Little feminist

Just a quick link for you today: this video warmed my heart. I hope my (future) (possible) kid is exactly like this.

rkb

What I've Been Up To---and other things you don't care about.

Does getting a job, going through three interviews, dressing professionally, and teaching for ten days make you a teacher?

Dang, I hope so--then I could be considered something other than a "Sales Associate."  I could print business cards with:

Amanda McConnell
Teacher Extraordinaire

At this VERY moment, I'm in one of the labs.  My students are working on their short story finals.  At least one boy--excuse me--young man, is going to be writing about a zombie epidemic.  He scooted his chair over here to ask, "Miss McConnell, can you have someone die?"

I said, "Of course you can."

"Well, can it be gory?"

"Oh yeah," I said.  I smiled.  "Definitely."

He seemed to pretty happy about that, and is now talking about his ideas with the guys around him.

I teach two senior classes, two junior classes, and one sophomore class.  The seniors have as much enthusiasm as a patient at a dentist office, so I'm not sure how to read them.  Fun fact, I have some repeat students from last year (I did half of my student teaching at this very school).  At first they gave me some strange looks, wondering where they'd seen my mug before.  Now it's just nice because I remember their names.  Juniors are my favorite class so far; they, for the most part, like to interact with me, even if I have to yell at them to shut up once in awhile. I can't help but grin when they tell me they are having more fun in my class than the normal teacher's class.  I haven't been universally accepted, but if the worst thing I do while I'm here is make students participate, then I think I'm doing a good job.

My sophomores are a different story... Well, let's just say it's not my favorite class.

Students have for some reason opened up to me.  That's not something that has to do with me.  I'm a big goof in most of classes; I guess my main strategy throughout this experience has been honesty.  They know when I forget something; they laugh when I crack jokes about the lesson or myself.  Maybe that's endeared me to some of them, I'm not sure.  A dash of sarcasm hasn't hurt my cause either.

What has surprised me the most is the fact that I'm no longer nervous, for the most part, in front of a group of thirty students.  I worry that I will have enough material for a whole ninety minutes, but I don't worry about them hating me.  Go figure.  Maybe I have more confidence in myself than I have previously thought...

... Okay yeah, that's not right.  Probably divine intervention.  Some sort of deus ex machina thing.

I'll leave you with this little interaction I had one of the first lessons here:

"I want you to, on your piece of paper, write three of your personal character traits.  So, for my three I'm going to write on the board that I am.... an introvert.....  an animal lover.... and stubborn."  Here I explained why those things applied to me.  "Now, write your three traits and explain them to me in a beefy paragraph."

One student raised his hand.

"What I mean by a beefy paragraph is that it's five to eight sentences."

Groans and moans.

"C'mon, people.  This is simple.  I'm giving you plenty of time."

I sat down at my desk after making sure everyone was writing.  One student in front of my desk looked up at me.

"Are you sure you're an introvert?" he asked.

"Kid, what you don't know is this is all an act."

M&y

I'm running- or, at least, jogging- for President

Or at the very least, a candidate nomination. That's right, people, this person: 

                   Look real close, and you can see who I voted for in the last national election! 

could be the next leader of the free world. (Note that this photograph can also be used as a visual aid for how to vote, in the event that you are unsure of how to vote and/or live in the state of Florida.) Goal: achieve the Independent (or Libertarian, or Scientologist, whomever will have me really) party nomination for 2012 presidential candidacy. Of course, I have created a summary of my platforms for interested and civically engaged persons (i.e. anyone who is still reading). 

Platforms:

1. I will be the best-dressed President in history, not only because of the extended options culturally available in terms of wardrobe to a female president (see skirts, dresses, the occasional skort to keep it interesting) but also because I plan on dressing exclusively in "PowerWear", the high fashion clothing line based on the former Libyan leader (let's all agree that's a very generous noun) Gaddafi's histrionic style. 

                         The devil wears... well... that has got to be his own brand, right?

2. I will mandate a reworking of the national anthem to a simpler, more catchy version, preferably with lyrics that Christina Aguilera can remember. Rebecca Black will be hired to produce the song and accompanying video. 

3. I will forgive all student debt, regardless of whether or not it apologizes, or means that apology from the heart. 

4. I am the only openly declared pro-hat candidate, and I will continue to support the free wearing of hats by men, women, members of the LGBT community, and children alike. Here I am pictured with some of my hat-enthusiast constituents-- YOU CAN JOIN THIS MOVEMENT:

                                  Cover your heads. Cover America. 

5. I will make a mix cd for every voter (pending changes in DRM once I assume office) that is guaranteed to include at least one Black Keys track and no Nickelback songs whatsoever.

6. I will overcome the hostility and division within our current administration, beginning with mandatory field trips for all members of Congress. This is including but not limited to a trip to Goodwill in which they will all have to choose outfits for each other and then wear those outfits until a bill is successfully signed into law.

7. I will address the national fiscal crisis by implementing cost-saving and revenue-generating ideas, such as leasing out Camp David on weekends for hosting parties. Discounts will be available for any parties with open bars; no parties that require guests to wear costumes will be accommodated. 

