Lazy Day

Eat.

Watch TV.

All day.

And I don't feel all that guilty.

I love Christmas break.


P.S. - senioritis didn't kill my grades. HA! but Mr. L is an enigma. a better grade in junior math than in senior seminar? c'mon now...

Revelations

I went to the Apple Store today. It wasn't my first venture there. I went last year to get new headphones. This time, however, I was fraught with doubt. I had to go to the "Genius Bar" to have my computer inspected. Poor ol' Captain MacCromber... we've been through some tough times together. Lately his mouse-pad has been making disconcerting cracking noises every time I click it. Sometimes he won't turn on again after I've put him to sleep. Since I am going back to school soon and I have a lot riding on a functional computer this semester (read: thesis), I wanted to double check it.

There were two big concerns.

First, as a TACer home from break, I don't feel confident of my ability to fit into society. It always takes some... adjustments. I have to learn to stop talking about potency and actuality and start talking about iPads and politics. Walking into the store was like walking into a nightmare. It was like society overload: everything about it was foreign. There was wi-fi, wireless keyboards, people with earbuds, not enough clothes, and all in a hurry to go places and do things. I backed against a wall and waited for my turn at the Genius Bar. I didn't know what to expect. And I HATE not knowing what to expect.

Second, I was under a bit of a misapprehension. I thought that at a Genius Bar, all people had to be geniuses. You know... like an officer's club on a military base. The patrons are the officers. But I'm not a genius. Especially with Macs. I grew up on PCs. I can explain problems with a PC using moderately technical jargon. Macs make me feel like a blithering idiot.

Thankfully, this issue was clarified for me. They were supposed to be the geniuses. Ooooooooh. It's ok if I'm dumb. That's good. I can deal with being accepted as dumb by the strange, geeky men at the bar.

When my turn came, the man ran some diagnostics and got me all set up.

I didn't say anything dumb, I didn't lose my powers of speech, and I didn't fall off of my stool. I can function in normal society. Score.

The monetary damage was less than I feared and I had my computer back within a couple of hours. Score.

And the employee wasn't a strange, geeky man. Well, maybe on the inside. On the outside he was pretty cute. Score.

I'm baaack

I've thought about posting throughout the semester, but couldn't think of anything to say that would interest you. I mostly write my thesis... which probably wouldn't impress you very much. Not that anything I tell you is very impressive.

Anyway.

It's Christmas!

almost

I'm trying to get into the Christmasy spirit of things. I'm not quite there yet, but we'll work it out eventually. Last year I was ready for Christmas by about mid-February. That didn't work out so well. I started singing Christmas carols when the flowers started blooming again.

I'll get it done this year, though. Right? Of course right :)

Just My Luck

I stayed home from the ceili dance tonight due to a bout of the stomach flu.

An hour later than the proper hour, I remembered that the dog needed to be fed.

I opened the container.

It was EMPTY.

Unbelievable.

I lugged the twenty pound bag of food from the dining room to the kitchen, cut a hole in the top, lifted the bag, and poured the food.

Onto the floor.

Brilliant.

Wanda was pretty excited about this development.

I wasn't.

Although I didn't spill much, it seemed disastrous. It still does. Mostly 'cause my tummy hurts.

It's all cleaned up.

Wanda got more food than normal.

And I cried.

The End.

Entirely Too Much Passion

(part four my trip story)

The fifteen-passenger van that Theresa came to get me in was huge. It had antennae on the top, and was jacked up. With a bit of effort, I managed to climb into it. The engine made an enormous amount of noise – diesel run. I was off on an adventure of epic proportions. Exactly how epic was still a mystery.

Mrs. Walsh cautioned me that passions might be running high in the household. The washing machine and dryer had been broken for a few days, so no one had clean clothes to pack. They still hadn’t figured out many details that would be necessary for the successful execution of the weekend. I was warned that there might be a lot of tempers lost and a lot of yelling. I was ready for yelling. I just duck when angry words start flying, especially if they are not directed at me. If I can stay out of it, I do.

After Adoration and Benediction, we arrived at the house to an almost ready supper. A seminarian was going to be eating supper with us, leaving the total people at the dinner table at a nice even dozen. (Seminarians have this knack of showing up in my life. Not quite sure how that happens.) So far, I had not seen any passion. Mr. Walsh had met us at Adoration and he was being fed, so he was happy. Dinner proved to be scrumptious, grunions were discussed (much to my discomfiture), and the game of “salt and pepper” was highly amusing. Nick insisted that they teach “the illustrious what’s her face” how to play, so I agreed. I don’t like playing games. In fact, I detest playing games. But I acquiesced. I had caused enough trouble with my dietary needs, so I figured I should go along with this request. The nature of the game is rather peculiar and deserves it’s own treatment, but I’m being lazy about it. It produced laughter to an extraordinary degree, mostly at my expense. By the time we left the table, it was almost ten o’clock and we were all pretty tired. We said night prayers and were all hustled off to bed. None of the packing issues were addressed because of the late hour. There was no passion displayed, at least of the angry kind. A passion for making fun of Bridget was, however, displayed in mass quantity.

The passion I witnessed the next day wasn’t anger, though. It was much worse. It was that quiet, freaking out, on the verge of tears passion. My family is so very organized that the tumult of it all would never have happened. I was rather frazzled by it all: the packing of the food, the hitching of the cars, the Laundromat trip, etc. I mostly felt like a puppy dog whose feet and ears are too big for the rest of her. I was in the way, mostly. I didn’t know where anything was or where anything should go. I just tried to stay out of the crossfire of tension. I would’ve preferred yelling, actually. The silent thing is kinda creepy. Not gonna lie.

We were supposed to leave at eleven in the morning. We left at three. The tension in the air was so thick that a knife could have cut it. The first fits were pitched at the same time as the tents. People were hungry, cranky, and stressed. We all went to bed early, mostly so we could avoid each other’s company. The next day was Theresa’s birthday… and I was hoping that the only passion displayed would be joy.

Nap Time

(part three of my trip story)

I remember being a small child and vehemently resisting the daily nap. By the time I was two or three, they were pretty much a "no-go" as far as this little missy was concerned. Mum allowed the lack of sleep, but every afternoon I was shut in the bedroom with my sister, with the strict instruction to be absolutely quiet and stay mostly on the bed. I was allowed off the bed to retrieve a toy, but that was it. My sister, placid as always, dutifully slept. I took advantage of the opportunity to play with her toys, which she never allowed me to touch. The forced quiet time always ended before my sister woke up, so I could always be sure of having time to put her things neatly back into place without her knowing they had ever been gone. Eventually, the truth about the toy “sharing” came out, but I had a couple of years of sneaky play time.

