The baby Greg

I have never before taken care of a baby that cried so much.



He is most comfortable in a specific pose: he needs to throw his head back and face you, staring up at you while you support his head. When he's happy, his lips purse and his eyes cross as he tries to look at your face. When he's upset, his upper lip starts to quiver and then he gasps for air before expressing his disappointment in a surprisingly non-abrasive way.



He's usually upset because he hates all bodily functions. All of them. He can't stand burping, spitting up, or anything out the other end.

I thought I'd gotten used to him. He'd certainly gotten used to me--I was finally able to put him to sleep and even make him laugh. When we'd met for the second time Dec. 24, after our initial meeting Thanksgiving Day, he started crying the moment I touched him. Now, he seemed able to tolerate me. But then something happened I did not expect at all.



I was trying to feed him. He was crying, and nothing could make him happy. He took a few sips from the bottle, then was completely disinterested. Then the projectile vomiting started. I was alone with him--his mother had left to run some errands, and I sat there in horror while he gushed forth, three times, streams of spit up. It was everywhere. Then his face grew red and he cried, and finally, he had no strength left and lay listless in my arms.

I was horrified, and quickly found my phone to call my sister. She didn't pick up, but a few seconds later she walked in through the door. When I explained what happened, she said, "Oh yeah, he does that. He can't digest his food sometimes."



I have a small amount of patience, but my sister's capacity is even smaller. She's the only person that has the ability to truly calm him, and she is either fed up or so tired that she's ready to ... well, she once used a very strong word that I'm sure she didn't mean because she needs sleep.

"He does that."

Poor baby.

Merry Christmas Eve

Oddly enough, I've realized that I've misplaced my bad luck, and while I can't say I miss it, it does feel strange not to have it around. I fully expect it to show up relatively soon, especially because I'm writing about it, and writing about something like bad luck automatically jinxes the writer. It's a rule. These rules are printed in gold on parchment, and they are handed out in elementary school, along with cooties and crushes.

Somewhere, somehow, I switched a fully panicked interior and exterior for a much calmer version.

For example, when I made it to Penn Station today and found my train, I fully believed that I'd gotten on the wrong train. This has become a tradition for me.

Yet I didn't panic, which is what I normally do. I normally start to sweat and freak out and call my mother and explain that, well, I'm sorry, but I might be a little late for the holiday.

Instead, I realized that if I had gotton on the wrong train, I was still headed to Dover, and I'm fairly certain I could just disembark at Dover and get on a train headed in the other direction. It's like driving. If you make a wrong turn, you can turn around. This sage piece of advice was given to me by a friend, and, I must say, it was a breath of fresh air in a dank room--especially because I tend to freak out on a regular basis.

Or, shall we say, I tended to freak out on a regular basis. I don't know why I am suddenly so calm and collected.

As if in homage to my new thought processes, when I was faced with traveling, on two separate occasions, down a flight of stairs, and then up a flight of stairs, two different gentlemen carried my over-stuffed, two-ton bag for me.

It made me feel all grown up and something like a lady.

I'm sorry, fellas, that it was so heavy. After all, I'm going to be in Pennsylvania for awhile, and I couldn't figure out how to pack any lighter. But thanks again, and Merry Christmas.

I'm off to be surprisingly calm and collected ... my family is coming to get me tomorrow. I'll see if they can break me. They usually do.

Have a great holiday, faithful readers. Merry Christmas. Happy Hannukah. Happy New Year.

Conversations with Grace

When I'm bored, I sometimes text my sister Grace and ask what crazy thing happened to her that day. Sometimes it takes a little while, but she always provides me with a story. Most often, they don't make sense, but because it's Grace, my crazy, crazy sister Grace, it's all hilarious to me.

"Chip brought me the clothes I left at his house and two of the three shirts weren't mine."

"He gave me roses and I gave them to my teacher."

"Well, I went to walk in between these two people and I got stuck and they started to pull me with them! So I started to yell and then they noticed me and separated."

"Well yesterday I was drinking my juice in class minding my own business and this kid throws his bag at me! It hit my arm and made the juice spill all over me! So then he bends over to pick his bag up and I pour the rest of my juice all over him."

"Well actually this kid spit on my chair in class it was so gross."

I'm getting him the LOTR trilogy, plus The Hobbit, 'cause he's too cute

My 13-year-old brother, David, has a girlfriend. Her name is Meghan. He asked her out, and he picked her because of her personality and looks. They’ve been dating for a week and a couple of days.

“So,” he said after giving me the low-down, “How’s your love life?”

I laughed. “Nonexistent. But there’s this guy I’ve been talking to.”

