So reading is awesome right? I mean how great is it to live in a time where not only is it actually expected that everyone should be able to read (if you're a member of "Western civilization" at least) but that there are so many different varieties and options available? Yeah, it's one of the top reasons I'm grateful to have been born in this century instead of a time where there was no such thing as phones or Facebook or the Kardashians. Other reasons do include hot running water and being able to avoid the limited Trifecta for women back in the day. Prison...er, I mean marriage, convent/Nundom, or prostitution. Hm, looking at the three I am still at a loss as to which one would be the most desirable choice. Marriage would be out (obviously) since it's a combination of the second two. Nuns worked very hard on a tiny stipend their entire life without being able to embrace their femininity which leaves....but I digress.

         Side note: Men are awesome. It's only marriage that gives me the heebs.

         What I really wanted to talk about today are what I like to call Thunking Books. No, not Thinking Books, Thunking Books. Thinking Books are fan-freaking-tastic. I love a book that pushes my brain out of it's usual processes and beliefs and assumptions. I love being challenged with new ideas or complex themes. Finding this in literature, fiction, is one of my favorite things ever.

         But Thunking Books...those I do not enjoy. Yes, they push me into thinking new thinky thoughts, but it's the manner in which it is done. That, THAT, drives me to annoyance. Actually, to anger.

         What is a Thunking Book? It is a book that takes an idea, a theme or a subject and thunks the reader over the head with it multiple times. And does it in a clumsy, rather violent, way. You know the Tom and Jerry cartoons? Where the cat gets hit over the head once with a two by four or a baseball bat or what have you. He winces, then gets hit again and again and soon there is a merry tune of blurred hits being rained down on his furry head. THAT is what I mean by Thunking.

         It's bad enough when it's a subject that I like. I get weary of the thunks but can persevere. But if it's a subject or a theme that I do not agree with....well then!

         Take, for random example (and if you believe that I've got a castle with a great view for sale at an incredibly reasonable rate) the book I'm reading now, "The Fountainhead". It was recommended to me, it's supposed to be one of the "great" intellectual books that is supposed to be read, so I finally picked it up. And now I want to throw it across the room.

         It is rare that I feel my intelligence so assaulted and insulted by reading such a well written book. Yes, let me get the compliments out of the way first. Ayn Rand can write, and write well. She is a good author. But then Hannibal Lector was a good psychiatrist, right?

         Now to the Thunking.


         Ayn Rand has this world view she shoves down the readers throat on a constant basis. Thunk. I recognized it for what it was and filed it away within the first 10 pages and thought "Interesting, not something I completely agree with, but interesting. I wonder where this will take the protagonist (her hero) and what changes and growth he will go through." I'm nearly 200 pages in and there has been no growth. There has been no changes. There has only been Thunk more of the same. I'm not talking a Thunk Thunk light reference here or there. Thunk. But an in my face, this is what the book is about dammit allusion every few paragraphs. Thunk.

         I have a deep wish that she would just SHUT UP and tell the bedamned story.

         Futhermore, her hero, this supposed paragon that encompasses her ideal and definition of a great man, is a complete and utter jackass. I don't like him. I respect one aspect to him but don't like him. And the sad bit is that he only has one aspect. He is so flat that he is boring AND unlikable. All of her characters are boring and unlikable and flat. All. They are only there to Thunk further make the point of her world view.

         So why keep reading? Especially since I've got a good 500 or more pages to go?

         Because I have a hope, a desperate wish, that I'm missing something. That I DID NOT 'get it' and this highly praised book is pulling the wool over my eyes. I keep waiting for some shift or movement that will indicate that something other than the pompous, self-important voice of the author will emerge. That my thinking actually WILL be challenged, that my own world view will receive a good shake instead of this dreadful, nauseating, predictable drivel. I keep waiting for the intelligence of the book to reveal itself so I can say "Oh silly me for making assumptions so quickly!"

         But yes, she is a talented author. I would not be having this vicarial and lip curling reaction if she was not. But wow I dislike her. She's probably passed and I do not usually like to speak of someone when there is no chance of their being able to give a rebuttal...but in this case I'm quite certain that I would not like the author herself. Anyone who embraces the ideals and glorifies what she glorifies to the extent that she glorifies it, is not someone I would wish to spend time with. Ugh.

         Anyway, my apologies for the negative rant, but I needed to get that out of my system. Maybe now I'll be able to peruse the rest of the book without getting disgusted by the characters and their creator. Oh and if anyone out there has read it, I would appreciate some sort of hope given of improvement in the story or characters, or even a smack upside the head telling me to stop critisizing and I'm simply missing the point.

 

         Blessings come in all shapes and sizes.

         Blessing # 1-So, semesters done. *happy dance. Big time happy dance baby!* Feels odd not to be stressing about ALWAYS having something that needs to get done. Odd in a very, very good way. Don't know my grades yet, but believe that my professors would have let me know if I have reason on worry. As a result of the end of semester? A lot of social engagements.

         Blessing # 2- I had a job interview last Tuesday for a position that I really, really wanted. It basically took care of almost every worry I have for this summer and the upcoming semester and a license I am trying to get. Well, I did the interview, big time nerves since it was a panel of people and one of them was a judge (gulp). And an hour later I was told the job was mine and I am starting Monday. *Thud. Floor. Me.*

         Blessing # 3- Also on Monday, my Sister in Law is going to find out the gender of the coming baby. She could have found out earlier but refused since her son wasn't with her at the time and she had told him they would find out together. Awesome Mom. She is an awesome Mom!

