:)

I am a happy, happy camper lately.

Why? ... Why not?

I have spent so much of my life mulling over the past and worrying about the future.

For now... I just want to enjoy the journey.

Could it be?

What is this odd feeling coming over me lately? It couldn't be...no, surely not...there's just no way that it's productivity!?

I was so rundown last year, between the two jobs and the five classes and the service fraternity and the feeble attempt to still have a social life, that I reverted to MSM: Major Slacker Mode. I totally forgot, until very recently, the rush I get from actually accomplishing something. Even small things — returning an email, using my thirty minutes between classes to work on my design, or (get this) actually reading those textbooks I spend hundreds of dollars on.

I don't want to get too ahead of myself here. It's only the fourth week, after all. But perhaps (dare I say it?) senior year might not swallow me up whole after all? I can only hope.

The dreaded question

The first week of my senior year is in the books. Let's ignore my quarter-life crisis and clinical senioritis at the moment and focus on The Dreaded Question that I've been asked at least thirty times this week: "What are you going to do after graduation?"

Translation: who's going to be giving you a paycheck?

I loathe that question. Mainly because when I say, truthfully, "I have no idea," I get that look reserved for aimless losers — the mortal enemy of Type A journalism students the world over. But I really don't have any idea. I want to do a hundred different things... get my MBA and start my own business, or maybe my MFA and become an English professor; go into counseling; work for a non-profit or a sports team; be a professional substitute teacher. Heck, maybe I'll go crazy and actually use my journalism degree to get a job at a magazine.

I know I'll find a job. And I'm not trying to be an overly-confident product of my generation, because I'm fully aware that the world of employment isn't as peachy as we'd like it to be. But I'm fine with starting at the bottom and working my way up, and I enjoy enough things that I'm pretty sure I'll be able to pay the bills one way or another.

What I'm more concerned with is not what I'm going to do, but who I'm going to be. And isn't that the more important question?

I know who I want to be: A woman of God. A woman of integrity and compassion. The kind of person who puts others first and stops to smell the roses. I want to be bold, peaceful, happy. So for now, and perhaps for a bit after graduation, I'd much rather focus on setting the tone for the rest of my life and working on who I want to be — not what.

May 22, 2011: The final day and hour

I haven't had much to say lately. Well, I've had a lot to say actually, just not via my ultra-public blog. When the storm of the century (or at least I hope it was) tears through your hometown and kills, destroys, and breaks hearts all over, what is there to say?

I was grateful that the Missourian let me come home and cover the tragedy through first-person dispatches. I'm back now working on a multimedia project over it all. My reporting class ends July 6th, and then I'll be back for the rest of the summer. I don't feel like there's a lot I can do, but I can't imagine being anywhere else right now.

I've been curled up on the couch all morning, perusing Facebook and Twitter, when I came across both of Will Norton's Twitter accounts. The last tweet on the first account said, "I'm graduating today!" which was heartbreaking in itself. Then I started scrolling through the tweets on his second account. They were mostly happy, celebratory messages to his friends who had graduated with him also, just hours before his death. But on May 20th, two days earlier, he had retweeted a Bible verse: "But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. -Matthew 24:36"

I know this verse pertains to apocalyptic claims, but I think in this case, it pertained to Will's last day and hour. And I'd like to think that God used that verse to speak to Will's heart and prepare him for what was to come. I know he's in a happier place now, as are the rest of those we lost on that day, and I can only hope that when my times comes, I go out with that much grace.

So here's to living like Will, and soaking in every moment we have left.

Finals shminals

No earth shattering lesson today (har har). Just a high five to everyone suffering through finals week like yours truly. I sincerely hope you have more motivation than I do.

Two finals to go. I got this!

P.S. Really funny conversation with Marcela today.

Marcela (with a big smile on her face): Sometimes when Mommy goes to work I feel like she doesn't love me anymore.

Me: You don't really mean that, do you?

Marcela: Yeah huh.

Me: Are you sure?

Marcela: Well I have to say that to get attention.

For a 4-year old, she really knows how to work it. I fear for her parents during her teenage years.

A lesson in gratefulness

I've been rifling through my old writing lately, trying to get my creative wheels moving and gear up for the manuscript(s) I need to pump out this summer, and I came across something I wrote my junior year of high school. Let me preface it by saying the assignment was a tragedy, but we weren't allowed to explicitly say what it was. I chose my grandmother's recent Alzheimer's diagnosis. Here's a little (depressing) excerpt ... we'll get to the upbeat part in a bit:

"I am my grandmother's pride and joy, her baby grand. I cry as I realize that soon she won't even remember my name. The name she gushed to anyone and everyone who would listen. I weep as it soaks in--soon she will not recognize my face. The same cheeks she squeezed and the forehead she kissed good night. I will cling to the memories as she forgets. She will forget every moment until I am nothing. She will forget every moment until she is nothing. She will lose me, and I will lose her, twice over."

Like I said, I wrote that my junior year of high school. I'm now wrapping up my junior year of college... and she still remembers me. I look different everyday -- I get triple IDed every time I go out because I don't resemble my license or my student ID, and half the time my own friends don't even recognize me when they pass me on campus -- but I can stroll into her place unannounced after being gone for months, and she knows me. She may not remember quite how much she loved me, but she still loves me. And she may ask me how school is 15 times in one sitting, but at least she remembers where I am.

I'm not naive. I know the bad times are still going to come eventually. But they're not here yet, and I am so lucky to have had these four unexpectedly good years -- and who knows how many more. I'm so grateful for that.