M My 13-year-old turned 30-year-old brother then gave me some advice:

1. You can’t pursue the guy because some guys don’t respect you if you pursue them.
2. You have to let him know somehow that you like him and that you wouldn’t mind having a relationship with him.

“How do you let – how would I, as the girl, let him know I wouldn’t mind having a relationship with him?” I asked, bemused.

“I have no clue. You just have to let him know somehow,” he said.

“How did Meghan let you know?”

“She didn’t.”

“So how did you know to ask her out?”

“We’ve been friends for awhile, so I decided to take the gamble,” he said, suddenly becoming 35.

“Will you take her on a date?

“If I had any money. I’m getting a job soon. But we do hang out a lot. I went to the dance with her. And I see her everyday in school. We have the same lunch block.”

“Where do you see this relationship going?”

“Good.”

“David, I love you. You’re so cute.”

I don't understand you

I've been trying to call my father all day. The decision about whether I will take a final exam early, or not, falls precariously into his hands. He may come to New York to visit his dying mother, he told me.

My grandmother has been dying for the past seven years. So far, she's survived two heart attacks and lung cancer. She's on an oxygen machine, and she'd continued to smoke cigarettes while on the oxygen machine, because apparently she forgot cigarettes were the reason she needed oxygen in the first place. She turned 80 on December 1, and I wanted to scream into the phone: HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE, WOMAN? But because she's my grandmother and I respect the elderly, I merely expressed happiness over her birthday, amazement that she was only 80, and enthusiasm that she was feeling "all right." "All right" is fabulous, terrific even, if anyone manages to survive what this woman has survived.

If my father does come visit, it should be barely a problem to swing into Brooklyn from Long Island and pick me and all my stuff up. IF. IF. My father is the biggest flaker in the history of the universe, and that is not a title I bestow lightly. If he ever tries to make plans with me, I always have back up plans because I know he is not going to follow through. The man is the reason that I have not only a Plan B, but I have a Plan C, a Plan D, a Plan E, and, in some cases, Plans all the way until Z.

I would like to think that he'll be able to come get me. I tried bribing him with coffee, a cheek smooch (I never like giving him those), and even singing him a song. I don't know his reaction to those bribes yet, because I poured those promises into a voicemail, and have not heard back from him all day. He finally did call back, some minutes ago, but I think his phone is possessed because all I heard was a lot of white noise and what seemed like the sound of people walking.

I have finals this week, but I have to buy Christmas presents today if I want them to have the slightest chance of coming on time, and I've been shopping SnapFish and Amazon. I needed to know if my brother wants the Lord of the Rings trilogy, or if he's already read them, and I tried calling my dad again.

This time, he picked up and called me sweetie.

Sweetie.

Sweetie??

"We're eating, sweetie. Let me call you right back," he said.

"You didn't call me back all day," I accused.

"We were busy, sweetie. We're eating now. I'll call you back soon," he said.

I demand to talk to my brother, who is, however, also busy, with food in his mouth. My dad promises he'll call right back, and I, disgruntled, let them finish their meal in peace.

Sweetie.

Really? ... Really?

There's only one reason he'd call me "sweetie." That reason is his bizarre girlfriend, who is, as my older sister said, "quite alright if you don't have to see her or talk to her." He has a carefully sculpted image to upkeep, I suppose, as we all do, in some way or another.

Today

Yes: 17
Si: 1
Oui: 1

I was voted into the position of news editor for the newspaper, and I am now third in command.

Plus, the financial aid lady told me I'm covered for next semester. The entire school is an incompetent organism. I'm getting what I pay for.

I am: The Ramon Noodle Queen

I discovered a new way to make Ramon noodles, and because I am procrastinating, I decided to share it with you. I have become increasingly creative with Ramon noodles since they are cheap and easy to make. The most important thing, however, is that they are easy to modify.

Tonight, I made them the regular way (Boil water. Add noodles. Turn off heat. Add seasoning), and as the noodles quickly softened in the furiously boiling water, I tried to decide if I wanted eggs or not. I even Pam’med a frying pan before I realized that I could just dump the raw egg into the soup. I hesitated only for a moment, recalling my childhood as the egg-drop-soup hater. A few minutes later, I lamented my hesitation. The finished product tasted delicious.

As I look back on my childhood now, I believe that my dislike of egg drop soup resulted from the fact that my older sister liked egg drop soup, and heaven forbid that I like anything she did. On the rare occasion we ordered Chinese food, I choose wonton soup and egg rolls, and those particular choices were relatively safe—meaning: I was sure to get some. While the nine other people I lived with (seven siblings + two parents; think Cheaper by the Dozen, not The Brady Bunch) were vying for the lo mein and fried rice, I stuffed myself with soup and crispy egg rolls smothered in duck sauce. Sometimes I would get some ribs—if I were lucky. Once, we took my dad’s containers of coins and traded them in at the supermarket’s coin machine for $60. The Chinese food we got with the money was the best I ever had. We were really, really hungry.

