Caught in a Bad Romance

It's natural to not understand things.


Today was especially chilly.  Nippy, even.  What is it with this weather, S.C.? Yesterday was glorious.  It was just warm enough so you could wear short sleeves and feel great. Today is our punishment for an early sunny day, I suppose.

I am forever misplacing things.  I think the only thing I haven't lost is my fervor for life. As soon as I put things down (whether it be keys, wallet, a cucumber), I instantly forget where I put them.  I'm convinced that my key card (the card that gets me into every building on campus and purchases my meals) is possessed by satan.  That is the only explanation! I put it down for one second, and it's gone! SAYONARA! Either it has demonic powers, or my roommate is hiding it and silently laughs while I frantically search for the little buggard.

I lost the card yesterday, but it is more likely that it walked off and decided to go on vacation or something. Luckily, I hadn't misplaced my spare yet, so I grabbed it out of my giraffe coffee cup, and headed to campus police to reactive the card.

Back to my previous statement, it was freezing today.  My sweatshirt wasn't cutting it, so on the way back, I took refuge in the biology building to warm up for a bit.

That was only the second time I had ever been in that building.  The first being when I toured the school initially.  I avoid it like the plague.

Why? Well, I'll tell you.

Science and I haven't exactly had the best relationship.

I don't understand it, it's too mysterious, and sometimes it forgets to call me back.  It's feeling positive, it's feeling negative, and sometimes just neutral. It is a roller coaster of emotions and I'm not ready for that kind of commitment. Sometimes, I think it's chemically imbalanced.
We had an on again off again relationship all throughout high school.  It would always try and woo me with it's unique elements and neat-o microscopes, but the math of the relationship always drew me away.  I got out of barely alive, but I get stronger everyday.  The relationship was poisoning me with its uranium and lead. Thank God for safety googles when you are caught in a bad romance.

I respect those who know how to handle Science.  It's a hard job, but somebody has to do it.
And I can't put my heart through that again.

But I'm warning you now, if it mentions bunsen burners, RUN.

Dad.

It's natural to admire people.


       A few days ago, my father texted me (on his new fancy texting phone) that he was going to be driving past Clinton on his way from Atlanta and asked if he could stop by and take my roommate and I out to dinner.
       If you don't know me that well, you must know I am a complete daddy's girl.  You must also know that my school cafeteria really loves recycling meat.  Often times, yesterdays spaghetti sauce becomes todays meat chili.   And finally, you must know that I am sentimental and love cheesy nostalgia.
      I was so excited that I was going to get to see my father and eat some real edible food. When he called me to let me know he was in the parking lot, I shoved on my coat and ran the three flights of stairs downstairs.  As I ventured into the parking lot, I still didn't see him, until I turned back around and saw him wandering around on the sidewalk.
     As I ran towards him, I saw that he had a bright blue PC hat on, that he had obviously just purchased at the bookstore.  In that moment, I felt a pang.  You know, a pang?  That thing that happens in your heart whenever you see your friends doing something for you, a baby sleeping, or a kitten?  I hate cats, but kittens are okay, I guess.
     I couldn't stop the tears from flowing when he pulled me into a hug.  In the arms of the man who taught me how to love classic rock, basketball, and C.S. Lewis, I felt overwhelming sadness and love. I was sad because I'm not his little girl anymore, but instead a sort-of grownup in college.  I use the term "grown up" very loosely.  I have no distorted notions of my maturity, of course.  It seems like only yesterday, I was waiting for him to get home from work so I could fix him fake food in my little plastic kitchen, and today I'm waiting in my dorm room for him to come and visit me at college.
     He took me and Joy to Fatz Cafe, which is literally the nicest restaurant in Clinton.  Over those addictive poppyseed rolls, I listen to my hero talk about his adventures from his business trip to California.  He had taken my grandmother along to visit some cousins, and he laughed as he told us she had requested that they go to the Dr. Phil show, and how the cousins had instead taken her to Laguna Beach.  
     After dinner, I took him to the art studio to show him my work.  I excitedly told him about the good grades I had received, and about the church that I visited and loved.  As it was time for him to leave, he handed me a bag of groceries he had bought for me as I started to tear up again.  As I hugged him goodbye, I realized how badly I want to make him proud of me, how badly I want to be a worthy daughter.