Look for my campaign launch coming soon with chalk on a sidewalk near you. 

rkb

Lighting Up

You crouched close to show me your technique

and I was thrilling at our night of debauchery

and your pursed lips.

We laughed around mouthfuls of smoke.

Frustrated matches flamed out from between my cold novice fingers,

scattering onto the concrete like wasted snowflakes

that no child tried to catch on his tongue.

Finally, you pulled me over to crouch behind a truck,

my hands triangling and yours

lifted close to help. We lit up.

You suggested we walk because I was cold,

the suggestion helping more than the action.

Words dripped like ashes and left meaning glowing and protected like the cherry.

I didn’t like you much at the beginning of the night,

but once the cigar freed your tongue

you dropped bits of truth into the air

and that I liked.

Our group wandered the parking lot like vagrants,

worrying the ladies closing up shop

with little more than our presence

and slanted laughter.

The nicotine stung my lips for hours later

reminding them of the touch

of the cigar

and the smoke settled into my clothes to mark

the night on me. 

rkb

Interview

Today I had my first round of interviews at a high school for a teaching position.  It would only last three weeks, but it may turn out to be something if I'm able to impress.

Anyway, I'll keep you posted.  I didn't do abysmally, but I'm not a good judge of myself (who is?).

-M&y

**EDIT**

Tomorrow I have my second round.  Anxiety is continually building.  I'll post later if it's a KO.

Something

“We’re right on time.”

Josie looked at her husband in the passenger seat with a reassuring nod. “Right on time,” she repeated.

“For once.”

“What was that, dear?”

“Oh nothing.” His nose scooted across the window. He was quiet for a few moments, then, “Are we sure about this? All this, kid business? I mean, how are we going to tell it’s them?’

“There aren’t going to be many children in groups of three at the train station, dear,” Josie said.

Her husband rubbed his eyes. “We don’t have children.”

“I thought that was pretty obvious.”

Her smirk was lost on him. “Then why take on three children for the summer? We aren’t qualified for this sort of thing.”

“You’re winding yourself up again, Simon.”

“You never seem to get wound up about anything!”

The wife laughed while the husband sank lower into his seat.

He folded his hands grimly. “Besides, what are we to do with them?”

Smiling fading, Josie gripped the wheel. “Well, of course we’ll… Um… There’s always…”

“You see, it’s hopeless.”

The car rolled to a stop, and she jammed the shifter into place. “Hopeless or not, they will arrive in a few minutes.” Opening the car door, she grabbed her purse and then her husbands chin. “Do try not to wear that face; it’ll scare the children off.”

Simon produced an even bleaker expression.

“Oh dear.”

Simon’s face, Josie had learned throughout their years together, was a better almanac than anything printed in some journal. It was like an arthritic hip when it rained, a frantic dog at the approach of a stranger. Simon knew trouble when it was coming, and although she had managed her best to ignore it that morning, she was realizing the dark circles around his eyes were not disappearing on their own.

She decided to remain cheery. “There’s no helping it now!”

The couple made their way on the misty platform as they train heaved itself to a stop. Inside, passengers gathered their belongings and stooped or stood on the balls of their feet to retrieve their bags. Josie and Simon scanned the dark windows for the children they were to retrieve.

“What do you suppose they’ll look like…”

The husband remained silent almost as if protesting their presence there.

Women bustled by them, and men with papers clipped past as well. They must have been off to another platform, for not many people stopped to stay at their little town. Or at least not for long. Little towns like theirs had a way of rejecting you or swallowing you up whole like a goldfish.

“Wait, that must be them.”

Josie grabbed a hold of her husband’s sleeve and pulled him down the platform. There was a gangly boy with a heavy bag next to a little girl. Their sister appeared with two more bags.

“You must be Rachel, Sarah, and Roger.”

Henry Ian Cusick

You know what, everyone? This is just because I like you:

 rkb

This has nothing to do with the post- but I voted today :)

The line between prayer and poetry is blurring for me recently. The block poem that is today's entry is a scrap of an ongoing internal discourse re: faith and sanctification in the real world. ("Real world" meaning, for me, mundane, prosaic, longing, fear, and beauty. If that definition makes sense to you, or if it doesn't but you're at least interested, then I think we're on the same page.)

Anyway, it was born out of my prayer this morning and I think still holds remnants of the questions I have about how my faith fits into the metrics of my daily life. Ontology and eschatology are easy for me (well- as easy as they can be), in the sense that I get how my faith demands certain assumptions, creates a specific worldview that dictates the beginning and end of this whole thing. What's curiously obscure is how faith winds into life through the redundant and the required, the workday and the laundry and reorganizing the pantry and taking out the dogs. Because I think it does; or rather, I think it must in order to be relevant and meaningful.

There must be true worth and value and love and gritty spirituality mixed in with life here. Because this is life. This is how it works, for most people, most of the time. Where is sanctification? Is it in the pride of being, doing something important or interesting? Like I know my life is holy because, here, here is the cause, and I can point to it with a commanding righteous hand, and it's erect in front of your face like a pylon or Lot's wife turned to salt. Or is it that grinding of humility that works itself into your skin and through your bones and inches toward your heart when you set your shoulder against life and push. When relationships are not what they used to be on paper, in an email update- roommate, boyfriend, classmate- but the places where we commingle our lives, and fill in the dark spaces between the globes of light cast on the concrete by the streetlights.