Other ways to make Ramon noodles:

1. The regular, boring way. To experience the full effect of the sodium on your system, drain the water after allowing the seasoning to seep into the water, and eat the noodles with a fork. Or chopsticks.

2. The trying-to-be-healthy way. Cook some vegetables and add them to the soup. A previous roommate showed me this, and while I was skeptical at first, the result is quite tasty. Eat with chopsticks or one of those big Asian soups.

3. The heart-attack-inducing way. Drain the water from the noodles after adding seasoning. Whip one or two eggs and add to noodles. Try to mix the whole thing as well as you can. You may add milk for fluffiness. Fry in pan with Pam spray or butter. You may fry the whole thing at once, or separate into two patties. Cook until noodles are slightly crispy. Eat with soy sauce.

The here and now

I have a brand-new nephew, an adorable haircut, and ... oh, what's this ... a vise-like sensation gripping my skull. This headache signifies that I have signed up for a tuition pay plan to pay off next semester. I apparently am not receiving any more financial aid, and it will now cost my soul (signed away with a contract written in my own blood) and first born to finish my degree.

I wish this is something I could just blame on Bush and the flippin' retarded economy. But I can't. The fact of the matter is that I'm just a kid, trying to work my way through school, and I can't make enough to pay for rent, food, tuition, and MTA cards. What's that you say? Christmas is right around the corner? Insert inappropriate curse word here. No matter how many jobs I take on (three, last count) or how hard I try to finish school despite transferring (18 credits this and next semester), I can't seem to work it out.

I'm not looking for pity or to induce any sort of guilt. I merely want to present the idea that life is hard. People, life is hard, and we can blame the president or the economy, or we can take a moment to sigh, and then we need to keep moving forward. I heard once that if your childhood sucks, then your adulthood will be awesome. If I'm still a child, then I'll ride the wave a little bit longer. But if I am now an adult, then, dude, this still sucks.

Greg

Yes, thank you, my Thanksgiving was awesome.

More exciting news, for me, anyway

I get to see widdle Greg on Wednesday. AHH! SO EXCITED! I dressed, inadvertently, like a mom today, and therefore I believe that it is only fitting that I will get to be the one getting up that night every two hours to feed the little tyke and change his diaper.

Normal people, I know, don't get excited about losing sleep for an adorable, helpless infant, but I make no claims and try to tell no lies. I first started sleeping lightly, anyway, when I was 13, which is when my littlest sister was born. I would wake up in the middle of the night and bring her to mom. It was very traumatizing, one night, after she'd developed a bad cough that would only go away if she were picked up, when my mother and I both rushed to the crib during a particularly awful coughing spell, and mom, getting there first, broke her toe on a little stool accidentally left there by one of my many other siblings.

I hope to break no toes this Thanksgiving, get very little sleep, and eat plates of ham, turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, stuffing and pumpkin pie. I might eat some vegetables, too, but I'm not sure about that yet.

AHHHH!! SO EXCITED!!

I make up words when I'm lonely

Hup-lah (hoop-la) (noun): An epic trip that usually takes place after college graduation to stave off the real world. For example: Abigail plans to go to California after May to go on a huplah with her friends.

Huplah must not be confused with hoopla (bustling excitement or activity; commotion; hullabaloo; to-do), even though spelling and meaning are oddly similar.

--

I had been thinking of going on a huplah to Peru. After all, when would I really ever get the chance again to blow some hypothetical dollars using a credit card and have the adventure of a lifetime, all without worrying about classes (because they've ended), and student loans (because they're not due for six months)? My sense of adventure is not as strong as Jamaican rum, however, and, as a result, I want to share my huplah with someone. That someone is a good friend who lives in a cozy little town somewhere north of Sacramento, California.

Which means, of course, that I've got some plannin' to do. Huplahs have very specific guidelines, especially because they signify the end of freedom as relatively carefree college students know it.

I get hit on at the most random times

"I apologize for my curtness."

"I like your curtness. It's cute."

"Are you hitting on me?"

"No, I'm way out of your league."

"Oh?"

"You're like an eight, and I'm like a negative three."

In other, more exciting news

For our "extra credit" quiz/mid-term/whatever in Spanish, I earned a 9/10. I'm not sure what that means for my grade overall, but a 9/10 is much better than a 61/100.