      I realize I write a lot of stories that include me crying.  This is because I cry quite a lot.  Emotions runs through me so fast that I cannot stop them from pouring out of my eyes and streaming down my face like rain on a windshield. I once asked my beautiful friend Madeline during one of my episodes why I was always so emotional, and she said simply, "Because you have such a big heart."

Darn this big heart.  It makes me feel like such a sissy sometimes.  

I love you, daddy.

Ralph, Just Call me Ralph

It's natural to crave a creative outlet.

There are many forms of creativity.  There are musical instruments to be strummed upon, short stories to be written, sandwiches to be created, and impressions of Jerry Seinfeld to be attempted (please, practice in the mirror first before you try and show me.)

This semester, I signed up for a drawing class.  Basic Drawing is the official title.  It seemed harmless enough, considering the word "basic" is in course name.  After talking to a few people who had taken the course, I started to worried.  They kept saying words like "skill" and "talent" and "not easy," and most of them wore fedoras and scarves and artsy looking jeans. That made me nervous. I knew that if a kid in a fedora is telling me an art class is hard, I am in trouble. I called my mother to ask her if I should drop the class or not.
Honey, you are an incredibly talented artist!  I've framed some of your work!

She forgets that I drew said "framed works" in the fifth grade.  You have to frame your kid's art in elementary.  It's practically a requirement to parenting.

On the first day of class, I wore my skinniest jeans and Urban Outfitters shoes and walked anxiously to the art building.  I walked into class, and sat down to wait for a professor and instruction.

About ten minutes after class was supposed to start, in walked the teacher.  An older guy, maybe mid 50s, in a fedora (Surprised? Not at all.), a zip up sweater, tattered jeans, and Burkenstocks.  As he absentmindedly handed us a colorful syllabus (with headings like "Sooooo whadda ABOUT DRAWING"), he introduced himself.


Ralph, just call me Ralph.

Let me tell you, Ralph is a character.  He plays the sound track to Black Swan while we draw with charcoal whatever object he feels like putting on the table in the middle of the room.  By the time I get out of there, I look like a child mine worker.

After having several classes with Ralph,  I'm fairly certain that his favorite word is "shit."

I'm only hoping he doesn't use it to describe my art.

What's a Cherub Anyway?

It's natural to love this time of year.

Why is it that the darkest, coldest, most unwelcoming part of the year is when I feel most alive?  The crisp air slaps me in the face and reminds me to wake up as I walk to my morning classes, clad in my winter boots concealing my christmas socks underneath.  The best part about winter? Hot. Beverages.  Holding a steaming cup of a hot chocolate up to my face and breathing deeply wakes me up and makes me feel like I am back at home, sitting by the fire in my plaid christmas pajamas wrapping presents with my mom, fighting about how to perfectly fold the corners of the cheesy santa wrapping paper she bought from the neighborhood kids selling Sally Foster.

I'm listening to my classical Christmas station on pandora right now, and the Nutcracker's "Dance of the Sugar Plums" just started playing.  Me and my two oldest friends, Madeline and Allison, were in a production of The Nutcracker when we just 4 years old.  Allison could do a cartwheel, so she got to be a mouse.  Madeline and I were less fortunate ( and less coordinated) so we got stuck being cherubs. WHAT A DRAG! Our main job was to run around the stage for about 30 seconds holding a white cloth above our heads, while Allison got to be a mouse gymnast and flip all over the place and wear a cute tail.  But whatever, I'm over it now.  I owned that stage for that 30 seconds.  I remember going to rehearsal downtown with my leotard and ballet shoes in hand, walking into the seemingly endless dance studio with the bars on the wall and huge mirrors.  Our dance teacher was a male ballet dancer, whose name was probably Glen.  Or Pierre. What little I remember of rehearsals was that he was very serious about the art of dance....and I wasn't.  Looking back, this is probably why I didn't get very much stage time.  I remember Madeline and I being more excited about the fact that we got to wear lipstick for the play then actually being in it.  I guess that's always been our style, from the very beginning.  Easily amused and too cool for school.

