success

Jean Paul Ghetty gave this formula for success:

Wake early, work hard and strike oil.

discovery

I do not make friends. I discover them. I'm the Christopher Columbus of my social life. Just as he did nothing to bring about the western hemisphere, I seem to stumble upon already existing friendships and then receive credit for my clumsiness. This week I staked my flag into two new friends.

Rachael. She is the Cosmo's supervisor right after me. Our interaction usually involves saying hi while switching out our tills. But we also sit together at the staff meetings. On Monday, when the thought of another hour standing at the register and greeting greedy freshman with a smile nearly made me cry, Rachael showed up and took up the load. I went home and napped. When our Wednesday meeting came I arrived early and she late. The only empty seat was next to me, as if everyone else had acknowledged Rachael's rightful place. She and I talked and laughed and made cynical gestures when Curtis spoke too long. And on Friday when she felt sick, I realized that she is my friend, because I felt as badly about her pain as I had about mine.

Aaron. Aaron is the student manager during my shift every day. He begins his sojourn in my area with a question along the lines of "best movie ever made" or "top ten bands of the seventies." One time he asked me who I thought the worst US President was. Of course these questions lead to conversations and debates. He once called Ayn Rand the Anti-Christ! I love the boy to death. Naturally, that means he is gay, whether openly admitted or not. He is a soft, round sweetheart. When I had a bad day, he thought of me between work days, and when he thought of me, he thought "cheese." He cut me a wedge of cheese, because as he got ready for the day, he remembered my fondness for the food. How cute is that!

It's a good day when you discover two new friends.

dayspring

I am over the disappointments of Monday morning. Although I still do not like the grades I received, nor the news, and though the little pains of that day were very real (I must say that it felt as though everything went wrong), this morning they have fled. My alarm clock chased them away, and I woke before my usual time, avoiding hitting snooze until I heard the water shut off in the bathroom. No, I woke early, read in the Gospel of Luke, and started my day off with the strength of the Lord. How long has it been since I woke up early? A couple weeks? I appreciated the reminder last night that made me reset my alarm clock and back it up with my cell phone on full volume.

The softness of morning surprised me, for when I had allowed it to be my enemy its harshness had wounded me, stumbling from bed at too late an hour. But this morning the amber glow of my lamp warmed everything which fell within its halo, the weight of the blankets over my legs gave comfort instead of imprisoning me, and the words of Luke cheered my soul: "Through the tender mercy of our God; whereby the dayspring from on high hath visited us, to give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace."

taking it

For two days I have had in my head the parting words of Professor Kearl. Absorb negative externalities. In this one line he reconciled Ayn Rand and the Gospel, something I have struggled to do since the day I discovered both were true. But the line keeps circling my head, during times when I have no thoughts save nothingness, where I can't make heads or tails of anything. Then the words come back. Absorb negative externalities. It's a tribute to my personality quirks that this phrasing means more to me than "turn the other cheek." When my emotions got too heightened, when the mental rantings became too articulate with ever shortened vocabulary words, the phrase would come as a gentle reminder and calm things down. Perhaps because it appealed to my rational side. At one point to still my increasingly rapid breathing (sure signs of emotions to follow), I kept repeating the sentence to myself. I can take it, I told myself. I'd rather take it, I added. If I take it, if I keep it inside, no one else gets hurt by it. I can take it. I took out the trash at work, talking to myself as I walked with my hands full of bulging black trash bags. Take it, I said. Just take it, I repeated. TAKE IT! I screamed in my mind and I threw the bags into the dumpster. I almost collapsed with the physical and emotional exertion, but the tears were gone by the time I got back to the counter at work. Absorb the negative externalities.

small heroes

I almost ignored the fire alarm when it started going off during my morning class. Everyone, in fact, ignored the loudspeaker. Noise in the hall shouldn't interrupt a good class discussion. Finally we evacuated. The prerecorded voice said over and over not to use the elevator, which is fine by me. I was only one floor below street level.