         Blessing # 4- Squirrels. Again. I'm counting this as a blessing since I am learning oh so much about this part of the universe that I was so interested in. I like to sit out on my roof when it's sunny out. But the squirrel family has decided to claim that particular area as their own. Instead of a peaceful sun bath whilst I read a book, I'm getting chittered at and have a remarkable variety of dirty, disapproving, squirrel looks being sent my way. One especially is getting rather brave and starting to invade my personnel bubble with his ire. Still have no desire to harm them in any way, shape or form (holy smokes they're adorable) but the pesty part of their existence is more notable.

         Blessing # 5- (And five for Scarlett) This past Friday. I'd set it aside as a day dedicated to shopping (ew, but necessary to buy business attire for my new high falootin job) and leisure. First stop, the library. YAY!!!! To check out some books for pleasure reading. It was wonderful. Wonderful. Next, shopping.....sigh. And it was during one of my stops between shops that my car up and quit on me. Again.
         It was the alternator. Again. The one I'd just had replaced.
         I will never, ever, ever again buy a Ford car. EVER. Last time, it quit on me while I was driving. Yup, just up and died in the middle of traffic. That was only last December. And now it's gone again.
         So why is my freshly dead car in a blessing list? I'll tell you in...

         5: It quit just as the weather is turning warm so I won't be miserable riding my bike while it's in the shop.

         4: It quit in the time frame that the warranty given by the mechanic was still good. So if it is the same thing (which it is) I won't be charged.

         3: It quit on Friday. NOT on Monday morning as I was heading out to my new job full of trust that my car would get me there on time. This way, I can plan around my lack of vehicle.

          2: It quit about an hour before I was meeting a friend to go to a movie (which turned out to be horrid, but she liked it and so I was able to embrace the challenge of seeing things from someone else's point of view.) So she was able to pick me up and give me a ride without any real inconvenience or hassel.

         1: It quit around some pretty awesome sauce people. I was offered assistance and friendly concern as I popped the hood to ascertain the problem. My faith and belief in the kindness of people was reaffirmed yet again. Once again the value and power of Kindness, simple Kindess, was enforced.

 

         Has anyone else ever collided into an awkward situation before? Isn’t that just awkward? Really awkward?

         So I went on campus yesterday to use the internet and finish my paper. (Which I did! Booya! Done.) And I entered one of my usual haunts for homework. There was a group of people at “my” table, but se la vi and I set myself up on the other end of the room. Computer open, books out, papers strewn everywhere, ready to write…when the conversation the others were having finally impinged upon my consciousness.

         It was a study group finishing up a group project and getting ready for a group presentation. From the sounds of things one of the group members had NOT done her share and not communicated about it despite repeated efforts on their end to get a hold of her. Result? They’d done her share and were now looking for a way to fit her into their presentation. Hurt and defensive feelings on her side, some exasperation on theirs. They weren’t being mean about it at all. In fact, I thought that there was a whole lot of patience going on. But stepping in as an audience member to that conversation was…awkward.

         There was no way I couldn’t hear it, no way they didn’t think I couldn’t hear it. And it went on, and on, and on…and on…and on! For a good 20 or 30 minutes. Or more.

         A part of me wanted to just skedaddle, but I was already set up dammit! Another part of me wanted to try out my shiny new counselor skills and facilitate the discussion to reach a happy ending. Another part of me wanted to close my universe around me and not hear one single word. And another bit, let’s face it, wanted to stay and listen to the drama like it was some sort of sordid, awful reality TV show.

         What did I do? I stuck my head behind my laptop, nose in my books and didn’t look up. I took the “I’m gonna act like I’m invisible and you are to” route. You know what I’m talking about. The weird dance people do when they get on a bus or a train or a plane or enter a crowded waiting room. The no eye contact, blank stare, polite empty smile when an accidental glance is met. The “We’re all pretending that we’re empty meat suits without souls and the ability to connect as human beings” act. I KNOW ya’ll have done it. I know it!

         Why do we do that? Ever try the game where you don’t play by those rules and actually do try to connect? Mixed results, I’m telling you. But it seems worth it.

         Anyway, I’ve definitely been guilty of playing the zombie and I so totally did in that situation. I wouldn’t be able to tell you what anyone in that group of living, breathing, heart beating, emotion filled, human beings looked like. I bore silent and blind witness to that brief drama in their lives and yet went out of my way to ignore their humanness.

         Yup, I was so desperate to avoid acknowledging the awkwardness of their conversation that I went out and hid in my own little corner if awkwardness which in turn created a third dimension of awkwardness as everyone in the room attempted to keep the two awkward worlds from colliding.

 

         Still haven’t completed that paper. Which sucks, it’s the absolute last thing I have to do before being free this semester. And yet I’m meeting internal resistance in gettin ‘er done. Ah well.

         Had a sort of celebration yesterday with the majority of my class. A kind of “Yay the semesters over let’s do something together wearing strange costumes.” So we did. Apparently, it’s an annual to-do so I will be doing it again next year. Anyway, the whole thing ended with a group picture being taken and someone decided it would be a good idea to do it pyramid style. Since I’m one of the larger in the class, and we further decided that all the guys should be at the top of the pyramid, this placed me on the foundation- bottom row. No big dealio, but it reminded me of a something I hadn’t thought of in years.

