84/90, get a job!

While my friends are landing jobs in Indianapolis, Chicago and New York, working in PR and related fields, I realized that I am, in essence, benching myself for at least one entire season. I'll be missing my rookie shot, focusing on other areas and losing my edge like I lost the power in arm after years without playing softball.

For the past few days, I've been frantically seeking out freelance PR and writing opportunities. I love writing. I love PR. I love too many things, and right now it's making me feel pretty mediocre across the board. Hopefully, the writing jobs (looking for PR/marketing writing as well as copy editing) will keep me up-to-date in the field.

Other than that, it's all up to my dedication. To keep myself a viable job candidate in the PR world, I'm realizing that taking myself out for a year–even though I'll be able to say that I was teaching in France–could be seen as a con against the more media-savvy intern that will just now be graduating; this effect is amplified if I am accepted to graduate school and removed from the PR game for a few more years.

The moral of the rant is this: I've realized that my field is a lot more based on research than I thought. When I'm in that workforce or looking at firms' and organizations' Web sites looking for jobs, I need to be looking at successful campaigns, reading about social media, working on my design skills... things that I love doing anyway, but things that just started seeming really essential.

I'm still set on going to graduate school. I have three life options that I really feel would make me happy, and I'm translating those into three graduate programs to apply to:

1. French Literature, with a focus on francophone nations in Africa: This would get me my literature fix, since it's the only thing I've been truly obsessed with for my entire life. It would also help me become fully bilingual and understand African cultures. This is helpful, because my PR focus has always been international nonprofits.
2. Public Policy: This does not sound like the part of my brain that I ever enjoy using–especially when I talked to a student at Indiana University, the second best Pub Pol program in the nation (below Harvard), talk about his math camp and statistics study tables. But, a very supportive professor talked to me about my goals, realistically, and said that if I ever want to make it to the UN or anything similar, this is the best way to go. It's real nonprofit work, digging in and playing dirty... okay, not dirty, but looking at the parts of the machine I never wanted to be involved with (aka being a government employee).
3. Creative Writing: Ok, I know. One of these things is not like the other. But that's not exactly true. I've been set on making writing a solid part of my life since the second grade. I wanted to study English as an undergraduate, but I didn't let myself because I didn't know what that would look like job-wise after I graduated. Now, I see that it could mean anything. It could mean working for nonprofits (Poetry Foundation, Guggenheims, school writing programs, Teach for America). It could also mean work in publishing. It could also set me up for real publications, the opportunity to put my memoir/creative nonfiction book ideas into action.

So while I'm out of this country, I'll be connected in new ways, researching to better myself and trying to find work. I thought it would be scary, but I have to say that the independence and self-reliance is exhilarating. As is the application process. Goal for summer: finalize application list and set aside money for application fees. Goal after that: let myself apply and wait until I get all of the rejections back to see what I'm meant to be doing.

It's hard for me to be spontaneous and let my life go in the direction it wants to. I always had a five year (Hell, a ten year) plan, a set order, but the best things (Joe, Ball State University, France) have happened when I wasn't even looking for them–when I was living my life and enjoying the small moments. So, why not let graduate school be decided the same way? Why not look at everything I love to do, let myself try and let life happen?

This may seem passive, but I think it is really the most active thing we can do. It's not crying that life happens to us; it's acknowledging that ever step we take is a part of Life, a part of the process and progress of being our own person. I'm letting the fates decide this one, and I'm equally happy with everything. Wow. Sigh. That feels good.

83/90, trail mix

After a migraine-induced nap early this morning, I stomped my way downstairs to eat some trail mix. I got it at Walmart, and it is full of chips. This is not an exaggeration. there is at least an entire bag of both chocolate and white chocolate chips. Then a bag of peanut butter chips, golden raisins, peanuts, 5 cashews, a handful of almonds and some craisins.

I eat 1 almond + 1 craisin + 1 chocolate chip at a time. It didn't take long to realize that this meant I would be digging through to the bottom of the bag and coming up empty in no time.