Next Tuesday, for more "extra credit," these three slackers from my class and I will give a presentation on Peru. I will be talking about the weather, and giving the introduction. During the rest of my research, I will be trying to stay from any sites involving airplanes and booking possibilities, because I've already discovered that a flight there and back, not flexible, costs about $500. It's so very tempting to purchase such a ticket when the wind in Brooklyn sneaks up your sleeves and into your bones, while it bites your nose and clips off the tips of your ears.

I don't care if the weather in Peru is unpredictable. The natives are going to the beach this time of year and what am I doing? I'm sitting in a drafty apartment and trying to figure out how to fix the computer-related mistakes I foolishly made.

Trying to be an adult, yet always failing miserably

Insert an inappropriate curse word here. Several times.

Yesterday, I decided, in order to increase my laptop's start-up time and to clear disk space, that I would delete the programs I don't really use. I deleted about 10 such programs, including several expired "free trial" MSN games, AOL, and an instant messenger program.

It took a little time, but I soon noticed that my saved Word documents no longer were identified by the little 'W' icon. They were now rich text documents, as revealed by the little notebook and 'A' icon.

Additionally, a little warning '!' thingie announced in the right hand corner of the screen that my computer was no longer protected by an anti-virus program, and that I should get one ASAP--AS IN, RIGHT NOW--if I wanted to avoid losing my computer all together as a result of a malicious email or website designed by someone with waaay too much time and IQ.

I haven't discovered yet what else I may have inadvertently deleted, but, whatever it is, I hope it wasn't important.

A little bit of crooked sunshine

She was a little taller than waist level, bundled up in a pink coat, with a blue hat and white flower. She was standing in front of me, not exactly looking at me. I glanced down, smiled, and said, “Hi!”

Children usually make my day better. There is no guile, no sarcasm, no cruelty. Their smiles are genuine, their energy infectious.

She smiled, still not quite looking at me, not quite looking away. Then she started walking toward me, as her parents, waiting to pay for their Starbucks drinks, watched.

She hugged me. Confused, I patted her back as her father said, “She never gives me hugs!” and her mother, handing a card to the cashier said, “That’s just the way she is. She says hi to the people she wants to say hi to.”

The hug over, the little girl retreated, and then started to wander away, behind a pillar. Her mother grabbed the receipt and then quickly grabbed her daughter. The Starbucks drinks disappeared into a bag, and then the small family was gone.

Mornings and brand-new babies

The last few tendrils of sleep had begun to barely drift away when my cell phone buzzed.

I was so warm--so warm, and cozy, subconsciously delighted that the winter drafts had not yet begun to invade my sleepy mornings--that I groaned, thinking, no, please, it can't be time to get up yet. Not yet.

I reached for my cell phone, saw a text message--two text messages, three.

He's here; he's finally arrived.

I'll text them back at a reasonable hour, I decided, the ache in my head winning out over the joy I might have possibly felt if I'd possessed full, coherent thoughts.

Five minutes later, my phone buzzed again, this time repeatedly. A call. I groggily reached for my phone again, and managed to get one eyelid open enough to see the name. My 8-year-old sister, calling from her brand-new cell.

I'll call her back later, I decided.

Two seconds later, another buzz. Voicemail.

I reached for my phone and turned it to "alarm only." I still had another hour before I got up, and it was best for everyone if I slept until then.

When I finally made it out of bed, I had three or four pictures texts, two regular texts, one missed call and a voicemail.

The baby is finally here, the delivery went well, he's an absolutely doll, mom is doing fine.

I, and the rest of siblings, are now aunts and uncles for the third time. Hello, beautiful Baby Greg*. I can't wait to meet you, hopefully at a decent hour. As in, some time after 10 or so, perhaps.



*Not his real name. His real name is so interesting and unique that you probably wouldn't believe me if I told it to you. I decided to nickname him something "normal." Greg is very normal.

We who are about to die

I am an editor at the better newspaper (there's two rival newspapers. Interesting and long history behind that) at my school. I give them advice on layout (which they don't want to take) and fix things they mess up (sometimes without telling them, and they don't realize why it's so much better). I also update their website, usually on a weekly basis.

I try to give them their space; they're all editors who are more important than I, with specific expectations on how their newspaper is run. I am something of an outsider and loner, having leaped into an editor position since I'd already climbed the ranks at my other school.

I usually don't comment on what they do.

Except, this time, they wrote something in their editorial that struck me. They wrote, "We at the ______ salute you." They were writing it to the young voters who turned out in record numbers for this election. This particular statement struck me because I've learned about Roman history. I've even watched the well-made movie Gladiator. I hope you have as well, because it is really a good movie, despite the incest and gore. There is a scene where the gladiators stand in the ring, prepared to die. They face the emperor, salute him, and shout, "We who are about to die salute you."