William still takes naps every afternoon. He is also very much a “people person,” even at the age of three. He likes visitors and always wishes them a fond farewell from the doorway, waving his little hand as they drive away. Unfortunately, my scheduled departure time was right in the middle of his nap. Lisa explained that this may be a problem: if someone leaves during his nap, he gets really agitated when he wakes up to find them gone and tears are pretty much inevitable. So I agreed to pretend to leave for his sake, so she could put him down for his nap and prevent an episode.

At about 3 pm, I headed for the door as he headed up the stairs with his mommy. I gave him a hug and turned away from him, reaching for the door handle.

“Wait, Bwidet, yo sooos!”

I had figured that I could just walk out the door as I was and he wouldn’t notice. But his three year old brain was sharper than that.

“Oh, you’re right! Thank you for reminding me, William!”

I slipped the shoes on my feet and headed for the door again.

“Waaaait, Bwidet, yo bag!”

Smart kid. I thanked him again and headed for the door a third time.

“What abow yo uder one?”

This little guy wanted to make sure I didn’t forget anything. I picked up my other bag and my purse, realizing that there was no fooling this kid. I had to look like I was genuinely leaving – with all of my stuff – in order for him to be satisfied. I said goodbye again and headed out the door, walking around the corner of the house so he couldn’t see me. I waited a few minutes after I heard the door shut and then crept back around the corner and plopped down on the porch with all of my luggage. I waited for Lisa to come open the door for me, just so I could be sure the coast was clear.

About five minutes later, the door-bell rang. I winced, thinking of the sleeping boys upstairs, and ran to answer it. I hushed Theresa’s enthusiastic greeting, ushered her inside, introduced her to Lisa, and then noticed a small boy at the top of the stairs. William had come to investigate.

“You back?” he queried.

“I came back just for a minute. But I’m leaving again. Bye!” I turned back to the door, hoping to escape without ceremony. But William was down the stairs in a flash, ready to wave me off again. This time he waited at the door until he saw us drive away, his cute little hand waving goodbye.

When I’m around, naps don’t stand a chance.

Miss Bwidet?

(part two of my trip story)

Finding my luggage at the baggage claim always gives me a bit of a panic attack. I have this paranoia about them losing the stuff. It isn’t completely unreasonable. When I travelled to Ireland in 2005 they lost my bag and I was without toothbrush and clean clothes for two days. Talk about traumatizing. Not only was I on an unfamiliar continent, but also I was without the normal comforts of cleanliness. Ever since that trip I have conscientiously packed a change of clothes and a toothbrush in my carry-on, just for good measure.

So there I was, walking through the Portland airport, following the signs that read “Baggage Claim.” As I walked and walked and walked some more, a mounting sense of panic started in me. What if I took too long to walk to the baggage claim and my baggage was whisked away forever? What if I was going the wrong direction in the airport and I’d have to walk back to the other end later on? What if I couldn’t find the baggage claim? What if they lost my luggage? I was in a strange state and I was alone. I don’t generally like being alone. Any worry that may lay hold of me triples when I’m all by my lonesome. I work myself into a frenzied nonsensical tizzy and burst into tears in the most public of places. I was fine until I got down to the baggage claim. Much to my dismay, there were 20 carousels for baggage and none of them had my flight number on them. I started imagining the long hike back through the airport, racing against the monster that eats the luggage of tardy passengers.

By the time my mental state had approached sheer panic, I had made it back to the first of the carousels. There I discovered (to my great relief) that my flight information was now emblazoned in the red lights above it. I recognized the people – who had just begun to trickle in – as my fellow travelers. After a few minutes, my bag came sliding along. So much for the bag-eating monster. I picked it up and headed outside to wait for Lisa and the little boys to come pick me up.

I was settled into the van in a matter of minutes. The two munchkin boys in the back seat were shy at first, but warmed up to me quickly. William (age 3) said to me, “Eskuse me, Miss Bwidet?”

“Miss Bridget?” I thought. Since when was I old enough to be called “Miss Bridget”?

“Yes, William?”

As he began telling me about how cool airplanes are, I listened, struggling to understand the three-year old lingo. His mother kindly interpreted for me, repeating his sentences for me. After a few minutes and several instances of him calling me “Miss Bwidet,” I assured him that he could just call me “Bridget”, if that was ok with his mommy. I looked inquiringly at Lisa, hoping that she would indeed be ok with this. She nodded and assured William that he could call me “Bridget.” His forehead was wrinkled up in consternation about this new development for a while, but he eventually got used to it.

“Miss Bwi… I mean, jus Bwidet?”

I grinned at this new title. Just Bridget. I could live with that.

Occasionally, his mother slipped into addressing me by the more formidable title, but William was quick to correct her:

“No, Mommy. Dat’s siwwy. She isn’t Miss Bwidet. She jus Bwidet!”

Over the next twenty-four hours, I slowly adjusted to his particular brand of three year old speak. Every toddler has a slightly different rendition of the English language and it takes a while for the ear to adapt. The next morning, we had a conversation that went something like this.

“Tan I have yummy twators, Bwidet?”

“You want tractors?”

“No, ttwwwators!”

“I don’t have any tractors to give to you, William.”

“No, not kwakors! Teese twators!”

It finally occurred to me that William commonly mixes up his “t” and “k” sounds. He wanted the “yummy crackers.” Thankfully, I remembered this before his frustration flooded over into tears and I quickly retrieved the crackers for him. Happiness ensued, and he continued on his merry way.

"We Are Family"

(part 1 of my trip story)

My alarm went off considerably earlier than my tired head wanted. While my eyes remained shut, my hands searched the floor for the wicked cell phone that was emitting the obnoxious noise. I opened my eyes reluctantly and had a moment of confusion: where was I? I went through the options: my dorm room in St. Monica’s? No, the ceiling was too high. My room at home? Nope, that wasn’t it, either. My room in St. Therese where I resided when I was working on campus? Because I was looking at a ceiling rather than the underside of a bunk bed, I had to eliminate that option as well.

I rolled over and fell out of bed in a tangled confusion of blankets and pillows. Rather narrow bed. As I picked myself up, bleary eyed and tousle headed, a cacophony of strange noises hit my ears. Someone was talking, but the language wasn’t English. The piercing shriek of a small child’s giggle rang through the house. Little by little, I remembered the facts of the matter. I was home again after a three-week stay at school, but home was slightly different from how I left it. We were hosting two Chinese exchange students. They had set up camp in the living room and seemed to be settling in nicely. My aunt and two cousins had also come down for a visit, so we established them in my room. These circumstances necessitated that I sleep on a cot in Mum and Dad’s room for my 48 hour “pit stop” at home. I didn’t mind too much. The bed was comfortable, if somewhat narrower than a normal bed. I was definitely in the middle of the chaotic Grand Central Station that Mum and Dad’s room had become, but it was a short arrangement. In only a few hours, I would be on an airplane headed to the Pacific Northwest: Portland, Oregon, to be precise.