         So I made the mistake of checking my blog stats and have found that only a tiny, itty bitty, miniscule percentage of the people looking back at me as I ramble, are WDC members. Which begs the question, where did the rest of ya’ll come from and how did you find me?

         Here are my guesses.

Call me a chatty Cathy. I’ll have posted almost two days in a row. And to think my goals used to be blue months. Times they do change.

So I’m a bit punchy right now. Had a marathon of studying and classes during the week and just got off of a graveyard shift. Soon to be repeated.

Rabbit trail…

Sometimes I wonder why I’m working so hard to get a degree so I can work with the populations I want to work with. Did that sentence make sense? It did? I’ll try harder for confusion next time. I sit across from people and hear these god awful stories and they way they are told is filled with truth. And I sit there and think that OF COURSE this person has an addiction, cuts themselves, has multiple suicide attempts, a mental illness, a felony record and is homeless. It makes sense. It just does. If I’d walked that road I’d have quit with the suicide attempts and reached for success. But there they sit in front of me. Surviving. Hanging on. Teeth gritted, sometimes with despair, furious, pissed off, reactive, dysfunctional and snarling at or manipulating the world.

Damn me but they’re impressive. Broken and lost and often times unreachable, but how did they make it this far? Seriously.

I did not originally enter this field of study to work with people who have addictions. That wasn’t even a thought on my mind. Yet here I sit, on the road to being licensed and legal; with a piece of paper and everything! It’s frightening. Who gave the world permission to treat me like a responsible grown adult?

Addiction man…what an ugly beastly demon. Pair it with mental illness and the Greek tragedies unfold.

Did I mention…perhaps I should not but I will because I’m weary and my mind filter isn’t working. Did I tell you that I lost a cousin to Schizophrenia this past year? Did I tell you that? I spent a good chunk of last summer with him in Spain. There he went…away and away. Slipping down that lost road. Do you know about Schizophrenia? I mean more than what the movies and propaganda tell you. I mean the real deal. Do you know that some people can be a little more inclined to developing it, but they DON’T unless, oh yes, unless they imbibe in the little green marijuana plant?

I’m not one to demonize a plant or a drug or anything. What pisses me off is the glamorization of it without giving some sort of REAL warning label. I’m not talking about the bull crap “oh the evil weed” lies that I grew up around. I’m talking about some real damn warnings. Such as, enough of it can cause psychosis. Incurable psychosis! Not in everyone, no, but it does. That it is addictive. Enough that people will choose to pursue destructive and insane life choices so they can have another puff.

Marijuana is useful and overly condemned, but education surrounding any substance should be available.

He’s 23 years old. He’ll never, ever lead a normal life. There was a chance his Schizophrenia would have surfaced anyway…but it was a much smaller chance. He could have lived without fear and paranoia. He could have gotten married and had kids. He could have continued being that guy I knew. He still could…sorta. He still might…small chance though. I’ve worked with enough people with schizophrenia now to know, his chances are small. Very very small.

When he agreed to go on his meds, I was thrilled. With reservations. When he told me his choice to go back off his meds, I was saddened, but unsurprised.

For the majority of his life, probably the rest of his life, strangers will look at him and the thought process of “Look at that crazy ****er” will go through their minds. They’ll wonder if he’s dangerous. They’ll wonder if he’ll hurt them. They won’t see that gentle kid I know.

And I love the guy. He breaks my heart. But his is far from the saddest story I’m meeting. His is rather upbeat in comparison.

I held a screaming child in my arms the other day. Screaming and terrified and furious at life. He fought so hard that it took me and his mother to hold him. We held him to keep him safe. But my heart broke, because I knew what being held had meant for him in the past. I knew that just to touch him without his permission meant memories of trauma.

I heard a story the other day. A true story. It was filled with such violence, terror and horror that I thought “certainly, certainly, the director will soon yell cut.”

But he didn't.

And I was able to watch that breathing horror tale walk away. But the person within the tale...he had to stay.
 

I love movies. Not all of them, cuz there are a lot out there that are just terrible. But I love being able to just sit down and veg out, or be moved by an on-screen story. But it doesn’t have to be a ‘good’ movie for me to like it. Example, ‘Starship Troopers’. That is so B rated that it is fantastic. And those cheesy, awful, odd, 80’s high school movies? Love em. Not a big horror fan, though ‘Evil Dead’ is amazing.

As a chick, I enjoy a good chick flick, but not all of them. I’ll watch and rewatch ’27 Dresses’ but ‘The Notebook’ is like fingernails on a chalkboard. I despise that film. Ick. But some of my favorite films of all time are the ‘guy’ movies. The action films. The impossible, ridiculous, cars blowing up, guns blazing, superhero, Bruce Willis type movie. The acting is generally not the best, the effects are overblown, the storyline predictable and the women WAY over sexualized (not to mention the impossible high heels while running and heavy eye makeup), but I love them anyway.

The ‘Dark Knight’ the fourth ‘Terminator’ (ok, all the Terminators), ‘Warrior’ ( I ADORE that movie), ‘Unleashed’, basically any flick with Bruce Willis…and the list goes on. And if it’s a Superhero movie, I’m so there.

Why? I don’t know. Too much time in the Army deployed with testosterone driven men? But then again, some of their favorites I couldn’t stand. Like…what is the name of that one cheerleader movie? Oh ya, ‘Bring It On’. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out why they liked that one. Pervs.

Point being….nope. Actually, there is no point. I’m just talking about movies.

