

After a lovely Tuesday evening with two dear friends, I left campus around 12:30 am. I don't often leave that late, but I it was too good of quality time to walk away. The moon was beautiful even though the night was chilly; I should have known the moon plays tricks on people. On my way home, I witnessed an unusual sight. Several deer decided to have a "sit-in" (stand-in?) to protest modern technology and infrastructure, but instead of a peaceful protest, it turned violent. One massive doe decided to sacrifice her body on the hood of my car to prove her ultimate hatred of humanity. The protest was broken up immediately. The doe ran away unscathed, but my poor Skylark did not fare so well. The Skylark died thanks to Debbie the Deer at 12:42. After I stopped screaming like a 12 year old girl watching "Scream" for the first time, I called my parents. Thus was the end of the Skylark.

I feel like I should show an emotional reel of pictures of my car set to some super sappy song. "I will remember you....Will you remember me? Don't let your life pass you by...." [sigh]

This post is dedicated to the memory of The 1995 Skylark. RIP 4/28/10 12:42am. "It's been a wild ride, friend." Feel free to mourn as you will. It's okay to have a moment of silence, dear reader, before moving on to the next blog. I understand.