Now, anyone who knows me knows how much I hate flying. I am very prone to getting motion sickness – even walking can be too exciting for my stomach to handle. The logical conclusion from this premise is that if I fly to see you, I must love you very, very much. So love is what brought me to an airport that Tuesday afternoon, knitting madly, mumbling prayers under my breath in an attempt to save my soul, calm my nerves, and unclench the knot that resided in the place where my stomach had previously been located. Love for my dear classmate Theresa, who had invited me to share in her birthday camping trip. Clickity clack went the metal needles, looping the yarn into a Doctor Who scarf. I was intent on the project, but perked up my ears at the sound of an announcement.

“Good afternoon, Southwest passengers at Gate 2 heading to San Jose and then on to Portland!”

I looked up at the woman who was holding the mic and continued to listen for any pertinent announcements. She continued speaking about the flight status and the boarding procedure. Nothing unusual there. I was about to return my attention to the scarf and the Hail Mary’s when I became distracted by the further news:

“We will be holding an open mic event here at Gate 2 for anyone who would like to participate.”

I grinned. Good ol’ Southwest ground crew. They always were quick to crack a joke and lighten the mood of the frequently somber passengers. What I failed to realize was that someone would take her up on the offer. Not only would someone, (or rather “someones”, as I was about to discover) take her up on it, but that she would actually hand over the mic to the enthusiastic young people. The Oregon City girls’ basketball team squealed excitedly and charged toward the woman, all clamoring for a chance to sing. At this point in time, my efforts to contain my laughter were failing miserably. These girls, all between thirteen and sixteen years of age, wearing matching purple shirts, and hopping up and down excitedly were just such an unusual sight that I couldn’t help laughing. Singing ensued shortly. It was pretty bad, but what they lacked in talent they made up for in enthusiasm. Their trip theme song was apparently “We are family” (the title was emblazoned on their t-shirts in lime green) and they performed it with great gusto. I was audibly laughing by this time, thanking God for the bit of levity before my plane ride.

A break from break

Goodbye! For three weeks, at least. Maybe four. Back to campus to work in the Fin Aid office, followed by a week long stay in Oregon with friends. It'll all be pretty awesome and fun. I'll be back with pictures and stories no doubt :D

Fine line

It's all too easy to lose charity amidst orthodoxy. Take a look?

Reading the above blog post, I found too many things rang a bell with my own self. It's so easy as a TAC student to look down on others who don't perform as many "acts of piety" as we do. We are so blessed in our liturgies and atmosphere of Catholicism, that we can lose our perspective. Jesus is in everyone... and He resides most of all with those who do the will of His Father. And I'm pretty sure that being judgmental is not in His Almighty plan for us.

Time for this little girl to take a tablespoon of gentleness and humility so I can share a bucketful of love.

Continued Conversation

Tuesday
8 year old: "Bridget, why aren't you married? Aren't you old? Shouldn't you be having babies by now? Shouldn't you find a boyfriend?"
me, laughing, "No, I'm in no hurry."

Tonight
8 year old: "Did you find a boyfriend yet?"
me, slightly surprised, but bemused, "Nope, not yet."
8 year old: "Why not?"
me, "Well, none of the boys are mature enough yet to get married."
8 year old, wrinkling her nose, cocking her head to the side, and placing her hands on her hips: "But you don't need to marry them, you just need a boyfriend so you can have fun. I mean, you can't have fun unless you have a boyfriend."

Then I laughed. And laughed. And laughed. I think she was pretty confused by my laughter, but I couldn't help it. I guess I'm doomed to a boring existence for a bit... :)

Remedial Elementary School

I've come to discover that I need to go to elementary school again. I can do advanced calc, physics, philosophy, theology, biology, chem, etc. For some reason, however, I can't do basic mathematics. Like addition. I had to sit and think about 5 + 2 = ? I knew it was 7, but for some reason I second guessed myself for a long time. Oh, and then yesterday, at 5:53 pm, I could not, for the life of me, figure out how many minutes there were until 6 pm. 6? 7? 8? gak!

Oh, and I finally figured out why I'm "dyslexic." I'm not really dyslexic, but I have this tendency to get the order of the letters in words backwards. I don't read words from beginning to end, but I look at the whole thing, get the general size, shape, and a few of the letters, and make a guess. Of course this is completely subconscious (and contributes to the obscene speeds at which I can read), but it wreaks havoc on my spelling. I know approximately what letters belong in a word, but the order is rather... uh... hazy.

An example of this occurred yesterday when I was reading aloud to the kids. I read the word "honary" and automatically supplemented the extra "or." I didn't notice that the word was, in fact, misspelled until another character in the story corrected it. Oops.

Insubordination

I had to put the 8 year old in time out tonight... and the 3 year old in time out twice. I don't know if these children are just more of a handful than I'm used to or if I'm losing my touch as a babysitter.

They just throw me the dirtiest looks and keep on doing whatever it is they shouldn't be. Y'know that, "are you talking to me?" look with the wrinkled nose and a noise that corresponds to the dismissive face? yeah, that one. I don't allow cheeky and they have cheeky down like professionals. There are corresponding consequences for the misdemeanors... these, of course, make me the bad guy. Ah, well. Maybe they'll learn to stop screaming/painting on each other/screaming/stealing each others things/screaming/standing in the refrigerator/screaming. (Can you tell that they scream? All the time???)

When it rains, it pours

My summer has been relatively relaxing. Not going anywhere, not doing many urgent things. Just sleeping and letting my mind, body, and soul get back into sync after the craziness of junior year. Things are going well on that end and I'm just about ready to lead a normal life again. Life, however, has other plans.

I seem to have skipped the "normal gear" in the car I'm driving through my earthly pilgrimage, and gone straight from "neutral" to "highest speed possible." There are so many little things to organize, people to talk to, stuff to arrange... and if I forget to do any of it, I'm in trouble. I have nannying, duties to fulfill, sewing to get done, packing, and then leave on Sunday to go back to campus to work for a few weeks. I finally got the roommate situation straightened out (it took about three times as long as it should have), got a ride from the train arranged (thank you, Mr. B!), etc., etc., etc.

One foot in front of the other. Keep swimming. :)

10, 8, 3

Three small girls with bucket loads of energy were in my charge this evening. It's so hard not to laugh at the things they say sometimes, especially the two younger ones. For example:

8 year old "Bridget, why aren't you married? Aren't you old? Shouldn't you be married and having babies by now?"