 

         So I’m supposed to be starting a research paper that is due this Thursday that is worth 30% of my grade. Instead I’m writing this. But it’s not my fault! The Prof gave short notice by clearly putting it in the syllabus that he gave us on the first day of class. I mean, what is that?! He totally should have e-mailed it sooner. Rude.

         Instead, I’m rambling. Oh ya, this is happening even though I’m nearly 30. I demand a refund! I did not see the life clause that says that I wouldn’t outgrow procrastination‼!

         Moving on.

         I’m a nerd. A bit of a closet nerd and to be honest, the real nerds of the world probably wouldn’t accept me into their awesome sauce nerdy clubs of radness. But I’ve definitely got nerdy bits to me. For instance, I love Lord of the Rings. First time I read the books I was in single digits. And I have read and OWN The Silmarillion…and love it. But that isn’t my only nerd cred. Nope. There’s more!

         I own comic books. Yep, some still in their original plastic and I even own two copies of some issues. One for being perfect and one for reading. No, I’m not kidding.

         And then there are my pennies. I’m not sure if this qualifies as nerdiness, but for some odd reason, I decided to keep all my pennies since I was like, 8 years old. That led to penny collecting and making sure I have all the successive years. And I have ‘rules’ like I can’t go to the bank to get the missing dates, or trade, or buy the pennies on-line. No, all my pennies have to come from daily transactions or random finds on the ground. The oddest bit (even odd to me) is that my birth year penny was a weird year in penny making. The Powers That Make Pennies made no less than 6 different versions with different mixes of metal. It isalmost impossible to tell the difference between all of these, but in the penny collector guides, they are differentiated. Until there is a way made to tell the difference, I have a little (big now) stack of pennies of my birth year. A couple bucks worth by now. It’s odd. I admit it. But the idea of stopping seems a bit improbable.

         Anyway, I kinda like my inner nerd. She’s awkward and socially unsure, but man she knows how to enjoy the simple pleasures. Makes me wish sometimes that I HAD gone through the hell of middle school so that I could have fell in with the other nerds and my nerd status would be legit and full of all the nerdy knowledge that I don’t currently have. As it is, I’m always trying to cover up my limited nerdy self and act all into ‘cool’ stuff when all I really want to do sometimes is sit down with a big bowl of popcorn and watch Star Wars (the original 3) and have fake light saber wars.

 

         It is Saturday. It is sunny. Why am I at a computer?!

         Stupid papers. Stupid school. Stupid I for breaking for blog instead of plowing through.

         This morning I arose and went to Torah study at the local Jewish Temple. It’s for a school assignment and fascinating. I kinda want to go back. Christians are welcome and there were some wonderful, lively, friendly discussions about history, similarities and dissimilarities of Judaism and Christianity and so on and so forth. Awesome. I love friendly debates. And when those friendly debates involve religion, I want to sit back and just laugh in joy. I may have done. Once.

         Then it was off to lunch to interview one of the board members. Again, fascinating but it ate up more of the day. So upon homecoming, I threw up my middle finger toward my puter, hopped on my bike and rode to the M (an easily accessible hikable hill) to enjoy the sun and stretch my withered, wintered legs.

         Great idea in theory, until I ran into some sort of triathlon/race going on that made me feel about as active as a sloth. No problem. Round the road blocks, parked at the bottom of the M only to find that it’s ‘weeding day’ or some such thing where volunteers are cleaning up the trail. I ended up following a guy carrying TWO 5 gallon buckets of gravel. I had to follow since I couldn’t catch him.

         He wasn’t even that big of a guy. Kind of twiggish actually. He couldn’t have been more than 20 years old. The dude is now in my top ten enemy list. The fact that some skinny, baby boy sailed up in front of me, coupled with the fact I had to stop twice to catch my breath (EEP‼) has driven home how much I’ve atrophied over this winter.

         Humiliated, I slunk home on my bike. BUT, determined to remedy this situation. No, really, I’m going to! I’ll throw some ‘Eye of the Tiger’ on my i-pod, shine up my tennis shoes, buy a headband and kick butt on this whole out of shape because I’m a student apathy/curse. I’m totally on it…..right after finals week.

         But sing it with me!!!

         Exhaustion reigns supreme. Enough that for the first time in my life, the idea of amphetamines actually makes sense. No worries, I'd never, ever take em, but oh the idea is so lovely!! Too bad they kill ya.

         Dreams have often fascinated me...but I don't like em that much. Probably since most of my memorable dreams have been nightmares. Even as a kid, nightmares plagued me. (I had this recurring one about a cannibalistic witch that was so vivid I could feel the whiskers on her face. Ew.) In fact, I can't recall any pleasant dreams. I know I've had them, surely, but mostly it's just been either weird or bad.

         The bummer is that most of my nightmares are vivid...and realistic. Sure, I've had the "We're being hunted by aliens! Run!" kind. (Hasn't everyone?) And the freaky ones that belong in some horrific, sci-fi, thriller...but mostly they are a slice of life. Gravity applies. Time flows appropriately. Physics make sense and so on. This sucks. I'm telling you. Since said nightmares are realistic and vivid (smell, touch, temperature, sounds, etc), some are in my head like real memories. The only way I know they were dreams is that there is no appropriate real life context and/or I can remember waking up from them.....and/or I'm still alive.

         Several years ago, they began getting really bad. Most I can't recall and could hardly recall upon waking...but I turned into a bit of an insomniac since I was simply frightened to go to sleep. Well, my parents prayed for me and I suddenly stopped dreaming. Awesome!!!! Once in a while, some nightmare will creep in, but it's more of a once to three times a year kinda thing.

