Holiday Blues

Let me preface this post by saying that few people in this world understand better than I do the power of positive thinking. You HAVE to be a positive thinker to survive my wonderful but very broken family, my marvelous but exhausting friends, the amount of hypocrisy and red tape involved in my schooling, the precious but challenging students in my line of work, and really just my life in general. I've been told often (though not lately...) that I'm a positive and forward-looking person, and that's a quality that I'm trying to cultivate again in my life. A series of events has sort of taken it out of me, and I'm not proud about that.

However. There is nothing anywhere that says you have to be happy all the time. In fact, even scripture dictates otherwise. There are times and seasons that are wonderful and times and seasons that are gut-wrenchingly bad and, too often, times right in the middle that seem to come and go without any particular note at all. I'd hardly say that this season is a terrible time, or an in-betweenie. But it certainly isn't wonderful, either.

My dad is having surgery in about a week and a half to have his eye removed. His cancer isn't really getting better, and the medicine makes him SO sick and tired. I'm incredibly grateful that he's still alive and that he's a part of my life, but seeing him suffer is an awful way to spend the holiday season--although it's completely preferable to the alternative. I am SO TERRIFIED that he will die before seeing my wedding. It's selfish, I know, but I want him there. And I want him there for my first child. And my second. And so on.

Actually, it's not entirely selfish. My parents have both had close encounters with death, multiple times. They have also both known more than their fair share of misery and mediocrity in their lives. I want them both to experience something grand and glorious, something that this life alone can offer, before they pass on. I want them to have an experience that changes their entire lives, that makes every moment of sacrifice and pain worth it.

Paul isn't here. Our last holiday season as "singles," and it's frankly boring, dull, and lonely without him. He's my best friend in the whole world and it's strange to be celebrating anything without him by my side. He also FINALLY got the chance to tell his parents about our engagement, and they're...less than thrilled. More like apalled and angry and disappointed all rolled up into one. It's a big party for him...and I don't even get to hold his hand through it. :(

I have been having a few health problems of my own lately. I had a back/hip issue that resulted in my withdrawing from BYU a few years ago, going through physical therapy, that whole bit. Recently, the pains have been returning and I have no idea what to do. I've also had some internal issues that I'm sure you don't care to hear about and am STILL gaining weight, which may very well be my thyroid as my mom suggests but I can't really worry about that right now because I have no insurance and I have a wedding to pay for. And I woke up this morning bleeding out of both nostrils.

I'm terrified. I made the choice to do my student teaching in Chicago, and I'm not as excited about it yet as I'd like to be. But it's for the best, and I believe in my decision. I'm just scared to pieces about all the lives I'm going to screw up...hopefully not...but still...

My brother's...well, if you know anything about my brother, then I need no further explanation.

Every holiday season for years and years has been like this, only worse. I feel like I'm always just holding my breath come November because sometime in the next two months something big and awful is going to happen. And it always does. Then last year, with just starting to date Paul, I was pretty optimistic and didn't have the holiday blues nearly at all. And the bad news waited until after New Year's to creep up, which was a blessing. And now I'm engaged, for crying out loud!!! I should be over this by now.

I just don't understand how Christmas, and really every holiday, just never lives up to what it was in my childhood. I feel worse than blue. I feel numb. I'm afraid to feel anything right now, because I'll just cry like I seem to do at least once a day now. I'm happy, I cry. I'm sad, I cry. I'm angry, I cry. It's insane. Ah, my life...you're crazy, dear reader, for being my friend!

Writing Club: Women of the Moose

For our very first writing club ever, we decided to all write a short piece under the same title. Let me describe writing club to you who have never had the pleasure of being there: first, people come over and we all set up our laptops and/or paper/pens. Then we sit and talk/eat/whatever for several minutes/hours, until someone finally says, "Okay, so, what are we gonna do tonight?" And then we spend a few minutes picking out our prompt from a list we generated during our first meeting. Then, after we have the prompt, we have about 20-30 minutes on average to write to our hearts' content. Then, we share our stories aloud and laugh at each other a lot. It's SO much fun. I wish everyone could do it. I wish we had started it earlier. Since I LOVE to write but haven't had a lot of time since starting school again to really get into it, it's nice to keep in touch with my "muse" once a week or so and keep those creative juices flowing. It's also wonderful to share in the joy of creation with several close friends who enjoy it at least as much as I do.

SO. Here's my "Women of the Moose."

As nighttime’s fog slinks o’er your mind
And wildest dreams let loose,
That is the place each night I find
The women of the moose.

At first a thunderous voice proclaims
So bold it must be Zeus,
“Halt, maiden, and behold my treasured
Women of the Moose!”