As I passed one classroom, however, I noticed someone emerging, someone to whom one flight of steps might be more than an inconvenience. I've met this kid many times, though I don't know his name. He's simply the blond curly-haired boy who has the electric wheelchair I so covet. I kept my eyes on him as Laura and I walked to the stairs. Would he take the elevator anyway? It probably wouldn't hurt anything, I thought. Laura had the same worries. How is he going to get up the stairs? I saw the answer to that.

One guy who had followed Curly out of the class, bent down next to him and said jovially, "How about some help there buddy?" The strapping youth waved a hand to another anonymous classmate and the two stooped and lifted the chair between them. I couldn't watch the whole procession out the door, because I had already easily mounted the steps by myself. As I walked out of the building, my heart lifted at the thought of those two boys and the kind deed they had done.

bugs for breakfast

It was bad enough Sunday morning. I needed pancakes. For that, I was willing to use the sifter on the weevil-infested flour. I'm fairly certain that I caught most of them before they hit the mixing bowl, and the rest got cooked on the griddle. Of course, I had no syrup, so the entire Sunday morning pancake breakfast went a little wrong. My mood darkened all day any time I thought of pinching maggots in my fingers to dispose of them in the garbage. But I moved past it.

Monday was worse. Exhausted, I moved about my morning routine with my eyes closed and my feet scuffing in slippers. I dumped a packet of instant oatmeal into my bowl, added water and microwaved it. I pulled a frothy pink and white mess out a minute later and shuffled to the dining room. I opened Sudoku to waken my mind and then I moved my spoon to the cereal. I thank God that I looked at my spoon before inserting it into my mouth. I nearly screamed when I saw them. Instead I held my breath, held it tight against the gagging in the back of my throat. I didn't know if the bugs had been that big to begin with or whether microwaving had engorged them. Half an inch long. I stood calmly and deposited my bowl in the sink. I rinsed with hot water and sent the carcasses to their demolition by garbage disposal. I did not eat that morning.

Having bugs for breakfast is worse than waking up on the wrong side of the bed. At work my normal cheerful attitude lacked as I cleaned out the ice cream machine someone turned off Saturday night. Spoiled soft serve has a terribly sticky-sweet smell on top of the rotten-sour aroma of old milk. I think I am cured of ever eating again. My bad mood haunted me all day, and I kept wishing I could find someone at whom to be mad. I could have taken it out on Nora, since she's family and has to forgive me. I would apologize later, and mean it. I'm sorry Nora, it's just that I had bugs for breakfast.

say anything

I remember being introduced to the language before I even entered high school. I encountered it at my first stake dance as I rotated in circles while a gangly boy tried not to look at me and not to step on my toes. At that time, small talk did not come naturally to anyone. I was not the only one who preferred silence to questions one heard, such as "do you play any musical instruments?" But by the time I left high school I was years behind my peers, because I still preferred silence while they had mastered the art of chit-chat. Small talk is part of that social capital that comes as a latent function from our educational system. I did not learn it.

Once I entered college I resisted fluency for a long time, but I found that I was the one hurt by the insistence that communications be meaningful or forgone entirely. Because usually the latter occurred. It turns out that one cannot become acquainted with someone without talking, and no one begins a conversation by asking your views on Dostoevsky and the latest political trend toward legislation for the prevention of abuse against small animals and super models.

Truth, never a big component of small talk, also led to complications. Truth is only allowed if it is entirely pleasant and of general interest. It rarely is. When I'm asked about my family, for instance, Mom's affair and Dad's insanity do better in their respective closets, while I have learned to focus on my siblings in general terms--their whereabouts and ages, etc.

Also, questions are not asked to get answers, and statements are not provided to give answers. All talking in small talk is to avoid silence and maintain predictability. Never break those rules.

I took a crash course in small talk after my second year of school. The first, I maintained simple awkwardness amid general good standing socially. The second, I turned my back on accepted social graces and dared anyone to care; they did, as did I. Last year I learned to smile during a speech that held no interest for me, to ask questions of a stranger when introduced and to form my remarks in such a way as would liven a conversation and not kill it. It is only sheer perverseness that leads me to do otherwise on certain occasions.

