I Have a Secret...

It has to do with life and moods and finding things out about yourself.
Its about being healthy and happy and switching to decaf coffee.
Its learning to accept the down times because it just initiates the opposition of being so high on life that you want to kiss everyone and meet all the new people you come across.
Its about always forgetting double letters in words and realizing you've been depressed for a long time and are waking up from the dream and that you don't really care about correctly spelled words but more about savoring the feeling and making jokes.
Its being so happy you think you might cry just telling someone how happy you are.
Its learning that hormones are funny things and beer is delicious. The two together... Not so much.
Its jelly beans from a jelly bean bubble gum machine.
Its learning you have a knack for things you've always shied away from, like poetry and sharing much needed info.
Its being totally over text messaging and wanting to go back to old fashioned letters.
Its learning you want to reach people in a lasting way.
Its being sassy and loving three ring binders.
Its smiling and dancing simply because you can.
Its meeting the challenge.
Its a new form of inspiration.
Its foregoing drama to be the bigger person.
Its finding people really do like the real you as long as the real you is who you really are.
Its realizing you love someone so much that the sun shines out the back of them and you want to trudge or soar through every difficulty.
Its having dreams, or using the less corny word, aspirations come true through hard work and a lot of deodorant, since showers take too much time.
Its being fingerprinted for the first time without having done anything wrong.
Its having a planner that actually has writing in it.
Its not fully preparing for class and still knowing you did well.
Its ten dollar sunglasses.
Its remembering people even when you only meet them once, even if you met them for only 30 seconds.
Its Winnie the Pooh Bear.
Its learning you can't get a work study job without already having work study but you can't get work study unless you have a work study job.
Or needing experience to get teaching jobs and needing teaching jobs to get experience.
Its music infusion.
Its free stuff even if its junk.
Its giving.
Its finding extra space on your computer, sometimes as much as 34.41 GB of it.
Its still not breaking the habit of biting your nails even though you are officially and forever more an adult.
Its not knowing how down you are until you are up again.
Its being too deep and making people uncomfortable or being too shallow and making yourself feel dumb.
Its sticking up for someone you don't like.
Its having friends you ADORE... And stalk a little, but not in a creepy way.
Its striking a pose.
Or continuing to dance when the music is gone.
Its being unable to NOT dance because you realize how blessed you are.
Its making a fool out of yourself and not caring in the least.
Its having too many thoughts to make sense of any of them.
Its being totally out of thoughts and over your poetic urges...

So Many Thoughts...

Often times I am simply overwhelmed by thoughts. Other times, I am hard pressed to find one drifting in my head. The state that I am currently in is one of the former variety. I sit here, at my brand new desk that my Other of the Significant Variety built for me a few days ago, and look out an my view. This view consists of our driveway which leads behind our house to the townhouses situated there. I can also see Sierra's car. This is a view that often provides food for thought. More importantly, it gives me a breath of fresh air and glimpse of the sunny day. The air is perfect. There is a little breeze and our valley weather is at its least polluted. I have been bucking a sickness for a few days, but today seems better after several hours.

This is a day of significance. August 18th, my roommates birthday, my 6th month anniversary with Chris, a day that my brother is taking his youth group to have worship time with another group. I feel as though something earth shattering will happen today... More likely we will just celebrate my roomies birthday in style. Hawaiian cuisine is on the menu and I am so excited for it! Hopefully we can bribe a few Hawaiians to come with us to complete the experience.

As I sit here writing out my random thoughts, I feel like a professional. It has been a long time since I have had a designated work space and it does wonders for the old thinker. There is something about that designated space, that is piled up with all the junk you are working on right now: the 7 random books that are making little progress on completion, an unfinished piece of plywood, my old speakers, smelly stuff, sharpies, Filmore action figure, electric razor, 3 hole punch, roll of toilet paper, laser tag scores waiting to be framed, camera, Reader's Digest, favorite mug, bible, journal, Goodwill certificate, checkbook... These are just a few of things I am working on. The space is a little messy, but it is the space designated to be messy and so I have no complaints. The rest of my room is spotless and that is what really counts. Regardless, I am writing, and if it inspires me to do so, it has done its job.

This is a crazy time for most college students, being one of intense transition. I personally have been juggling job and school scheduling without knowing half of the information that it is essential for me to know to figure this out. I was forced to a conclusion yesterday, and here it is: Sometimes, all you can do is trust that God has a plan and go with the flow. This is not something I normally do well, being a planner. I like to know what I'm doing not next summer, but the summer following for work and vacation plans. Though my life plan does change often, I always have one. And when life gets in the way of my life plan, I sometimes get frustrated with the now that is interfering with my later. So I'm trying something different, cause I'm game for that as well. I find myself to be an odd mixture of the two, being a definite planner, but also being definitely game for many different things. Perhaps I force myself to be game so that the other isn't allowed to take over completely. Even now, as I sort through so many thoughts, I have so many others that will not make it onto this page, because you will find no enjoyment from it, but will continue to swim furiously, or rather drown actively, in different areas of my head all day. Good thing I am a lifeguard, and a list maker, otherwise the thoughts might drown for good.

I am starting a new job soon, though it will not make enough to cover all my expenses. You may ask, why would you work at a job that won't pay for everything? Because it is one of those jobs that will provide experience for the later and has little to do with the now. Of course, I will love the experience now, but the experience is for later, so that someday I can make a decent living doing what I am doing for very little money now. The money actually isn't terrible, I believe it will be a little over $10 an hour. But the hours are slim. Still I am thankful for the opportunity, even though I will have to work Saturdays. On some level, I feel like an impostor and that somehow I lied about my experience... Even though I didn't! I just feel nervous entering a new environment with very little direction as it will be a good deal of responsibility. But again, God has a plan for this too and will enable me to do what I have to do. Good thing too... I am not in the mood to drown in my thoughts or my new job.

Summer Blues

And so here I sit, or rather lay, in the midst of summer and zero thoughts hoping that something will magically flow from my fingertips as I force them to scurry over a keyboard. This is by far my least favorite part about my least favorite season, the lack of thought and intellectual stimulation. So far, I have read little, written less, and watched more movies than I am willing to admit. Summer used to be my favorite season, as it is for many kids, but of late it has been unquestionably my least favorite, the bane of my intellectual existence, and here is why: Summer is an illusion. For 12+ years we are led to believe that summer is a time to lay around and veg out, which I suppose it is for children who spend their lives in a school all year long. But this is yet another one of those scary childhood illusions that you will be knocked out of as soon as you start thinking about your own money and must survive, even during the hot sticky months of June, July, August, and sometimes September. Everyone else in the world, namely adults, works throughout the summer. And thank goodness! If the rest of my natural life were to be cursed with these three months I may not respect the man who invented the three month break's natural life as well as I ought. I greatly look forward to a day where my job will run year round and I will have occupation even on the hottest and most miserable day of the year.

There is something so disturbing about having your thoughts stop, unless of course they have never begun in the first place. This is the exact place of disturbance that I have found myself for the past two and a half months, one of total and complete dead brain. This is unusual for me. My problem is usually the reversal, an inability to turn my thoughts off rather than trouble starting them in the morning and keeping them running throughout the day. My greatest desire in the morning when I wake up is to do something worthwhile in the form of writing. Even if it isn't a great work, something that will get the rusty gears turning and challenge someone's thoughts. Instead of doing this however, I usually open a page to my blog and to my journal, hoping that something will write itself and inevitably walk away with both still blank. It is as though I were trying to go somewhere splendid and just as I climb into my car, cute and primped and smelling great, it decides to take a vacation and not start. I sit in my driveway, turning the key over time and time again with no result. My problem? I don't ever get out and look under the hood! I haven't done any work, but simply hope and expect the problem to fix itself. Unfortunately, as I'm sure those of you who have ever faced a problem before will know, they rarely do so without some kind of work, even if it is only the work of working the problem out in one's head, there is still effort involved.

Of course I would do so, that is work the problem, get out and look under my hood, except that the time of year that I find myself in tells me not to work. Everything that has ever directed my thoughts on summer has told me not to do any work. This creates a serious battle when my learned behavior and the necessity of living and functioning come head to head. As you can see, the latter came out ahead this time, as I have indeed written a blog. Perhaps not an overtly interesting one, but still a decently long one. And despite how good it may or may not be, it has provided me with a sense of accomplishment and will save the creator of the three month break's natural life a few more hours at least of natural functioning.

Trapped!

In this phantom that we call reality, there are real scares, and surreal scare. When you lay in your bed at night, afraid to move because you know as soon as you do something will grab you, and then get up in the morning to find nothing unusual about your room, that is known as a surreal scare. The experience I underwent today, was a real scare. Home improvement stores have got to be the most intimidating out of them all. To begin with, they are so freaking HUGE. There is no feasible way to navigate around these institutions. Oh, sure you can look up at the signs and pretend you know what your doing, but really, you're stumbling around hoping you will come across the desired item. This is how I entered Lowe's this evening in quest of two pieces of tile. I was actually surprised at my intuition upon finding that the flooring section was not in the front, I headed to the back. Now, I don't know how much time you spend in home improvement stores, so I don't know if you realize there are literally a million different types of tile. I walked around four different aisles hoping that I'd see the thing I was looking for. Of course, when I did find it, I was on the first aisle I had gone down. As I stared at 15 kinds of tile, I drew a blank as to whether my dad wanted the same kind we already had, or if he wanted a new kind. And I didn't have any cell service. This was my first clue to the fact that I was in a frightening situation. So, I stood looking and picking up, and turning over too many kinds of tile. Once I had picked one out, I would find that the edge was wrong, and I would begin my search again. Going with the better safe than sorry motto, which I don't even buy into, I picked out what I thought was the same tile as we already had. The mind control had already begun to have it's affects on me. It took me a year to get back to the check out. Have I mentioned that that place is HUGE? I couldn't decide which line would be quicker, and so I simply picked one, which turned out to be the slow line. Just as I was about to set my items down, I was called over to the other check stand. They had started to try to control my reactions, and like an idiot, I fell for it, and did as I was summoned. The total cost of my purchase was only $1.96, when I thought the price on them was $3.49 each. They were trying to confuse me. And it was working. Finally, I grabbed my bag, and was told to have a good afternoon... at 6:30 in the evening. It was certainly a close call. They almost had me. I went for the exit sign, but found myself blocked off. Wow, now I feel stupid, I thought as I went back around and headed for the exit sign as another angle. But no, it was blocked off that way too. I was nearing panic. I no longer felt stupid. I felt trapped! I almost made a break and ran the wrong way through the entrance doors, but one of the conspirators was right there, and I knew he would catch me. I turned, at a lose for my life. I was going to be in this store for the rest of my life, probably mining coal in their secret underground prison. It was at this very opportune moment, that one of the conspirators took pity on me, and opened the secret portal that let me out. I made some comment about being trapped, that they thought I meant as a joke. Good thing they believed so. Other wise I might not have made it out alive.