Happy Mother's Day to all the moms out there... and especially to my amazing mother and grandmother, without whom I would not have the honor to walk this earth.

A lesson in being unapologetic

I recently came across the blog of The Single Woman, a real life Carrie Bradshaw. While I do enjoy the daily dose of girl power, I think I can scrounge that up myself. That being said, I will unabashedly admit that one of her (somewhat cheesy) quotes resounded with me:

"You are never more captivating than when you are wildly, beautifully, unapologetically YOU."

It was the unapologetically that got me. I am constantly apologizing for myself. For my mood swings and my occasionally overwhelming emotions and my temper. For my opinions and my habit of speaking my mind, even when what I have to say isn't very nice. For calling up my friends just to complain for a solid 15 minutes. For changing my mind twenty times a day or canceling plans because I just really need to stay home in my pajamas and veg out for the night. For stringing someone along, or shutting them out. For putting too much on someone. For keeping secrets, for spilling them.

I think you get the idea.

The point is, while a sincere apology is of course necessary in some instances, I'm going to try to curb the constant apologizing for being me. Yes, I am kind of a head case, and I'm practically impossible to put up with at times -- but aren't we all? Don't apologize for being you. Those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.

(Thank you, Dr. Seuss, for still teaching me invaluable lessons even in my adulthood.)

A lesson in listening

I was 11 years old when the Twin Towers were attacked. I watched it at school and knew somehow that the world would never quite be the same. Still, months later, I had grown tired of all the coverage and couldn't help wondering when the media would move on. When we would move on. But we never really did, did we?

This war on terrorism is different than WWII or Vietnam, but it's still a war that my generation has grown up in. So I wasn't surprised when there was a street riot in Greektown when news came that bin Laden had been killed. I stayed holed up in the student center finishing a project while 3,000 students shot off fireworks and chanted "U-S-A!" all night long.

I still feel for families who lost loved ones on 9/11. For anyone who lost a loved one at bin Laden's hands, for that matter. I just don't have it in me to celebrate someone being killed. Relief, maybe, that he can't hurt anyone else... but you won't find me in any of the photos on CNN from Mizzou's riots. I'm a little embarrassed that we made the top 10 celebrations, to be honest.

I wasn't going to write this post. I've been trying to keep my mouth shut about the whole situation. It's touchy. It's something everyone and their dog has an opinion about, and everyone is certain that they're right. So I took it upon myself to bite my tongue and listen to everyone else, take a lesson in respecting opinions that aren't like mine. I think we could all take a lesson in that.

This is the most I will say on the matter, but I'll sum this post up with words from an incredibly wise soul:

"Returning hate for hate only multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

-Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Let's all be friends, shall we?

I rolled out of bed this morning at 5:30 a.m. for Easter sunrise services with my great-aunt, miles and miles away in the middle of the boonies. Growing up, this was one of our few traditions, but I won't lie when I say I'm not a fan of being an "adult" now and having to drive myself instead of getting another half hour of sleep in the backseat.

It's a Presbyterian church--it's also haunted, but let's not get into that now--with a pretty old congregation. I think I was one of five people in my twenties. We sat in pews, sang hymns, recited prayers...your typical traditional Easter service. Then I went to Woodcrest, a nondenominational church back in town. My ears were ringing from the rock music and I sympathized for parents who rushed their children out during the odd and incredibly intense dance routine.

I don't have much of a point here, except that it was interesting to see the different ways people worship. I haven't exactly settled on my own style yet, but I'll find it eventually.

When I got home (after a much needed nap), I started checking out my Twitter and Facebook feeds. You had your typical Bible verses, and your typical angry people denouncing "holiday Christians" for being hypocrites. I hate to sound like a peace sign-waving hippie here, but why can't we all get along? Why does religion have to be such a weapon? Maybe a person who only goes to church on Christmas and Easter isn't a hypocrite... maybe they're just doing the best they can. Or trying to hang on to something that once brought them comfort. Just because you're devout doesn't mean you should point a finger at those who aren't, and vice versa. To each their own. We're all fighting the same battle.

Which reminds me of my group thesis for the paper I'm currently working on: "we are all shaped by our common desire for a sense of belonging, a sense of purpose -- our common humanity."

Probably time to get back to that paper. For those celebrating, happy Easter. And to those who aren't, happy Sunday. Let's all be friends, shall we?

Zzzzzzz

"Any idiot can survive a crisis -- it's day to day living that wears you out."

-Anton Chekhov

Is it July 7th yet!? Must. Have. Breather.

What a hoppin' Saturday night

My biggest insecurity is not meeting up to people's expectations. So when I was recently informed that I did not, in fact, live up to a particular person's expectations of me, I didn't take it so well. (Luna the lemon beagle is staring at me with knowing eyes. She's the sole soul who knows just how calmly I took it.)

I was talking it over with my friend Andrea, and this is what she said: "We're all three people--the person we are, the person we want to be, and the person we pretend to be."

I'll just let that sink in.........

Obviously, I need to come to terms with the fact that I'm human, and while it's super flattering that said person had such an ideal expectation of me, it wasn't realistic. I can be okay with that. I think.

Something interesting I saw on Twitter today:

GODISNOWHERE!

A pessimist sees, "God is nowhere."

An optimist sees, "God is now here."

Which did you see?

P.S. Got my rose tattoo, finally. Still limping. But it's pretty.