So now I speak the language passably well, though it does not come naturally. Like a student living in a foreign land, I restrict myself to that language and stumble through it as my only means of communication. I go to work and I go to school and I come home and answer the generally expected question of, "how was your day."

At work I say superb and absolutely a lot. I am superb, I will absolutely get that done, the new system is absolutely superb. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I just said, like conjugating a French verb; surely that couldn't have been right. But then my boss smiles genuinely and lets me get back to work. I like everyone that I work with, but I do not know anything about them but that they are "doing good" today and that this one works efficiently and that one doesn't.

At school I have become Hermione, raising my hand and giving my opinions on everything. That is perhaps the only way something intelligent comes out of my mouth all day (except for the fact that I always use an adverb correctly when asked how I am doing). Those seated next to me ask about my previous classes and sometimes we compare professors. We often discuss material for group projects, but then I find them falling into questions such as, "so, where are you from?" "what are you majoring in?" and "what do you want to do with that after graduation?" Though I want to cry that these people do not care about my past or my ambitions, I have structured answers to give them that they will find interesting enough that their smiles aren't faked, and forgettable enough that we'll have something to talk about the next time.

How was your day? Fine. Good. Superb.

No one should go through an entire day without saying anything.

you might be on nyquil...

You (or I) might be on NyQuil if...

...on a test where you would otherwise have demonstrated amazing math skills, you add 2.5 + 59.5 to get 72. Might I add that the range of the numbers in question only went up to 69?

...on same said test, you calculate the percent rate of change perfectly in five different problems and then on the multiple choice you choose the highest rate of change when it asked for the smallest.

And my personal favorite:

You might be on NyQuil if you go to the store to buy more medicine and buy DayQuil in liquid form instead of gel caps with the intent of carrying the medicine to school each day to redose.

rhea

This weekend I got a whole new perspective regarding just how long a year and a half is. If it were a single unit of time--obscure yet specific like a fortnight--I would call it a Rhea*. Now, on its own, it's not so intimidating. Just one. But looked at as a collection of smaller increments, the Rhea becomes more menacing. All apologies to my best accounting friend, to whom the following arbitrary units of measurement may be painful.

Sick days. I anticipate that in the next Rhea I will have six colds: four minor, two major. That means an innocent looking eighteen months is really a sinister 10 sick days. It is one sprained ankle, roughly 80 exams and 12 cried-over season finales.

It is one birthday (of mine), two or three family vacations, two Christmases, dozens of lesser holidays and approximately 78 family home evenings. It is two fights with Ted, two letters from Bryan, and two visits from April. It is three weddings**, 156 date nights, and probably 20 actual dates. It is one nephew (hint to Jamie) and one degree.

It is also approximately 360 emails, 156 phone calls and four visits. I'd guess that 20 of those emails will be from me, exhibiting cracks in my emotional well-being, and 20 of those phone calls will be from him making it better.

* The name Rhea comes from the beginning of rhinoceros, because 18 months is the approximate gestation period of said animal, and the ending of Flea, which insect may live said length under ideal circumstances. Rhea is also the wife of Cronus the God of Time.

** All predictions are determined by recent rates.

menthol for the id

I hung up the phone and immediately teared up. My inner self began to whine, he didn't even want to keep talking. Another, loftier voice chimed in, come now, people get busy, and you can't live your life on the phone. My Id didn't answer except with a crude gesture and a greater onrush of tears. Voice number three came in calmly and rationally, stopping Super Ego from retorting condescendingly. Come now, my Ego stated, isn't it obvious? It happens this way every month. Just let her be.

Later as I dressed for Jason's wedding reception, my frustration grew at each outfit that looked, quite frankly, appalling on me. I borrowed something from Nora, the worst yet. I walked into her room sobbing. When did I get this fat? She turned and appraised me. Honey, you're probably bloated. All signs (gesturing to the tears) point to it. I nodded and she selected another skirt, A-line instead of cut on the bias. I made sure that my hair was amazing to take focus from my body.