I stammer out a spittle sound,
Myself to introduce,
But does he care? Oh, no! He has his
Women of the Moose.

First one of them, her eyes too old
And speech small from disuse,
Approaches me, eyelashes thick,
As all women of the moose

Look on with wary wonderment
At the impending truce.
“Come, follow,” she says simply, and
The women of the moose

Lead me along a river’s bend;
I hear the babbling juice
Of mother earth sing back to these
Fair women of the moose.

I’d run away, but where’d I go?
I find no good excuse,
So follow on in silence, trusting
Women of the moose.

A cave we enter, black as fear,
Designed for a recluse.
Then in the shadows fire lights
And women of the moose

Start dancing fiery ‘round the thing,
And sultry calls produce.
I wonder at their gall and grit,
These women of the moose.

Their shoulders boulders, legs trimmed thin,
Their eyes a watery noose,
I am entranced by their display
As women of the moose.

And all around the forest now
I feel the earth seduced
And sky bewitched in unnatural trance
Called Women of the Moose.

When in their midst I see him rise,
A glorious beast called Bruce,
And tentatively smile do I,
While women of the moose

Bow down devotion, purpose veiled,
But from what I can deduce
I think that Bruce’s harem is
The women of the moose.

And why it is I dream of them
Each night, my mind’s abuse,
Perhaps I’ll tell when I become
Head Woman of the Moose.

Writing Club: First Line

All of our stories had to begin with the phrase "It was the worst day of..."


It was the worst day of band camp in the history of all band camps that ever were. I don’t even have to do any research to know this, I am so certain that it is a fact that I don’t need to. The sun baked the world in a sweltering, sticky 104 degrees, and if it hadn’t been so humid I’m pretty sure we all would have caught fire with the trees around us and gone up in a putrid blaze of prepubescent body odor, Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers, and burning wood on melting brass. Our fingerprints disappeared against the scorch of the metal most of us held, and some had been drinking so many fluids and sweating so profusely that they wet their pants and didn’t even notice, just welcomed the ensuing chill of it. But the heat? That was nothing. What’s a little heat stroke, a bit of sun poisoning? Get a hat and a nice spritzer-fan, and if you didn’t end up in the nurse’s office lying down on rice-paper-and-vinyl by the end of the day then you were fine enough.

It was Porky McPherson that clinched it. Hovering a good head over us at a whopping 5 feet 8 inches, Porky was not at all fat. She was just mean, tough, hard, spiky inside and out, like a porcupine. She dished out a hearty helping of helplessness and then scooped out a spoonful of anger and sprinkled on a bit of good old-fashioned fear for good measure. Her knuckles were forever scarred with a series of crescent moons sprawled out across them, “flesh wounds,” she called them—“and you should’ve seen the other guy.” Her black-as-tar hair was pulled back into a straight and spiky (as all good porcupines ought to have) mass of destruction. I’m not kidding. Brittany Sarver had to go to the nurse last week because Porky’s hair poked her eye until it bled. Porky’s pockets were always full of other kids’ lunch money—half of them kids who didn’t go to our school. Even her parents were afraid of her, which is why they left her alone and never helped her with her homework. But all those failing grades only made Porky angrier...which only made US more black and blue and broke.

For all of her foibles, Porky had one passion—she loved the trombone. And not just because she could slide the end of it into the head of the kids in front of her. That was only a perk. Porky just loved the sound of it. She loved spitting through the vibrations her mouth had to make to get the trombone to play. She loved knowing just where to slide the brass to in order to hit not only kids but notes. She loved the look of the long, slender, hard thing—I think if trombones could have spiky hair and stash lunch money away, then Porky would BE a trombone, but with skin.

Don’t start to like her. There’s no point. The trombone doesn’t save her, because it doesn’t save US. She empties the spit valve on the heads of the clarinet section, she purposefully steps on our toes as we try to march in formation (11-year-olds and big instruments just don’t mix well), she makes fun of everyone else as they try to play their parts, and when band practice is over she’s still Porky, but with some catching up in evilness to do.

Porky made EVERY day the worst day of ANYTHING in the history of ANYTHING.

But YESTERDAY was the worst day of band camp in the history of all band camps that ever were, because yesterday I chose to fight back.

I blame the heat. All that blood boiling just below my temples started my stomach to feeling queasy, and then my knees started to shake and my sunburned feet started to swell and before you knew it I was one sweaty and angry devil of a 13-year-old with mad delusions of power. I made my fatal mistake when Porky swung her long arm around to point to another kid and knocked me upside the head “on accident.” I’m pretty sure a blood vessel in my brain exploded, for nothing else could possibly explain my reaction:

I hit her back!

And now, dear reader, I am destined to die.