3 year old "You are a bad drawer." I'm pretty sure she meant "draw-er", as in someone who draws, but she said it just like the part of a dresser... I suppose I'm a bad drawer as well

8 year old "I am feeling trivialized... I don't know what that means, but I like the sound of it."

Inexplicable

You know when you're nervous and your stomach gets all cramped up and you get the classic "butterflies"? I've had them all day long and I have no idea why. Seriously! I don't know what's wrong with me. I've just been nervous and all jittery today.

You know what else is inexplicable? The Trinity. From Fr. Mel's homily on Sunday:

"Today [the solemnity of the Holy Trinity] we are invited to contemplate the mystery of the Holy Trinity. It isn't called a mystery because it's a riddle to be solved by us. It's called a mystery because it's beyond our human ability to understand. If we tried, our heads would explode from the sheer awesomeness."

Philosopher Jokes

It wasn't a joke, strictly speaking. I just found it hysterical. Unfortunately, it was a moment where I realized that philosophy has been ground into me a bit more than it has into others. Things that are forever written on my soul because of the massive amounts of studying I did, don't come to mind as immediately as they do to a TACer.

This was our conversation:

me "Every soul has all of the faculties of the lower types of soul as well."
N, "Yeah, so there are three types: vegetative, rational, and... uh..."
me "Animal. Basically, sentient beings without rationality."
N, "Right, like a dog. Or maybe not. Wait. Would that be...?"

cue me laughing hysterically

N's brother S came over and inquired about what was so funny. I couldn't answer, but only started squeaking. "He... heeee.... he he he... !!"

It was just so funny to me. N, A, and K didn't see quite why this was so funny, but S did (once I had the composure and air to explain it to him).

S, "A good joke for a philosopher's party."

The Story

have you ever tried to buy eight things in an hour for twenty dollars? and not just any eight things, but a very specific eight things. we did. it was awesome.

at about 11 o'clock, the girls gathered at the starbucks in the mall. clutching cups of caffine, we were read the rules. we had an hour and twenty dollars to find eight things that every bride needs. we weren't told directly what those things were, but were given eight limerick riddles, each one answering to a particular item.

so we ran. literally.

the items: a dress, shoes, a ring, flowers, something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.

after running from one store to another, trying to locate these items cheap, we realized that we were going to have to stretch the non-existent rules a bit. in other words, borrowed didn't strictly apply to only one thing. she had my shoes and earrings (something borrowed), katie's jacket (something blue), her mum's scarf (something old). that left the dress, the ring, the flowers, and the something new. even that was a challenge.

but we did it.

she modeled the outfit at N's apartment after we ate a delicious lunch prepared by the boys.

best bridal shower ever.

Coming soon...

Today was So. Much. Fun. Ridiculously fun! (and maybe a bit ridiculous... I had bows on my head for goodness sake!)

I'll tell ya the story tomorrow :)

The Amazing Race: Bridal Edition

Seriously. I'm playing it tomorrow. I'll tell you more when I know more.

Hee Hee!

gotta love N's crazy bridal shower ideas :)

In the meantime, smile :D

Multi-tasking

I always do this. Without fail. Every time I get out of school I start reading books. And books and books and books. But instead of reading one at a time, I pick up four or five. Then I can't figure out which one to read when, causing a great inefficiency in reading speeds. Maybe I'll learn this time.

Maybe not.

Fun Stuff

In all of the stress and chaos of this weekend, I had one very, very safe, comfortable refuge: Grandma and Grandpa's house. From the time we were very little, it's been a second home. To unwind and relax, I wandered around the backyard Sunday afternoon, snapping bits of spring beauty:

Apples with a backdrop of Redwoods

Asparagus plants

Yes, they really were that bright

(not exactly spring beauty, but I thought it was kinda cool)

Scott's favorite of the 25 pictures I took

Da Vedding

What a weekend.

Instead of giving you details, which will simply be too negative to be appropriate for a post about a wedding, I'll just show you pictures. You can't sense family drama and heresy in photographs. ;)

My cousin and his new wife

(doesn't he make charming faces? :P)

First dance

Aren't they sweet? :)

AJ dancing with Aunt Abby

I love how he has his mouth a little bit open, too. :)

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't all bad. The deacon gave a fabulous wedding homily, the couple seemed sweet, sincere, and happy, and they're now tied together with Sacramental grace. That's all that really matters. :)

Goin' To The Chapel...

... but not to get married. To watch someone get married. Dad and I are off to SF-ish to go to a cousin's wedding. Let's all pray for a happy, holy marriage for AJ and Ana. :)

... and non-heretical homilies at the wedding Mass and Sunday.

(Have I ever mentioned how much I hate flying? Oh, well...)

The practical liberal arts education

Many, many, many people assert that, although TAC offers an excellent classical education, it does nothing for the practical skills of its students. Now, there are many good responses to this claim, which approach it from a very serious, logical, satisfactory angle. My angle is a little less serious. Tongue-in-cheek, even.

Using geometry (from freshman math), patience (from the seminar method in general), and creativity (from living on a campus in the middle of nowhere), I constructed a soccer ball with my sewing machine. HA! You can't possibly claim that TAC doesn't give you practical skills.

Every thing is known by its fruit. The fruit of my TAC education? A fabric soccer ball. :)

Like I said, tongue-in-cheek. But funny. :P

Summer Love

Sand under your feet.

Water splashing up your legs.

Sun warming your skin.

Cool breeze blowing in your face and tousling your hair.

Summer beach.

Love it.

6 June 1944

Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force!

You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have
striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The
hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you.
In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on
other Fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war
machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of
Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world.

Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well
equipped and battle hardened. He will fight savagely.

But this is the year 1944! Much has happened since the Nazi triumphs of
1940-41. The United Nations have inflicted upon the Germans great defeats,
in open battle, man-to-man. Our air offensive has seriously reduced their
strength in the air and their capacity to wage war on the ground. Our Home
Fronts have given us an overwhelming superiority in weapons and munitions
of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of trained fighting men.
The tide has turned! The free men of the world are marching together to
Victory!

I have full confidence in your courage and devotion to duty and skill in
battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!

Good luck! And let us beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great
and noble undertaking.