Newsflash: the bald spots are worth it

I am a self-professed whinebag, and a bit of a drama queen.

So I'm sure it was no surprise to my mother when I called her up wailing last night with the usual, "I'm too tired, I'm going to drop out!" schpeel. To be fair, I'd been busting my butt all week to wrap up the rough draft of our (300-page) group project for Cross Cultural Journalism, and I was couched with an increasingly painful kidney infection that kicked in Monday morning. I'd pretty much hit a wall, and proceeded to have my usual pity party right on schedule.

But I was walking across campus today, our pretty pretty campus (even on crappy overcast days like today), and I realized: I'm so lucky to be here. I'm so lucky to get to learn, and from really intelligent people. I'm lucky to be able to further myself, and put off the real world for as long as possible. To meet new people and gain extraordinary experiences. (OK, extraordinary might be a stretch, but you know what I mean.) It's worth the sleepless nights, the bald spots I have from pulling my hair out, the headaches and the stress and the tears.

Someday they'll kick me out of here and I'll have to be a grown up. But until then, I'm going to enjoy myself. These are the best years of my life, right?

Lovebug, loveblog

My apologies in advance for this G-rated Sex and the City/relationship column, but since this blog has inadvertently turned into me sharing unsolicited insights (eye-opening ones at that), I feel the need to share with you my latest dating experience.

Three weeks ago -- give or take, the concept of the calendar eludes me -- I met a boy at a party. I know what you're thinking, parties are no place to meet boys. But this wasn't one of "those" parties...I avoid "those" parties at all cost. For instance, I have never set foot inside a fraternity house. (Except on another campus at New Year's to say hi to a friend. But it wasn't one of "those" frat houses.) This particular boy randomly struck up a conversation with me, which is odd in itself as I am rarely approached when I'm out. (According to my friends, I give off some sort of "don't even bother" air. If that's true, it's purely accidental.) We had a nice little chat while my friends lost brilliantly at beer pong. (Just because they aren't "those" parties doesn't mean we don't play beer pong.)

(I'm really enjoying the parenthesis today, eh?)

A coffee date, a dinner date, a movie date, and a party date later... things got complicated, as they always do. Let me preface this by saying that I am in no way searching for another half. I am devoted solely to my whole and keeping my head above water. Frankly I just don't have the energy to date. That being said, I decided not to stamp an expiration date on this thing too early, as I have a habit of doing. I'm getting lost in my thoughts here. Let's get to the point, shall we?

A few days ago, some complications rose to the surface and I received a pretty confrontational phone call. While I'm not going to spill anything personal on the world wide web, let me just share this: it was like speaking to myself. It was legitimately one of the strangest experiences I've ever had -- everything he was saying, nearly word for word, were things I've said to others... and I didn't like what I was hearing. But it wasn't until I heard it coming from someone else, directed right at me, that I really heard what I'd been saying (or yelling, in some instances).

My meandering point is this: would you date yourself? We're supposed to follow the Golden Rule, right? Treat others as you want to be treated, all that jazz. Is it too far of a stretch to apply that rule to our dating lives? Be the other half you'd want to have. You want to be spoiled? Don't forget to do a little spoiling yourself. You want understanding? You better be understanding, too. And if you think THEY have a lot of crazy, you should probably examine your own crazy.

Just don't forget -- we're all human. We're kind of silly that way.

To answer my own question... no way. I wouldn't date myself. Not now at least. I'm still far too insecure, selfish, moody -- I could go on. But someday. Someday I'll subject myself to another human being. Until then, I'm still a work in progress. Don't mind the construction.

Hold on to the good

"With all things considered, I suppose I should be bitter, but I just find myself fortunate to have loved at all. Oh the beauty is not in the ending, but the times that are worth remembering."

-The Radiance Effect

It happens every year. Someone asks me for the date, and when I say it out loud a giant lump instantly appears in my throat. It's easy to forget about it, especially the older I get. When I was little, I'd pull on the t-shirt I was wearing the day it happened (dolphins, of course), skip school, and basically plan on being miserable for the day.

Now, fourteen years later, it's midday until I realize the significance of the date. I still take the time to put on a sad song and cry a little bit. But life goes on, doesn't it? It's a battle at times, and it would be so easy to be bitter... but that would be such a waste. I may have only had five years, but there was so much good in those five years. All things must come to an end... just remember to hold on to the good.

In other news:

-Coach Anderson left us (in a very tactless way, I might add). My heart was broken for a little bit but now I'm just biting my nails (along with the rest of Mizzou) to see who takes his place. (Shaka Smart, please?)

-It's spring break and I don't think it's gone over 40 degrees. Awesome.

-The crappy weather has prompted my search for my post-graduation location. Top three prospects are Seattle, Dallas, and northern California.

-Luna the lemon beagle is back. I'm considering signing her up for good citizen/therapy training...I think she would make quite the saint.

-I took the girls to Chuck E Cheese's today and taught them the finer points of skee ball. I'm a retired pro. I'm also freakishly good at darts... I spent a lot of time in bars and bowling alleys growing up. (Oh, hey Mom!)

-I got a great idea for my next writing project. Now if only I could find the time to work on it...

I shall frame this and hang it next to my diploma

"We all start out the same way, and then life happens. One of the great powers of journalism is to record that. There is no such thing as "the other." It's more important to write about the sameness than the things that divide us."

-Jacqui Banaszynski

And that's why I'm in j-school.

Cheer up, buttercup!

Today has been comically awful. It's just been one of those days where anything that could go wrong inevitably went wrong.