So come beside me, or don't, because where you stand is less important because it doesn't matter where I am, either. Write notes while I speak on a pad with preset lines- lines if you're an American, grids if you're European- and arch a brow to make light of the whole proceeding and when I'm done, call me back as soon as you get my message because you thought I might not be ok and you care enough to be wrong about that and know you've written enough notes if you're right. Make plans to mix drinks with me and mouth cigars in a smoky city room where we've never been before or tear walls and floors out of your new house, and it's good because we're filling in the dark spaces with life. And sanctification costs this much: as much as a pad of paper, a mixed drink, and a hammer broken on your old house. 

rkb

Quickster

I'm in the middle of deciding whether or not I want to take on a second job.  This job would be at the library, which sounds romantic and comfortably nerdy like a person such as myself; however, I would basically be costumer service (i.e. the person who checks out your books and helps you renew your library card).

That sounds like all kinds of boring.

Other than that, there's no prospects for me as of yet.

Oh, also, on the topic of my other job, I am constantly reminded of how I want another, better job when I go.  That doesn't mean I hate my job there, but I get paid next to nothing and yet they demand me to be there on certain days. This is my part time job.  When I tell a job I'm going to be out of town, and I don't expect to be paid for the day I am away, they should just let me go.  Especially for a part time job.

Anyway, enough negativity.

I know I teased this out in the last post, but I will be discussing what I think about Halloween--I'm just going to combine that with my philosophy on Christmas post, probably.  Or not, who knows.

Jokes and candy

Knock, knock. 

Who's there?

For who?


No, no- for whom. 


That's my most favorite joke ever, people. Just in case there was any question about how much of a nerd I am. Also: http://xkcd.com/971/

Happy Halloween, everybody! I hope nobody's car/house/anything got egged or otherwise ruffianized. It's kind of sweet, actually, being on this (adult) side of Halloween, with the giving out of candy and whatnot. Like, these kids come to the door, and making their day is literally as easy as handing them a piece of candy. Handfuls of delight.

I think tomorrow I'm going to try and figure out a way to make someone's day. I think it's a fascinating idea. Is it a compliment? A gift? A favor? A well-timed joke? (See example above.) I'll let you know how it works. Tomorrow I plan on being the human equivalent to an ice cream truck. Get excited, world.

rkb

Catch Up and Other Nonsense

So, I'm just going to say it; I ignored the fact that I had a blog for awhile.  But now I'm here, and you can't get rid of me.

Every time I go into work on the latter part of the week (Thursday-Saturday), I have this horrible nervousness.  My chest gets tight, heart pounds, you know, the whole enchilada of terror.  I hate going in on these days, not because I care about having my weekend free, but because these are the days I find out what my schedule is the week after next is.  Ugh, I hate finding it out, because half the time I'm not happy with how it's been scheduled.  I'm a pretty lazy person, to be honest, and I don't like it when they treat me like an actual worker.

Which brings me to my next crisis: the day after Thanksgiving, also known as BLACK FRIDAY.  Not only does my retail employer think that it's fine to make us get up at 3 am to get to work at 4 (and some employee's, like our Asset Protection guy has to get there at 2), but then assigns us 10 hour shifts.  Now, I'm stuck between my desire to never work that day ever and my integrity.  Of course I've requested the day off, but I don't know if that will be declined (probably will).  My only option then is just to call in and say, "Can't come, sorry."  Most of my co-workers think that, if I've told them I can't work that day, and I tell them I won't, it's okay because they knew from the start I wouldn't show up.  But isn't that... a bad thing to do?

Anyway, That's a month away, and hopefully it will all be straightened out before then.  My bosses aren't horrible people, and are usually pretty understanding.

Halloween is Monday.  I always used to participate as a kid--as Pinocchio one year, a dalmatian a few years in a row, black cat (without the sexiness) another, etc.  One or both of my parents always used to come with me.  Nothing can replace that feeling when you arrive home, candy sack in hand, and dump out all the glorious candy on the floor with that crisp plastic crinkle noise.  Then comes the sorting; chocolate candies were always keepers, but pixie sticks were out of there like underwear.  Sometimes I would keep the smarties, sometimes not.  But those Bit O'Honeys and Now and Laters, I would give to my mom, with the Tootsie Rolls of course.  I didn't really like chewie candies back then (still don't unless they are fruit flavored).

I'm pretty sure my parents didn't have to ration my candy, but maybe they did have final say on how much I could eat at one time.  There's only a few candies I will absolutely gorge myself on, but most of the time, I forget that I have them.  Christmas candy, for instance, has sat in my closet pretty much untouched for the better part of a year.  Not that I don't want the candy, but because I have this insane need to make it last until next Christmas.

Next time (tomorrow), I will continue my discourse of Halloween.  But now I feel like this may be getting too long if I say all my piece.