Writing Club: Item Description

For this prompt, we had to describe something without really saying what it was. I decided to put myself in the place of a beloved object of mine...



Well, I can say this much for myself: I ain’t no Cinderella.

For one thing, Cinderella had the chance to find her Prince and bear him a brood of royal, photogenic but otherwise very stupid children (I know this because their mother left no alternative). I was never meant to live so I can never die. Barren, void of life and re-productivity, what else is there for me to do?

Secondly, Cinderella’s looks got her a fairy godmother, fancy dress, and two glass slippers that were all her own. My looks (though my only virtue) got me a bucket of dust collecting on my head, tied to a stake awaiting a fire that will never come, and stuck sharing one too-big-for-me-glass-slipper with 20 other ones-of-my-kind. Tell me THAT’S fair.

What’s more, Cinderella got carried away to a grand and glorious castle while the evil beings who tried to control her got the boot in a big way. MY control freak still runs the place, and all I get a view of is everyone’s lazy self sitting on the sofa, not even paying attention to me at all, after all that work they put into me! I was made to be lovely and then forgotten.

Hmm…I wonder what the one with headphones is writing about. Maybe if I put a little more rouge on she’ll notice me and take me home and give me a breath of fresh air and a better view. Darn it! Why don’t I sweat prettily like my better selves do? I have no pheromones with which to attract a mate…or anything, for that matter…

Oh well. At least when everyone else here is rotting away sixty years from now in some burial ground, I’ll probably still be around to tell the tale. That’s the joy of being synthetic.

(I am the red silk flower sitting on the vase on the entertainment center in the living room of Celeste’s and Charissa’s apartment!)

Writing Club: A Clue Story

This was by far one of my favorite prompts, and I'm hoping we do it again. We each had to poll other people and gather together a random name of a person (real or fictitious, living or dead), a place, and an object. Then we exchanged these and used the random prompts to create the story of a crime scene. I think what I love MOST about these writing club nights is that we always come up with so many different ways to approach the same prompt, in every genre and format possible. This is especially true of this prompt. SO, without further ado:

July 22, 1987
Reporting by Celeste Darland

Onlookers in East London were shocked and horrified Tuesday night as beloved American baseball hall-of-famer Joe DiMaggio was led away in handcuffs after a bar brawl gone sour. At least two men were found dead and one other in critical condition, with the main suspect being DiMaggio himself.

“I was just at the Jack for a few tiddley’s when this Septic starts yellin’ all sorts of dickies and suddenly the whole room’s in an uproar,” Aiden Paisley, one witness to the night’s events, explains. “He probably came for a bender but now two blokes is hovis. Then the bottles took him away.”

When asked if he knew DiMaggio’s stature in American culture, Paisley’s only response was, “Sorry, I don’t get on the Liza that much.”

Clearly other Brits are not so ignorant. Protesters lined up outside of the jail cell only a few hours after the arrest, arguing DiMaggio’s innocence or immunity. Chief officials, however, are still interrogating their chief suspect and are not even considering release due to the severity of the crime and the incriminating evidence.

In an official statement released to the press Wednesday morning by the Scotland Yard, a number of witnesses recall DiMaggio allegedly “drinking ‘imself to pieces” and then yelling profanities when two young men came up to ask him for an autograph. DiMaggio threw his glass against the counter and attacked the men with his bare hands, which led several other bystanders into the brawl.

The next thing anyone knew, three bodies were lying on the barroom floor with blunt force trauma to the head and DiMaggio was holding his head in one hand and a bloody doorknob in the other.

“It’s the biggest lemon ‘round the Jack in years,” Paisley professes.

“I’m shocked, actually,” DiMaggio’s lifelong friend Armand Oliveri confides. “I’d never have pegged Joe for a killer, even in the foulest of tempers.”

“But he’s a classic example of the dangers of bottled-up aggression,” argues William Freedman, professor of psychiatry at Columbia and ardent critic of DiMaggio’s. “Sure, he’s a baseball legend and immortalized in every aspect of pop culture, but that was nearly five decades ago. Since then he’s seen the horrors of war, the hypocrisy of American idealism and being an ‘enemy alien’ in his own land, and two wives who he could never find the right balance for.”

“Marilyn (Monroe) did hit him hard,” Oliveri concedes. “But even then he was heartbroken, lost, not a raving lunatic.”

Evidence from key witnesses, however, suggests it was not the torment of his past that drove him to it. It was a mispronunciation of DiMaggio’s Italian name. “The kid pronounced his name wrong,” one American-born witness who wishes to remain anonymous claims. “Any true fan of Joe’s knows that it’s di-MAH-joh, not di-MAH-gee-oh like the media always says, and that he hates that. I guess with all the alcohol in him, he just couldn’t take one more idiot butchering his name.”