Collard Greens Are Gross and That Baby Has A Gun.

It's natural to give thanks.

You know what's better than one thanksgiving meal?
Two thanksgiving meals.

My family hosted lunch at our house, then we headed to my grandmother's house for dinner.

This is a list of food I ate yesterday in no particular order:

Macaroni and cheese
Sweet potato casserole
Turkey
White rice
Brown rice (I'm not racist)
Gravy
rolls
deviled eggs
stuffing
more gravy
broccoli
Ham
collard greens (They were gross...my mom made me try them)
Pumpkin pie
Gravy
Pecan Pie
A couple of M&Ms (they were in a bowl on my grandmothers coffee table)

I realize that's an embarrassingly long list....but I skipped breakfast, so it's okay.

My mother's side of the family came over for thanksgiving lunch.  In the middle of eating, I look up to see my baby cousin Eva standing on the stairs holding my brothers rifle.  It's a good thing it's broken, because she is very feisty and it would not have ended well.  My uncles and brother argued about football and something about Joe Montana and the civil war.  My aunt and I stole my cousin's phone and changed her background to a picture of my tongue and recorded farting sounds and set it as her ringtone.
My big brother and I pinned down our little brother to the ground and force fed him broccoli.  We watched Little Rascals and Love Actually as our food digested.


I love thanksgiving for many reasons, but if I had to pick one,
it would probably be because there is a chance that I will see a 3 year old with a gun on my staircase.


I love my family.

I'm Feeling a Bit Sentimental

It's natural to change.


There is a beautiful tree near my dorm. 
It was nothing really special when I first got here.
 It was just a normal tree. 
Brown. Green. Bark. Squirrels. 
Then autumn showed up and changed the tree.
It is now sheltered by the most magnificently yellow leaves.  The ground below it, once dead grass, is now covered with a lovely yellow dusting.  You can't even see past the brilliance of the leaves to the dead ground.  I suppose this splendor was in the tree all along, but it took time to reveal the truth of it's nature.


Before you look away, look again. 

Time reveals the unexpected. 

Words and Pie

It's natural to not know what the heck you are doing.


If you are a college student, you could probably pay off your student loans if you had a nickel for every time someone asked you the infamous question,


"What's your major?"


My major is currently English.  I definitely get mixed reactions when I tell people that.  Some say things like "Good, good. That's great! I love literature." or "Oh, cool! So could you write my next paper for me?" What do people expect me to say to that? Yes, of course I will, I've been waiting for you to ask?


Others ask me, quite snidely,  "English, huh? What are you going to do with that?"


Don't think I don't see past your thinly veiled insult, you practical ninny.


What I really want to say is, "Um, I don't know, what are YOU going to do with your political science degree? Become the president? Do you know the percentage of people that actually BECOME president? Like, less than a tenth of a percent, kay?"

I don't actually say that though, because that is a tad cheeky and that percentage makes no sense.  I smile and tell them that I aspire to be a writer.  If I could get paid to write about funny and occasionally serious things and also bake pies, that would be ideal.  Practical? No. Awesome? Yes. An artist of words and pastries, if you will. People like Mark Twain and J.K. Rowling did okay for themselves, but they are apart of a very small club. And I'm sure J.K. Rowling bakes a mean English muffin.


There are many things I wish to do with my life, but if I had to condense it down to two main things, I would have to say I want to:


1) Have kids
2) change the world


First I need to find a husband (not anytime soon of course), which shouldn't be so hard, right? Like Tom Hanks says in You've Got Mail, "Oh right, yeah, a snap to find the one single person in the world who fills your heart with joy."
After that it's just science.


As far as changing the world goes, I'm still brainstorming on that one. 
 But hopefully it will involve words and pie.
Stay tuned.