See you then.
M&y

Beatles at Shea Stadium

Well, it's Tuesday, everybody.

This week's started off a bit glum for me, and unfortunately the rain predicted for tomorrow and Thursday promise to keep it low. Or at least, to pump enough humidity in the air to make me feel insecure about my hair. I do actually sort of perversely like rainy days when I'm at work, though, because it makes me feel like I've won somehow against all the people who don't have to be at work. Like, the day's already gloomy; I might as well be working inside instead of wandering around outside, wishing my cute jacket was actually waterproof or that I had remembered not to wear my so-comfortable-I-can't-bring-myself-to-throw-them-out flats that have holes in the soles.

I went up to my alma mater, Taylor University, over the weekend for Homecoming, and it was a bittersweet experience. I did enjoy seeing some truly lovely people again, and everyone was so kind and sweet about seeing me. Plus, I didn't have to open a door for myself the entire weekend- something I had forgotten to miss about good ol' TU boys. But being up there made me realize that...that part of my life is truly over. I mean, it's been almost half a year since I graduated, but in my mind I suppose I could've pictured myself quite easily assimilating back into college. Now, not so much.

I think it's this: I knew my life had changed; I didn't know I had changed, too.

It feels kind of major, but to avoid getting all hyperbolic, let me use a homespun analogy that came to me during the second hour of a particularly long staff meeting today: Imagine waking up in the middle of the night. You've been sleeping, which of course has been lovely, and all of a sudden you're not only awake, but rather discomfited by the state in which you find yourself: a bit sweaty, one foot hanging off the end of the bed, sheets tangled around one calf and a feeling of general disorientation in the darkness. Frankly, it's annoying.

But now that you've woken up, it can actually be a bit nice, rearranging yourself, righting the sheets, etc. Especially when you flip your pillow and press your cheek against the cool side. You know that sensation, right? Well, that's what this weekend showed me. Graduating has been like waking up, and realizing that I have all of these "problems" that I was blissfully unaware of just moments before. But getting my life rearranged can be satisfying in its own way. And realizing that part of this change can actually be enjoyable- like flipping a pillow- is a new and welcome sensation.

rkb

As promised

So, my dad told me about this writing contest for Halloween.  This actually just came to my attention last night, so maybe it was meant to be that I would start writing, eh?

It has to be 450 words or less.  Below is what I have so far.  Not sure how I feel about it, but it was the first idea, so I went with it.

Working title:  Rule Number Five.  This is all unedited, or "raw," so save your harshest criticisms.

They had seen me.  I was told never to let them see me.  It was rule number one, and I had blown it.  I leaned against the door, shivering with nerves as I felt the three of them walking on the other side of the door. 

What had he told me?  Rule number one, don’t let them see you.  I had to scratch that one off the list.  Rule two?  My mind wound in on itself, trying to remember while my body shuddered.  Oh, yes, don’t underestimate them. 

Rule three, rule three… I wish I could have delayed my arrival by one night, or all of this wouldn’t have happened.  But I was never one for timing.

Right disappear or misdirect them—that was rule three.  I had tried that one already.  They hadn’t followed me to this room.

I closed my eyes and listened for them in the hallway.  They were talking, laughing roughly and knocking on the old walls.  I felt one give way, and I jumped. 

Suddenly, I remember.  The lock!  Oh my god, I forgot about the lock on the door.  My thumb traced the knob behind my back.  No no, it was too late for that.  They would hear the rusty mechanism and know where I was. 

I gasped like a fish for water, my head blurring with panic.  The rules, the rules.  Rule four?  Rule four, rule four… Don’t lead them back to where you live.

But they had found me where I live—those three wearing their outfits fit for hell.  I was told if I had kept the lights off, none would come.  And now three were in my house.  They spotted me in the window and pointed and gawked.  They forced the feeble front door open and were searching for me, jeering and laughing.

Now they knew where I lived.  I had heard stories of this happening to others, and it was never good.  More of them tended to show up, stomping and yelling, sneaking and lurking around the corner.  They violated you, chased you, like some disturbed game of cat-and-mouse.  Fighting back almost always made it worse—more would show up.  An infestation of them, trying to catch you.

The floor whimpered close to the door, and one of their voices traveled through.  “Hey!  I wonder what’s in this room!”

I was left with no time to react; the door opened and the three came inside.

“Dude, it’s freezing in here!”

“What’d I tell you, this place is haunted!”

I stood, eyes frozen wide. 

Rule number five, if you’re home is declared haunted by the humans, no other spirits may help you.  And you may never leave.

To be continued.

Yes, another one of those "I"m too tired to post" posts.

Unfortunately for me, the last few days have been preoccupied with getting my car up and running, work, and job applications.  Nothing I want to do, but that's life.

But--a blog isn't about making excuses on why I'm not blogging.

Anyway, tomorrow I'm going to post something that has to do with the story I'm apparently writing.  Because if I don't say that "publicly" on this blog, I won't ever actually write anything

See you tomorrow.