SIGNED: Dwight D. Eisenhower

Language

Everyone has something (or more than one something) about themselves that they find embarrassing. For me, this (or one of these many, many things in the case of this lil' missy) is my horrendously bad understanding of my native language. Sure, I can churn out a decent paper, spell decently, and know a large handful of words to make my vocabulary more interesting. But my grammar... isn't what it should be. I don't know the rules. Never have. Probably never will. *sigh*

I learned more about the English language in my sophomore year Latin class of all things. Mr. D is a grammar nazi, who knows all of the rules and applies them with great... enthusiasm. He openly laughs at those who don't know them. He would go on and on about some very, very important grammar rule that 11 of his 12 students hadn't heard of (or remembered, as the case may be). We would all look at our books, or the floor, or the ceiling... anywhere but at him. Conor, of course, always knew the rules, and would nod emphatically in agreement and then shoot a look at me like, "what, don't you know what he's talking about? this is kindergarten stuff!" and I would turn redder than ever. Mr. D always called me out on it, and the depth of my ignorance would be revealed for the whole world - well, the tiny section - to see. I didn't really mind. I loved Mr. D as a teacher (anyone who can make me like doing latin is sheer genius!), so I was willing to learn, even at the cost of my appearance of intelligence. :)

One example of this, which will probably stick with me til the day I die, is the difference between "less" and "fewer." Apparently, one uses "less" for continuous quantity and "fewer" for discreet quantities. For example, if you have a tub of ice cream (big blob of one item), one can have less ice cream than someone else. If, on the other hand, you have a box of ice cream bars (discreet items), one may have fewer bars than another. Sounds logical, right? I nodded my head in agreement. This made sense. I had never heard the rule enunciated as clearly, but it didn't go against any of my experience... or so I thought. My little wishful-thinking-bubble was popped when Mr. D brought up his pet peeve: grocery store express lanes. You know, the ones that say "10 items or less." Well, according to the wonderful, amazing, brilliant Mr. D (and Conor backed him up on this), it should be "10 items or fewer."

I was incredulous. No, that couldn't be right. Ever since I could read signs at the store (at about age 3), I had been accustomed to the language of "or less." It sounded right. It just couldn't be wrong! All of the stores in America could not have gotten that wrong. It was too big of a mistake. But Mr. D was insistent.

I eventually (after about 30 more seconds of absolute incredulity) came around and saw the absolutely logic of it. I was slightly disconcerted (ok, maybe more than slightly, given the clarity with which I remember this episode), but I was resolved to always use "less" and "fewer" correctly. And if I couldn't figure out which one was correct, I would just avoid it entirely. Completely. Absolutely. At least in front of Mr. D

Fast-forward 1.5 years. Going through the express lane this morning, I noticed that the sign above me read "15 items or fewer." HA! It was right!!! A grocery store got it right! I could barely contain my excitement. I barely restrained myself from congratulating the checker on the grammatical miracle.

Mr. D was right. And the brothers Stater agree with him.

Soooooo excited right now. :)

C.S. Lewis

from his marvelous book, "Four Loves"

"The sternest feminist need not grudge my sex the crown offered to it either in the Pagan or in the Christian mystery [of marriage]. For the one is of paper and the other of thorns. The real danger is not that husband may grasp the latter too eagerly, but that they will allow or compel their wives to usurp it."

hmmm

So yesterday was memorial day. A day to commemorate those soldiers who fight and die for our freedom. We remember them and thank them for the sacrifice they make willingly on our behalf. Remembering them in this way is a solemn occasion. Our culture tends to make a party out of it and forget about the authentic meaning of the day. It trivializes our heroes.

But don't we do that every day? To the most wonderful Hero that has ever been?

The one who died for all of us.

A death that He did nothing to deserve.

A death by which He gained nothing, but only benefited mankind.

A most horrible, excruciating, painful, torturous death.

One that was added to by the weight of every sin committed by men throughout all time.

Every single day of our lives, a memorial is offered. A living sacrifice that we so often neglect. Not everyone has the time or resources to go to Mass every day... but we should never forget it. We should never trivialize it.

But we do. Christmas, Easter... Catholic celebrations filled with light and real joy are trivialized and commercialized into something unworthy of the name "holy day."

"Do this in memory of me."

Every day should be memorial day.

Memorial Day

To commemorate the holiday, the SMYA group went to three of the local convalescent homes to sing patriotic songs to the residents. At every location, we asked if there were any veterans or veteran's wives in the audience, and what branch they belonged to. My brother and I would then sing (with characteristic gusto) the anthems of the various branches. They loved it all. The singing. The attention. The young, enthusiastic people.

As I made my way around the room to visit with all of the people individually, one man grabbed my arm and pulled me down low. He was wearing a red polo shirt, which I noticed had "U.S. Marine Corps" embroidered on it. He held tight onto my hands and half-whispered, "Thank you."

This man, who had fought four long years in World War II for his country, sacrificing his time, energy, comfort, happiness was thanking me for singing to him. This man, who would have given his life for his country, was thanking me for coming to see him on that beautiful Sunday afternoon. For a moment, I was at a loss for words. My often-repeated, "You're very welcome, I'm glad I could come sing for you..." speech seemed inappropriate for the occasion. I thought for another moment and said, "No, thank you. I can't tell you how much I appreciate what you did for me." He smiled and said, "Well, little miss, we wanted to do it for you. It was really our pleasure."

So to those men and women who knowingly and willingly lay their lives on the line every day for me: thank you. It isn't enough to say it. You deserve so much more. But thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

words to live by...

"The means for maintaining perfect love is to accomplish frequent acts of love. Fire is kindled by the wood we cast into it and love is enkindled by acts of love."
~ St. Alphonsus Liguori

BerrfdayPikturz

My "vintage" look while baking birthday cake.

Gotta taste test :)

A fabulous dinner (note the glass of red wine) :)

21 candles

(: YUM :)

Legal

Geez, I'm old. I'll be 21 tomorrow. Yikes.

But really, not much has changed since I was little. Here's a picture from my 4th birthday party:

I still can't eat chocolate cake without getting it all over my face. And I still love tiaras.

I'm still me! :)

Excerpts...

You're better than the best
I'm lucky just to linger in your light...

Nothing can compare to where you send me
Let's me know that it's okay...

You make me smile like the sun...

You make me dance like fool...

Buzz like a bee...

Oh, you make me smile...

Even when you're gone
Somehow you come along just like a flower pokin' through the sidewalk crack
And just like that
You steal away the rain...

Don't know how I lived without you
'Cuz everytime that I get around you
I see the best of me inside your eyes...

Oh you make me smile :)

(You Make Me Smile, by Uncle Kracker)


:-) :-) :-) :-) :-)

Wanda

Our favorite fluffy golden doggie had a vet appointment this morning. She's such a love - very sweet, very excitable, very happy, and very, very, very spoiled. The first thing she did upon getting to the vet office was to jump up onto the cushioned benches. I got her off, but apparently, she's allowed up there. And she was so much happier up there... goosey dog. :)




Oh, Wanda the one-eyed wonder dog... :)

Life Is Like Dessert

I got a little seedling planted in my brain this morning. A little seed of another person's (Ann Voskamp, "One Thousand Gifts") thought that ripened into a bit of a reflection on life.