Burn Book

The burn book, a theme from the movie Mean Girls, is a book of gossip. The four girls in the film take time to write down all their little notions about other students in the school, usually nasty rumors or even poking cruel fun at something that is true.

My reason for writing today is that I have once again stumbled into the ugly realm of gossip. I had been doing much better, mostly in distancing myself from the dance department in general because I find I can't be involved in everybody's lives and keep my mouth shut. This last week was a bad one. I found myself partaking in the ugliest kind of gossip and shooting off my mouth with every swear word and vulgar phrase one could imagine. It was awful. I felt dirty and unattractive at a very deep, personal level. While brought on by an offense to justice, I did the worst job possible handling it with grace. In fact, grace went flying out the window at an alarming speed, making me question my basic personhood.

Being kind does not come naturally to me. I do much better at being harsh and hurtful. The person that I am often does not care in the slightest what people think and so I don't have a hard time behaving in a way that will make everyone hate me. Of course, this is a trait that could be, and is often, used for great good in that I am not afraid to speak the truth. But so often it is misused. It is hard to come to terms with this and face it as my challenge; it is always shocking when you discover the problem is with you, not the people around you. But still, I must square up to the problem and deal with it.

As encouragement to me, in the sense that I'm not the only idiot who fails on a regular basis, I found out my roommate had had as rough a week. Of course at the time that we were failing, neither of us knew the other was having such a hard time, but last night we bared all and revealed to one another that we are not nice people. We came to the conclusion that clearly, the only way change is going to take place in our department, meaning to change the fact that if you have information for everyone, you simply tell one person, is if a few of us, or even just two of us, take the initiative and simply STOP talking about others. We decided unanimously that something must be done. And the answer seemed simple: a burn book. Because we are mean girls, this seemed like the most likely option.

The idea came up as a gossip journal, which was said in joking but soon developed into a working alternative to talking smack. The idea is that if we have something negative to say about someone or hear something 'juicy,' that it will go in the gossip journal. At the end of the week, all the entries will get burned. As girls, we have verbal energy that has a need to come out. By doing a gossip journal, or burn book, we channel this energy in a constructive way, exuding the words in a location where no one will ever see them. In destroying the entries, we will reaffirm that those words are garbage and have no place anywhere, even in the privacy of a journal.

I don't want to be a mean girl anymore. I don't need to be friends with everyone, but it is time for me to stop tearing others down. Nothing is getting by me anymore. No words of negative opinion are coming out of my mouth. They are going straight into our burn book, because I don't want garbage in my mouth anymore.

Sexism in the Dance Department

With as much as the arts brag about being on the cutting edge of weighty issues, I would assume a dance program to be the last place I would encounter something as primeval as sexism against women. An interesting point is that the dance world is mostly dominated by women, except for that men are still largely the ones in power. Here at our lovely college in the Western Hemisphere of Oregon, it is rampant. It takes an odd spin, however. The girls are most definitely not treated badly or disrespected. Five of our six faculty members are women and highly esteemed and respected. Sexism attacks in the form of overt favoritism shown to the one male dancer in the department. Apparently, he can do no wrong. While the rest of us, namely the women in the program, are required to work our tails off to get the smallest of compliments, everyone's favorite male can shit a brick, inducing everyone to moon and moan. I in no way resent working hard, recognizing that that is how it ought to be. There should be something required of us to succeed. I want to be challenged and pushed. But the requirement should be equal of all, male and female alike. I readily admit that it is a personal offense, but it also goes far beyond that. It is a sick picture of a blatant bigotry. Even though said male has no technique, and too big an ego to ever be able to gain that technique, he will succeed in this place of education because he will be verily revered from now until he graduates or decides to take himself elsewhere (which he won't, because elsewhere he would likely be required to work).

I have encountered the problem before. Perhaps it is an age old struggle, the problem being there will always be those people in your life who do nothing, give nothing of themselves, and are rewarded for their non-effort. While the rest of us give everything we have and more and never get credit, never hear anything but how we need to work harder and give more, these people are invariably worshiped. Put on a pedestal, they are incapable of fault or folly.

As I sit and rant in my frustration, I begin to see the true evil and tragedy of this sort of life. In a nut shell, there is no growth because their is no challenge. No roots will grow deep because there is no resistance of wind. While it looks like a disservice those of us required to work, the reality is that lifting someone up in this manner is only damaging. Either they will one day face adversity, totally unprepared for the challenge, perhaps to crumple and be destroyed or they will simply never grow, reaching the end of their lives as an incomplete person. Both are tragic. This is a good perspective to reach, realizing that although life is hard and uncomfortable, we will always be required to rise to one occasion or another and therefore have the opportunity to be the best we can be. Sadly, the male dancers in our lives will never have that opportunity, as it has already been taken away from them.

The point is that learning should always continue. No matter how far your potential has been pushed, there are always new horizons to be explored, there is still knowledge and experience to take place. For the majority of us this takes place everyday, in getting out of bed, in making it to class on time, in completing homework assignments. I never have to look for challenge, which is almost a luxury. I will always be challenged, as long as I am living life.

As much as a display of sexism pisses me off, there is perspective to be gained from the experience, just as with anything else. Because I'm a woman in a female dominated field, I will never become stagnant in my growth, except of my own choosing. Not only in technique and creativity, but more often in the people I am required to dance with everyday, I will always have a new adventure, pleasant or not, waiting for me around the next corner. Hopefully, I will learn to approach this with maturity rather than in bitterness, seeing the reality that it is simply a challenge to me and disservice to the dance gods around me.

Bubble Gum Wrapper

Taylor Swift has a new bubble gum pop song out called “Love Stories” that is enough to make me vomit. It is nauseating in its sentimental use of the word love and its gross desecration of Shakespearean art. I have been contemplating it for several days and finally realized that it is more than just the above stated problems that make this song grate so fully on my nerves; apart from a sappy repeating melody, it is full of blatant and disgusting lies. The very concept rings foully in my ears. It is drawn from the tragic Romeo and Juliet and takes pride in completely distorting this great work. Supposedly, this play is a great love story. However, this has not been my understanding and I believe it to be a cultural-wide misconception. Specifically, the play is an accurate representation of obsession and the selfish pursuit of a desire, without regard for the damage left in its wake. I am struck by the gall of Romeo in deliberately wanting a girl who is already forbidden because of family feuding. The fact is that a mature, thoughtful person would take care in heeding the consequences of stepping so far out of familial code. Whether it was carelessness or rebellion, Romeo's very first actions are dubious, in that they invite disaster upon him and his family. As thrilling as forbidden love seems, the basic concept is wrought with destruction. The root is our human desire for wanting what we can't have and selfishly carrying out that desire, without regard to the aftermath. It is this that makes me believe that Romeo and Juliet is not a great love story, but a picture of fixation and the egocentric fulfillment of that lust, based on a first and only contact. All in all, it is probably for the best that the young lovers died. Otherwise, they would have lived on in a miserable marriage, after the desire burned itself out, because it was based on nothing more.

It is at this point in your reading when you will assume me to be dyslexic in my thinking, when I unashamedly state that the greatest love story in all of Shakespeare's writing is The Taming of the Shrew, another play commonly misinterpreted by pop culture and ironically considered to be a comedy, a fact which proves to be refreshing. In dealing with the icky stickies of love, it is fortifying to find something to laugh about, to be able to look at the mishaps and confusions with a sense of humor, regardless of how painful things are apt to become. Our introduction here is to a frustrated young woman, who is “acting out,” if you will, vexed by her manipulative younger sister, Juliet... I mean, Bianca and a foolish father. (Just for clarifications sake, in the original play, there is no abuse taking place. Petruchio is not a wife beater, but simply shows Kate the consequences of her actions by treating her the way she treats others.) Petruchio's wooing of Kate is anything but gentle, but it is authentic. Our hero is challenged to man up and work hard to win The Shrew's love, changing flaws in himself while pointing out her own, in a markedly unconventional way. (The way in which Petruchio romances Kate, with a completely original approach, is particularly appealing.) He goes in pursuit of a legendary shrew, finds a hurt woman, and immediately rises to the occasion. It is a picture of God's love and discipline for us, but also a romance that I see happening around me. There is a certain softening that takes place simply by being cherished, but more than that there is a need to be challenged in action, simply to know what requires work. Who wants to be left floundering in confusion of what needs improvement? The desire is for someone to care enough to gently point out flaws. This is exactly what I admire in Petruchio, a man who will not allow the woman he loves' flaws be disregarded. Petruchio is ever patient, but not blind to our heroine's failings, just as she is not blind to his. She is in the end esteemed by her decisions, lifted up by her own choice, cherished by her husband. It isn't perfect, it isn't simple, but it is real and infinitely more beautiful, because we are not shielded from the nails on the chalkboard. The wooing is dangerous and violent, but it is genuine and gives hope to the rest of us, who can't manage a Romeo and Juliet love story, who want something more than a winsome infatuation.