M&y

Feminist Friday, Edition #1

Short, and sweet: check out this story. You know what's encouraging? Smart, engaged, American girls who sweep Google's annual science competition, that's what.


rkb

Nothing you can't walk away from in 30 seconds, baby

I've started thinking about moving out of my parent's house. It's going on 5 months now since I graduated and moved back in with them. As you can imagine, there have been some times when we haven't seen eye-to-eye in our expectations of this old/new living arrangement. But, with the idea of moving comes the issue: cleaning everything out.

We've been in this house since I was in high school, and while I wouldn't call myself a hoarder by any means, quite a bit of stuff has managed to claim a place in my little corner of the downstairs. Most of it has some sort of sentimental hold on me, making an essentially worthless item one that I can't seem to get rid of. Like the plastic spurs that I won for placing first in a horsebackriding competition. Or the Cinderella figurine that a friend gave me in junior high (since Cinderella is, of course, my Disney princess counterpart). Or any and all of my cd's, since let's face it, their value really is ephemeral at this point.

Worst of all, though, is the books. I've been an avid- indeed, almost atavistic- book collector as long as I can remember. I never spent too much money as a kid, except on books. Such a weakness. If we're ever near a Barnes & Noble, just watch me for the signs of an addict. Hands will shake. Eyes will roll. Ok, maybe not really, but books will be purchased.

And of course, these bulky, heavy, (dare I say outdated?!) tomes of delight really must be the first to go, for two reasons: one, I have far too many. They more than fill the four and a half bookshelves I have in my room, spilling over in rows along the walls and stacks between furniture. Second, they are unwieldy and impractical. I know I cannot take them with me when I go, and I know I cannot expect my parents to lug them around after I'm gone. Hence begins the Great Book Purge of 2011.

I joke, but I am finding it actually pretty difficult to convince myself to get rid of this stuff that I've just had around for so long. But I do think there's something to be said for simplicity, restraint, and even minimalism. My friend Richard says that you should never love any thing so much that it hurts you to lose it. So I'm going to start cleaning out this stuff; here's hoping it has a good effect on me mentally, too.

rkb

In which courage is mentioned, part 2

You know what's difficult for me? Indecision. Mandy and I chose to name this blog "the art of wavering" because we felt it described how we're living our lives right now... in the margins, wavering between options, basically directionless.

Well, right now I'm on the verge of making a pretty huge decision. And I am going crazy, because I have no way to really anchor my choice. I spoke with my friend Nate about his job search earlier this month, and he brought up a good point that, now that we're out of college, even the criteria for decision making has changed. How we decide has altered just as much as our actual options.

You know, in some ways, I am more free right now than I ever will be again. I am single, (relatively) without financial obligations, and young. What can't I do? And yet, as much as this freedom opens me up, it also paralyzes me. How do you make a choice when there's no one to consider but yourself? I don't owe anyone anything, and it's actually quite frightening.

I mentioned courage in my last post. I think maybe I'm lacking that, a bit. But I also don't know how to make a decision...all by myself. How do I handle not answering to anyone? All of a sudden, this whole thing is on my shoulders. And I don't know if what I'm doing is right.

Sorry if I'm obfuscating this whole thing by being vague; it's just that some discretion is necessary for me right now in terms of how much I can really say. I guess my point is... this whole "freedom" thing can be as terrifying as it is exhilarating. And the toughest moment, I think, is not when you're out there on your own; it's when you take the first step away from home.

rkb

Writing

Yesterday, I posted something about writers' companions.  Today, I had a talk with someone I could refer to as my mentor.  He told me that now that I have a lot of time on my hands, I need to write my novel.

Of course, I laughed nervously.  I do love to write--I just don't like to sit down to write.  I do what most writers must do; I invent things in my mind, places, plot points, characters, whimsical happenstances.  But when it comes time to commit or delve deeper than psychological sock puppets, I freeze.  My stomach ties up in knots, and I avoid impulses to just sit down, stop watching stupid Youtube videos, and get down to some serious creative work.  I have a few guesses why this might be, but something tells me it's most likely because I'm afraid that my writing will be horrible.

Rebekah asked an important question in her last post.  What would you do if you weren't afraid?

If I wasn't so afraid, I'd get serious about my writing.  For most of my life, I've written different things, some things I would consider pretty good, others that I wish I could destroy (but nostalgia or my mother prevents me from doing so).  I guess I've never been convinced that I was actually good at writing.  My parents encouraged me, my classmates and friends have been supportive.  But where they being protective?  Nice?  Fulfilling their roles as loved-ones?

I'm taking my wonderful co-pilots challenge.  I pledge that by this time two weeks from now (give or take a day) I will have a short story in some form.  It may not be perfect or in its final stages, but I will have something to show.  I may post excerpts or have it be a serial every Saturday, I'm not sure.

Regardless, I won't become a better writer by being afraid that I'm not.  If I don't write now, I won't ever.

M&y

Fluff, Part One

I'm in the same position as Rebekah, as I just got done eating after I just got home from work.  My brain doesn't contain enough words for a proper post tonight, so instead I'll post stupids today and something substantial tomorrow.  

Tv Tropes

This is basically a writer's best friend (next to a dictionary and a baby-naming book).  It categorizes themes and character traits and etc etc from different books, video games, TV shows, and movies.  I've lost my fair share of hours just reading different entries.  Definitely good when you're bored and have no friends.   