Life is like dessert.

Dessert is sweet. Every bite is something to enjoy. It brings joy when savored. Many recipes are made better by contrasting flavors, some less sweet than others. By adding nuts or marmalade or rhubarb, you add to the layers of flavor that make the whole more enticing.

Life is the same way. There are days that are so sweet that you couldn't ask for any little bit of them to be better. But the days that aren't quite so sweet, that have pain and struggles and sadness in them, add to the overall flavor of life as a whole. No one would want every day to be entirely comprised of hard knocks, just as no one would want to munch on plain rhubarb. But the perfect combination is the most satisfactory of all. The sun shines clearest and brightest after the darkest clouds.

Dessert is short. It is a little crown to the meal, a brief moment of exceptional sweetness. It shouldn't be wolfed down or eaten with half-attention. It's too short for that. We all want to hold onto it. Those who want more dessert are simply those who didn't savor those first bites. Seconds are simply a way of making up for that rush.

Life, too, is brief. It ends so fast. I didn't understand this as a child. The two days before Christmas seemed like an eternity. The time span between birthdays was an infinite void that wasn't able to be traversed by mere mortals. But now it goes by so fast. Too fast. One day to another, one task to another, and then, all of the sudden... it's over. We always want more life. More days. More time. Could it simply be that we didn't slow down enough to enjoy it? To really, truly experience it? To savor it? That request for more seems to be a compensation for our missing it the first time around. We want a second chance, even if we don't realize exactly what it is we missed.

Dessert isn't strictly necessary: a cook doesn't have to make dessert to complete a meal. But it is made simply for the enjoyment of those partaking in the meal. A gift given from a desire to please beyond what is strictly necessary for nourishment. It makes people happy.

Life, the gift we're given moment by moment, isn't strictly necessary either. God, in his infinite power, glory, knowledge, simplicity, being, and essence does not need to give life to anything. His being is the same as His essence. He is wholly self-sufficient, not reliant on anything outside of Himself. He lacks nothing. But yet, here we are. Each one of us, every created thing, has been given life as a free gift. It allows us to be happy. The search for happiness, which is common to all men, is made possible by the life we're given. God can only have created us for our good alone: we give nothing to Him that He does not already have. But he wanted, willed, desired to create us for our good. Our life, our existence, is not strictly necessary. But it's given to us to make us happy.

Life is like dessert.

Now for something completely different

A year ago I had ankle surgery. Not exactly a year ago (I'm about 4 days late...), but still...

I couldn't walk a year ago...

I couldn't get up stairs, feed myself, or go swimming...

I was on a LOT of pain meds...

This summer is going to be so completely different!

It's going to be... FUN! :))))

Kerfwump!

I was peacefully sewing at the table in the school room. Humming to myself, gently pushing the fabric through the machine, I wasn't expecting to have any "episodes" of klutziness. But somehow (and I have absolutely no idea how...) I fell over backwards.

One minute, I was sitting on the bench. The next, I was on the floor. I didn't even just gently slide backwards. It was almost like I was catapulted off, heels over head.

I don't know how it happened. At all. HA! :)

Wet Water

The beach is a beautiful place. There's smooth sand under your feet, warm sun on your face, a gentle, cool breeze blowing, and the rush of water nearby. And then it hits you. Quite literally.

There was a distance of about thirty feet between the edge of the gently lapping water and the 50 foot cliff face. Mum and I were standing in the middle of it, contentedly letting our feet sink into the sand. Suddenly (and I mean suddenly) this HUGE wave came racing toward us. I shrieked and turned around. The water splashed my back, but my front remained dry. It remained dry, that is, until the water hit the cliff and bounced back at us. Then I was all wet.

So was Mum. And Mum's purse. Mum's phone? Absolutely dead.

Gotta love being us - we have the strangest luck and it seems to be genetic ;)

Silly me

I have this tendency to try to do too many things in one day. I didn't think today would be one of those days.

Silly me.

And I have a question for the universe: WHY must I learn how to drive? And, granting that there is a reasonable answer to that question, HOW is a girl with no depth perception and a very high-strung personality supposed to learn?!? I don't understand this... I can't resolve it to a plug and chug formula like math or fit it into an excel spreadsheet... it's too unpredictable, flexible, and hideously frightening. I thought this would be simpler!

Silly, silly, silly me.

To-Do

My Saturday:

Get up and curl Andrea's hair for Joan's wedding

Brush Wanda

Clean my room

Clean the kids bathroom and the half-bath downstairs

Cook dinner for Neil and Anna

Enjoy dinner and N&A's company!

It's REALLY out there

Apparently...

there's ice cream...

named after...

(you're not going to believe this...)

Superman.

It was the source of slight contention early first semester. A few of us had gone out ice skating and decided an ice cream treat was in order. My best friend suggested this outlandish notion of superman ice cream.

"Superman ice cream?!" I repeated back to him, incredulous at the mere suggestion of such a nonsensical idea.

"Yeah... it's blue and red and yellow, all mixed together. It's good. It's... superman ice cream."

We looked for said ice cream, but to no avail. We settled on vanilla or some such prosaic flavor. I soon forgot about it... why would a girl with a dairy allergy remember such a silly trifle as an ice cream flavor? I completely forgot the occurrence. Put it out of my mind entirely.

Until today.

Apparently, it does exist.

really, truly, and emphatically.

Or, at least, to the extent that you can really, truly, and emphatically believe things to exist that you haven't actually seen with your own eyes, but have seen in pictures that were telecommunicated to you from Michigan.

I was sent a picture of a bucket of the stuff by that dear boy. He, apparently, hadn't forgotten my incredulity. I am still slightly incredulous. Not disbelieving about its existence, but why? Why does red, yellow, and blue ice cream exist?

So I did what any self-respecting member of my generation would do when faced with an unknown: I googled it.

APPARENTLY (I've been using this word very, very much in this post), it's a Michigan thing. It's an obsession, as it were. There's a blogger who's alias is "Superman Ice Cream." People have searched high and low for the concoction once they have moved away from Michigan, looking for the favored treat of their childhood summers. It can't be found... anywhere! Well, nearly anywhere. One can find it in about five locations outside of the hand state. Apart from that, it isn't to be found.

Michigan people... gotta love 'em :)

But superman ice cream?

really?