         Why this trip down dream lane? Well, I dreamt last night. It was realistic, it was vivid and it was NOT a nightmare. At all. It was kinda...well good I guess. My cousin came to visit me. He and I are not close, we haven't been since we were kids. But he's sort of been estranged from the family of late. He got caught in an addiction and an unhealthy relationship- sad stuff. He's been clean for a while now, or at least that's what the rumor mill says. I even stopped by to see him where he works and he looked great! It was exciting. But he has kept his distance from the family. It's been a few years since his parents have even seen him. My opinion, he's keeping his distance out of embarrasment and shame over some of his actions.

         Anyway, in the dream, he came to see me and he was happy, healthy and better than ever. There was nothing more than that. He came, we chatted, there were a lot of smiles and then I woke up.

         Why mention this? No idea. It just is sticking with me.

 

         Easter was fun. Spent loads of time with my nephew, colored eggs, wrote a paper (no true vacation for me!) hung out with friends, went to Easter service, visited my Grandmother during which she shared the details of my father’s late life circumcision…you know, regular stuff.

         Ok, so it wasn’t that late in his life, he was four, but still. I laughed to keep myself from screaming “I don’t want to hear about this‼‼‼” I love my Grandma.

         They also showed me the recent piece that PBS did on Grandpa, which was awesome‼! I’m glad he’s getting recognition for his work here in the States. He’s well known back in Norway, but he doesn’t live in Norway, so it pleases me that his legacy is being spoken of, if only briefly, here in his chosen country.

         I also was able to meet the prospective new owners of the farm. I like them. A lot. Which is good. They’ve three dogs and seven horses, two boys and two in-laws. So they’ll fill up the place nicely. I’m pleased as punch that the farm is going to people who will use and appreciate the land. It would have broken my heart to see the place turned into a parking lot.

         So that was my vacation weekend. Hope ya’lls was blessed.

 

         Many, many years ago, before my Grandmother met my Grandfather, my Great-Grandmother married a man with a farm. This farm was several hundred acres. Over the years, most of that land was sold off to pay for various medical bills. My Grandmother and Grandfather used what remained to run a pig farm where my mother and her two sisters grew up. The original bunk house and kitchen were built into a rather odd looking duplex consisting of various basements, kitchens, garages, bedrooms, cellars and attics. The original homestead and grainery were turned into a place of storage. More years passed, and the much of the barnyard was torn down. I vaguely remember the old barnyard. The barn itself stood until its hundredth birthday and then it was disassembled and its seasoned logs sold to a man who appreciated such things.
My mother and father were married on the farm. My brother and sister in law were married on this farm. My Grandfather is buried on this farm. I swung on the branches of the weeping willows, I spent nights in the hayloft of the barn. My brother and cousins and I would have rhubarb fights and apple wars. During my teenage years, this was home. It still is home. Whenever I say, “I’m headed home to visit” this is the place I mean. There is no knocking on the door. There is no nook or cranny or undiscovered hideaway that I’m not completely familiar with. The overgrown lilac bushes in the backyard have caused the scent of lilacs to mean home. Elm row, willow row, plum row, the apple orchard, the birch grove, the elm grove, the old apple tree, the old yellow willow, and the old garden all conjure up specific locations and memories.

         It has also been a rather large pain in the ass for many years.

         My Great-Grandmother, God love her, really enjoyed gardening and beautifying the yard. She put I don’t know how many hours of work into those acres of yard. It was beautiful. Groomed and manicured and watered and peaceful. The point is, she ENJOYED doing it. She also, for whatever odd reason, planted willow row. An entire row of YELLOW WILLOWS. Also known as The Biggest Weed in Horticulture. The damn things shed like cats in the slightest of breezes and they are impossible to kill. I’m not kidding. My mom asked a professional about it once and he gave this advice. “Kill a yellow willow? First cut it off to a point where the stump is below ground. Then inject (can’t remember the name of the poison) into the stump. Then encase the top of the stump in concrete and cover it over with dirt. It won’t be dead, but it’ll take a little longer to grow back.”

         Here’s the thing. For whatever reason, my Grandmother has made it a duty of hers to keep the yard up to her mother’s standards. She DOES NOT enjoy the yard work, but has for the past decades, enslaved herself into keeping it up. Mom swore she wouldn’t fall into that trap, but as Grandma aged, she felt bad for sitting back and just watching her aging mother sweat alone and so began helping out…which soon turned into the same obsessive caretaking. It’s nauseating. I have REFUSED to participate. Even to the point of almost being downright rude when I visit. The entire thing is a waste of time and energy and frustration levels. Thousands of Montanan’s allow their massive yards to go native and it looks fine. They keep a sane sized patch of mowed green grass, not acres.

         I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the phrases “have to get the yard ready for winter” or “have to start the spring clean up in the yard” or “have to get those branches cleaned up so we can mow the yard” and cringed.

         But this isn’t what I came on here to talk (er rant) about. Nope, here’s the thing. As of this July, the farm will be sold. It’ll be gone. It’ll belong to a nice family with two young boys who will love running wild in those acres as much as I did when I was a kid.