Historical fact: gladiators saluted the emperor when they were about to die--dying for the entertainment of the masses, who wanted gore and bread.

I'm not sure what the use of this particular phrase says about my newspaper, or my school, or my country. I merely found it to be an unfortunate use of words that were usually the last words of a man condemned to death, before he fought for his life in front of a crowd who could determine his fate merely by the position of an outstretched thumb.

There's no point here. Go read somewhere else.

I like animals. I really do. I'm just not sure how capable I am when it comes to taking care of one for an extended period of time--say, years. After all, I once had a lovebird and after some time I gave it to my younger brother, in whose possession the poor thing met an untimely death when my dad exposed it to the chill of a Pennsylvanian winter night. Or so the story goes.

I like cute, baby animals. That's about as far as I go. Then, some months ago, I found the perfect pet. I'm not sure why I was digging around for a pet. I don't even intend to get a pet. I suppose I merely accidentally stumbled across it. But if I ever did seriously think about getting a pet (besides a kitten from my favorite California pals), it would be this.

All hypothetical, of course. I can't afford nor do I have the time for a pet right now. Yet, a mini hedgehog is nocturnal, cute, cuddly, clean, and could fit in the palm of my hand, or so they claim. Sounds perfect to me.

Today, I found a blogger who claims to want a miniature hippo. In my opinion, the only thing weirder than wanting a miniature hedgehog is wanting a miniature hippo. Yet, she linked to this:


Now, in my opinion, the only thing cuter than a miniature hedgehog is a miniature hippo.

And that's the weirdest post I've ever posted at 2:30 a.m. Good night.

Outcome of the Spanish exam

61. A 'C', the prof says.

But he's going to give a present -- an extra credit opportunity next Thursday. A 30-question quiz, with a list of 60 verbs to choose from.

I haven't earned an exam grade in the 60s since my high school pre-calculus class, where I was the only girl. Granted, there were only three students in that class altogether, but still.

Middle of the week update

Today, all of a sudden, as I realized that it was already Wednesday, and thought, my goodness, where did Tuesday go, my ridiculous schedule hit me. There aren't enough hours in the day to work three jobs, take 18 credits and try sustain some sort of social life. There just aren't, and I'm tired.

I'm drained from trying to coax thick-skulled undergrads towards coherent thoughts, amused that a certain coworker hit on me today, and worried--worried that I'm not going to get my projects done, that I'm not going to graduate on time because I can't find Spanish 2 to take over the winter break, and that I may just shrivel up and die.

Despite all that, I'm having a good time, and I'm horribly excited about getting my room finished before Monday. It's going to be such a cozy little nook that you'll be getting jealous and marking down the name of the paint I used on my walls (which I didn't choose, but I love). Boo yah.

I don't know who you are, but I'm sorry I wasn't there

I missed a call this morning at 11:08 a.m. I was putting the finishing touches on my old bedroom, which included giving it the once over and vacuuming like a loony toons character because was I was about to be late for work if I didn't leave soon.

Today, I moved from the apartment I lived in since the beginning of the summer. I moved in with a friend, someone I'd spent the last eight or so months getting to know. On a whim, I'd asked if she wanted to be my roommate, and to my surprise and delight, she said absolutely.

Walking to the train, I listened to the message I had missed. Someone, let's call her Mariam, was turning 20 today, and her sister, let's call her Faris, was throwing a surprise birthday party. Faris wanted to know if I could come-she got my number off her sister's phone-could I call to let her know?-she understood if I couldn't come-she even understood if I had to come late.

I couldn't make out the names and it sounded like no one I was familiar with anyway, and I decided not to call her back.

On the way home from work, I received a text:

Hey girl, this is Mariam's sis Faris. Just wanted 2 know if u can come! Trust me u dont hav 2 get her anything. Just u coming is a big surprise! Plz reply ty.

Ah, I realized that Mariam must have been one of the girls in my group presentation last week. We'd exchanged numbers and email addresses, but I hadn't really learned anyone's name--I only knew them by face. I certainly hadn't expected anyone to put my number in their phone, or for any sisters calling me to ask me to come to a surprise party for someone I only knew in passing.

It wasn't worth a lengthy text explanation, I decided. Faris must have called dozens of strangers asking them to come to a surprise party. That's unnerving, difficult work, even for a sister you loved. Keeping with the spirit of the day, I texted her back:

Unfortunately, i can't come. :-( But thanks for the invite! Please wish her happy birthday for me.