I got chewed out bright and early this morning by my future editor. (I cried.) Found out our basketball coach is leaving. (Cried.) Got my first F on a test that I actually, believe it or not, studied for. (Didn't cry, but I did have a minor freak out session.) I got a nice fat bill from the University for I have no idea what, since I thought everything was paid up at the beginning of the semester. Between that, a torn contact, five stubbed toes, being late to absolutely everything and now having a mountainous pile of studying facing me... you would think that I wouldn't be a happy camper right now.

But I am a smiling fool today. At first I did it on purpose. I read an article in "O" (it's my therapy, I'm telling you) that just the act of smiling, even when you don't feel like it, releases endorphins that will cheer you up. It talked about the power of optimism, too. So what started out as a forced effort accumulated into me dancing in my living room for 15 minutes, and laughing hysterically when I got that hefty bill ten minutes ago. Maybe I'm just finally having a nervous breakdown from all the stress, but I'd like to think that this positivity thing is working.

Can I get a mulligan on today? Tomorrow will be better. It has to be.

Time to put my big girl pants on

When I sat down behind the wheel of my car yesterday, I got a sudden whim to drive through my old part of town, where my mom and I lived, oh, ten years ago. I've been back here for a little over a year now, but I'd just never felt the urge to swing by before. I guess I was having a nostalgic moment. So without even thinking about it I wound up in my old stomping grounds and was greeted with the most warm and fuzzy feeling I've ever experienced in my life.

Only not really.

What a wreck! Our quaint little street now looks like the backdrop for a drug deal scene in a sketchy movie. I actually felt a tad nervous cruising around, and booked it out of there pretty quickly. Maybe I just had rose-colored glasses on when I was ten and saw happiness and sunshine everywhere I turned. Who knows. We've never been wealthy by any means, but I still consider myself privileged -- I got a used but decent car when I turned sixteen and I always knew I would go to college, even if I had to pay for it with loans. So maybe we didn't live in the Hamptons, but I'm not complaining. My childhood was unorthodox but a good one.

I'll admit that this wasn't the first time I'd explored an old abode. A few years ago when I just so happened to be in Kansas City, conveniently close to my earlier childhood home, I might have swung by. It might have been abandoned and I might have let myself in and laughed hysterically because my old bedroom still looked like an insane asylum -- white walls, floor and all. I also might have taken a piece of the siding on my way out which my mother claims is likely contaminated with asbestos. (If the first place looks like the backdrop for a drug deal scene, this place would be the prime locale for a post-apocalyptic flick.)

Anyway, as I was leaving yesterday (hurriedly), I glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed something: my scar.

When I was six or so, we were in the middle of K-Mart and I jumped up to give my sister a hug. Long story short: chin met forehead, and we both wound up in the hospital for stitches. So I've had this pretty noticeable scar on my forehead (not Harry Potter worthy, but a forehead scar nonetheless) for the majority of my life, and I'm totally blind to it. Seriously haven't noticed that thing in years. But here I am in my old neighborhood, realizing my adulthood sight is quite different from my childhood sight, when I see it again. Isn't it funny how time and age blind us to certain things?

It was an eye-opening moment for me at any rate...one of those, "oh crap, I'm growing up" realizations. Which conveniently came on the same day that a speaker advised my class on job hunting -- and warned us to get started NOW. Yikes. Time to put my big girl pants on.

Basketball and my new weekly therapy

I am still catching up on sleep and reminiscing about the Big 12 Tournament last week. Basketball, cool people, and free food... what else can a girl ask for?

That kid in the photo was definitely the number one fan of the tournament. People gave him a lot of crap because he was cheering for a different team every night (Mizzou first, I might add), but he was having the most fun out of anyone there. I had to laugh at myself at one point; I was seriously considering ending my relationship with basketball because it causes me to experience more emotions in a two-hour time period than most menopausal women, and the stress alone could kill me. Then I realized that there were tens of thousands of people (possibly more, I never won those things that made you guess how many jelly beans were in a jar) crowded into this building and screaming their heads off while a bunch of college kids tossed a ball around and tried to get it through a hoop. Sometimes I feel like we really haven't evolved that much as a species.

But I digress. I'm attempting to get back into the swing of things after several glorious days away from work and school. If my entire semester GPA doesn't plummet from this one week of professional slacking, I'll be highly surprised.

Yesterday I read a couple articles in "O" -- the Oprah magazine -- and decided it's going to have to be my weekly (or daily? hourly?) therapy. I had such an "aha!" moment...but more on that later. For now I'm going to enjoy this gorgeous 65-degree weather we're having...while studying for my meteorology exam tomorrow. (Can someone please explain to me why I need to know meteorology to be a magazine journalist?) Marcela and I went on a walk around the block today -- do you have any idea how long it takes a 4-year-old to walk around the block? -- and it was just one of those days that's so peaceful and quiet it feels like nothing has ever been or ever will go wrong. I love those days.

(By the way...for all you basketball fans out there: Can we just agree that Colorado not getting picked for the tournament was the biggest snub ever!?! Ugh. Sunshine and daises...I'm totally zen.)

The good in flowers and mayonnaise

(Photo from Life.com. It's an awesome website. Check it out.)

Isn't it crazy how life can just be going on as normal, and the next second it's up in flames? A massive earthquake that destroys your home. Or that look a doctor gives you when he has bad news. I once read a story about a man who was killed when a plane crashed into his living room while he watched TV. I'm not trying to be morbid; it just reminds you of how fragile life is. I think all you can do is enjoy the little things, and be in constant appreciation for the good in your life.