         I have mixed feelings about this. Yes, I am relieved that the yard will no longer be there to torture my mother and grandmother. Yes, I am relieved that the two attics, the basement, the two garages, the two cellars and the two houses will be gone through, packed up and sorted of four generations worth of pack rats by people other than me. (He he, I’m in Grad school! I’m too busy!) But…well but. Do I really need to explain the heart wrench that goes along with this sale? That piece of land has been home since before I was born. There have been births and deaths and make ups and fights and drama and joy and holidays and tears and laughter and barbeques and games and memories and memories and memories.

         Anyway, here’s the thing that literally had me shaking my head in a mixture of disbelief, frustration, love and laughter. My parents do not have a home to move to. They, and my Grandmother, will move her travel trailer into the field that holds the Old House (original homestead) and camp out for the summer while they hope to get enough money together to buy or build a house on the remaining land.

         When informed of this plan (of which I’d been vaguely aware but not its extent) I said:
         “Well that is a well informed decision.”
         Answers my mother: Laughter

         The other slightly disturbing outcome is for the first time in my life, I will not have a place to go to when I visit..um, home. There’ll be no bed, or couch or even floor space for the baby girl…me! This isn’t to say there aren’t plenty of places for me to bunk down. Nearly my entire extended family lives in the Valley. Plus I’ve friends with couches and floor space, but still, the point remains that I’m suddenly feeling displaced. And, because of course the entire world rotates around me, I wonder if this isn’t some roundabout hint that I need to find another bunk. Elsewhere.

         Ah well, change is always interesting. Not always pleasant, but certainly interesting.

         In other news, and with a great sense of accomplishment, I have finished “A Peoples History of the United States’‼ Six hundred and eight eight pages of thickly packed evidence and emotionally charged information. Huzzah! It is done‼ It is DONE‼! IT IS DONE‼‼ He would go and save the fun bit for the end. Zinn tore into Clinton and his presidency with a ruthlessness and pointed disdain that made me laugh. I thought he was going to be a fan of Clintons, but nope! I almost felt bad for old Billy boy.

 

So my next door neighbor, the one I was pirating internet from, got into a bad snowboarding accident which has sadly caused him to drop from school and go home to be taken care of by his folks. I’m bummed for him, he was a nice kid, and I’m happy to report that it sounds like it was nothing permanent.

This does mean that my having internet at home is over. Ah well, it was a short lived luxury.

I’ve no real direction for this blog, just a random ramble determined to spit out something that could be vaguely related to a literary definition that doesn’t include me writing about theory, policy, history, group notes, or feelings.

I am grateful to be in school. I am grateful to be in this program. I am grateful that this semester is almost over and I am GRATEFUL that Spring Break means no school this week. Instead I get to make the drive north and hang out with my most favorite person on the planet, my nephew. Hot diggity!

Oh where to randomly ramble next?

So this is an emotionally heavy semester right? I may have mentioned that? No, well it IS. This has apparently caused me to be capable of two emotions. “The world sucks” would be the first and the second being a brand of horribly black humor where inappropriate jokes are hilarious. “You hear that one about the baby being dunked in Napalm!” Har har har.

Anyway, despite the emotional barrage, there have been some amazing experiences attached. For instance, we had a guest speaker come in to tell us his story. He was young, probably early 50s and a Native American. His story was how when he was a kid, the good old government forced him from his parents home and put him in a boarding school where they proceeded to try to beat the Indian out of him on a daily basis.
Now I knew this was a part of our history, but I wasn’t aware that it was so recent! This man went in the 1970s. There are still boarding schools open to this day, though under different rules.

Another speaker told us about his time in Nazi Germany. How he had been a member of Hitler’s youth.

Yeah, stuff like that.

I’m exhausted. I’m sick and tired of taking really long, hard, scrutinizing looks at the black spots in our past that aren’t advertised in history books. I’m weary of hearing about the still living repercussions of decisions made centuries ago. It’s beyond tiresome to sit in a chair and know that there is no easy answer. There may not even be an answer, only really well intentioned, bungling attempts.

Give me something to DO dammit!

Things were both a lot easier and a lot harder when I was carrying a gun (and a wrench) and was told that shooting people was a viable solution.

I want a nap. No better, I want play time with my nephew.



*DAMMIT. I ended up writing feelings anyway. I'm brainwashed! I have been brainwashed!!!!
 

I was SO determined to carry through with this blogging deal this time! Alas, life is insane and writing in any format other than papers is difficult.

Anyway, still alive, druthering to be blogging.

18 years to reach legal adulthood.

6 years in the Army.

2 years working for a boarding school.

3 years to gain my BA.

Which leads me to THIS year. One would think, that after the above I would know how to take care of myself. That I wouldn’t act like an irresponsible child. That I would continue to follow the course of

So there is a picture that I love and am a little of the opinion that it makes me a bit stalkerish. But I love it anyway.

It’s of a couple, a celebrity couple, a few days before their wedding. It looks like a candid. Not something from a magazine, but from an intimate gathering. Now I’m not one who enjoys looking into the personal life of celebrities. I’m rather against it. I avoid gossip magazines and learning anything beyond the publicized image. I figure, most people in show biz have to be in the public eye to some extent. They have a job or life that our society likes to scrutinize, but that doesn’t give me a right to look beyond what they are comfortable in making known.

This is my own bias. I’m a few days younger than Prince William and I remember my Mom telling me how she had remembered being pregnant at the same time as Princess Diana. Beyond that, I knew nothing about the royal family. Then Diana died and they were everywhere in tabloids and my heart nearly broke for that kid. I thought how awful it would be if my Mom had died and my family got covered in the news constantly. So I made a point of ignoring the headlines. It didn’t help the two boys at all. Their privacy was still invaded. But it was my personal stand.