There is a quote from the movie “Take the Lead” about the leader and follower in partner dancing. When told that it is the man's job to lead, a young woman asks, “What, so he can think he's boss?” Antonio Banderas responds with, “But he's not. He proposes the step. It is your choice to follow.” This is a beautiful metaphor of relationships, where it is always the woman's choice to accept leadership from a man, just as Kate finally accepts Petruchio's leadership, taking the pressure off of her to be anything but herself, to act stronger than she actually is, finally allowing her to truly find her independence and selfhood.

In contrast, we see Luctretio's obsession with Bianca, Kate's little sister, and Romeo's fixation on Juliet. (An aside, the whole fixation thing is really very creepy. Its what leads to stalker behavior and movies like Twilight.) Neither can find fault with their ladies, and so have no understanding of what is happening in the relationship, content to simply have a prize to hang on their arms. This is the most dangerous part of obsession, the inability to see flaw (this is true for the man and woman). There is nothing solid or real about the contact, it is all surface level and will wear off alarmingly quickly, as aforesaid, when lust wanes. Also, there is nothing required of the man in wooing or maintenance and so he is likely to get bored or resentful. Unfortunately, we do not see where Romeo's and Juliet's marriage would have taken them, but we do see Bianca's and Lucretio's relationship defects, Bianca's manipulative lording over her husband in a manner somehow akin to a female dog.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am a feminist; I have considered myself as such for years. I am about women's rights. But the way in which I exercise and wisely use my rights looks different now than it has previously. It is more subtle and counter intuitive, where my right is exercised in choosing to follow. No one can make me do that, it is something I do of my own accord. By choosing to do so, I give power to and strengthen a relationship.

This is why Taylor Swift's song irritates me so fully. It has nothing to do with the realities of love or relationship, the ugliness of working through problems, the agony of being in partnership with another flawed human. Love is not always pretty, just as Kate's and Petruchio's romance is gritty and complicated, and not something that would successfully sell a bubble gum pop song.

Thoughts for a Rainy Day

Supposedly, Oregonians don't use umbrellas. I think that this is both ridiculous and untrue. I have been a resident of Oregon for the whole course of my natural life, so far, and I will at times resort to the use of an umbrella, preferring to use a tool that allows me to arrive at my destination dry and comfortable rather than acting like I think I'm hardcore and arriving wet and shaking and angry at the population of Oregon for 'not using umbrellas.' My personal umbrella is blue, a very comforting color when you are trying to avoid rainfall and water in general, and it has a rain flap on the top, just like you would find with a tent, only its on my umbrella and if it didn't have it, there would be a hole in the top. As ingenious as this design may be... I have a small problem with the general structure of these rain guards. While placing the handle in the middle is wonderfully symmetrical and satisfies our eye, it makes zero sense. How many times have you tried to hide under an umbrella (assuming you are not an Oregonian, because Oregonians don't use umbrellas), and been snubbed by the handle that jumps in your way? It would make eons more sense if the handle was off to one side and the actual umbrella part shot out and away from the handle so that you could seek cover under it without getting into a closely proximated argument with the handle. Also, all umbrellas should look like a Dr. Seuss creation, jagged edges and all, to help with our fashion sense as we hide from the rain. Perhaps if they did look like a Dr. Seuss illustration, Oregonians would start using them...

Knights of Nasty

Sometimes you know when a bad day is coming, like when the alarm goes off when it is still dark out and your bed is cozy and the house is cold and there is nothing you would rather do than stay tucked up in bed and somewhere deep inside your inner most heart you know, you just know, that the day is going to be rough. Sometimes you awake and know the day is going to be less than shiny because it has already been a crappy week and all you can do is morosely and half heartedly hope for better, but you don't really believe it and so the day turns out like the rest of the week. The warning for my unexpected and uncomfortable day came a little more subtly. I took a nap yesterday and it was one of those naps where you awake so disoriented you could swear someone is out to get you and they must be peaking in the window with a can of bubbles, waiting to attack you with creeper love and all you can do is stumble around and curse the chairs you keep stubbing your toes on and the food that will not prepare itself and the dance bag that will not fill itself with tape and shoes and deodorant and water bottles. This was my initial and lasting reaction from my nap yesterday. In an earlier blog I have discussed falling asleep when its light and waking up when its dark and you must refer back to truly realize the terror therein. Unfortunately, it wasn't just the nap that made for a positive warning sign. Another glaring problem was the fact that there was not a single part of my body that was not in serious pain after my excursion through a day of dance. I lay in bed, after nap and rehearsal, and contemplated why on earth I would do such a thing to myself... every day of my life. My feet were both bruised (still are, I might add), my ankles were exhausted and sore, knees bruised and sore, hips bruised and crackly... need I go on? I'm not complaining, thus is being a dancer, I'm just trying to paint an accurate picture of the blatant warning signs that I missed. On top of all this and my discombobulation is the fact that I have had writer's block for days, which is truly awful. It likes to come up behind you with a sneak attack, being very seductive and stealthy, stealing inspiration out of your brain and taking it to use for its own selfish ends. Things are of course still happening in life, but none of it seems either interesting or appropriate to disclose to the world and the sneak attack tells you that's okay and you should continue to not write. Of course, these are filthy lies, but sometimes the seduction gets the better of you and you give in to such rumors. So you see, the warning was complete, but still I did not adequately prepare for today and have the incidences to prove it.

It all stared with the inappropriate anatomy hanging from the truck in front of us. That was a “Really?” moment, where I slammed on my breaks and yelled, “Really?!?” at him from my closed car, wondering if it was possible for someone to be so ridiculously immature and just straight up... gross! We proceeded to pass him and not make eye contact, because we all know THOSE kinds of guys are just waiting for some girl to make eye contact so that he can make a nasty face at them. Our first stop was at the UPS store, which I would have thought was pretty safe and innocent. And it was, for the first several minutes, but I was not to make it out there without an experience. My roommate and I get stuck on phrases, not something I am proud of, but it happens, and lately it has been, “Oh no...” whenever something doesn't suit us. I believe she had just called herself an idiot for not mailing her mom something along with her initial shipment, while at the same time an old, long haired, camo pants and dirty t-shirt wearing guy had just walked in. My response to her degradation of self was our usual, “Oh no...” and his was, “Oh yes...” Oh gosh... Really, greasy, long haired man? I, in terror for my life, chose to simply ignore the man and keep my back turned. I admit, there were several moments of severe discomfort as I wondered if he wouldn't just come over and grab a handful of my you-know-what (my butt, if you didn't get that). Not that I wouldn't just punch his nasty, greasy lights out, but its still pretty uncomfortable to be violated, plus I'd rather not touch his greasy lights, if it could be at all avoided. Needless to say, I hoped to avoid the experience... which I have, for now.

Next, our travels took us to Ross, at which location I found nothing that I needed and spent most of the time on the phone with an irate friend. I didn't understand why she was so mad, its not like a faculty member stole her first piece of student choreography... oh yeah, they did... As I wandered around the store blabbering and listening, I came into full view of an almost certifiable playboy bunny. She had the tramp stamp tatoo of the bunny, she had the earrings, she had the eyebrow ring, the intensely glittery cheeks, she had the cropped shirt, the bare midriff... lets just say this girl defined trashy. It made me sad and not jealous of her nice stomach at all. It was mostly shocking though... who told her it was a good idea to go out in public like that, to degrade herself so fully? Oh yeah, maybe her nasty boyfriend who looked as though he hadn't seen a bar of soap or stick of deodorant in years. I mean, I don't judge, but when I can see your body odor and hear your bad breath from 300 yards, it may be time to reevaluate your life. Just a thought...

Our final destination was Wal-Mart, a good, solid final destination, in Dallas, home of the beefs and morons. I just needed my oil changed and had no idea a trip so directed could so totally change my life. The roommate kept insisting they would be closed, but we proceeded to our destination anyway and found we had an hour before they closed down for the night. So, I hopped out of the car and told them what I wanted. It was easy enough, and then we proceeded inside. By the time we got done wandering around the store, my car was done and pulled out of the garage. We checked out without much incident, but still had to make it past the nasties who work in the garage. One was younger and mostly just friendly and jovial, farewelling us with a, “Have a good one!” The other, though, a broken down 40 something guy was not so friendly. Or I guess you could make the case that he was more friendly, in his way. He said nothing, choosing to leer instead. It was one of those moments where my modest clothes did nothing for me and I was visually raped anyway. It was irritating, because I know he looked at me and my roommate and made the same nasty comments about us that he would have about playboy girl. My lifelong efforts had no practical use tonight. After we jumped in the car, he was still looking after us with that nauseating grin on his face... Eww! I just threw up in my mouth, you gross old turd! That right there is a poor man, in that someday he is going to be in a wheel chair with a colostomy bag and no one to comfort him but his playboy magazines and lotion. Cruel? He practically got down on his knees and begged me to say it, so I'm not going to feel bad about it.

Unfortunately, our adventures were not done for the night. On our way out of Hickville, a guy in a truck gave us some intimidating, threatening looks, which actually freaked me out a little. I refused to look back at him, as my roommate danced in the passenger seat, and took off as soon as I could, turning while he went straight. On our route home, my oil pressure was not up where I like to see it, especially right after an oil change, and I began to doubt they had actually changed the oil. The awful thought occurred to me that they may have done something nasty to my car. I'm actually a little uncomfortable about it right now...