I'll see you back here tomorrow when I have something worthwhile to say.  

M&y

In which courage is mentioned

It's already late, and I've just got home, so this'll be a short one. I've been thinking on something for a few days now. On Saturday morning, I woke up an hour before my alarm, and settled myself in for a little luxuriating. (This is one of my favorite things in life: being awake, but not up, and knowing you have plenty of time to snuggle, stretch, and laze of a morning.)

Anyway, so I had this time on Saturday morning, and I decided to finish a book my friend had recommended to me. The book posed this question on one of its pages:

What would you do if you weren't afraid?

Well?

rkb

Readers beware

I stumbled upon this article on Flavorwire while exploring all of Tom Hawking's articles (writer's envy... he's great) and found it amusing. I have to confess, I've only touched one of the books he talks about- Tristram Shandy- and gave up after a couple hundred pages. But Mandy, I know you'll be pleased to see The Sound and the Fury up there. Well done, my friend.

Saturday Stupids

This may inspire another post in the future, but I think video games are wonderful.  Not all video games.  Some are horrible and disgusting and worthless.  That doesn't mean that the medium of video games is not worth utilizing.  There are some games out there, dare I say it, that communicate story on a level a book or movie could never achieve.

Video games offer something unique to story telling.  Go out there an find one.  You may actually learn something, well besides how to kill a man or not pay a prostitute.

I go here to find games.  It's not scary, promise.  There's a lot of cutesy games, a bunch of nonsensical ones.  But "Jay is Games" never fails at finding the promising games published out in that world wide web.

Gender Relations-- i.e. Why I'm Not Having Sex

Let me be a little (post)modern here and say something that will not be connected with the rest of my post, or at least as far as I know from what I know about it so far. I have something akin to strep throat right now. It's probably not, because I went to the Medcheck this morning, and the nurse told me everything was not strep throat. She did however look unsure about that upon seeing my germ riddled (virus riddled?) innards, so she gave me the antibiotics anyway. Hence, I'm at home, doing nothing after calling into work. I mean, I can't just go out into the work place with my throat reminding me of sandpaper every time I swallow... or breathe... or move my tongue for whatever reason.

I guess that above paragraph can serve an example of how I don't have a social life. It's not really surprising, seeing as I didn't really have one in college. Or at least not one that you think of when you think of college. I called in sick and have done nothing but go to lunch, get soup, watch the pets and house, and play Mad Men on Netflicks.

...you're welcome

Like Rebekah, I too feel guilty about not having a social life. I keep telling myself baby-steps are enough to get my life to "adult status," whatever that means. One of my goals is to find a nice little social group at a local church, but that means I have to find a new church, make sure that's the right one, test drive that bible study, and then commit. That's like a month long timeline here.

But I'm not one to rush into things. Though I don't fill my life with pros and cons lists, I research even the make up I buy to make sure it has enough five star ratings. But you can't just look up a social life online to research the best people to spend your time with. Well, I guess you can, but I think that's what rapists do on Craigslist.

On a bigger scale, I guess that social life thing will lead me to the fabled "boyfriend." That means that in maybe... three years I'll meet a boy and then see where I go from there.

The boyfriend conundrum (as described by my co-blogger) doesn't fill me with rage, so much as the question, "What did I do wrong?" or the "Where the hell is he already?" I don't frequent Facebook much anymore, and that's only because I don't like being blindsided with people's happiness. Look at all these kids getting married! Good Christian kids! I guess I didn't read the chapter of Matthew where Jesus said it would be an unknown rule that marriage should happen between the twenty-first and twenty-third year of your life. Maybe I should have taken a class at Taylor about finding a mate, or how to find one, or how to at least appear more enticing.

Sorry bro.

I've had two boyfriends in my life. Three if you count the one in middle school. They were all long relationships. But nothing really in college. No one I've met outside of high school. And I wonder what I'm doing wrong. Is it this way for everyone? Am I that much of a loser? Or should I care at all?

If the right man is out there, he'll show up. But will be I in the right place to meet him? God'll give you the boat, but you have to row yourself to shore. But which way is the shore?

All this sad-sackery aside, I wouldn't date the first schmo to come along and ask. I'm not desperate. But I feel as if I should be.

Where did that come from?

M&y

I'll take Brody or this catnip, please

How is everybody? I don’t know why I feel compelled to start this thing like I’m a stand-up comedian, but I feel sort of weird just jumping in without acknowledging y’all. Our readership. And by readership, I mean Hannah Chupp, and my mother (hi Mom). Hello to both of you- and anyone else who accidentally stumbled upon this blog and managed to read this far. Welcome. It’s about to get real.

          Weirdest dating add ever...the couch makes it even more creepy, right?

I want to write about something that’s been bothering me this week: a question that was posed to me by two separate friends and a family member (hi again, Mom) over a space of three days (and in two different languages). That question was this: “Do you have a boyfriend?” (with accompanying iterations of “Don’t you want one?” and “But you forgot to tell me about your boyfriend!”)