Friday Night, TAC style

Friday nights are absolute blank slates on our campus. For the unimaginative, unenthusiastic, and lackluster among us, they are horrendously boring. For the individuals over twenty-one who have access to a car, they usually involve somewhat unideal behavior. For the rest of the student body, who possess creativity, enthusiasm, and youthful impetuosity, the blank slate presented is ripe with opportunity for fun.

But for this little missy, fun somehow translates into horrendous injury. Let me explain by way of an example...

Sean needed to be shoved into the ponds. He was being an incorrigible imp and he deserved punishment. Our deal to even the score? I would get to shove him into the ponds not one, but three times. (As a side note, I don't "punish" people when they really deserve it. I only take this tack when it was harmless fun and I'm pretending to be highly incensed. If the action was really offensive, I just let the individual know and walk away. This tactic is especially affective with this particular young man because it makes him think about it for himself) Friday night was the date and time settled on to carry out this punishment. I met him with a couple of other girls on upper campus and traipsed down to the first pond.

We chose the first pond for two reasons: one, it is the shortest walk and two, it is generally the warmest. However, this was March, early March at that. Standing behind Sean, I almost backed out. After all, he didn't really do anything wrong and that water was freezing! He wouldn't have any of that, though. He stood there, quite staunchly, waiting for me to give him a shove. Michelle and Kim did not share my scruples and were encouraging me to push him without hesitation. A couple of minutes later, I screwed my eyes shut and shoved. I didn't open my eyes until I heard the splash of the tumbling Sean. The expression on his face when he came up was one of extreme shock and mild pain. "it's c-c-c-c-cold!!!"

He climbed out and stood to be shoved in again. Now that he was shivering and wet, I had fewer qualms about shoving him into the water. In fact, the faster I did it, the less time he would spend wet and shivering. So, in he went again. But watching him clamber out a second time, I couldn't see myself doing it again to him. I began pleading with him to go change and get warm. Two times was more than sufficient and he would catch a cold if he stayed out any longer. But he's more stubborn than I am. I gave him a very lackluster shove, but this time, my feet didn't stay on the ground. I tripped backwards, fell off the sidewalk, and tumbled into the bushes behind me, giving myself a horrendously sprained ankle in the process. Sean was pretty confused when he emerged from the water. Kim and Michelle were off in the bushes and I was nowhere in sight. He pulled himself out and scrambled over to see what was going on. I didn't tell him because I knew the massive panic that it would produce in him.

I was helped up by the girls and tried to minimize the limp as we walked back up the path. It very soon became apparent that the walk up the hill behind the chapel was a no-go. Sean's solution? Find a wheelbarrow to put me in. :)

After a highly undignified ride, part 2 of the catastrophe happened. I was being helped across the field by the girls and I fell into a gopher hole with the other foot. Two sprained ankles in the space of 15 minutes. Oh, the indignity of it. Walking was now out of the question, so Sean's carrying solution was to pick me up and set me sorta sideways on his hip. It was uncomfortable to say the least. After a few protestations on my part, he finally relented and gave me a normal piggy back ride.

But that was my Friday night. It started out with a bit of harmless fun and ended with me being paraded around in a wheelchair. I should just stop trying to have fun :P

1000 Words

Dress shopping

So I bit the bullet and went to David's Bridal yesterday to shop for my bridesmaid dress. I was armed with the list of dress options that the bride had sent and a firm resolve to be patient, firm, and dignified.

I walked into the dressing room with seven dresses, two of which were deemed "acceptable" by myself, my sister, and my mother. Three of the other dresses occasioned me to wonder what the fashion world was coming to on two levels: first, the lack of decency and second, the horrendous quality of the seamstressing. The zippers didn't work, some of the seams were crooked, etc. When you go shopping and you realize that you could do a better job yourself, it discourages you from buying the product, especially when it is priced outlandishly.

The two dresses that I ended up waffling between each had their own unique charms. The first was a boatneck in the front and a deep v down the back, but it didn't fit me right. It wasn't that it was too big or too small, it just didn't fit. I looked sorta like I was wearing a sack for potatoes. The second one covers a bit less of me, but it fit perfectly. I found a jacket (which I would have worn with either dress, at least for Mass) that made it quite presentable. It's a little lower than school dresscode would allow for, but still within my comfort zone. I went with the cute one that didn't cause me to resemble something found at a grocery store.

And I'm happy with it. Best part? It has POCKETS! What girl could be unhappy with a dress that has pockets?!

Mom (as opposed to Mum, of course)

My brother, the problem solver

I was telling a story from school that involved boy-girl drama. In a girls' dorm, whenever there is that sort of drama, people end up staying up til three in the morning talking about it. More often than not, it's blown out of proportion, but that's what girls do in the wee hours of the morning when they're talking about boys. My brother's solution?

"Sometimes I wonder why God didn't just make a special drinking fountain for women to have babies."

Little Blessings

A hot cup of tea on an unseasonably cold May evening.

Food without dairy or soy.

Unpacking 5 boxes.

Knowing that friends are getting home safely.

No homework.

Sleeping til 10.

Watching fairytale weddings of real people.

Walking around the block with my sister.



Having confidence that things are in bigger hands than mine.

Let's make it official

I always figure that if I write something down, it somehow becomes an infallible truth, especially if it is written in pen. While I know that this medium is not exactly indelible ink, I'm going to use it similarly, hoping against hope that it will accomplish the same end. What, you may ask, do I want to come true today? I want it to be true that, by dinner, I will have unpacked at least 3 of the oh-so-many boxes that are now piled in my room.

It will happen, I guarantee it.

See? what could go wrong now? :)

Home

So tired.

Unbelievably tired.

Must sleep.

and then...

UNPACK

Hello, summer!

:)

Bridesmaid Dresses

a.k.a. - worst dress shopping ever.

NOT AT ALL THAT I'M COMPLAINING ABOUT BEING A BRIDESMAID. I love the fact that N&A asked me to be in their wedding. The difficult part (that I don't like) is the fact that most bridesmaid dresses are designed for people with less *ahem* picky taste. I like myself to be covered, thank you. I don't require things that conform entirely to TAC dresscode, but closer is better. Anna is a sweetie, though, bending over backwards to make sure we're all comfortable in what we will be wearing. We can get jackets or shawls or whatnot to give more coverage. I can't help but feel for her, though. Looking through the dresses on-line, the selection is very limited.

Why must the bridal industry encourage so much... exposure?

But it'll all work out :)

Have I mentioned that I'm EXCITED to be in this wedding?!?! So happy! :)

Just a tad egocentric... but not really

Writing philosophy papers does something to one's brain. Or maybe even multiple things. In any case, sometimes those things are good. Like you get inspired and a sentence just flies off the tips off your fingers into the lovely word document. I say "inspired" because I don't really believe that I'm smart enough to come up with things like this. Really... it's all God. I can't just think things like this.