While the motive is still under investigation, the trial date yet to be slated, and fans across the world simultaneously disillusioned and driven to defend this American icon, one thing remains fairly certain:

It was Joe DiMaggio. In London. With a doorknob.

Writing Club: Random Words

Random Words Prompt (We each submitted 3 words and then had to include all the words in a short selection):

TRAILER, FLABBERGASTED, MISSPELL, DETECTIVE, RIVAL, REVERBERATE, ENEMY, AXLE, PREMONITION, CANOLA, INTRUDER, COUNTRY-FRIED


"SMOKE SIGNALS"

Day #37 of my captivity
If you’re reading this, HELP! I can’t take it anymore. I know that sometimes in the past I haven’t always been the nicest girl, but I didn’t think I had any real enemies. So why won’t you help me? I’m trapped! Forced to do manual labor against my will! Woman down, people, save me! Seriously. Child labor laws and edicts against cruel and unusual punishment and yet still I sit here, rotting away, “thinking about what I did”. Like three months grounding is going to UNDO any of it. Psh, what am I saying? I’d do it again, anyway. Oh, I’m thinking about what I did all right, pops...and savoring every sweet morsel of the memory!

See, it all started about four months ago when Derek Slainey moved here. OMG, I totally had some SERIOUS premonitions about that guy! And I was RIGHT! I was sitting in homeroom talking to Hallie when in he struts, running his pale fingers through his dark, scraggly hair. His pockmarked face was sheen with a thin layer of oil—shiny, like canola—and his lanky arms swayed awkwardly at his side with every swagger. He SO wouldn’t have been much to look at, except for those EYES. Emerald green and oh-so-entrancing, it’s like some god of good looks started to work his magic on Derek but then got caught up doing touch-up work on Zac Efron and just sort of...forgot to finish. But Derek doesn’t seem to notice, or at least not to mind, because with that hair and those eyes he’s still got a dozen girls rivaling for his affections. Hallie, of course, is one of them. (But when has there been a guy she HASN’T fallen head-over-heels for at first sight?)

As the disrupting whispers of this newcomer danced around his footsteps, his very presence seemed to reverberate off the locker-lined walls. Hallie immediately sent me to the usual detective work—

“Welcome to Baylor High! Where’d you get displaced from? Do you have any pets? What’s your favorite music? Do you have a girlfriend? Do you want one?”

Pitiful.

Well, I can take one for the team, especially for Hallie, I mean, hey, what are BFF’s for, right? But this guy gave me the creeps from day one, and I did NOT want to do my BFF duty this time around. It was with fear and much trepidation that I approached Derek at lunchtime, offering him a place to sit.

The problem with almost-cute guys is that they’re still unsure of exactly how attractive they are, even if they fake it otherwise, so they eat up any compliment you pay them and if you’re not careful they assume you’re in love with them by the end of the conversation. Derek was just another “guy”, which in my opinion wasn’t really saying much, Hallie could TOTALLY do better than having some pod-person intruder into our already slammin’ rhythm, y’know? But whatev. She’s a big girl, she can handle herself. Derek’s too-smooth-for-you lines did nothing to me, so I escaped and ran off to tell Hallie everything I’d uncovered.

If only I’d known how such innocent events and everyday happenings at Derek’s arrival were going to set in motion such a strange and perilous snowball effect.

Day #38 of my weary and depressing exile
“I’ll call you,” Derek told me that afternoon in what could only be described as a scene from a lame preteen movie trailer. He even held his hands, pinky and thumb outstretched, to the side of his head, like he was the guy who had invented hand gestures and therefore I must worship him. (I gave him a few of my own once his back was turned.)

It was when he DID call that I was flabbergasted. He called me at 6:02. Then, when he went for dinner at 6:37, he was back on the phone by 6:42 and he talked to me until 9:21. HE talked. I didn’t even get a word in, but I couldn’t hang up. It was like mind-control, I’d lost all power over my motor skills, like a wheel without an axle my mind was meandering, rolling, spinning, wobbling, idling, dying. Paralysis of will. I’d misspell my own name, if I’d had power to write it. What was he doing? What was he saying? Why couldn’t I just HANG UP the FREAKING PHONE already?!