When I moved away in January of last year, my best friend and I decided to email each other everyday with five good things that happened that day. Sometimes I struggle and only come up with things like, "Saw some pretty flowers." Or "I thought I was out of mayonnaise, but I wasn't." Other days I can't help from gushing and my five good things turn into fifteen. But it all counts. We've been keeping it up for over a year now. And even when my day is crazy and I forget to email her, it still helps me notice the good in the flowers and the mayonnaise.

And really, that's the best we can do.

In the words of Marcela, "I have too much to do!!! I need a break!!!"

Today Marcela was sitting on the living room floor surrounded by a pile of blocks, an unfinished puzzle, and a basket of toys. She looked around at everything, got a horrified look on her face, and yelled, "I have too much to do!!! I need a break!!!" and flopped down on the floor. Oh, to be four again.

I joined the Annoying Reporter Club tonight when I blocked 40 people in a barn while interviewing the founder of Cedar Creek Therapeutic Center after their volunteer training. Oops. I've never gotten so many loathsome looks at once... which is somewhat surprising after the high school I went to. Better get used to it I guess -- Reporting this summer! Woo!

I'm attempting to complete my entire list of work for the week in only two days as I'm leaving for Kansas City tomorrow evening for some Big 12 basketball action. But my thoughts will be with my lovely, BA cousin going through a double mastectomy in the morning. Have I mentioned cancer messes with the wrong people? At least she will be one step closer to kicking this thing in the ass. Excuse my French. Cancer deserves it.

My mother just sent me a picture message of her and my sister eating burgers in the movie theatre. Not. Nice.

A letter for Bill

I'm not really one to go spewing my religious views all over the Internet, mostly because they're conflicted and all over the place at the moment, but I just wanted to share a quick story that I found really encouraging.

My friend's dad, we'll call him Bill, got the worst news of his life on Wednesday. Today, Bill received a letter in the mail from an old friend whom he hadn't heard from in a long time. The letter was written on Tuesday. It was filled with encouragement because the friend felt, for some unknown reason, that Bill would need it.

There is someone looking out for us. Even when we can't see for ourselves.

Caution: corny line may ensue

My roommate always laughs at me because I take so many pills. That sounds awful. Correction: I take a lot of vitamins. Supplemental stuff, because I have a crappy diet and the immune system of a dead squirrel. Well, two more vitamins can be added to the regimen after my yearly eye exam today. Apparently I am so pale that even my eyes don't have enough pigment to protect my "macula" from the sunlight...basically, I have all the markers for developing macular degeneration down the line. Call me crazy, but I, like, really don't want to lose my vision. How will I read!?! How will I watch movies!?! How will I blog for the hundreds of thousands of readers I have by then!?! (Joke.) But seriously. I once lost my vision during a church service -- due to my first ever migraine -- and it was terrifying. So hopefully with the help of these handy dandy vitamins, and the hardcore sunglasses I also ordered, I will be able to hang on to my vision and see all my grandbabies' faces someday.

In other news, I arrived home to find FLOWERS! from two of my lovely friends (one of whom is in Spain right now!). I assumed they were belated birthday flowers, but no, they were "just because" flowers to brighten my day. That they did. I just hope neither Bri nor Lizzie goes to jail, like the last person who bought me flowers. I would feel slightly guilty.

Okay. Get off your computer and go look at something pretty or stare at someone you love ... because your vision shouldn't be wasted, and your loved ones should never be taken for granted.

(Yes, I'll take some wine with that cheese.)

I survived Snowpacolypse 2011, and all I got was this shovel

Unless you've shoveled 24 inches of snow and ice from your driveway AND half your street, you have no idea the sense of accomplishment I felt at this moment. I had a strong urge to scream out, "I am woman, hear me roar," but I was out of breath. (For an entire week.)

A big thank you to my dear mum, who never made me shovel the driveway -- but did instill me with a sense of stubborn, inextinguishable will.

(Try saying that five times fast.)

A bean burrito with queso, please

I'm afraid my earlier post about following your impulses may have been slightly misleading, as I am not as ballsy as I imagined myself to be. I came to this conclusion while standing in the cosmetics aisle at Walmart for an entire five minutes of my life that I'll never get back, debating over whether to go with the same tube of mascara I'd been using, or to try the "dramatic effect" version. 'How dramatic is dramatic?' I asked myself. 'I have enough drama in my life as is. I know my mascara works. But this mascara could be the best mascara ever invented! Or it could be a waste of five bucks...' This is literally the carousel ride my mind went on until I finally walked away with the same old, undramatic tube of mascara. (Did you know undramatic was a word? Me neither.)

Sure, if my gut tells me to pack up and leave my life, I oblige happily. But if my gut doesn't give two cents about my cosmetics choices, I'm entirely unwilling to take a risk. And it's not just mascara. Anyone who has ever eaten out with me on multiple occasions knows that I have one dish of choice at each restaurant, and that's what I'm sticking with. Going somewhere new is a nightmare. Before my last date, I actually looked up the online menu so I could take as long as needed to find something my bland taste buds would approve of. (This completely backfired when the restaurant we planned on going to was full and we were forced to relocate, but I made do.) I will not try something new if I can help it. I had myself talked into getting bangs the other day, but after losing half a night's sleep over it, I dismissed the idea. If it's not broken, why fix it?