She responded:

:-( its Ok ... Sure on [sic] prob I will tell her .. Take care bye

Hehe, I thought. I hope Mariam had a good birthday. I hope she was surprised.

And me? My move? It was amazing and painless, except for the poor guys trying to get my sofa bed into my bedroom. They removed some paint from the door frame and it was difficult, but we all gave a rousing "HURRAH!" when they succeeded.

And someone commented: "That's why they have cheerleaders."

Condensed

I bombed the midterm.

I'm moving tomorrow. I mean, I'm moving today, in another 15 hours.

The end.

Just a moment

I'm starting to panic about an español mid-term I have tomorrow. I've freaked out over the exam for a week--it all started last week, martes, when he gave us the review material. We were supposed to have exams at the end of every chapter, but we are going to be tested on three pre-chapters and two chapters tomorrow.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to fail.

I just wanted to say, to all those kids who are taking this class, admittedly, for "an easy A": I don't like you. I don't like you at all. It's all your fault that he gave us homework from chapters that we aren't even supposed to cover this semester. It's all your fault we didn't have an exam one chapter ago. It's all your fault he has high expectations. IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, AND YOU'RE GOING TO PASS WITHOUT BREAKING ANY SEMBLANCE OF A SWEAT WHILE I DIE IN THE CORNER WRITHING IN SHEER AGONY.

I feel better now. Thanks for listening. I'm off to cram in some more español.

Midterms: hungry and studying

I used to eat roast beef, but found I liked ham instead.

Then I found ham too salty, and now I like roast beef again.

Senoritis

I thought today was Tuesday.

And as I was headed up the stairs to my first class, I stopped on the third floor instead of heading up to the fifth because I completely forgot where I was going.

Because I had a moment, with one of my classes canceled, I decided to grab a computer and illustrate how I feel:

Confused, perhaps, but warm (courtesy of scarf). Confused, but almost, nearly, practically done with four years of school.

Living a Jane Austen novel

UPDATE: I have added why I started writing my life as an Austen novel. In case you so wanted to know. And I know you did.

Literature of the 19th century is one of my classes this semester, and while the novels are fun to read, the ideas my professor relates to us can get rather tedious. Last week, during one of his soliloquies, I was suddenly intrigued by the idea of what my life might look like if I were in one of Austen's novels. I've had to adjust some details for it. My family is just too modern for Austen.

But some pieces:

One of their mother’s beaus was a foppish, silly sort of man named Matthew Mark. He had never previously been married, yet Mrs. Pith’s eight children and widowed status did not frighten him. When he wooed Mrs. Pith, he was just developing a trading company. Soon after his rejected proposal, the company flourished and, unable to accept her refusal, he constantly offered Mrs. Pith and her children presents. It showed the family’s lack of propriety when they accepted the gifts, and it revealed their prudence when they carefully hid the source of the offerings. In fact, the children believed that it couldn’t be helped. The family was in need and he was offering assistance. The mother only learned the extent of the gifts the children graciously received on her behalf when she saw them flouncing around wearing the latest bonnets from Paris.

__________

One of the Pith boys had nearly enlisted in the military, but he did not have the money to pay a debt he owed. The second Pith boy, having found a sponsor, was headed to University; and the third, still too young for such decisions, simply did what young boys did best, and teased his sisters.

Pulling teeth

At 11:30 a.m. this morning, I received my first "weekly." The weeklies are different from the walk-ins at the tutoring lab. The walk-ins come in, grab an available tutor, and torture the tutor for one hour. The walk-ins can make another appointment if they so choose with that particular tutor, or they can get another tutor. The weeklies, on the other hand, come in every week at the same time to torture their assigned tutor. I use "torture" lovingly, of course. Perhaps it's not so much torture as it is ... hmm ... no, it's torture.

There are the few perfectly lovely students, of course; I don't want to imply that all the people coming in for help only offer a time of agonizing pain and suffering--that's simply not true. There are the few who instantly get the point the tutor is trying to make, who manage to use their new-found knowledge to sculpt not only an amazing thesis, but delightful topic sentences as well, and who part ways at the end of the hour with a wide smile and a "have a great week!"

But these particular students are few and far between, and I seriously doubted my tutoring abilities this morning when I was given a weekly who somehow managed to seemingly cuddle with me, leaning on my shoulder at one point, with bad breath and a stubborn inability to understand anything I was trying to say. This was further compounded by the added stress of only having a half an hour instead of the full hour. When he left, I learned that he wanted to switch tutors; I apparently wasn't good enough.