Due to being bored in check out aisles, I have allowed my stand to waver a bit…although I have yet to pick up a magazine while waiting. But I do read the headlines. (And I’m still confused, who and why are the Kardashians? No, don’t tell me. It’s probably best I don’t know.)

What was I talking about? Oh yes, the picture.

Actors, actresses and their lives are something I have no interest in knowing about. I LIKE the illusion of Hollywood. I watch movies for a bit of escapism. I like believing that the people on screen live magical, flawless lives. Just as I like believing that stars are actually windows into the candle lit homes of gods. I know it isn’t true, but I like to believe it.

I enjoy keeping things sprinkled in fairy dust.

Apparently though, there is an exception to this rule.

Damn it.

As I have mentioned before, I have a favorite TV show, and the two lead actors are really good at what they do. I admire and respect their work. So when there is an article about them, I have found myself reading it, and I have yet to find anything printed that is negative about them as people. So I have somehow fallen into the trap of believing that the fairy dust covering their lives is true. Or truer than most. The illusion has yet to be shattered.

Anyway, all that was a really long intro to why I like this picture. It’s the expression on the bride-to-be’s face. She is a grown, beautiful woman. Yet the look on her face is one that reminds me of seeing a little girl being held in her father’s arms. Trusting. Pure. Except there is also nothing little girl about her, but instead all woman in the arms of a man who is definitely not her father. But the purity of her trust and happiness is absolute. In that single, captured moment, her face is the face of a little girl who grew into a woman who found that all those dreams DID come true.

Now I’m a really big fan of her husband’s work. A really big fan. But whenever I remember this picture, after my initial “awwwwwww” comes one single thought.

“Buddy, you had better not f*** this up.”

 

Wearing high heels, or heels of any sort, is a rather ridiculous proposition. At least for me.
Nearing the end of my 12th year, I’d reached 6ft. In high school, I was the tallest student. Boys included. Granted, it was a small school, but still. So I hunched and hung my head and happily, eventually, outgrew my self-consciousness about being a tall woman. After those awkward teen years, I put on a bit more height and I generally hover between 6ft 1 and 6 ft 2 inches.

I’m cool with it.

Because of my excessive height as a young woman, heels weren’t exactly common in my closet. Plus, shoe makers aren’t fond of making shoes in my size. Plus, no matter how cute a shoe looks, it loses a bit of cuteness when in a size 13. Then it looks rather sad. Point is, my feet weren’t subjected to the torture of getting used to being in pain in uncomfortable shoes. Then came the Army where my clothes were decided for me 90% of the time. Combat boots, tennis shoes, flip flops, hiking boots, sturdy sandals…all these various types of unattractive footwear made up the majority of my closet. They still do actually.

Sure, I owned a few pair of dressy shoes, some even with heels. And I could probably count on one hand the number of times I wore them. Despite all of this, I love shoes. Especially the cute, glorious, impossible to walk in ones. Probably because they are a bit like forbidden fruit to me.

Impractical. Uncomfortable. Unnecessary.

Sigh.

While I have long been comfortable in my height, it’s only been recently, in the past year, that I’ve realized what an advantage this has given me over the years. And I mean a REAL advantage.

Like it or not, despite all of the awesome progress that has been made, I still live in a world dominated by men. Sure, there were times I was discriminated against, but for the most part, I never really felt effected. And now I think I know why. It’s harder to ignore me. When I stand across from a man, they aren’t looking down. They are often looking up. I am rather hard to overlook.

I’ve seen some powerhouse women walk in a room and have trouble getting attention, not because the guys were purposefully ignoring them, but often because the woman’s height was below their eye line. It nearly breaks my heart.

I’m tall. And no lightweight either. I’m a big boned girl of Viking decent. Not overweight, but certainly not skinny. It’s an advantage. I receive a certain amount of respect from men for the simple reason that they have to acknowledge my presence.

Which brings me back to the heels.

Most of the time, I try to go unnoticed. And I’m pretty good at becoming invisible when I want to. I’ve been the photographer at several weddings and have been told that I did a good job of staying indiscernible…even if up on stage during the ceremony. It probably heralds back to my years as a self conscious, shy, clumsy, tall girl. Wearing flats I can easily slip into my invisible mode. I’ve known people to look shocked when they stand right next to me for the first time. “I didn’t know you were so tall!” is a common phrase. Cool.

Two summers ago I bought a pair of heeled boots. Only about an inch, but heels all the same. And when I wear them…..hoo boy. Things change. I move differently. People respond to me differently. I feel more confident. Empowered. I walk into a room and demand attention. And I get it. Boy do I get it.

It’s one of the weirdest, craziest things. Men respond to me in their body language as if I were a man. They shift to face me, their shoulders go square, their heads lift a little…I’m no anthropologist, but the signs are unmistakable. Guys respond to me as if I have the power of threat. As an equal. Then comes the unsurity of...”wait, that’s a woman” and suddenly they are unsure of how to deal with me. And while I’m not a beautiful woman, I’m not hideous either. Add the heeled height to a semi attractive woman and the guys don’t know what to do.

Like I said, advantage.

And I’ve no idea what to do about it.

I know this can be useful. But I’m more of a behind the scenes sort of person. I like being wall paper. So I don’t wear heels to work. Or school. Or my internship. It’s a very rare occasion that I slip the boots on. Tonight was one of those nights.