Finally, safe at home, I took a look at the receipt I had been given and found the words, “Oil Kid” accompanied by a phone number. After a double take, my roommate and I enjoyed a good long laugh and immediately started plotting. I can usually tell when a guy is digging me, not just when they want me to, but if they are super shy and awkward. This guy showed his interest by being like a board. Maybe he thought he was playing the 'cool card,' but whatever. Just as the gross garage guy begged me to call him an old horndog, this kid is asking to be messed with. I have a few ideas floating in my head for him... But we'll just see which way the cookie crumbles. I may decide not to waste the effort, even for my own enjoyment. Over all, it was a day filled with nasty guys and sadly my faith in the male breed has taken a rough blow. To be honest, I'm a little nervous to even venture out of the house after my recent experiences... Perhaps I'll stay here and hope nobody bothers me. Or maybe I'll venture out and give human beans of the male variety another chance, hoping that maybe one of them will reverse my generalizations and ideas.

Sex and Ignorance

Madonna wrote a book called Sex, because she was brilliant enough to realize that sex sells. She was arguably one of the earliest mainstream sex marketers. Good job, Madonna.

What she has helped accomplish for societal views is tragic, not just for the mainstream, but for young Christians as well. I had a chance conversation about sex with some friends and realized some truths and faced some irritating opinions that I was forced to grapple with.

I was raised to wait until marriage to have sex. Not meaning that I would get married and then sleep around, but that my sex life would be completely monogamous, in that only one man will ever be intimate with me in that way. Even so, I was encouraged to be excited for the occurrence of my marriage so that I could (finally!) have sex. I was raised with the healthy view that sex is fun, even inside marriage. While I am still excited to have passionate sex with my husband, my views are changing drastically.

It was an offhand comment that caused my brain wheels to start whirring. Someone mentioned how their abstinent roommate was "obsessed with sex." Despite just sounding unhealthy, to me this is setting oneself up for painful disaster. These words were followed by the explanation that said roommate planned to use jumbo tampons for a week to get herself ready for the wedding night. The ignorance in that statement irritated me. Who is neglecting to talk to this girl about sex so that she doesn't have such misconstrued ideas? Unfortunately for her and her comfort over the course of the honeymoon, the action of placing a tampon and the act of sex are two very, very different things. A friend of this roommate's, who cried the first time she and her new husband had intercourse because the pain was so intense, said that the tampons wouldn't help, that she would be in pain for days. On top of this, I have a friend who is soon-to-be-married who freely admits that her husband-to-be will be so overcome by the accessibility of her body to his, that he will go for it with a vengeance and hurt her.

This divulgence led me from irritation at young girl's ignorance to near anger at young men's Neanderthal, animalistic urges. It is the man's responsibility to take care of his new wife, not hurt her and leave her sore for the remainder of the honeymoon. This demands holding off his own urges to make sure that the experience is enjoyable for her as well. This probably means you won't be "doing it" the first night. If a girl has waited her whole life to give herself completely to one man, than she is not ready for the complete act the first time and needs to be treated gently. This possibly means, gentlemen, that you will have to hold off for several days and try something new, like putting someone else's comfort and satisfaction ahead of your own. Its not the end of the world. She will have lots of times over her lifetime where she won't even enjoy the act. Plus, you have your whole lives to get it right, so calm the hell down and be gentle. Enjoy the process. Sex is not the end product or the goal. It is not the finish line!

I have thought a lot on these events and attitudes over the last few days and forced to come to terms with why it bothers me so much, the reason being is that this thinking is the same that led Madonna's book to be a best seller, it is the same attitude that makes pornography popular and sex trafficking possible. It is a blatant, disgusting worship of sex. You head into marriage with that attitude, and you are going to be sorely disappointed.

The problem with this thinking is the misconception that sex is the be all and end all of married life, when really, it is only a part. It is a definite and important part, and of course we all have those desires, naturally, but there is so much more to it than that. Obviously, I don't know all that that entails, but I do know that sex only makes up a portion of what marriage is about, and thank God. If that was all there was too it, I would be in grave fear of getting bored. After all, there are only so many positions you can do it in. And devoid of a deep, meaningful, intimate, beautiful, God honoring relationship without any physicality first, sex is just an animal instinct, something that will get old and moldy.

I believe that sex is a gift that God has given us to enhance a married relationship (and to make babies of course), but it is not the only gift meant for enhancing such a relationship. I don't know what the others are, but I am excited to find out someday. As far as I am concerned, I would rather go my whole life in a committed relationship with a person who "completes me," who teaches me about myself and God, who loves everything about me, but not to the point of blinding him to my flaws and never having sex than having steamy, impassioned sex everyday of my life devoid of that.

The beautiful thing about marriage and sex working together is that it doesn't really matter if you "get it right;" it doesn't matter if you can't "perform," because not only is there always going to be another time, but it is centered around an existing relationship that demands you love and comfort each other no matter what, leading to greater intimacy. Obviously and honestly, I don't really know what sex does for a marriage. I've heard people call it the cement to a relationship, but that doesn't quite resonate. As I said before, I am simply excited to find out, but not staking my happiness on "great sex" inside my marriage. My marriage will be based on something much deeper and infinitely more satisfying than gratifying an inborn, human drive.

A Bout with Humility

Once again, I take up my pen, or maybe my keyboard, to divulge to you my humiliation. Just when I think I have everything pretty well under control, that my pride, my paranoia and my voluptuous ego are down to a manageable size, something happens that brings it down to an even more manageable size. It was an excursion to Bend that brought on my latest mishap, an innocent trip to Costco and Old Navy. Most people can go to and from Bend without a ridiculous mishap occurring. But no, not I. Mishap follows me wherever I happen to go. Tonight it came to me in the form of three guys, in a car. We were in a car as well, driving, as I have said before, to Bend on Highway 97, when my mom noticed a crazy black truck thingy in our rear view mirror. He was coming up fast and flashing his lights on and off at us. How irritating. My sisters' and my suggestion was to get up even with the next car in line and slow down so he couldn't get around us. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, my mom decided against this plan and got over instead, allowing him to quickly catch up to us, to our everlasting detriment. As they became even with us, I was immediately aware that the passenger was hanging out the window and looking and pointing at us. I snapped a command about not looking at them, keep your eyes straight ahead, at which point in time they started yelling something at us. By now, my mother and myself were growing truly worried. I snapped another comment about rolling her window up, which she did, and as they continued yelling, I again shouted not to look at them. I saw him make a shrugging gesture at the driver that said, "What the heck? They aren't listening." My fears were growing greater and greater that they were going to soon pull a gun out and open fire. But no. This was not their intention at all. It would have been far less uncomfortable if it had been. As they pulled further ahead of us, for the most part giving up, the passenger made a last ditch effort. I was aware of him pointing at the top of our car. It clicked. There was something wrong with the top of our car. As I told this to my mom, and told her to pull over, I heard our friends in the crazy black truck thingy's final words, "The top is open." And they zoomed away. I climbed out of the car on the side of the road, and sure enough, to my acute embarrassment, our car top carrier was flapping in the wind. What must they be thinking? Here we thought they were molesting, axe murderers, and they were just trying to get it through to us that our storage unit was ajar. I quickly snapped it shut, and returned to the car, exclaiming how embarrassed I was. My mom was bright red. We could really talk of nothing else all the way around Bend and then back home. Just when I think nothing can humiliate me, something like this happens.

Christianity is a Four Letter Word 2nd Edition

People look at me and question my devotion to Christ because I am revolutionary, because I swear, and I get mad at God. Sometimes I swear at God. But wasn't Christ a revolutionist while on this earth? Didn't he plead with God, and cry to God, and more than likely, get angry with God? And yes, Jesus did get angry. You might recall a little incident where he got a bull whip out and laid into some money making fiends. He also chaffed at earthly authority, especially that of the church. Actually, come to think of it, he disliked church authority more than he disliked government authority. Didn't he tell us to render unto Caeser what is Caesar's, Caeser here being government (because Caeser was government, back in the day)? At the same time he was making fools out of the pharisees. Let's just get something straight here, the pharisees were the head honchos in the church. They weren't like Muslims or anything. They were pretty much the equivalent of our pastors. This is not a pastor bashing blog nor have I set out to offend anyone. The point I am trying to make is that following Christ does not just have one appearance. Jesus' apostles came from every walk of life. A fisherman and a tax collector... didn't see those working out. Not only did they come from every different background, they came from every different belief system. Paul was an atheist. John was a Jew. On top of this, every single one of the people who followed Christ in the bible, followed him in a different way. Thomas needed solid evidential proof that the man he was looking at was living, while John was close to him in a brotherly fashion. And why did they follow him?

We will never know for sure, but I like to think it was because Jesus' claims were revolutionary. I have spent so many years trying to disregard the part of me that feels so rebellious. Now I realize, that that part of me is the reason I believe in Christ in the first place. "I believe in Christ's teaching because it is the most revolutionary thing I've ever encountered." (Paraphrase from Donald Miller, Blue Like Jazz). I recently watched a movie called Road to Terabithia. It is the saddest movie I have ever seen, I do not recommend it. But there was a line in there that stuck out to me and has stuck with me. A young hippie girl said to the children of staunch church goers, "You have to believe in that stuff, and you hate it. I don't have to, and I think it's beautiful." That is so freeing to me! I don't have to believe the way I do! And to realize that is to have the exact reaction that she expresses. I think it's so beautiful. It is more than beautiful, and there simply aren't words for me to express what it looks like to me. But it's something along those general lines.