Indulge in my self-diagnosis for a while. Because while being asked this question really quite bothers me, I’m not sure exactly why. First of all, to be clear, I am single. Secondly, I’m feeling pretty happy about that (there’s no object of affection that I am pining after…Adam Brody aside). What I mean by “feeling pretty happy” is that I enjoy my friends, my job, my life, and in general don’t find myself missing the guy who isn’t there.

                                                  ...you're welcome

So why does the question bother me so much? Whenever I am asked about this, I feel immediately defensive. Like I should be able to account for the fact that I don’t have a boyfriend. Or should be prepared to offer reasons for my general disinterest in most of the men I have met thus far. I think it also strikes me as (somewhat- only somewhat, but still) sexist. Like the other major events in my life (graduating from college, getting a job, etc.) are interesting in their place but surely can’t be fulfilling. Right?

So what’s my problem? I want a boyfriend… I guess. I feel like it’s hard to say that with any level of certainty until I actually meet someone with whom I really connect. I find myself not making too much of an effort to “meet new people”, and I wonder if I should feel guilty for that. And to be honest, the one guy who asked me out last month, I basically flaked on (which I do feel bad about… but not enough to call him). Canceled on him, told him I would call him, and didn’t. I just wasn’t that into it, I suppose.

So should I feel bad about this? I feel like so many people- and significantly, the people in my life who really matter to and care about me- seem to feel that I am missing something major here. I just don’t (internally) feel all that rushed to find someone now. Or, at all. I mean, I think marriage is wonderful, and I am certainly open to it… but I can also see myself living quite happily on my own. So should I buy the litterbox now, or later?

rkb

Postscript: Mami wrote to me this message after I emailed her back yesterday, telling her I am still without a boyfriend: “Claro que si voy a orar por el gran hombre y varon que Dios te de por esposo mija, ya sabes te queremos muchismo y estamos contentos por ti.” And I am humbled by this. Maybe the questions are less laden with pressure and implied failure than I think. Maybe I’m internalizing a lot more subtext than I ought to be. Maybe this is just people, wanting to keep with with what (and who) is important in my life. 

(Oddball) Homeowner's Association

Here's an interesting Saturday site for you... some of the weirdest houses ever created. Like where an "architect" (and I am using the term very, very loosely) poured concrete over bales of hay and had a cow (named Paulina) eat out the center. Or where a man crafted steel into the shape of a gargantuan pig. To live in. Or a piano-shaped monolith with supplementary transparent violin that someone built in a rural province in China. I can't even choose a favorite. Can you?

rkb

Post Script

Today I was told I would be receiving a gumball machine in honor of my services rendered at my job. It's kind of like "employee of the month" but instead it's called "top producer."

So life isn't so bad after all.

I earn so little the gov't gives it back.

I'm writing this from home, on the couch with the comforter around my legs and the door open to the small back yard. That may seem strange to you--I'm an adult, I have a job. What am I doing home on a Wednesday morning with dogs sleeping around me and my pajamas still on as of this sentence?

Unlike my companion here, I don't have one of those "real" jobs. I work around somewhere between twenty-three to twenty-seven hours a week. And this is not one of those luxury sit-at-your-desk types of jobs either. I'm talking wearing Nike shoes with the little air pockets in them (because that's good for your feet?), walking around in a maze of aisle and racks, and using a walkie talkie job. My schedule is never set either, which maybe exciting to some, but is a pain to all others who pretend to have a life (me). The place I work really isn't important for the post, per se, but I am one of those people dressed in khakis and a red shirt who asks you, "Can I help you find something?" when you just want to be left alone.

The thing that I have been realizing is that most people I have talked to have at one time worked a retail job. That doesn't mean it's not still a source of shame for me, but it helps me be part of the commiserating club of people who have also worn athletic shoes to work and had to climb ladders for people who want eight cases of diapers that are in the back room. These are the people who look at me knowingly when I say I'm "fine" when they ask how my day is going. They are also the people who try their best to fold whatever clothing they were looking at to a shape similar to the pile under it. "Oh yes, I remember when I used to" etc etc. It's like catharsis, to see me sweaty and hanging clothing up. They survived it. Now they can watch me do the monotonous tasks that used to be their own.

Circle of life

I don't get to read Neruda at work, but sometimes I get to walk through the aisles and make sure everything is pulled forward and straightened up. Like last night, I stood in the toothpaste aisle, making sure all the slim boxes of Crest and Colgate where stacked up just so while still being in the right spot. This while a Nigerian man around my age tried to flirt with me.

That's the thing about my job, I get to talk to him and learn who he is all while doing my job well. I can stand and talk to "guests" (that's a better term my work developed instead of customer, because that's so forward, I guess) about products and then to other things as well, and still look busy. I get to talk. Talk all day and night and morning if I feel like it, because as long as I'm fulfilling my tasks, I'm golden. I interact with people and learn about their children, their ex-husbands and wives, and what they had for dinner last night. I experience humanity at it's lowest and finest, whether that's with a co-worker who acts like the queen of the shoe department (probably more on this later), or with the man who grins when I bring the bike out of the backroom that his daughter wanted.