Sunday was no better, a cold adding its merry presence to the Evil One.

That's when Nora gave me the Gift.

It was a menthol tablet that I dropped in the hot water of the shower. Instantly I was swathed in a cloud of minty steam. My skin burned, my sinuses cleared and my eyes watered until I cried. That's when I noticed the music in the background: Dashboard Confessional. I wept until I stepped from the tub and felt not only clean but refreshed. While the emo group sang angrily I towel-dried happily.

The cold went untouched. I am still blowing my nose every few minutes. But the medicine worked for my mood. In fact, I am quite cheerfully enjoying my convalescence. My Id is even being rational.

Well, sort of.

master plan

I have never been ambitious. I thought I naturally had a penchant for contentment. It turns out that I just needed to pick a direction, and then I would run in it. I didn't do well in classes until I chose a major. Now I do fairly decently. I also see how everything I learn ties in to what I want to be when I grow up. Because I know that now too. I want to be a great mom and write whenever I can--fiction, nonfiction, whatever.

But now that I've decided to be a writer, I want to be the best writer I know how. I want to get my master's degree in creative writing from the University of Texas (James Joyce gave them his money!). In order to follow this path in the preferred Energizer Bunny method, I will have to minor, at least, in English. Nothing so easy since most of my electives have stemmed that way anyway.

But yesterday, I received a cruel blow. The English department wants to require one more class than in years previous. One more class added onto my well thought-out graduation plan. Where do I fit it? Next semester, in my 15 credit load? What about Spring and Summer with their 9 credits apiece? I suppose there is always fall. Seventeen credits isn't too bad for a final semester with all 400-level classes. Right? At any rate, I am not staying in Provo an extra semester.

So what do I do? What's the master plan? I don't like that I don't know.

alas, babylon

One of my favorite books, one that I can read over and over, is Alas Babylon by Pat Frank. At the beginning of the book, Randy receives a simple telegram from his brother Mark using their childhood code for danger. Only days later the horizon is lit by multiple mushroom clouds, and the small town of Fort Repose is cut off from the world without an idea of what is going on outside.

Cut to a new TV series airing today. Jericho. A small town in Kansas witnesses multiple mushroom clouds on the horizon and are cut off without information. What will they do? They look like they're going to try to recreate The O.C. without the beach.

If I were Pat Frank, I'd sue. But I'm not. I am, in fact, the next closest plagiarist to them both. I think I am annoyed that the story hits too close to my own. At least mine isn't full of pretty boys who give you the creeps...yet.

happy talk like a pirate day

Talk Like a Pirate Day stems from a long and well-reputed tradition begun upon false premises by none other than nautical expert Dave Barry. I first learned of the holiday in high school, though my love for pirates existed long before. This picture, in truth, was not taken to commemorate this celebration but was a momento of a summer fling. I take this day to remember Cap'n Pete and our love.


. . . and, um, yar.

the passing of ann

Ann Richards, the last REAL governor of Texas, just died. In the article about her death, she was quoted as having said of our dear president/her successor, "Poor George. It's not his fault; he was born with a silver foot in his mouth." We will miss her.

baseball and weddings

After my brother's wedding reception (which is really his wife's reception, which is really for her mother) I am more firmly convinced that I would prefer a park for my own celebrations. A baseball field is the only place where bunting and diamonds are allowable. And, Heather added, what a better place to celebrate "going all the way." At least my sisters made it fun.

pitts

I had a dream last night where I was at a resort with my family and lots of bad things happened, including water rising and swallowing me, the way it used to in my old nightmares. But one thing stuck out to me. I was dating Brad Pitt. Weird. I have many explanations for this entire dream, from images I've seen lately to themes about which I have been thinking. One theory includes Brad being representative of Death (eg. Meet Joe Black). But why, I ask myself, would I want to analyze this when I could just enjoy it? Move over Angelina!

a comprehensive countdown

Work was very productive today. I developed a countdown to all the important dates for the next year. Disclaimer: I only did those dates I could remember off the top of my head. Yes, there are some missing. But not many.