The older I get, the more I realize I just don't buy a lot of the things I used to. Like when I am faced with horrible chemically induced depression, to treat it as though I simply don't have enough faith. I wonder why I had depression in the first place! (I want to note that these are not things I got from my parents, because that is the immediate assumption. My parents are the most amazing, gracious people I know.) Or when I am faced with basic emotional suffering to simply say, "Lay it as the feet of Jesus!" I may be guilty of offending a lot of people, but bull shit. It's not going to change the way things are. More importantly, these are probably not things that God wants to have changed. I believe that we are faced with trials to make us stronger people. It is not God's job to wrap us up in a fluffy blanket and if you feel uncomfortable sometimes, it's probably what needs to happen. I don't want to be harsh about suffering, because I've been there and I know it is horrendous. I may again be guilty of making a lot of people think I'm going to hell, but I think that Buddhism has that aspect of humanity pegged. Suffering is put in our way to make us stronger and we should accept it and learn to live with it, in a practical life lesson type way, not meeting it with despair, and by no means cutting God off from the process, but with maturity and knowing that we suffer for a reason.

I know I have strayed away from my point a little. All I'm trying to convey is that as a Christ follower, I want to be guilty of being the most accepting and gracious person around. I want to be able to listen to and discuss so many ideas, from any belief system, from any political view point. I want to be on the revolutionary front lines of abolishing labels of any kind. I don't call myself a Christian because it has become a label. I am a non-religious Christ follower. More than anything, I want to see each individual as worth knowing and going out of my way for, simply because they are human.

(Sorry this is so long, please bear with me:)

Over the last few months, ever since I took the big life step of moving out of my parents house, I have had to come face to face with some ugly life realities. It has shaken me in a sense, but only to chip away at my pride a little bit more. It has given me a clearer glimpse of what it means to truly follow Christ. It has given me practical application, rather than a list of principles, which is lovely, but doesn't amount to jack unless it is put to good use in your life. As I sit here thinking about these experiences, I am suddenly faced with Christ in my own life. My first shelter away from home was an apartment out in the woods, 10 minutes out of town and rather secluded, living alone for the first time in my life. It was miserable. But immediately, I had a very dear friend reach out to me and touch me with Christ's love. I don't even think she realized how she touched me (perhaps I should tell her), but she effected my life in such a powerful way, simply by letting Christ use her to get me through a very difficult transition.

There were two options that were immediately available to me after moving out of my home of 19 years. The first was to stay comfortable in associating with mostly Christians and not ever encounter the really ugly things in life, staying very close with a set group of people. Or... I could “man up” in a sense to life and its messiness, branching out and being non-exclusive in my friendships. Because of past experiences, which is another story for another time, I chose the later, making friends with random people, regardless of their personal habits and preferences. I don't really have words to express the experience it has been for me. I have met some of the most incredible people, who bless me and teach me about myself in a profound way. But I also have to sit by and watch people destroy their lives, without being able to say anything, except to beg them to call me for a ride when they get wasted rather than driving home themselves. It is hard to love someone who doesn't love you back, who doesn't want to be loved. But I'm pretty sure that's what Jesus did, and therefore we are called to do the same.

My parents had a surprising reaction to me driving my friends home from the bar at 2am. I thought they would be indifferent and assume, as I did, that that is just what friends do. But they told me repeatedly that they were so proud of me, that they loved the person I was becoming. This led to an interesting discussion about what it means to be Christ like. The most beautiful moments that I see in Christ's life are the moments in which he gets down on his knees to wash a sinner's feet, for no reason other than to bless another individual's life. We don't have much opportunity to do this sort of thing, because we wear shoes these days, but the principle is evident. Being like Christ means being a servant, it means being willing to sacrifice something of ourselves, even if it is just our pride, to be a help to another person, another beautiful creation of God's. I don't want you to think I am tooting my own horn, because I want to be very wary of pride. But being Christ like is doing something ridiculous, like getting up at 2am when you'd rather be sleeping, for the benefit of another person.

I never in a million years would have expected life to bring me where I am. I bought a pregnancy test for a friend the other day and sat by as she took it, ready to hold her and cry with her if necessary. And I truly believe that it is in these little things that Christ is using me to touch another person. It really makes it a whole lot simpler if looked at in that light. Just be a good friend, and Christ will reach through you to effect another person's life. Pretty cool, if you ask me.

Here is the conclusion that I am forced to, through other's and my own experiences: beliefs, unfortunately, are not that important. You can believe something with all your heart and mind powers, but until it starts to dictate the way you live and the decisions you make, it isn't worth shit. Principles are beautiful, but are really pretty useless unless they are rock solid in your own life. This is what following Christ means to me: allowing His actions while he walked on this earth dictate the way you live your life, specifically the way you treat others, even in the petty interactions of the day to day. It is in the small things that we see Christ, in the clothing of the naked, in the feeding of the poor, in the purchase of a pregnancy test, in a simple, kind word when the rest of your day is terrible, dirty, rotten, and no good. This is what sets us apart, to be able to face the nitty gritty, without compromising our principles as they apply to our own lives, and give up ourselves for the sake of someone else... Just as Christ did for us.

Master of Scrapes

I used to like my brown corduroy pants. They had style and attitude. I only wore them when I wanted that extra edge. In one way, they were in some sense my comfort pants, making me feels warm and fuzzy in my knowledge that they were attractive, or more accurately, I was attractive in them. I especially liked this particular pair of pants because I acquired them without paying a cent. And no, I didn't steal them. They were in fact given to me by a kind and compassionate friend. However, after these pants have failed me in the most basic way, I not only do not like them as I used to, I will forever be wary of free clothing.

I put my brown corduroy pants on this evening because I felt I should dress up a bit more than the usual jeans outfit. I was feeling pretty good about my looks and apparel and left the house happy and unawares. The first part of the show went smoothly -- smoothly, meaning that nothing went drastically wrong, although most of the performers did seem a bit off. I should have taken warning and run away as quickly as I could. But, alas, I am forever learning things the 'hard way,' as I believe some refer to my way of learning.

Anyway, I made my bathroom break earlier than intermission, or half time as I repeatedly called it because I spend too much time around exercise science nerds, so as to miss the crowds that I knew would soon clog up the restrooms. When that time of performance break did come, I stood to move out, but then opted to stay in my seat instead of mingle with a crowd of which I only knew a few people. To my detriment. I made a swinging movement to sit down, caught the edge of the arm rest, felt some pretty intense resistance, and heard a terrible sound.

(There is really no point to you reading the rest of this story. No doubt you have guessed what happened, and there is no need for you to read of my humiliation).

Being an optimist, I greatly hoped that I had just popped open my snap pockets. I made a very discreet motion to check the situation out, in other word, grab my own butt to see what the trouble seemed to be. If you are an optimist, than you know what a let down I experienced upon my findings, and if you are a pessimist, then you already know what happened. I didn't pop the pocket open. I did in fact rip a good sized hole (good sized, meaning large enough to pull a car through) in the seat of my pants. Now, if I had been wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, there would not have been a very great problem. I would have simply tied my sweatshirt around my waist and went on my way. But I was wearing a button up shirt and, as I have said, my brown cords. And a winter coat. I find it humorous the way in which you get all cute to go somewhere and then put a big ugly winter coat over the whole outfit so as not to freeze, and so the outfit is almost invisible. There is another problem with this situation, beside the invisible outfit dilemma, and that is that winter coats do not tie around waists very well. They tend to, in addition to looking utterly ridiculous, sneak out of the knot you try to put them into and trickle their way off your waist and onto the floor where it does you absolutely no favors whatsoever.

As I sat, trying to evaluate the damage and determine whether I might just pretend it didn't happen successfully or not, I saw a girl who was in a dance with my sister. I called her over to ask about my sister's whereabouts. She told me that she was outside, and most obligingly asked if she should go get her. I said no, it was fine and after a moment of dead air, blurted out the state of my pants. She immediately started laughing, as I'm sure you are right now. I decided that I needed my sister's sweatshirt, and so girded up my loins, or rather tied the slippery coat around my waist and went in search of my sister. I must have been a rich sight. But I'll leave that to your imaginings. After taking an unnecessary trip outside, I found her inside and told her the state of events. Surprisingly, she was unsurprised. I suppose she has known me long enough to know that I am a Master of Scrapes. I successfully got her sweatshirt around my waist and over the gaping hole and could have gone on my merry way. However, being who I am, I like a few people to share in my troubles, or at least be able to laugh at them. So I told the friend who had accompanied me to the event. She responded with a hysterical, breathless, crying laugh. At least I can entertain. And of course, this lead to questions from other friends whom we were standing with. And then another dance girl came over to laugh at me, because dancer #1 had told her what I'd done. And after all that, it would be no great surprise to me to find out that everyone there heard one way or another that some girl had ripped her brown corduroy pants. If they didn't know from hearing, they knew from the green hearted sweatshirt I wore around my waist as an accessory to my brown corduroy pants.

Nap Time Adventure

A nap is possibly the greatest adventure a young (or old) person can take in any one day. So much can take place over the course of one nap. Let us start with the first of these: you may fall asleep. This may not sound as though it is all that big of an adventure, but looked at from the right perspective, there are numerous possibilities for excitement and stimulation, of the sleepy variety. First of all, you will probably assume a position of rest, whatever that may mean to you. Many lay down, but there are some who prefer sitting, child's pose, fetal position; it is really up to you to decide where you will find the most rest and adventure. And so, you lay your head down, adjusting the pillow, sweatshirt, blanket, cardboard box, or whatever you may be using to cushion your head and fall to sleep, and so the adventure begins (for real, because you might try to consider the finding of a pillow and comfortable position to be a part of the adventure, but they are not). I find myself in an in between place, in between sleep and awake, in a dream land where things become quite surreal and I'm not sure what is reality and what is dream. This makes for great excitement as I can hear everything that goes on, but nobody knows I can hear everything that goes on and I'm not even sure I really can hear what goes on. In this phase, there is the added adventure of being awoken and then falling back to sleep... 12 different times. Perhaps not a pleasant part of the adventure, but just think it is as getting snowed in on a camping trip.