It was the next day in homeroom, as he waltzed by and I could smell the country-fried steak on his breath from yesterday, that I decided I didn’t need all the answers. I needed to act. NOW. Whatever creepster magic this kid had power to cast, I wasn’t going to be the girl caught in its web. And neither was Hallie. There was no thought, only instinct: Derek had to disappear.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Writing Club: ABC Story

For this prompt, we had to write a "story" or piece of written work that included 26 sentences, each one starting with the next consecutive letter of the alphabet. Here's what I came up with (you can always tell a lot about me by the things I choose to write about):

ABC Story
Genre: RANT (nonfiction)

All education majors are not dumb. Believe it or not, it’s true. Contrary to popular belief, some of us are truly devoted to our art. Dedication to our students, a strong work ethic, creativity, and a passion for learning are what drive the true Teachers. Every time I hear the voice of these two girls in my Block III class, I want to hurl something at their perfectly-coiffed heads. “Frat parties, weekend trips home, and hours upon hours complaining and avoiding any real work will NOT get you anywhere. Guess what? Horrible things will happen to you your first year. I know it,” (or at least I HOPE so…or else I’d be wasting all my time and talents and tuition and energies and passions and excitements for a career that any Joe Schmoe, literally, could come off the street and do. Just like factory work making zippers, or pooper scoopers at the humane society, or...politicians?)

Kids. LOVE ‘em. My biggest frustration is not that all my lame and totally undeserving fellow Boilers will probably get better-paying jobs quicker than I will, but that the kids will suffer. Needlessly. Opinionated, obtuse, overbearing, obstinate oafs will ruin their lives, and probably never even know or care. Probably even quit after their first year because the workload will be TEN TIMES that of Block III. Questioning, reasoning, investigating, discussing—all lost arts in the education world. Recently I’ve begun to wonder where I belong in all of this. Student teaching applications are upon me and I don’t know where to go. To Chicago, where the need for people like me is greater, or Otterbein, where I’ll get that easy A? University life doesn’t really prepare us for choices like these, so we must leap out on our own with confidence in whatever we decide. Very, very scary. Will I make it without hurting my fellow teachers-to-be in the process? X. (The annoying buzzing sound from the “x” on Family Feud…I had to get creative). You know, I’m glad I’m me and not all of them. Zeal and grit and passion and competence will get me farther in the long run…right?

Writing Club: Pass-the-story

By popular demand, I am going to start posting all the writings from writing club, starting with the most recent and moving backward. Last night, we did a pass-the-story, which would've been more fun if people hadn't turned it into a big fight and made Paul feel like he didn't belong there, but whatev. Here's the story, along with my vote that we (a) either never do a pass-the-story again, or (b) let everyone know that in CREATIVE writing, as difficult as it may be to understand someone else's motivation for writing certain things, it's their right to do so and no one "ruins" someone else's writing, so everyone should just relax and let it be fun...honestly, if this sort of thing keeps up I'm going to have to discontinue writing club, which just makes me kinda sad and mad to think about, since I'm one of the ones who started it, and since I never thought I'd have friends who'd end up making a situation where I had to pick either them or Paul. But the truth is, even if Paul's in the wrong, he's my husband-to-be and I am going to have to pick his side. So don't make me pick, or you lose.

*Whew* There's my rant. And now it's over. Anywho, without further ado, here's the pass-the-story, in which we each had 3 minutes to write a bit and then we passed it to the next person, and after 5 more people we ended up reading aloud the one that everyone else had finished for you. It was really fun to hear how differently things started and ended, and how you can just tell when certain people are writing (and it's NOT just because of the names and phrases frequently used by people, but their style). :) I don't have a good title for this pass-a-story yet, so I apologize. Here it is:


When the thick darkness wrapped around me until I could no longer breathe, I gave up. The trail was sunken where an oversized rotting log insisted I rest, and I heeded its beckoning call. Perspiration soaked my upper lip, and the saltiness I caught occasionally on my tongue as I tried to calm my ragged breathing only reminded me of the stabbing hunger pains in my stomach.

I hate fast Sundays! Any other day of the week—any other day of the month, I can wake up and forget to eat until either 5 or 6 at night, but for some reason, fast Sundays come around, and I’m hungry as I fall asleep at 12:01 AM. What sense does that make?! Is it all psychological? What sense does psychology make?! You would think that our minds would want to PROTECT us from evilness, not say over and over again, “Hey, you know what day it is? It’s fast Sunday! It’s fast Sunday, person. Yes, and now—still fast Sunday.” Stupid minds! Stupid subconscious.

The gnawing pains in my stomach grew stronger. There was no escaping. I should have known that deep in the woods I wouldn’t be able to find any food. I should have known to plan ahead for this. The bitter hindsight kicked me again and again. I was lost and alone, and slowly starving. My body was growing weaker with every moment. Perhaps I couldn’t make it out of the woods… but I was going to make it farther than this silly log. I refuse to give up until I cannot walk any more.