I'm prone to overanalyzing why I tick the way I tock, but maybe the answer here is that I'm just a giant pansy. Or maybe it's okay to pick a dish and stick with it. Because quite honestly, that's the only thing I've ever been able to decide on. I've enrolled at five colleges but attended two, changed my major a dozen times; take one look at my closet and you won't be able to figure out if I'm a kindergarten teacher or rock band groupie. So yes, I will take a bean burrito with queso at El Charro and the Key West chicken and shrimp at Cheddar's...please give me a bowl of buttered noodles at Noodles and Co., and Hotbox -- well you don't even ask what I want anymore.

In other news, happy 80th birthday to Marlene Crane, and if you're ever driving to or from St. Louis on I-70, stop by her restaurant off Exit 161 North and get an ice cream cone. (And a pulled pork sandwich with a side of cottage cheese. That's my usual.)

A little Saturday night sentimentalism

"I love that you get cold when it's 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 above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the 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 it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's 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."

-When Harry Met Sally

Favorite quote from my favorite chick flick. Home and ill on a Saturday night. Why do I not own this movie?? Guess I'll settle for something else from my Meg Ryan collection and dig into my spinach pizza. Cheers!

A lesson in cross cultural affairs

Yesterday I took my first Cross Cultural Journalism exam, which consisted entirely of essays. I was totally stumped on the last essay prompt, because of course it just so happened to be from the one lecture I've missed so far this semester. But I am an expert BSer and a fairly decent writer, so I launched into a heartfelt essay about how we need to let go of our stereotypic thinking and move away from prejudice, and how as journalists it's our responsibility to bridge the gap, etc etc.

Now, I'd like to believe I'm open-minded when it comes to cross cultural issues. (As I've learned in this class it's wrong of me to say that I'm not prejudiced because we all are, and admitting it is the first step to moving past it.) My best friend in elementary school was a Muslim, and she took me to her mosque and taught me about her culture. Later on, at my first college, I befriended a group of Chinese girls and drove them to the airport over fall break and learned about their culture, also. I make it a point to be friendly to international students. If I'm homesick, I can't imagine how they feel. This is all to explain why when a young man from the Congo (whom I later found out to be 26 - not quite so young in comparison) asked if he could take the seat next to mine at the piano bar last night, I welcomed him to our table warmly.

I don't know my African culture too well. Maybe I smiled too much or held eye contact for an inappropriate amount of time, or did something American that led him to believe I was interested. (Keep in mind, please, that this was after an earlier conversation with my friend about if I should respond when a random guy at a Chinese restaurant says hi to me. I argued that if I answered, I opened myself up to more conversation. She reminded me to be polite.) Anyway, I've always been very interested in the Congo, so when the conversation steered towards things like, "You're very beautiful. I'm going to request a song for you," I tried to steer it back to things like, "How long have you lived in the US? What's the Congo like?" With my essay freshly penned, I forced myself to keep an open mind and continuously reminded myself that because his English wasn't so hot, he wasn't communicating exactly what it was he meant to say. So I smiled and nodded along and even felt slightly flattered when he took off his hat and said that it was a sign that he respected me, like his father or mother. But then things got a little weird. I believe the actual quote was, "I wish you could have my children."

Say what!?!?!?! If any other guy had said that to me, I would have slapped him across the face. But STILL I tried to be understanding and bridge the gap. Surely that was not really what he meant to say. I shot back with, "What are you studying?" (Smooth, I know.) His answer: to be a gynecologist. I might have vomited in my mouth a little bit. But still, I told myself, gynecology is a valid profession, even though I will never understand why any man chooses it. He went for a new tactic at this point, writing on a slip of a paper and passing it to me. It read, "Eli, I need a white girlfriend. Can you help me with this?" I tried to ignore my friends who were laughing hysterically on my other side (thanks for having my back, guys), and explained to him innocently and non-commitally that I was too young. To this he asked if I had a sister. Charming. He started complaining then that he had been here for four years (four!? I was less forgiving of the cultural gap at this news), and still he could not find a white girlfriend. I tried excusing us all with the fact that we're focusing on school right now. "But if you find a man with enough money," he says, "you wouldn't need school." Ha. I laughed at the thought of what my mother or former women's studies professor would have to say about that, and did my best to convince him that I would still want a degree no matter what. (Which he did not believe, and maybe subconsciously I don't believe either. A life of travel rather than studying? Gee. Tough call.)

Despite my best efforts to rein in the situation, he began to lean over me and introduce himself to my friend, setting his hand dangerously close to places where he will spend a majority of his time if he in fact becomes a gynecologist. At this point I excused myself to the bathroom.

I convinced my friends to finish their drinks and escape the bar shortly after, assuring Dr. Congo that I would be back next Thursday. (Which of course isn't true in the slightest; I can never return to the piano bar on a Thursday night again.)

After much karaoke, a long stroll to the diner in the slush and snow, a parking lot dance-off and sprinkle-covered chocolate chip pancakes, I managed to shake off the odd encounter. I'm still not sure where I went wrong and how to avoid a repeat scenario in the future...maybe my cross cultural professor can teach me a thing or two. For now, I can only hope not to run into Dr. Congo again. Especially at a future gynecology appointment.