The head tutor did reassure me, however, saying that that particular student was odd, he could sense it when the guy came in, but I was the only available tutor and I did fine. It wasn't me, he said. Which I seriously continued to doubt, especially when my next student, a walk-in, showed me a nearly incoherent essay with no visible thesis and phrases like "individual innocuous" splattered throughout.

So, after the equivalent of pulling five teeth (also equivalent to one and a half hours), we managed to come up with a thesis, and we started on the topic sentences. We hadn't even touched his grammar.

At 2 p.m., my shift ended and I finally ran away, completely drained of all energy and convinced that I was a failure. Could I quit? I thought, hurrying up the stairs to my Egyptian art class. Maybe I'll give it one more day. Maybe I'm not cut out to be a tutor. Oddly enough, there was no panic, simply a deep-seated weariness. Another writing tutor had warned me about this weariness--she'd said that the trick is to help them while not becoming completely drained.

Maybe I just need a little time to figure out how to do that.

UPDATE: Today (Tuesday) was a complete 180 from yesterday (when the above post was written), since I only had one student and I was able to successfully help her without coming away from the session feeling like a smushed pile of silly putty. That was nice.

Indecision

I didn't know what I wanted to do when I went to college. All I knew was that I needed to go. I jumped from wanting to be an archeology major to being a history major. My first semester, I had a class with the Most Bizarre Teacher Ever and knew that I had to do something else or the rest of my college career would include classes with this strange person. I switched to psychology, because I thought it would be interesting to study people, and, like, stuff. My interest in psychology ended when I learned ... hmm, now I don't remember now why my interest in psychology waned. But wane it did, and then I moved to English after I joined the school newspaper. There was a short period of time when I couldn't figure out if I wanted Communications instead, but I hate speaking in front of people, and in order to avoid speech classes, an English major I remained.

And thus I remain still, until this very day.

I have extensive experience in journalism, from reporting to editing to editor-in-chiefing to interning at a daily paper and compiling over 40 clips. Journalism was my life, my dream, my goal--until something happened, I don't know exactly what, and I decided that I wasn't sure if I wanted to continue in journalism.

I graduate next semester, finally, after four brutal years, and I am in the boat that I scoffed at others for being in. The boat that holds those who scratch theirs heads and murmur, "I don't know what I am going to do." It's a rocky boat, and there are storms on the horizon.

While I have some ideas about my future, I'm not entirely sure yet. It's not too frightening, really--or at least, I'm not allowing myself to be frightened--because, the possibilities are endless and I can set off in any direction I so choose. I was told today that I need to just get a job, that I need to stop being in a state of transition as a student and just arrive already. Get a job, she said, and use the weekends or whatever to figure out what you want to do.

Okay, I'm ready to arrive. Which direction to my dream?

No ransom note

I washed my hair with body wash this morning. As a final insult, before I realized that I was washing my hair with body wash, when I snapped the lid closed some body wash shot into my eye.

That's when I decided that a letter from my empty skull might be an amusing thing to read, because apparently my brain is off somewhere, dipping into sun-kissed pools and frolicking across meadows, while I try, brainless, to maneuver school, life and hair washings.

Unfortunately, my empty skull just informed me that while it would love to write a letter for me to post on my blog about its current trials, it really can't do anything without a brain. My skull did mention, however, that it is optimistic about a possible brain return next spring after graduation.

I think that's good news for all of us, but keep in mind, it is only a rumor.

What just happened

I went to sign up for a job through work study this morning. I started the job this afternoon. My mind is a little bit frazzled, and I scarcely understand how that nonsense all worked out, but regardless of the semantics, I am now a writing tutor. I won't bore you with everything else that I am doing in addition to this new job. My brain stopped working ever since I started college, and now it just gets zapped every once in awhile.

When I was waiting for the interview, a (I will add an adjective here, and you'll see why that's relevant in a moment) white girl came up to the table where I was sitting and asked if I was the tutor. I told her no, didn't mention not yet, but merely said that I was waiting for someone, too. Not too long after she left, someone else came up, and I anticipated--okay, assumed--that he was looking for a tutor, too.

"Are you here for me?" he asked.
"No, I'm waiting for someone," I said. "Are you looking for a tutor?"
"I am the tutor," he said, sitting down after grabbing his book bag, which had been already sitting on the table. "Looks can be deceiving. I am also a part-time bank robber, a pimp and a priest."
He'd hit all the stereotypes usually associated with his skin color. I stared at him, not even realizing that he, with a spoken articulation that most writers--no matter their skin color--simply don't have, had assumed that I thought he was looking for a tutor simply because he was black.
"You should write a memoir," I teased, blurting out the only thing I could think of to say.
He laughed, seeming to be completely at ease, and explained that he hadn't thought of writing a memoir, though he had written a book. He was having a difficult time publishing it, though. I was then called away to my interview.