It wasent that much longer anyway. Thiry yards till the claring and I fall. And of course on this terrible Sunday I break my ankle, fall down a hill and end up in a strange city where for some reason there a man with a scar over his left eye watching me. “want some food?” he asks. “no I cant its fast Sunday I cant break fast you know.” I responded cheerfully. “you cant do what now?” he asked as he slowly backed up. “I cant eat. Yaknow fast Sunday and all that.” I said. “there haven’t been those in years. Whare are you from.” He said slightly hostily. “Overallious.” I responded. “Attack!” screamed the man.

Out of the dark alleyways and dingy streets appeared a horde of raggedly clothed, wretched children. “Here,” grinned the man. “This is how we welcome people to our city.”
The children had bits of metal as they screamed their battle cry… “TODAY IS A GOOD DAY TO DIE!” which the man thought was funny, because it was night, and a dark and rainy one at that. It was a good thing that I knew where I wanted to go. I ripped past the looming battle and headed for the mountain. On top of that mountain was my goal, was what I was fasting for. The shrine. At last I would have my revenge on Aaron or Edward or whatever his name was. What’s in a name anyway…ha, Bella… mine supposedly means beautiful. But no, from now on I shall be called… something else. Whatever, I’ve got a shrine to get to…first how do I get through this creepy cemetery to that old sacred looking building… maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow… Monday… oh no, I tried to repress the memory of that fateful Monday… but I could not. Oh Charlie, why can’t you be with me right now to comfort me?

The pain dissipated as I remembered my goal. The shrine. I bowed to the altar at the shrine and I could feel it. Enlightenment. It wasn’t fast Sunday, it was heavan. I had been so scared. All my feelings, my thoughts… I was reliving it all. I miss you Charlie. I’m dying, but it’s so beautiful. It was terrifying, horrid, but then… like Fast Sunday, when it’s all over… You’re proud. You’re happy. You’re complete. You ARE one with him, your father. The journey was long a hard, but worth it…

Word.

There are very few things in this world that are as deeply, intrinsically, lastingly satisfying to me than finding those perfect words to describe exactly how I feel or what I think at any given moment about any given thing. Words are a beautiful and dangerous and mystifying thing to me. I love to play with them, throw them around, taste them and figure out which ones are delicious. I appreciate how people put them together to make a whole thought, or how they omit a few to let our imaginations take over, or, like the poets, how they switch them around and create new ones until you have a brand new playground on which your senses and imagination can sprawl and soar. I love learning new words and new ways to describe the old ones. Words are just about one of my favorite things. It's why I love to read, to write, to scrapbook, to sing, to explore, to listen, to dream.

It's probably one of my best qualities, this passion for words. Especially as a teacher. My enthusiasm for words is almost contagious, once I get rolling on and on about it. I think everyone ought to have a few favorite words to whip out of their pockets now and then.

There's a fantastic little book that explores this idea. Kenya's Word, by Linda Trice and illustrated by Pamela Johnson, is the newest addition to my book collection. In it, Kenya delves through all the words that mean anything to her until she finds exactly the right word to sum up her entire existence. I'll let you discover what that word is for itself, but if you're a word-lover like me, you should check out this little picture book and see where your tongue takes you. :)

Bolt!

Paul and I went to the movies last night to watch "Bolt," and being the puppy-lover that he is we had a great time watching it! Laughs from start to finish, and totally cute. It was a little more intense than I had imagined it (the whole "TV series" bit at the beginning and some of the climax at the end was a little scary for some of the smaller kids in the theater), but the rest of it was simply adorable and funny and I highly recommend it! Rhino, the hamster, is probably my favorite...but of course, Paul loves Bolt and now wants a puppy just like him! I told him we'd talk in a few years, once we've settled a little more. :)

Bolt is TOTALLY AWESOME!!! :)

50th post...let's have cake!

And in honor of my 50th post, I'm now going to sum up all of my feelings at this exact moment in exactly 50 words:

Angst, wretched student teaching--where, how?

Excitement, I bought a signed copy of Black and White for less than five bucks.

Peace, the season of peace is upon us.

Jealousy, more friends with mission calls!

Confidence, I am a good teacher and person.

Disconcerted without my better half here.

Blessed.

I don't want to grow up!!!

This is where I belong today!!! It's just been one of those days, with both classes and work, and there are some HUGE and important decisions to make about my education that I feel totally unqualified to make but that might change my entire professional, marital, and personal life. Worse yet, there's a tight time limit to these decisions such that I have to figure out the next few years of my life (and my husband-to-be's, too) within the next 2 weeks! Sometimes, I miss the days of neighborhood sports, water wars, "big kids" vs. "little kids", and homework where fractions were the worst of my problems and where everything had a "right" answer!