"To die for a friend is not contrary to love of God, self, or neighbor; but rather, it can be the highest expression of all three."

I love truth, don't you? Especially when you stumble across it, like a beautiful rose that was hidden around a corner. You walk around the corner and there it is, smack in front of you.

This is the night...

Dream come true... sorta

At the beginning of the semester, I decided to inflict a bit of torture upon a poor, unsuspecting freshman boy. When I ask for things and do what Sean calls the “cute face”, people have a hard time refusing me. I try not to abuse this power too much… they are usually relatively reasonable requests, although somewhat unusual. Anyway, this request was very unusual. I asked someone if they would be willing to go out on a blind date with someone of my choosing. Much MUCH to my surprise, he said yes. He gave me the power to send him out on the town for an evening with a young lady that I got to pick out for him. I knew that I was going to send him with a mutual friend who is more like a sister to him, but he didn’t know that. He definitely freaked out beforehand. He was good to his word, despite it all, and went out with her. They had lots of fun, but he definitely wanted to get me back.


My roommate was more than willing to help out: she set me up on a blind date.


One beautiful Sunday afternoon, I put on a nice dress, Bridget did my hair, I put on a bit of make-up (shocking, I know), and then Michelle blindfolded me. With Michelle’s arm around my waist, they walked me out of the dorm. I was tentatively walking because I couldn’t see a thing, not to mention that I was pretty nervous myself. I wasn’t sure who they were inflicting my company upon and I felt bad for the poor boy.


Outside the gate of the dorm, something was shoved into my hand. Flowers. How nice. I was told that my date wasn’t going to be speaking to me (to prevent me from discovering his identity), but that he was happy to see me. He took my hand and looped it through his arm, walking me down the path to “the carriage”. When we got to the stairs, my date was in a bit of a conundrum. He couldn’t tell me when to step and he knows me well enough not to just trust me up them. Thankfully, everyone showed up for this date, so Jims and Chris L. took the other side and talked me through it. We stopped between the dorms because that was where the truck was. The next challenge that faced us was getting me into the back of a pick up truck. Standing behind it, I couldn’t tell what exactly was required to get into it. I don’t do well with climbing things and the skirt I was wearing compounded the magnitude of the problem. The boys threatened to pick me up and put me in, but I refused that. I don’t like being picked up. Holding men’s hands and stepping gingerly, I managed to get in myself. I walked to the back of the truck and was instructed to sit down, where they had placed couch cushions for my date and me. For translation, Michelle hopped in the back with “Fred” and me, communicating the things that he wrote down on a little whiteboard. She told me, “He says, ‘I love you… sorta.’” It was an awkward 25 minute drive, bouncing in silence in the back of a pickup truck, not knowing the name of the man I was sitting next to. It made it worse that I had gotten a concussion recently, so the dizziness and nausea were having a field day.

Eventually we stopped. My date stood up, helped me up, and then grabbed my hands to walk me to the edge of the tailgate. He hopped down and was going to help me down, but Chris L. hollered at him to wait. He didn’t trust me with only one guy helping me down. My date kept his hold on my hand at Michelle’s request so she could take a picture of the spectacle.

Once my feet were down on the ground, my date looped my hand back through his arm and walked me to our date spot. It involved a precarious jaunt over a rickety bridge, which required Chris L.’s extra help. Once we were on the little island, my date unlooped my arm from his, grabbed my shoulders and sat me down on a bench. He then proceeded to write various things on the whiteboard, but Jims made a bit of mischief.

“He says he doesn’t have anything to say… that could adequately describe the way he loves you.”

“He says the silence… is like the tears that silently fall on his pillow at night when he thinks of his unrequited love.”

My date, of course, said none of these things. He just wanted to tell me that he didn’t have anything to say and the silence was awkward. But Jims would have none of that normal sort of thing.

Eventually, after things were done being set up, Bridget stood me up, took the flowers from me, and put my date in front of me. After a few more seconds of arranging, I was un-blindfolded. And there was Chris S., down on one knee, offering me the bouquet of flowers. I turned bright red and laughed. He stood up and hugged me… we laughed at each other, the situation, the crowd of spectators, and the fact that one of my sophomores was my date. We sat down… with seven other people… at a table and enjoyed fresh fruit for about half an hour. Then everyone left to work on their papers and various other sorts of homework. Chris S., Shelle, and I climbed into the back of the truck again for the ride up, chatting about nothing in particular.

At the end of the day, I felt very happy and very… loved. So much effort and time was spent for no other reason except to do something fun for me. I really don’t deserve the friends I have. God love ‘em.

Blind Date

I'll tell you the story soon, but here's a picture while you wait... :)

TAC April

The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. The sky is blue. Flowers are blooming.

And everyone is getting fed up with one another.

It happens every year at this time. The same things that make a community great make it occasionally unbearable. We all see each other every day. We have more in common than your average group of 350 people. But after eight months, you're sick of each other.

Don't get me wrong, we all love each other dearly. But when you love people that much and get to know them so well, you learn everything about them. You know their likes and their dislikes, their hometowns, favorite baseball teams, strengths, weaknesses... and failings. We all have them in abundance (who doesn't?), but the patience with which one puts up with those failings diminishes rapidly toward the end of the school year.

Two full weeks of class, two half weeks of class, and a year... ahem, week of finals are all that lie between us and SUMMER. Deo Gratias!

Grumble

I was sitting on the floor, surrounded by stuff. T-shirts, skirts, books, shoes, electronic gizmos and gadgets were piled around me. On my lap was my backpack. My other bag was already full and I was hoping and praying all of my stuff would fit. That's all it is. Stuff. I folded, arranged, put in, pulled out again, fussed and fumbled.

I also grumbled.

This is not an unfamiliar story. I have too much stuff. In the hurry of finals week I didn't have the time or energy to pack properly. I packed up my backpack one day, believing that I would remember what I put in it. I didn't. Having no time to unpack it to look, I just threw a few more things in the other bag, hoping against hope that I wasn't over-packing. When I arrived home, I realized that hope was in vain.

I grumbled some more.

Then Christmas happened. More stuff. Gift giving and receiving is a nice tradition, but when you already have stuff out the wazoo, the last thing you need is more of it. It's just STUFF. Everywhere. Squished into bags that I'll have to lug around a train station and then unpack tomorrow.

See? I'm still grumbling.

The gray sky outside is very reflective of my mood. I don't want to be grumpy. But not wanting to be grumpy only makes it worse, because you get grumpier at yourself for being grumpy.

Help.