Impulse: [im-puhls]

-noun

1. sudden, involuntary inclination prompting to action

2. a psychic drive or instinctual urge

3. an impelling action or force, driving onward or inducing motion

I'd like to argue that good things always come from impulses. You might think this is naive of me, being the silly 21-year-old I am, but in my experiences thus far it's proven to be correct. Take, for instance, me moving here. Total impulse. I can't recall the actual timeline, but I feel like I decided it and was here two weeks later. In fact, I was on an entirely opposite path at the time, but now here I am. And I think it's safe to say it was probably the best life decision I've made so far.

Also take into account my last two New Year's, which have both involved impulsive roadtrips and ended up pretty fantastic, thus kick-starting both 2010 and 2011 with a bang. Basically every pair of shoes I own was bought on impulse. I'm sure I could compile more evidence but my brain is a little fried after this week. Just suffice it to say, I am always happy with my impulses. Even when they seem like the wrong choice at first and I can't help but wonder if I royally screwed up. At least I learned from them, right?

Impulses are genuine. Words spoken on impulse are always true -- even if you want to bite your tongue later, and even if you didn't realize they were true at the time. My professor once said that our true selves are hindered by our need to rationalize everything or by our fear of failure... like when you have an impulse to help an old lady with her groceries but you don't offer because you're in a hurry, or you figure she'll turn down the help. (Am I the only one this happens to EVERY time I'm at Walmart?) Your true self may be compassionate and all, but your rational self is kind of a selfish jerk. Anyway, my professor challenged us to go one week without thinking everything through and to just DO. I helped a lot of ladies with their groceries that week.

My long, rambling point is... follow your impulses. They're good for the soul.

(I wish I could say this was an impulsive post, but it wasn't. I thought about it on the bus this afternoon.)

Tattoos and other distractions

What happened to my valedictorian habits? Now every time I crack open my laptop to get a little studying done, I end up on Facebook or catching up on blogs. I have a major exam tomorrow that I am not prepared for whatsoever... let's just say an all-nighter is in my future.

My current distraction: I have tattoos on the brain. I blame my sister. It's her day off and she's been texting me about her latest tattoo itch. To be fair, I've known for years now that I need to get my silly sun tattoo fixed because I'm pretty tired of people asking if it's a sticker or if I drew it on my foot. Why they think I'm that weird person who draws on my feet, I haven't the slightest. (Although I did tell my grandma once that my friend Ariel drew it on my foot...sorry Ariel. She forgot fifteen minutes later anyway.)

I got the sun tattoo because my dad always called me "Sunshine" when I was little. But now I'm thinking about replacing the sun with a rose (or roses) because one of my first memories in life (possibly the very first) is sitting on the porch between my grandad and his friend Alf, who became my surrogate grandad after mine passed away. Alf called me "a rose between thorns." I've clung to that phrase and always thought it a brilliant way to live your life. My mom has a couple rose tattoos also. I won't disclose where. So it's either vamp up my silly sun tattoo, or replace it with the roses. Decisions decisions. Either way, it isn't going to feel very good.

Here's the rose design I like:

I highly doubt I could fit that whole thing on my foot, but you get the idea.

I half wish I had no tattoos at all, but it's a little late for that. Ah, the things we do when we're young. I have a Hebrew tattoo on my wrist, and I assured my mother that it was fine, I would cover it up with a giant watch or bracelet whenever I went in for a job interview. Now I completely forget that it's there. I've still been offered several jobs since, though, so apparently I'm not being judged too harshly for it. Whenever someone spots it for the first time, the first question is always, "What's it mean?" (The answer being "life.") The second is inevitably, "Are you Jewish?" I had no idea that only Jewish people are allowed to get Hebrew tattoos, but it's totally acceptable to get Chinese symbols drawn all over yourself. Oopsies. Like my Auntie Gwynn said, Jesus grafted me into the Jewish family.

Anywho. While you all are spending your night at church services or watching Modern Family, I will be studying cross cultural journalism and brushing up on my grammar. I had to laugh when my Chinese friend Youyou got a 98 on our practice grammar exam, and I got a 78. Us Americans don't speak English too good.

Drum roll please...

...it's my first post as a 21-year-old!

Well, the new freedoms are dandy. You know, finally being able to tag along on Thursday nights when my friends go to the piano bar. Or being able to rent a hotel room when I HAVE to get out of the house and have nowhere else to go. (I'm not sure how often I will do this...but I enjoy having the option.) But for the life of me, I cannot shake the feeling that I am OLD. My youth has escaped me. My carefree days are over. I'm at the top of the hill. Et cetera, et cetera.

Hypothetically speaking, of course, I might have had a momentary quarter-life crisis and cried all the way to the highway when I left home this weekend. I also might have wailed to my sister about how I wanted to be sixteen again, that I'm not ready for adulthood and it's all going to go downhill from here. (She's about to turn 27 and doesn't have much patience for me, though.) But am I right?? It's not like I haven't had my fair share of grown up problems...I've become intimately acquainted with the three D's: divorce, death, and disease. I have more life experience than some 40-year olds, but that's enough for now! I look from little Marcela, who cries when you cut her fingernails and throw away the clippings before she gets to say goodbye to them, to my beautiful and unnamed cousin, only 30 and battling breast cancer. I am 17 years Marcela's senior and only nine years away from my 30th birthday bash; something tells me it's only going to get hairier from here. (Ironic...the Harry Potter ice cream cake my mother ordered me said "Harry 21st, Eliza!")

Anyway, enough with my freak-out session and on to a little Kodak action.

(Disclaimer: I am 100% sober in this picture. Cross my heart. I just have a goofy smile.)