Block III...Week 12 of my captivity. :)

So, the semester is 3/4 the way over and I'm still completely swamped and confused and haven't really found my "rhythm" yet...is that a bad thing? I've hit a brick wall and can't seem to get over it. Block III, which is basically one of six "blocks" of classes we have to take for the education program here (the sixth being our student teaching semester), is intense and is known throughout all of Purduehood as the semester from...Haides. I may have mentioned this earlier. But I digress. It's been a challenging semester and these last 4-5 weeks of classes really only intensify all of my anxieties about the many projects and assignments left to do and all my frustrations with my classmates who are unprofessional and are taking it out on everyone else and are spending all their time whining about it and are just plain driving me mad. If I were a violent person, I'd have smacked half of them today.

Not all of this semester has been awful, though. In fact, some really wonderful things have happened, both because of and in spite of my classes. My social studies instructor challenged us last week to name good things that have happened, outside of the classroom, during this semester so that we could remember that life will pass us by if we live only for school...and to show us that in the midst of bad things, good things are always happening. I'd like to take a moment and mention ten really good things that have happened this semester so far, as I am procrastinating doing all of my Block III assignments just a little longer (and I think it's a really good exercise in optimism, which I could use right now):

(1) Of course, I got engaged. That's a ridiculously good thing that's happened to me. :)

(2) I started this semester with one overarching personal goal for my professional life: to gain confidence as a teacher. I'd spent a lot of semesters in the past as a student, trying not to step on toes and trying to follow in other teacher's expectations, being timid and shy in their presence. I dreaded the idea of the mentor teacher actually watching me teach a lesson in his/her classroom to his/her students. But this semester, thanks to working at Klondike and thanks to my TIP mentor teacher, I have gained a ridiculous amount of teaching experience and have gained that professional confidence that I always wanted to have.

(3) Along those lines, my TIP mentor teacher at Otterbein offered to have me student teach with her in a year or so...I haven't made up my mind yet whether or not I want to accept the offer, but it's there and I am GRATEFUL. (I also have teachers requesting I continue with them next sememster at work, which makes me feel pretty good.)

(4) That beast of a paper that's worth half my grade in children's literature? Pretty much aced it. No, really, my T.A. even pulled me aside and asked me for pointers to share with the class. I was STOKED!

(5) My dad's still alive and, remarkably enough, still working. With all the ups and downs of cancer treatments (and admittedly we're in a "down" at the moment), he's still alive. It has reminded me yet again how precious and fleeting life is and how much of a miracle every day we get to spend on earth is...and how important family is, how stupid little things should not get in the way of our enjoying our time together while we still have it.

(6) I discovered that savings bond that is literally going to SAVE me in tough financial times! Yay for the blessings of paying a full and honest tithe!

(7) I got a new calling at church, compassionate service leader, that has helped me get more involved with people outside of my own circle and put my talents of compassion, creativity, and organization to good use while I start up several programs to help the sisters in our ward, programs with a purpose that will be easily carried on when I leave and have to pass on the baton in May.

(8) I discovered the Dot Game on Facebook, and now have a quick and painless pasttime whenever classes or work overwhelm me. :)

(9) Even though children's lit is an awful class, I've been introduced to literature that is interesting and diverse and, more importantly, introduced to new resources for FINDING interesting literature that I will use, in the classroom and at home.

(10) I got to have a LOT of fun with holidays, birthdays, and planning for Christmas presents, all of which made getting through the not-so-fun days worth it!

*Whew* Okay, that was hard. But I feel better now. Better enough, even, to go finish my homework now. So, farewell, fair blogger...until the next post! This is omaroma, over and out.

I'm rich, beyond all imagination! :)

Okay, not really. But several weeks ago Charissa and I were rummaging through Mom's genealogy bin (where anything and everything of value stays hidden!) and we discovered a $1,000 U.S. savings bond in my name, issued from my high school upon graduation. I did a little research, and it turns out that it is currently worth over $600! Considering the fact that it is "free money" and that wedding stuff has made me into a penny-pincher, and that I've had to sacrifice a few small things (like getting contacts or my license reinstated) in order to pay for things like rent and food, I have decided that it's worth cashing in now. So on Monday after work, I'm going to be rich! And then poor again, because I already know exactly how I'm going to spend it:

(1) Tithing

(2) License reinstatement ($150)

(3) Contacts (about $150)

(4) Table/linen rentals ($120)

(5) Christmas presents!

Miracles happen, folks!

Wedding Plans!!!

With school and work taking up SOOOO much time, I'm really glad I had some advance notice about this whole engagement thing so I could get a few things out of the way early on in the semester. I just thought I'd share a few fun pictures to kind of give you the sense of wedding plans and such...so here you go. More updates to follow, I'm sure!

The Washington, D.C. temple...which I love. :)
I'm still playing around with hair ideas...above, I love the one on the right for a "hair down" look, and the girl even kinda looks like me! :) But I'm not sure how to attach my gorgeous veil in that one...so maybe something like what I have below?

