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.