I don't do anything important at my job, and I don't work enough to be "important" either. But at least I see people. That may not be as nice as a snug cubicle, but it's a start.

M&y

(I'm trying to have a cool little signature like Rebekah over here, so bare with me while I try a few things out.)

Another day, another (taxed) dollar

I’m two months into my first real job. By “real”, of course, I’m applying certain parameters to the job, since I have legitimately been working since I was sixteen. (Odd jobs, though, we’re not talking about salt mines here. And if anyone other than me had already mentally jumped to salt mines, I’m gonna go ahead and suggest that you read less Neruda and spent some more time outdoors.) At sixteen I had a job as a sales associate at a retail store (hated), from which I moved on to the public library (loved), and then carried a few different jobs during college, mostly working for my university.

             So when I say “real”, I mean a few, very specific things, meaning:

1.     Working full-time (40+ hours a week).

2.     Making a living wage (at least…theoretically. Once you factor in my student loans, I think I may actually be eligible for food stamps, and absolutely low-income housing).

3.     Developing an enormous aversion to taxation, even to the point of denying my dependence upon government-provided public goods (i.e. roads, mail, law enforcement personnel).

It’s kind of weird, working full-time. I never realized how much time it actually takes to be at work all day (and though it’s only 8 or 9 hours, it does feel like all day sometimes). And it feels strange that so much of my time and life experiences are starting to take place at work- away from my family, friends, and “real” life. I guess with a little more solipsism, work will start to feel more like real life and less like something I do in order to get back to my life afterwards.

So, obviously, I’m still figuring all of this out. I sort of feel the need to begin integrating my personality into my workplace so that my hours there feel less like lost time. I’ve found a couple things that have helped make me feel better about officially entering the workforce, though. (Not the least of which being able to use the phrase “the workforce”. It’s empowering, I think, for two reasons: one, it sounds like a lateral reference to Star Wars to me, and invoking a pervasive cultural phenomenon has never led anyone astray, right? And two, it also sounds vaguely cultish, which I can’t help but enjoy.)

                                    My desk at work

Decorating my workspace has been fun. I’m not talking full-size Beiber posters here (though I respect Beliebers; has anyone read his autobiography? That’s write- he’s already written one) I am talking about bringing some pictures of my family and friends, and a postcard from Quito that Hannah sent me. In addition, I posted this picture of the musical artist Darwin Deez next to one of my computer monitors. 

                                               You are my radar detector

Although I’m actually 90% sure that there’s an office rumor that I have a weird Al obsession, Darwin is staying. He makes me happy, and that counts for something.

I also try to find something fun to do during my lunch break. I saw a special on the news last week that recommended office workers Google a picture of a tree or stream and gaze at it for a minute during their lunch hour in order to rejuvenate, which kind of sounds sad to me. But the point is good to find something refreshing to do to make the day deepen. Poetry works for me. I’ll eat lunch and then read Levine until my day feels vibrant again. Maybe you listen to your favorite Beiber song. You know, whatever works.  

Maybe I’ll never feel totally myself at work; maybe that’s a good thing. I do think a level of detachment and professionalism is necessary and appropriate. But sometimes it leaves me feeling less than wholehearted. But perhaps not to be is to be without your being. Ok, now we all need to step away from the Neruda…

rkb

Hello, all

Welcome.

Have you ever struggled to make a decision? Felt like you’re spinning your proverbial wheels in the mud of life? Wandered listlessly through the house on a Saturday? Not had the job/apartment/boyfriend/girlfriend/life you want… because you’re not even sure what it is you actually do want? Asked too many slightly awkward rhetorical questions?

Well, this is where we are- and by we, I mean two buddies who met in college and who have been trying to pull it together since. This is our blog- wavering raised to the level of an art. And this is us:

Mandy is a young, lithe writer who likes They Might Be Giants more than can easily be explained. Her favorite writers include and are limited to Stephanie Meyer, Nora Roberts, Nicholas Sparks, Stephen Hawking and the poetry of Walt Whitman. Mandy is easily recognizable at a distance by the puce polka-dotted scarf that she wears knotted around her left arm at all times. Mandy’s favorite meal is what she refers to as the “triple burrito special”, which can be purchased for less than five dollars at Taco Bell (other taco retailers are available). Given the task of describing Mandy in one word, her friends often say “IHOP.”

Rebekah, on the other hand, is the world’s most prolific watcher of reality TV. When she’s not watching classics such as The Bachelor Pad, she enjoys I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant, Toddlers and Tiaras, and Jersey Shore.  The mere sight of a puppy has been known to reduce Rebekah to tears, but upon witnessing any sort of rodent, she will burst out in a high-pitched squealing noise that will render the animal unconscious.  On weekends, Rebekah can be seen in thrift stores, searching for that perfect addition to her large collector’s plate wall.  She is seen there so often, that it has become known as her “natural habitat.” 

Well, that’s what we would like to be known as.  Sadly, we’re no where near as exciting and cool as those descriptions make us out to be.  Then again, this is the rest of our lives, right?  (Awkward rhetorical question number five.)  We could aspire to be all these things and much, much more.

… If only we could make up our minds.