The next big adventure that can take place is that the sun may very well set, as the sun has a habit of doing. This is very likely to happen during the winter months, when the sun sets so early. I caution you to be very wary of this for it can be unnerving, even terrifying. Let me see if I can make you understand. You go to bed innocently while the sun is yet up. Perhaps it is an impromptu nap, or perhaps it is part of your regularly scheduled day. Regardless, it could happen to you. After all the afore mentioned steps of preparation, you are now asleep, enjoying or being disturbed by some dream or other (apparently you always dream, you just don't always remember). When you awaken to find that the day has grown dark, there are a plethora of common reactions. Perhaps, you think, I slept into the night and should just go back to sleep. Or perhaps it is actually only 5:30p and you must instantly jump up off the couch, chair, floor, counter to rush to get ready for your 5:45p class. Then your thoughts may grow more intense. Perhaps the sun burned out, or you have been blinded. This is usually when the feelings of panic start to initiate irrational actions, like taking a shower at 2am, thinking it is 2p, because you must get ready for class at 5p. Other actions may include tearing your clothes off and running outside to offer up the sacrifice of a moonlit naked dance to make the sun come back on. Of course, I have never done anything so irrational, but there are people likely to react in just such a fashion.

Finally, there is the dream portion of the adventure you are thrown into during this daytime rest. I don't know about you, but the dreams I have during the day are ultimately more random and perturbing than those that occur at night. There is an odd quality to these, usually, in my case, something motivated by haunted dance halls and creepy dance professors. Also, they are quite often influenced and motivated by the pain in my body, brought on by 5 hours of dance and laying in awkward positions on the couch. This is not a part of the adventure I can describe to you, but one you must experience on your own, and so it is at this point that I will set you free to experiment with your own dreamland.

And so you see, there is no end to the excitement that can take place during a day time nap, and I wish that I had realized it a younger age. But because I have realized it at this point in my life, and realized it rather acutely over the last few years, I intend to take advantage of this easily accessible adventure as often as possible.

Closet Contemplations (Of The Dancer Variety)

The nifty thing about this blog is that it is actually coming to you from my closet, where I have spent a good part of my day, thinking. The first thought that really strikes me while sitting in my closet, and strikes me in the form of my walking boot falling on me, is that I should probably attempt to ebay the said walking boot because its worth is close to 400 dollars. I wore it for 3 weeks and it miraculously healed my tendonitis, leaving my insurance 400 dollars poorer and my right leg 4 shades whiter than the left. I am thankful for the full use of my leg, as I have been using it daily since the incident, but now feel rather compelled to take actions towards recovering those funds. I shall see what I can do.

The next thought that strikes me (just so you are forewarned, this is, as the title implies, a contemplation, meaning there is no rhyme or reason to the direction my thoughts take me, but rather the direction my closet takes me, as it has full hold of the till at this current juncture in time), with impressive force, in fact, is weight loss. I come to find that this particularly sensitive subject is much on peoples minds. Small wonder if a good long look is taken at the overweight rates in our country. I could go on and off about why this is and what is to be done, but I'm not going to. I'm sure you probably have your own opinions about it and don't need mine to add to or change the pile. My thoughts are actually about my own weight and loss thereof. I actually took pounds off over Christmas break, probably the most ironic time to do so, but the time I like to do it best, very probably because it is so ironic to come back from the feasting season 2 pant sizes smaller. I made the choice mostly because I'm tired of not being able to get my fat ass off the ground in dance class. I thought that losing weight would solve all my problems. In reflection, it has solved a great many. Ballet is going swimmingly, which is saying much, because I have been incompatible with ballet since I was 12. Its just easier the skinnier you are, probably the reason so many ballerinas are skeletons. Its just easier to do impossibilities with your body when there isn't any body to fight with. More power to the girls who forge ahead in ballet carrying those 'extra pounds.' This said, modern is another story. While ballet is done entirely upright, on your own two legs, a great deal of modern is spent on the floor. A greater deal of modern is spent getting up from the floor and back down again. What I'm trying to say is that there is impact involved. We do learn, just like skateboarders, snowboarders, martial artists, and anyone else who makes a profession out of falling, to allow our bodies to be taken by the fall and be in contact with the floor. However, this does not negate the fact that we are in fact... falling. Having lost weight, the bitter truth is that I no longer have the padding I once did to protect my joints and bony parts. I am, to put it lightly, one big bruise. I bruise pretty easily as it is, and having taken away the comfortable pads, the natural barriers... I am beaten by the floor. The count runs, floor 1, Jessie 0. I am ashamed to admit this, but thats the way it has to be.

The even more pathetic part of these events is the fact that in some sick masochistic way... I enjoy it. I show my bruises off with pride and count them in the shower. None of my muscles are working properly, and yet I continue to beat them into submission with unrelenting brutality. I enjoy rehearsal when everything hurts, but I can continue to move. The problem comes when everything hurts... and refuses to move. This is what happened to me yesterday. I knew the arm movement... my arms just wouldn't do it. To return to the pain topic, perhaps I enjoy it so much because I am exploring unchartered territory. And I'm not talking about the movement, even though it is just that. I'm talking about muscle groups. Over the course of this week, I not only witnessed once again how truly ugly gossip is, I found whole groups of muscles that I never knew existed. I am achieving physicality and doing moves in rehearsal that I never would have thought possible, and discovering things about myself, like when you do 300 handstands in one week you are all of a sudden unable to move your arms... at all.

At this point in time my closet contemplations lead me to a rather touchy subject, touchier, in fact, that weight loss, if that is possible. I hesitate to bear all to you, even though you know much already. But my hesitation must be put aside for your benefit, to open your eyes and make you ponder. Laundry is probably the most frustrating thing I deal with. Laundry for just anybody, meaning me, say, in the summer, when I am not dancing 5 hours a day, is not such a big deal. You wear a pair of jeans a few times and then wash them. Shirts probably only get worn once, because of the whole armpit issue. But when I am dancing all day and soaking through layer upon layer of clothing, I am required to change my clothes as many as 4 times a day. This poses a little issue to the whole clean clothes thing... I simply do not have the storage to hold all the clothes I would need to change my clothes 4 times a day and do laundry once a week, which is the most convenient time frame. And so, I am left to feel like I am either doing laundry all the time or have no clothes to wear.

Finally, I would like to discuss peanuts with you. You perhaps knew already that peanuts are the lowest fat nut... and yet they have a higher concentration of fat than potato chips. Okay, that may be a little bit of an exaggeration... I don't in fact know that for a factual fact, but I'm sure its pretty close to accurate. I love peanuts, especially the raw red Spanish ones that taste like the dirt outside. But the fat content does bother me a little. This is not because I'm paranoid about fat intake (well, maybe just a little...), because the rest of my diet consists of fruits and veggies. This is more simply because I think that something so healthy should be healthier. I have this rare disease called Eating Paranoia, I'm sure in part due to the fact that I'm a dancer. I often resort to eating a spoonful of peanut butter for a meal and sadly, I feel a little guilty when I go in for seconds. Ridiculous, I know, but its life as a dancer.

I know I said peanuts were my final contemplation, and yet I am forced to continue onward with my thoughts on new age music. Its weird... and yet so calming. I have recently discovered the calming, focusing power of new age music. Of course, reggae has this same quality and perhaps people wouldn't think I was so weird if I resorted to that instead...

So there you have it. These are the disturbing thoughts that I have while sitting in my closet, contemplating.

Food Expenses

Protein is expensive. Even the cheapest protein, the egg, is expensive in comparison to the amount of carbohydrates you can get for the same price. Anything carb is available for practically nothing! I smiled at a grocery store clerk the other day, and he handed me a carb. I can buy numerous fruits and veggies for a very small price, but as soon as I start buying anything related to protein, my wallet is suddenly found empty. Goat cheese and milk, tofu, peanut butter, almond butter, soy milk, all rather expensive items. It is an odd thing to realize, but nonetheless true. Something must be done. I believe a revolt is in order... Now, just let me think of how.

Girl Power

Despite my being a girl, which many of my friends question anyway, I have a very hard time spending time around large groups of females. Somehow I can't get into the over abundance of physical affection and spattered compliments of how beautiful everyone looks. Its not that I can't engage in these activities, I'm actually rather good at it, its that I hate the person I am when doing so. Girls pose certain behavioral temptations to me that spending time with guys simply doesn't. I'm not talking about anything weird, I only mean that I turn into a back biting, friend stabbing bitch when I allow myself to be an active part of a group of girls like that. Although I have always done so, it has only been recently that I have recognized the problem and decided to make a change. And it has not been easy. In trying to eliminate harmful gossip from my life, I have simply turned to a different avenue... and once again find myself in a position where people think I am willing to be that person when I'm not. I want to be better than I have been, and not be someone who destroys others with my words.
On another note, I just can't get into the girl affection. To me, girlfriend physicality is somewhat limited. Its not that I am uncomfortable touching girls, cause I'm not. Within a dance context, I can roll all over the floor with a girl and not find anything weird or uncomfortable about it. Even in a chill, hanging out context, its not that I'm squeamish about such things, its just that, to me, that sort of thing, meaning cuddling, holding hands, telling each other how beautiful you are, is reserved for a dating relationship. I have been in "friendships" with girls that felt more like we were dating. And they suffocated me. I think this is just because I have a very low tolerance for estrogen. I have enough or my own, and chose not to act on it very severely, and so I don't give others much room to do so. And don't want to have to deal with girls who do act on their girly hormonies.
Perhaps it is not even the physicality and words, but the attitude behind it. I tell my roommates they are beautiful and notice when they look especially nice, as do they to me. But it doesn't feel weird like it does when there are 50 girls in a room together all telling each other how hot they are. Perhaps it has more to do with the fact that I get snarky, bitchy vibes than it has to do with the words themselves. The problem is that anyone of those girls is great if I'm hanging out with them one on one or with a couple other people. But you get half of a hundred girls together in a room, and I start to feel like I can't breath and need to run screaming for the door.
As hard as it is for me, I believe the things I am learning and the person I am becoming is totally worth the struggle I have. First of all, I get to dance, and that is the number one thing. Secondly, it is chipping away at certain ugliness in my character, something I am thankful for as much as it sucks. I believe through screwing up every time and trying to make a change that I am becoming stronger and more of the person that I want to be. And I suppose, in the long run, that the pain and discomfort is worth all of that.