3- Jason's wedding.
7- Ted's Birthday.
11- Ashley's Birthday.
18- Nora's Birthday.
35- Kevin's Birthday.
46 April's Birthday.
66- Veteran's Day.
78- Thanksgiving.
110- Christmas.
116- New Year's Eve.
152- Debi's Birthday.
161- Valentine's Day.
167- Emilie and Janiece's Birthdays.
192- St. Patrick's Day.
199- Alyessa's Birthday.
207- April Fool's Day.
219- Caitie's Birthday.
221- Tax Day.
231- Dad's Birthday.
235- Mom's Birthday.
241- Cinco De Mayo.
244- MY BIRTHDAY!
301- Independence Day.
312- Tarythe's Birthday.
316- Heather's Birthday.
318- Jason's Birthday. Tarythe's Anniversary.
321- Pioneer Day.
339- Cassidy's Birthday.
342- Joyce's Birthday.
365- September 6, 2007.

forgotten nightmares

It's not news that I have strange and disturbing dreams. Ted commented that what I casually call dreams most people would label nightmares. I shrugged. Like I said, it's not news. As far as I can remember--and my memory is pretty good--the nightmares started over two years ago, the summer I went home after Freshman year.

The foremost theme was death or otherwise negatively associated leaving of a loved-one. I became firmly convinced by my subconscious that I had a fear of abandonment. I began to notice in my interactions with others that I fully expected them to leave. The times when I have been proven wrong mean more to me than seems normal on the outside perhaps.

There was the trek of Fat Man's Misery in Zions where Ted hiked with me far behind the others. Bryan never left my side as I learned to ski, wiping-out at every turn. Debi stuck to my side as I grew sick from dehydration. And Kevin sat in the heat while multiple locksmiths attempted to break into my rental car.

These all seem like trivial events, and maybe they are, but something interesting to note is that I no longer dream that I am being left. While my nightmares may be scary and frustrating, I do not wake afraid. I have become so used to it being true that even in my dreams those that matter stay.

oops

I got this email from another supervisor at work today, reporting on last night's business:

"Slow most of the shift. It picked up right before closing.
A note to all those with tills. Peter said not to let any one else ring up besides you and he said that because he is very smart. Do not let anyone else touch the tills.
We had a major problem tonight,
Bottom line, I enjoyed this job while it lasted."

They say a word to the wise is more than sufficient. I won't leave my register for anything! Wow.

it counts

I felt like a Sesame Street special, sitting on the tile floor opening box after box and simply counting the contents. I used no upper-level math, I did nothing particularly skillful. I simply counted.

The mind-numbing process began after eleven PM, the inventory crew having been christened with Mountain Dew just before. The assignments were given, and I smiled sympathetically at the boy whose task it was to spend the next hour and a half in the walk-in freezer, while I got to be warm and comfortable in the dry goods stock room. The time passed quickly enough for those of us in the "Cage". We all joked and talked. Sometimes the laughs would come a minute or so late because the listener's focus had been so intent on not losing count. That was the worst. Was I on 36 or 46? Damn!

Soon even the Dew and the company lost their power to help and the counting just didn't seem as interesting as it had when we started. That's one! One hour! That's two. Two hours...Three. . . I got home at three o'clock in the morning absolutely exhausted. Sleep, however, didn't seem as restful as it might have were I not continuing the inventory in my dreams. A room with imaginary dimensions can be quite full of strange and scary items that need counting.

So why did I do it? I asked myself that question when I almost fell asleep before ten last night while waiting for my shift to start. I knew why I was doing it. Because I had said I would. The money didn't matter, not really, and I didn't need the practice (I'm almost quite certain I have my numbers down). I did it to impress the boss man, to make him see I am cooperative, willing to help and a hard and dedicated worker. I have my eye on his job, after all. It paid off too, when I got the email thanking me profusely for a job well done. I am now in even greater favor with the Powers that Be at work, a good thing when I'm taking the weekend off last minute. So, I'm glad I did it after all, because it counted for something.