did i really just?

The panic began some time last week, around the time when I discovered the countdown to my imminent move was only 24 days. The tears started last night. When I lay down for bed, as the stress slowly and grudgingly left my body I began to weep. I pressed my face into my pillow to try to stifle the sound, but cry I must and did until I fell asleep. When I woke up in the morning I took an inventory of myself and wondered, did I really just cry?

In an in-class debate when a girl began a personal attack as her academic one failed, I again wanted to cry. I wished for an abandoned bathroom where I might weep tears of frustration. At work when Aaron inquired about my progress in apartment hunting, I turned away to hide the sudden shine in my eyes. Don't make me cry, is all I responded. The lovely boy promptly began discussing Igor, the Russian assassin. Of course that distracted me. Just not enough.

The white noise is always there, and as long as I ignore it it sounds like static, just static telling me that there is too much friction in my life right now, too much channel surfing, too many distractions. I couldn't agree more. But if I stop and listen to the noise it becomes oh so much blacker. It starts whispering to me of all my insecurities. It tells me I am a failure. You have no place to live, it says. You have no job. You couldn't even sell your contract to take care of Nora. Her stress is your fault too. And you have nothing to offer anyone, especially Kevin. If you had chosen to stay here and do your duty and do things the right way, you could have gone to him without debt and with a degree. What are you now? Nothing. Did you actually think you could do this? Did you really just try?

I'm trying not to listen.

magic anticipated

Tuesday felt like Christmas Eve, the way it has always felt since my childhood, and hopefully how it will always feel long past when I am dead. The feeling is that of anticipation. It is not the anticipation of presents or of food but of magic. There is not any emotion that is quite like the anticipation of magic. The restless night before the first day of kindergarten, the slow-passing hours before a day at Disneyland, the butterflies that dance intricate waltzes in your stomach just to say, Tomorrow! This joy and fear are enough to make life real for you, testifying that you had not lived until this moment of squirming hope, and that you will likely die if the magic doesn't come soon. Oh how hard waiting becomes at those times! Sleep is the best way to pass the hours, because then you cannot count them. However, few can sleep when the halo of anticipated magic hangs around them. The glow is too bright and too beckoning. Even dreams pale in comparison to the simple splendors of waking the next morning.

I remember from when I was little opening my eyes in the gray light before dawn, blinking away the mundane from my eyes, and suddenly having my stomach give a whoosh as I recalled with vividness the magic waiting for me just outside my room. Every fearsome and flighty word I knew leaped to my brain to try to describe to my heart just what lay out in a day run by magic: elves and oliphants, wrapping paper and evergreens, a word that sounds like "pomplemoose", cocoa and Mom (mom encompasses so much magic herself, that the only word to capture all those sensations--the way her hands stroked my hair, the voices she used when reading aloud of dwarves and wizards, the smile she had that she reserved just for special occasions--is 'Mom').

These feelings of radiance attended my sleep Tuesday night and forced me to wake before my alarm Wednesday morning. Not really fair of course, since in this instance the magic wasn't due the moment I woke, but a whole twelve hours later. It is lucky for me, and perhaps for all who know me, that the magic kept all her promises over the next three days.

I felt well rewarded by her enchantments, especially surprised and pleased by the charms of the Denver airport. Other times I felt swallowed by time himself and what I experienced is mine only. But in Denver I saw, touched, heard, smelled and tasted outside of myself. It is the first time I noticed how bewitching the airport is. Of course, this is the first time I explored it during my layover instead of sitting self-contained at my gate. I walked with a quick but heedless pace up and down the length of terminal B, absorbing sensations real and imagined. I felt the grainy texture of the hand rail pass under my fingers, swiftly turning them black, as I meandered on the automatic sidewalks. As I stepped, I pretended my feet sunk tiltingly into uneven surfaces of sand and grass, afterward hopping off the walkway as it came to its end. The sensual aromas wafting from the chocolate factory smoothly replaced the scent of salted popcorn just a few feet before. Children screamed and giggled and somewhere someone sang. Shops of crisp books followed boutiques with dresses made of rose-tinted copper.

On my third trip around I only watched the people. An old man with a cane and liver spots aimlessly walked the terminal too, graciously allowing me to pass him whenever our circuits met. He reached a hand to his brow to tip the hat that wasn't there. Probably his hat used to be red but had faded to a rough pink from sun exposure at countless ball games. I smiled and walked on. A young boy shuffled backward against the rhythm of the moving sidewalk, not in a hurry to get anywhere, rather enjoying his stagnation, unlike his frazzled young mother who watched the other children too small to amuse themselves in an airport. An old woman brought to her husband his favorite snack of honey roasted peanuts before seating herself, feet tucked up on the chair, next to him. They held gnarled hands as they read. Families, couples, wanderers, all with their own measure of romance and magic. I felt connected to them all as I traipsed through their midst and as they began to cast an eye toward me, watching the odd girl who looked happily lost walking the terminal again.

This was magic experienced.

Yet, when I boarded my flight and my plane left the ground, my stomach once more gave that whoosh that said something greater still waited at the other end of my journey.

everything i needed to know

I learned in statistics.

The lesson for today: chi-squared. What I learned from it: chi (pronounced kai) is a Greek letter for the sound "ch" as in "Bach". It looks like this: X. Historically it was used all throughout Europe any time the word "Christ" appeared. Christopher Columbus signed his name (and others wrote his name) as Xopher. Even Cristina Aguilara knows this (of course her parents are BYU alumni) as she tattooed Xina on her neck. So now, you may all dispel the myth that signing X-mas is disrespectful and a sign of our increasing secularism as a culture. It is in fact more historic to use chi.

The lesson on Wednesday: difference of percentages. The example: contracting the common cold from a) playing poker and 2) French kissing. What I learned: You have a greater risk of catching someone's cold by playing poker with them than you do by making out for two minutes. And yes, that is backed up by science, though it makes me wonder who got to participate in that study! Bacteria do not reside in saliva but in mucus. Touching one's eyes or nose transfers the germs onto your hands, a very communicable place. It would be more sanitary, says my professor, for ward greeters to offer a tongue than a hand to church goers. It may also boost the prestige of that calling.

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.