It took me five hours to become a paid tutor, and one unthinking second to be considered a moron.

That was TOTAALLY WIICKED

This past Saturday, I went corn mazing with some friends. On the ride there, I asked the married couple how they met. The resulting conversation started like this:

Dave: "We met in a fist fight."
Nina: "Katie won."
Me: "And that's when Dave fell in love."
Katie: "He saw me through his black eye."

The rest of the day continued to be awesome.




















So awesome.

I still can't decide what the best part of the day was--one of the best was definitely when KG climbed into the cornstalks to take a picture, then had to go all the way through to the other side very quickly because some kids came down the path, and she was "breaking a rule."

Another awesome moment came when we decided to "think of the children" and attempted to remove a very dangerous, embedded stump from the path.

This is before:




















This is after:





















That is a rock. Yes, we left it the stump as a more dangerous obstacle than how we found it. But we got a TOOTTALLLY WIIICKED video from our valiant attempts. That I won't share, because it's rather embarrassing.

Another awesome moment was Noodles, the Wonder Cat, who climbed through a fence, cuddled with everyone and then tried to eat our cider donuts. I couldn't get a picture of him attacking the bag because I had the camera on one hand, and I was trying to lift him away from the donuts with the other.

I just want to say: go to a fall festival if you get a chance. Get lost in a corn maze. Pick a pumpkin.
















Drink cider. Eat cider dogs.

Watch out for tractors.

When be windy

It's taken a little longer than I thought to get this blog up and running, and I'm sorry! I'm sorry I haven't given out the url more, that I'm not creative enough, that I have homework, that I haven't found the perfect pre-made template for it.

Right now, I'm very tired and I keep setting my head down, but I know if I do that enough times, I will give up, only to awake 50 years later to find that all the children I loved to play with are now old and gray.

...

...

Okay, that didn't make sense at all, and it's because my eyes are starting to close and my brain is starting to shut down, and I am trying to figure out how much homework I can get away with not doing for tomorrow.

I have done about half of my Spanish homework, and the best part so far has been using freetranslation.com and spanishdict.com. Freetranslation.com is especially alluring because they have a machine do the translations for you, and the translations sometimes don't make sense. But they sure are funny!

So, when I'm in the dumps, I like to pull out freetranslation.com and announce: "When be windy I like to fly a comet in the beach" because, really, the windy days are the best days to fly comets.

Welcome

I have been something of a closet blogger for nearly two years. In January 2007, the spring semester of my sophomore year, I ended my teenaged angst-filled journals and started a blogger account, ready to venture into the world of Internet self-proclaimed writers. I have always needed an outlet for my creative energies, and my journals and then my blog provided something of a relief.

Then I offended someone on my anonymous blog. How can this happen, you ask, if the blog is anonymous? While the Internet in general had no idea who I was, several people I directed to the blog did. Out of malicious intent, I wrote a post that wasn’t very nice. I have now learned from that particular mistake, and I am moving on—moving on to sharing my life with everyone at the risk of offending even more people.

No, really, everyone is over it now, the situation merely remains seared into my memory to serve as a guideline for future posts. I have rules now.

One slow Friday evening, tonight as a matter of fact, I decided to start over. I’ve had some good times on my previous blog, but I have a feeling more people want to know what’s going on in my life. I can’t share that old blog with everyone, because I wasn’t writing it with everyone in mind. With the change, I am hoping that everyone won’t stifle me—I need a certain amount of freedom—but we shall see how this goes.

I am not going to talk politics, but I will discuss religion. I am not going to spread gossip—I am going to try not to spread gossip—but I will most likely relate the most recent stupid thing I did or said. I think of myself as something of a social klutz, and that makes for good reading.

As I started to design the blog, I wanted to come up with something witty and descriptive of me. However, I couldn’t think of anything. Not one word popped into my mind that would be able to conclusively define me.

I quickly conducted a mental survey of friends who were most likely awake, able to respond, and willing to offer one honest, descriptive word. I texted them: Can you describe me in one word?

As I had suspected, the response was immediate:

- 10:00 p.m. No … 10:01 p.m. Beautiful. … 10:02 p.m. You cant describe a person in one word unless they’re a debased moron or a simpleton

- 10:01 p.m. Sweet :)

- 10:01 p.m. One word that comes to mind is reflective :)

- 10:01 p.m. No. You’re too multifaceted for that. Even complex doesn’t quite cover it.

- 10:52 p.m. Sardonic

Ah, I love you guys. Come back and keep up with my life. It’ll be quite the hilarious journey, I promise you.