Birthday dress: $70

Sparkly shoes: $40

Ridiculous birthday hat: $9

Three birthday cakes: A million calories

Clinging to your youth with ring pops and a Harry Potter ice cream cake: Priceless

Grandma Flo-isms

Today is my grandmother's birthday. I'm fairly certain she's 81, but don't quote me on that. She's pretty colorful for an old broad... one of her coined expressions is "well, shit a brick." (Sometimes she replaces brick with gumdrop. I've never caught on to the reasoning.)

Another fun fact: she has Alzheimer's. Therefore I despise Alzheimer's. Not that I wouldn't despise it otherwise, but something about watching a loved one forget you really ups the ante. She used to call me her "baby grand"... not because I resemble a piano (although maybe I do?), but because I'm the youngest of her grandchildren. The last time I visited she introduced me as her niece. She rarely has those moments, but they're zingers.

Lately I've had a major sweet tooth. I don't allow myself to regularly keep chocolate in the house or I would gain twenty pounds in a heartbeat. (I did make a batch of brownies tonight, but I forgot to spray the pan and I can't get them out. Tragedy? Indeed.) Anyway, I've resorted to grabbing the bag of brown sugar and treating myself to a spoonful. I just realized yesterday that this was a habit that came from my dear old grandma. Whenever I was sick (and I was sick often), she would drive up to take care of me. She let me watch cartoons all day and fed me spoonfuls of brown sugar. Consequently, I didn't recover very quickly.

My favorite Grandma Flo-ism: "Don't do anything you couldn't do upside down a bicycle." She still says this to me every time I leave. Some things never change.

Buy me flowers, go to jail

I am not entirely sure what the purpose of this blog is. I mean, I'm trying to maintain some level of commitment because roughly 95% of the internships and jobs I've looked into applying to have asked for writing samples and a blog address. I feel like I need some sort of angle or theme, but I guess I'll stick with my boring ramblings for now. Onward!

Today I walked into a grocery store and saw all the pretty Valentine's Day flowers and had a quick, "Aww, I wish I had someone to buy me flowers" moment. I'm a total sucker for flowers. Then I realized that the last time someone bought me flowers was my birthday, almost exactly a year ago. They were from my friend Brady, but on the way to my apartment he got pulled over and I guess he had some sort of outstanding warrant for not showing up to court, so he got arrested. I wound up going downtown with my roommate to bail him out. Moral of the story: buy me flowers, get arrested.

I think hardcore, bitter Valentine's Day haters are kind of amusing. I do plan on beating the crap out of a piñata, but that has less to do with my feelings towards Valentine's Day and more about my need for stress relief and candy. I miss living with my mom because she would always get me something cheesy. Last year's gift was the best: build your own boyfriend magnets. My magnetic boyfriend still lives on my refrigerator. He generally hangs out in boxers and a tie, but occasionally someone will come along and dress him up in his leather jacket and/or cowboy boots.

A random girl I went to high school with just left for Rome yesterday with her boyfriend. (Thank you Facebook, for status updates that make my life pale in comparison.) It was a surprise trip he planned for her. She had no idea until they were on their way to the airport. THAT'S the kind of boyfriend I want. Someone who will take me on a spontaneous getaway to Italy. That's not too much to ask, is it? I'm allowed to have ridiculous standards. I'm still young.

Words of advice from a cool, albeit crappy, hairdresser

This evening, I forked over my used and abused debit card for quite possibly the worst haircut I've ever received. I've been consoling myself with food and Hulu ever since.

Although she royally blew at cutting my hair, she did give me some pretty good life advice: "You just have to figure out who you are and stop fighting it, or you'll make yourself miserable."

This shall be my mission.

Facebook, four-year-olds, & chocolate pie

I recently came to the decision that Facebook is not the place to communicate with my mother and her somewhat nosy friends, among other people. This idea manifested shortly after a little girl I used to babysit friend requested me. (I feel old.) Let's be honest, college kids say and do stupid things. And it is downright exhausting to censor myself and three hundred other idiots my age. So I made use of the unfriend button, upped my privacy settings, and changed my name. I'm now doing intense research into how exactly prospective employers hack into your page... not that I have any notion to job hunt in the near future, seeing as my new life plan is to be a starving artist.

It was my inconceivable joy to watch the girls today for nine straight hours. My goal was to keep the seven-year-old, home sick, from moving...convince the recently contentious four-year-old to listen to me...and keep the impossible-to-please baby from screaming her cute little head off. This proved to be a tall order. I had to put Marcela, 4, into time-out for only the second time in the five months I've been watching her. Her new favorite word is no, and her new favorite look could kill. I told her she could come out when she was ready to behave, but she lasted thirty minutes in self-isolation. I'm oddly proud of her stubbornness.

At one point, I was carrying the screaming baby around while Marcela knocked a glass of water over onto a pile of paperwork just as Isabel started to throw a tantrum because her bun was coming loose and she was leaving for ballet class in two minutes. I'm not entirely sure that motherhood is for me. At least not motherhood of multiples.

By the time I left, I actually looked more haggard than I did when I showed up this morning. I did sneak a piece of chocolate pie before I left though. Pie makes everything better.

A quote to live by

"Don't ask yourself what the world needs...ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."

-Howard Thurman

Résolutions de 2011

Eat an apple per day to keep the doctor away.

Get my shopping habit under control.

Go to church, read the Bible, be in prayer... figure out what faith means to me.

Find a sanctuary.

Write write write.

Be present.

Be intentional.

No regrets. And so far, I have none.