I was going out with some friends and all of my winter clothes need to go through the wash. So I popped on a t-shirt which suddenly and somehow made my warm, comfortable, and rather unattractive, winter daily wear boots undesirable. So on went the heeled boots and it was like putting on another person. I’m not sure what I think about this other heeled person, or how I feel about her. But other people really seem to like and respond well to her.

It’s weird.

 

It’s February 14th. A holiday. Valentine’s Day.

I always forget about this one until I start getting those LOOKS and my internal urge to laugh nearly overcomes my external ability to keep a straight face.

I don’t ‘get’ Valentine’s Day. I’m not one of those who dislikes it, I just have never understood the hoopla. Probably because of my happily single status. Anyway, this status isn’t considered ‘normal’ in society and so on this day I often get the LOOK. The LOOK that drops into the middle of a conversation when Luv Day plans are being discussed. The LOOK that says the person is either feeling sorry for me or patiently waiting to offer a sympathetic ear to my Luv Day single woes.

It usually takes me a minute to recognize what the other person is doing and so I spend a few moments worrying if I’ve got leftovers on my face or a bat in the cave. I’m still uncertain how to handle the LOOK. Explaining that I’m perfectly ok usually makes the LOOKS of sympathy deepen and a knowing LOOK of “she’s totally faking it” emerge. So I either ignore it all, unless purposefully addressed, or turn the conversation in other directions.

It’s almost like my birthday. Everyone expects me to celebrate it and I frankly don’t give a rats ass that I was born ____ years ago. “What are you doing for your birthday?” “Nothing.” From which cries of disappointment, pity and denial follow. It’s almost confusing how much other people become concerned that I’m not living my life how they want me to live it. Or not feeling the things they want me to feel. What the hell does it matter? I’m not saying this in anger or frustration, but straight up bewilderment.

And I’ve totally gotten off track. Today is a memorable day for me. There are days on the calendar that are notable to me and only me. When they come around, I recall where and what I was doing ____years ago. Such as the day AFTER my birthday, because that is the day I found out I had been truly accepted as ‘one of the guys’ in my Troop and they wrestled me to the ground and tried to tie me up. Good times. Also the day, in another year, that my heart was broken. July 13 has a lot of significance because, weirdly, big things seems to happen on that day.

Today is notable on my personal calendar because it was the day, 11 years ago, that I flew into South Korea and my first duty station. It was a LONG day. A VERY LONG DAY. It started in Virginia, took one flight to California and another flight to South Korea. If I remember correctly, the day actually lasted longer than 24 hours. And I don’t sleep on planes.

It’s all very memorable. The weekend before I left Virginia, I and some friends went out on the town and somehow ended up watching over a fellow soldier who had gone insane. (Literally) So that happened, and then for some idiotic reason, I decided it would be a good idea to dress up for this endless flight in front of me. I was celebrating the ability to wear civilian clothes again and took it a bit far. Since then, I only wear comfortable clothes when flying. Anyway, it was a heavier than normal snow year in Korea. When we landed, there was an alert going on so all the Airmen on the ground were wearing their gas masks. We unloaded from the plane, unloaded our gear and then packed onto an incredibly cramped and uncomfortable bus for a four hour ride (with no bathroom breaks) to our Camp. It wasn’t usually 4 hours, but the heavy snow upped the driving time.

So when February 14th rolls around, this experience is what pops to mind. I just don’t associate it with romance.

 

So last Friday, I get a call from the University Business office saying that my account isn’t paid up and come Monday (today) they would be dropping me from the rolls. That was the first I’d heard of it‼ Needless to say, I felt a leetle bit of anxiety. The details are boring, but basically, the business office let me know that my GI Bill was not covering certain fees. Fees that they have always covered before. But there wasn’t really anything I could do that day.

The amount owed came to more than what I currently have to my name. So I looked into payment plans and thought about the rotten timing of finding this out when my parents have gone off to Mexico. Though even if they were still around, I doubt I could bring myself to ask for a loan. They would have given it gladly, but I’ve never borrowed money from them. Ever. I hate being in debt. I hate borrowing. I hate asking people (even those I love and trust) to help me make my bed in life.

Well this morning I spent a good bit of time on the phone with a nice guy in the VA office on campus and then on the phone with a nice lady in the business office, and long story short, there was a snafu that can’t be straightened out until next week, but the account is going to show up as paid anyway since they are predicting a bright future.

People are awesome.

It felt lovely, it feels lovely, to have that unexpected stress roll off. I’d honestly believed that I would have to pay out of pocket. But I don’t! WHOO HOOOOO‼‼!

This has brought up what is coming. This is the last semester that good old Uncle Sam will pay my tuition bill. Starting fall semester, it’ll be on me to find a way to pay for my education. Not that I’m complaining! Five years of college completely paid for? I’m blessed, lucky and grateful! When I hear my peers talking about the debt they will face, my stomach drops in horror. It’s unholy!

But I still have that knot in my stomach that translates into “fear of the unknown”. I’ve never taken out a loan before. I’ve never asked someone, or an institution, to give me money on the trust that I will repay them in the future. And even though it is a common practice in our society, I can’t help but feel a little dirty and unclean.

I REALLY hate being in debt. OWING someone. A stranger. I don’t even have a credit card! This whole idea just sounds like another version of indentured servitude. And I am a fan of my own independence and freedom.

I know, I know, it’s mostly all semantics in the end. But it’s all new to me.