The flowergirl bouquet is the first one I made, and I have to admit I'm a little jealous of it! :) I'd never really done much flower arranging before doing my own bouquets so it was a great learning experience and a fun new thing to do. I found ridiculously cheap silk flowers for wholesale prices plus free shipping at the time I bought them, so for anyone who needs fake flowers for any occasion check out afloral.com! They were SO nice and SOOOOO fast, and their flowers are the most real-looking I've found yet.

Since Paul & I are paying for our own wedding and reception and everything, I've actually become an amazing online shopper. I found this flowergirl dress, which not only was the right colors but also had the ribbon element that all of our dresses will have as well as a little daisy right on the dress, for a total of $10.00! It looks GORGEOUS with the bouquet, and knowing how my niece loves to dress up, she's going to have a ball with it!
This is a really bad shot of the bridesmaid bouquet...of which I had to make 5! :) It was a challenge incorporating all of my favorite flowers into a unified bouquet, but these little handy things turned out great and they had a little bit of a tear-drop shape, which I'm stoked about because I'm going to have a cascading bouquet myself. I'm too scared yet to make my own bouquet, but all the rest are made!

Even though it's on the pricey side, I LOVE this wedding dress so I'm buying it! :) I'll rip off that button that's in the way of the bow/ribbon, and wear it for all my bridal photos and the reception.

Keeping in the theme of classic, almost '50's elegance and ribbon accents, here's a snapshot of the bridesmaids' and maid-of-honor's dress (imagine it in a light petal pink with a lighter pink or yellow ribbon, white bolero and white shoes!):

Remember this ring? :) Well, the square thing has totally caught on...I know own matching jewelry, including a watch, necklace, and earrings! And Paul and I are a little "square" sometimes ourselves...so we're keeping the square thing going with our cake:
It'll look something like this but a little plainer and with only 3 tiers...and our own cake topper at the top. Of the cake. 'Cause that's where cake toppers go. Hence the name. :)

Anywho, that's it for now. I'm sure that as breaks and such come up in my schedule I'll have more time to plan, and to show off my plans! This is omaroma, over and out.

I voted!

I love the little sticker that you get when you vote. It seriously makes me happy inside. I think someone out there knew that if I had to wait in line for an hour to cast my presidential vote and didn't get SOME sort of prize at the end, I...well, I'd probably still do it, but not as heartily. :) It's not that I'm not a woman of personal conviction. I'm just also a person who still gets excited about stickers. That's why I'm in elementary education. :)

Moving ON...

I must admit, I'm not sure how I feel about the election. Yes, I actually voted for Obama, and there's a huge part of me that's partying right now. But there's also a really annoying and big part of me that was hesitant about the decision, because, let's face it, the election was more about picking the lesser of two evils. When you're politically moderate-liberal, some things are a bit much to chew or swallow on either side and when the last weeks of the election drew near all anyone had to say was degrading and character-attacking. I'm not into the metaphorical mud-slinging. If there's mud to be slung, let it be real, gooey, dirty mud, and let it be slung at a friend. :)

The point is, I'm proud that we had such a HUGE turnout to vote in our country. I'm proud that so many historical barriers have been broken with this election. I'm proud of the way McCain handled his defeat. I'm proud of Obama for his idealism. Now is where the rubber meets the road, and without going into a huge political discourse that no one really cares about, I think it will be very interesting to see exactly how much change ends up happening, and in what direction. The good news, folks, is that in the end if we don't like it we can always change. That's the beauty of short-term presidencies. So if your guy didn't win, well, Obama's OUR guy now, so let's make the most of it!

Halloween 2008--the year of the Wiz

I hereby dub this Halloween the year of the Wiz...not only did Paul & I get together with close friends and try to fill out as many of the characters as possible for our costume contest (which we won, p.s.), but my niece and two little brothers also dressed up as Wizard of Oz characters and won the Boo at the Zoo costume contest. Some things are just a classic...

We had a murder mystery dinner party at the Institute, which was just a lot of fun. I had actually never done one like this before, so it was a good experience. There were SOOOO many great costumes, I wish everyone could have won something! But I guess some of those will just have to be filed away for future ideas. Anywho, it was a fun day, even though I am now quite sick and tired all the time. It's a new month. Who knows what wonders will happen? :)

In other news, I successfully managed to finish all of my crazy assignments over the past weeks (which were MANY) and to get the heat fixed. I also managed to make it through my first month of being engaged! I wish I knew how to enjoy the moment more and not get all stressed out about all the hard stuff in preparing for a wedding. I wish even more that I knew what to do to prepare better for the temple and for marriage. *sigh* Why can life just be perfect all the time? :)