Magnetics

People are drawn to me. I don't mean this egotistically at all, but actually mean it literally to where people just know my bubble isn't that big. For the most part it doesn't bother me. People can stand close to me when they talk to me, or give me a hug whenever they say hello and goodbye. The one place I cannot stand it is in a line. I inevitably end up in front of that person who thinks its okay to press awkwardly into my back. Well I have news for these people... IT'S NOT OKAY! It's not that I am uncomfortable being in close proximity to people. I find it incredibly humorous and tragic how people scamper out of your way in grocery aisles or book stores. The thing that irks me is the attitude behind this little act. It's so blatantly pushy and impatient and rude and immature. I get that these people are in a hurry, but more than likely I am too and you don't see me spooning with the person in front of me in line.
These rantings are brought on by a little incident that occurred in the University Bookstore today. I knew exactly what books I needed, so took a short trip to the back and immediately jumped into line. It wasn't a minute before Spooner Lady jumped in behind me. I was instantly aware of the problem. She was in such close proximity that I could feel her breath and the fine little hairs on the back of my neck. Of course, everything within me revolted against the rude way she was trying to get me to spoon with the guy in front of me and made me want to hang back conspicuously, widening the gap so that Spooner Lady would see that I can be just as pushy and rude. On a side note, I'm not really sure what that accomplishes, but apparently in my mind at the time, something... Things were going along as well as can be expected, standing with some lady breathing down my neck and some guy 3 feet in front of me, when I felt a subtle hand brush... across my butt. My first reaction was one of jumping away, smacking her with my books, and shouting, "Woah, woah, woah, nobody touches my butt!" Before I responded with this reaction, however, the thoughts in my head ran thus; "Wow, I wonder if she did that on purpose. That's awkward... this is a really odd place to put the moves on me, but if thats what floats her boat. Actually, I don't really care if she feels up my butt. It'll just make her feel awkward if it doesn't make me uncomfortable at all, which is really doesn't. Of course, she probably just moved her hand and accidentally touched my booty. Well, what does she think is going to happen if you try and spoon with someone? She got what she deserves."
With these thoughts in mind, I did not react with a pullback, but rather shifted the weight in my hip slightly, moving myself closer to her. Spooner lady, on the other hand, made a very obvious motion of pulling away, hopefully embarrassed by her faux pas. She gave me a little more space after she felt up my butt. I, on the other hand, took great pleasure in continuing to hang back from the guy in front of me, and lean on her a little.
I actually learned a valuable lesson from the experience (at least, I hope it's valuable, namely, I hope I will use the information I acquired). I learned that sometimes our initial reactions are not the actions that will get the reactions that we can act upon. At least, that is what my reaction tells me.

Thoughts On Movies and Wasting Time

I'm an expert time waster. It is one skill I think I can safely say I have down pat. And that isn't pride talking, its just the truth of the matter. If you give me a task, I am more than likely going to put it off and waste time instead. I'm not really sure where this skill came from or when my development of it became complete, but regardless, it is a favorite pastime. Just like now... I have a stack of applications that need to be filled out that I have been chipping away at a very slow pace, but instead I decided to write about how well I waste time... and movies.
I don't watch many movies, simply because I have better things to do, like waste time. I feel like this makes me enjoy the occasional movie more, but also makes me super picky. I like an odd assortment of random individualized movies that have not the most remote things to do with each other. Currently in my collection are Die Hard, my first Christmas movie, Garden State, a modern classic, Shall We Dance?, dumb but entertaining, and While You Were Sleeping, cause Sandra Bullock is just cute. See, random... But I like variety in my movies. I think that what frustrates others, and myself, is that there is no rhyme or reason to my like or dislike of a movie. For some unknown reason, I love Dodgeball, but I hate Anchorman, Wedding Crashers, and Zoolander. I can't explain it to you, its just how it is. My two top hits in movie genres are probably musicals and man movies. The person who finally sees the light and makes a man musical, will be my hero forever. But it probably won't happen in my lifetime. I feel the two genres are still fundamentally separated. Call it what you will, that's the way it is. Anyhow, I would love to continue the stream of random thoughts and reflections, but I really have some time to waste and perhaps a movie to watch. Until next time...

Bicycle Drama

I love my bike. I really, honestly do. It is a pristine instrument of speed and destruction that rattles when the wheels turn and squeals when I break. We have grown very close over the past several months. Where I live, in a small college town where all the way across town is a mere 10 minute walk away, it is pointless to drive, for the most part. I spent the greater part of the summer commuting on my bike, often at 2 or 3 o'clock in the morning. Recently, it has been sitting outside in the snow and yesterday, namely the first day of classes, we were reunited and it felt so good... It has a few more shakes and pains since I last rode it, which makes sense considering its been roughing in out in the cold. But it still stops when I tell it and goes when I bid, the only thing I can really ask of the quality piece of Target equipment, I suppose.
As I said, yesterday was the first time I had ridden it in some time. I rode it to school, and gained a compliment from my modern instructor cause I wasn't driving my butt to dance class. Of course, being in a heightened state of over mind stimulation I had some very smart response ready. That being, "There's no point walking, this town is so small." I meant driving, of course, but that was not the word that came out. Oh well, so now she thinks I'm an idiot, at least I do well in her class.
The afternoon was spent delightfully running errands with a friend and previewing the toys in Dollar Tree to see if they were up to par, time spent neglecting my poor bike... who got back at me for it. My last activity for the day was an exercise class at the gym. It was dark when I set out on my bike, so I threw on both the lights (rear red blinking light and front solid white light, the proper way of night bike riding), went to my class, took the class and came home.
Fast forward to today...
I popped out of bed this morning after the tremendous amount of sleep I got last night and proceeded to get ready for ballet class, not my favorite, but better today than I had expected. I was actually getting my ish together quicker than I had thought I would and was ready to leave for class 10 minutes early. I said a farewell to my roomie and jumped outside to get on my trusty bike... The trusty bike that was not in its place... Or anywhere else to be seen or heard...
I stood for a moment, shell shocked. Where was my bike? It was right there last time I looked... So, before the door was even fully closed behind me, I returned inside and announced that I would not be riding my bike to school because my "trusty" bike was in fact gone. My roomie, who always has a joke ready, and is a joke most of the time, laughed, because she thought I was joking. After an uncomfortable pause of about 5 seconds, she asked if I were serious. Yep, I was serious... someone must have jacked my bike... As shocked as I, my roomie proceeded with the phrase we mostly use when we are shocked, "Whaaaaattttt?!?!"
"Yep," I replied. "Chris had his bike stolen too, a couple weeks ago." That, to me, was just and reasonable cause to assume the bike had in fact been stolen.
Now, I don't know your life by any means and so I have no way of knowing if you have ever lost anything. However, judging that in reading this you are probably human, I'm going to go out on a limb and say you have probably also lost something in your life. If not, this does not apply to you. I know I have. Usually its nothing big, just something that makes life a whole lot more convenient, like my phone. I lost my phone for 24 hours once. And I found it exactly where it should have been, on my car seat because I drive with it tucked in between my knees. That is usually how the story goes. I lose something, I'm calm for a short period of time, I begin to flip out, and then find it somewhere stupid. Water bottles... I always lose water bottles. I don't think I've owned one for more than a couple weeks at a time.
So, once I had concluded with absolute certainty that my buddy, the bike, had been stolen, and had actually resigned myself to walking to school from now on, I remembered that I had been in possession of it recently and where I had last seen it...
In a stunning feat of physical defiance, specifically the defiance of physics, not standing with my arms crossed when my roomie asks me to do the dishes, I had ridden my bike to the gym last night and WALKED home. Imagine that, if you can. It is indeed a stunning feat... one I cannot say I'm proud of, despite how cool it may sound. Fortunately for me, I remembered that I had accomplished this feat, though. My first thought was, Crap, I wonder what they did with it? After I realized they had probably just left it where it was, assuming that the dummy who left it would be back for it, my second realization was that the general manager would be there and see me in my confused state on non-bikeness. I was about to determine to go get it later this evening, but then realized I had better get it now before they wonder who the crap's bike it is and sell it for profit.
So, I skulked down the street to the gym and sneaked in very quietly to grab the item. As I kicked up the kickstand, which I believe is the appropriate use of a kickstand, the rust began to show... or rather be heard, as it squealed with impressive force, temporarily knocking out the hearing in my right ear. This was not what concerned me, but rather I was still trying to avoid being seen as a fool, and had just made a rather irregular, oddly loud noise. So, without looking up, and hoping they weren't looking at me, I hobbled sheepishly out the door, jumped on my bike as fast as I possibly could without bodily injury, and rode away at top, mission impossible speed.
Needless to say, sometimes I scare myself ...

Um, Not Funny!

I realize of course that it is harping on the same old juze (if you don't know what one of those is, you're a loser) to even bring this up, but who was the idiot who coined the phrase 'funny bone' in reference to ones ulnar nerve? Incidentally, if he did indeed 'coin' it, specifically, if he is indeed making money off the sadistic comparison, I would personally like to traumatize the rest of his life by way of his ulnar nerve. Of course you laugh when you hit it, because of the name. It's so ridiculous to say you hit your funny bone, while you are really one emotional measurement away from crying. (On a side note, what would that be called? There are decibels, light years, kilometers, and such. What is the measurement of emotion called?)
I had one very such experience t'other day. I was almost done with work for the night. All I had left to do was drop bank, which is always something I look forward to. The people that work at the hotel are very entertaining individuals and I always enjoy my time spent dropping bank. It is my habit to always bring my purse in with me and lock my doors. Call it what you will, it's paranoia, but a justifiable paranoia. I had reached into my car to do just that and then brought my arm over and around my door to close it. While doing this, I hit my ulnar nerve squarely on the corner of my open door. Now if you are familiar with the way a funny bone pain makes progress, which I believe most people are, you know that it doesn't hurt that bad at first. It's kind of like, 'Ow, I could have done without that', and then you begin to go about your business. Which is what I did. Until it started to hurt worse. I shook my arm and bent down in the middle of the parking lot, trying to talk myself out of passing out, which is not a very cool thing to do, partly because it's so unpleasant, and partly because it's not so tough. All I knew was that I needed to get inside, because I could not just lay down and wait for the dizziness to pass in the middle of the parking lot. Again, not cool, and not safe. So i stood shakily up, and began to stumble into the hotel. There are of course several kinds of stumble. There's a stumble when you get drunk, which is definitely not cool, there's a stumble when you first wake up and stumble into the bathroom to relieve your bladder. Then there is a stumble that happens when you've been hit with excessive force on your head... or when you've hit your 'funny bone'. That is the stumble that barely got me into the hotel, past the guest at the front counter, and through the coded door that leads to the staff area. I was awaited by one of the hotel employees, who we shall call Adrian, who promptly asked me if I was okay. "Okay?! Okay!? Do I look okay?" I shouted back...
Actually, I moaned a negative response and thereby collapsed to the floor, my belongings scattering unheeded across the floor. Oh, the sweat was so cold, and the stars were so bright that they blinded me. But somehow, I remained more conscious than not, and moaned my way back into existence. Somewhere in this while, Adrian found it in his big kind heart to ask what I'd done. My response was a mumbled explanation that I had hit my funny bone. At which time he started laughing. What are friends and co-workers for but to laugh at you when you hit a nerve? I was aware of a muffled apology, and a 'I'm not laughing' from the said co-worker. I responded that I didn't care if he laughed, as long as he let me lay there. Within a few moments, I was able to roll to a sitting position and laugh with Adrian and Kevin, the other guy working who had seen my entry from the front desk. I'm just glad that I can bring a little excitement into their boring hotel job. And now I can proudly boast that I hit my funny bone so hard that it almost knocked me out. Now, THAT'S cool...

I'm Not Mature Enough to Grow Up

It has been a long time since I have written simply for the sake of writing. It is something I used to do often, almost everyday. But somewhere over the last several months it just fell off the radar. It shouldn't have happened, as now I find myself in great need of that outlet. Overwhelmed with thoughts and observations, I pick up my keyboard pen once again to disclaim things about my life and perspective that you would never get out of me in normal conversation. Call it a fourth wall or whatever, I am able to communicate quite effectively through words on paper, a gift I have long been aware of, but have neglected of late. My thoughts turn to this last term and the crazy things that went on. My lack of writing has definitely not been for lack of material but simply a lack of time and inclination. Because of this, I now find my thoughts so backed up that I don't know where to start. The term is what you could easily term miserable. I was far too busy and far too starved for normal human interactions and so completely lost focus of the things I truly believe to be important. The first of these being dance, I was unable to focus in rehearsal for the greater part of the term. It was a chore to even be there, since my heart wasn't in it. I don't know if that is quite accurate, actually... Nowhere along the line have I lost my love and desire for dance. But my relationship with it has been changing drastically, and that is hard to take when it has been very consistent for my entire life. It hasn't even been a bad change, rather it has been very positive and maturing. It is just one of those things that is hard despite how much I desire it. I finally did get into it at the end of the term, when a performance required it of me, but then my other classes suffered. I think the biggest thing for me this term was that I was completely overloaded. I always thought I was one of those people who could overload and still be happy and get stuff done. Well I discovered an important truth about myself this term.... I'm not. I dreaded everything I had to get done, including getting up in the morning and eating. Every task that required something of me was just another thing pulling on me and making me tired. And so I just didn't get stuff done... which is definitely not like me. Of course, because it was such an awful, dramatic experience, I know I have grown from it. In fact I've had several 'growing up' experiences in the last couple days that have terrified and unnerved me. I came to the realization that I am now fully an adult. I will always have that 'inner child,' if you will, but as far as my core, and especially my appearance, there is nothing about me that is kid-like anymore. Its kind of sad, to come to that realization that your childhood is gone. But at the same time, I'm ready for it to be so. More than anything, it is just odd. Like all kids, I never appreciated my childhood while it lasted, which was not long, and now that it is gone, I'm not sure how to adjust. I was looking at some pictures from a few months ago and had to stop and scream... literally, scream, actually, because that is what we do in my house (just because I'm fully an adult doesn't mean I'm fully mature:) because the person who I thought was me isn't me anymore. I have changed so much since I moved out of my house and started fending for myself, that I feel as though I'm not even the same person. That person is part of who I am now, but there is so little of that girl in me anymore, that I just had to scream. I wonder if I met the person that I was a year ago if we would be friends...? Huh... The third realization, and by far the most terrifying and unnerving, enough to make me throw up my hands and scream I surrender to the big scary life monster, was that there is nothing within me that is at all interested in boys anymore. It was just a little over a year ago that I saw a guy from my childhood who had become a man and my first reaction was, “Ew, a man!” And now the only humans of the male variety I will ever be interested in my life, ever again... are men. What is it that makes someone stop being a child and start being a man or woman? I think that the change is for the most part subtle and steady, but the final product has a way of coming up behind you and throwing a lasso around your neck, pulling tight until your emotions turn purple and you are required to scream, as I was the other day, with the minimal amount of air left in your lungs, after seeing pictures from my childhood... Which was still in existence only 6 months ago. It has been happening a lot lately, too. I have casually seen pictures of people from my childhood and it is interesting (by interesting I mean terrifying and unnerving) to see who have become adults and who are still just kids. It is odd to me that so many of the people I am friends with now have been witnesses to the change, whether they have been aware or not. When I came here to dance, I was a kid. Now, under a year later, I am an adult. There's really no going back from that...

Baloop!

Often times I wonder what it would be like to be a really brilliant and celebrated writer. I will sit and wonder for a time if new ideas come to them like a bolt of lightning, waking them up in the middle of the night, or if it's more like an hour glass, filling their brains slowly until they realize they have a new idea. I sit and wonder, and then realize I will never have such ideas, so it doesn't really matter, and return to my bowl of breakfast cereal. At such a time as this, I realize that sometimes it is the old standbys that do us the most good. They are not, for example, going to suddenly turn hostile and steal my wallet. And so, for this entry I will submit myself to using a classic opening line.

Once upon a time, before the fatal events of my becoming an adult, my dad decided that it would be a brilliant idea for us, that is he, my older brother Nigel, and myself go for a little backpacking trip. Backpacking in this case does not refer to packing somebodies back for your trip to the coast, but instead putting all your necessities, namely food, drink, clothes and the like, into a bag which hangs upon your back and walking away from civilization in order to set up a tent and hang out in the wilderness for a piece. This struck Nigel and I as a fantastic plan and we got into the swing of things with great exuberance. Unfortunately, being perhaps half the size I am now, I could not possibly carry all the things I would have liked to have with me. Half my room, in other words, and my dad said no repeatedly to the things which were not absolutely necessary. After a month and a half of planning and packing (you don't know my dad) the set date came and we set off. We did not in fact simply sling the bags over our backs and set off for the wilderness. We had to get in the car and drive for a bit. It is not as easy as it used to be to get away from civilization. After driving for an hour or more, we got out and then began walking away from what was left of civilization. A lake and three miles later we arrived at our campsite. We then proceeded to set up our tent. It grew dark rapidly and we sat contentedly, if not a little loudly, around a campfire. And now comes the time to tell you what I have written this to tell you. Our dad left us at the campsite to go down to the lake and filter us some water. Nigel proceeded to entertain me in the best way he knew how, namely by farting. He cocked his arms, and stuck out his rumpus ready to take aim. At this point many things happened at once. First of all, he did fart, but it did not come out as a normal sounding gas expulsion. If you are unfamiliar with that sound, you can synthesize it by placing your open mouth on a soft part of you arm and blowing as hard as you can. This is known as a Zuber, the synthesizing of a fart noise, often used for entertainment purposes on babies stomachs. Look it up. But to get back to my story, Nigel's fart did not come out this way. It came out sounding exactly like, 'Baloop'. That of course would have been hilarious in itself, but at that exact moment a large group of people-'large' meaning 'many' rather than 'obese'- came around the bend of the trail and into full earshot of his baloop. I held my breath while they passed, and then promptly broke into hysterical laughter. "You balooped at those people!" I gasped between shouts of laughter. I then ran over to where I could see our dad and half whispered, half yelled, "He balooped at those people!" Strangely my dad could not make head or tail of my shouts of Nigel's baloopage, and all the while Nigel kept insisting that he hadn't balooped AT them. Of course he had balooped and they had walked around the bend, but they couldn't have heard him and he didn't in fact baloop AT them. And then we went to bed and slept very soundly. All in all, it was a very successful camping trip.