It didn't take long to realize how much this is like life, either. You start out with some pretty great shit. Then, a little bit later, you're on your own in a house that's falling apart with a bag of shitty trail mix with your face all puckered up from eating the tart raisins and gagging on the salt-covered white chocolate chips.

I tried to pace myself, eating a few peanut butter chips and raisins, making the best of a bad situation. But then I thought better of it. Because you know what? Screw it. If I've learned anything in life so far, it's that when life hands you lemons, you give them to your roommate and watch her eat the rind. When life hands you shitty trail mix, you give it to your fiancé and buy yourself a bag of almonds and a bag of chocolate chips, sit alone in your room and eat until you want to throw up. Then you cry about not fitting into your clothes.

So I put the bag of trail mix away, feeling all kinds of worse about the day, went to class and found out that my teacher didn't really like my paper (not sure if this is true, but there were some pretty heavy marks on it... and she kept it to check the sources because I forgot to cite one), and decided to come home for another nap. This nap actually turned into a quesadilla-eating, facebook-chatting with Joe break from the day that was not the productive things I should have been doing, but at least it wasn't a nap.

Really, I guess that means if life hands you a bag of shitty trail mix, you should just make a quesadilla instead, because that's what will really make you feel better. But still give that nasty stuff to your fiancé, because he will eat it indiscriminately by the handful and not even notice how gross the white chocolate chips are.

I'm going to go mix up some cookie dough.

Hey, don't judge me! They're not for me. They're for Joe. He'll get here tomorrow night, late late as usual.

82/90, dog bite

When the doctor said, "We could fix that," I wasn't exactly sure what he was talking about. I was there for a physical to get travel clearance, which involved, well, nothing really. He wasn't poking me or using anything to stare inside of me. He was just standing at my right side.

"You could sand those out. Wouldn't take long."

I realized that he was staring at my face. At the suture marks and small divots left from the day when, at age five, a husky lunged at me and attempted to eat part of my face. He hadn't succeeded, but he did leave a perfect circle of multi-layer stitches that alarmed onlookers for some time–from a woman grabbing my face in a grocery store; to a boy asking what person bit my face; to my friends screaming when the bandage covering my right cheek fell off while jumping on the trampoline.

For what seemed like ages, each day before recess my teacher would insist that I got out the suntan lotion my mother sent to school with me and smear it on the right side of my face, to prevent scarring. I was sure it wouldn't matter, that I would always have a circle,  a constellation of fang marks, connecting my eye, jaw line and mouth.

In high school, I felt the need to explain the scars to every boy that I dated. I didn't want him to think that there was something inherently wrong with my face, or that I had (God forbide) suffered from damaging chicken pox or acne. This happened to me. It is not my fault.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, the remarks of family members and doctors floated and sparked. Until I turned 18, I could have the problem, those scars, fixed for free. I never really considered it. I was afraid I would come out an entirely different person, or that people would misunderstand my reasoning.

Snapping forward, when this doctor suggested a light sanding of the right side of my face, I was appalled. I said I'd lived with them, and them with me, for 15 years. They didn't need to go away. He shrugged, and said that was true; he said that I wasn't the one that had to look at them. I felt the need to assure him that I was in a relationship. That someone had managed to cope with the scars and date me anyway.

As I've grown, so have my scars. In some way, they've shaped who I am, and I find myself missing them connecting the main features of my face. Now, they're a much smaller circle. They've gotten further from the eye and mouth until they settled in the hollow of my cheek. At times, looking in the mirror, I crinkle my mouth into a pout to watch the last of the real scar tissue pucker.

At some point, I became okay with my face–with the entirety of it. The brown eyes; the freckles my dad always said were their own constellation; my small mouth that looks angry when not smiling. I'd come into all of it. It had grown with me, served me well and wasn't about to change for anyone.

There would be no sanding, no ripping myself apart to put myself back together in a way that left no questions for people, made no one uneasy. Because none of it really happened to me. It all just happened. The "me" is what came out of it.

81/90, growing

Two weeks after introducing my indoor garden to the world, I have four successes and one flop. I still attribute my success to the teaspoons of filtered water these little guys get to sip on while they sit in the East-facing window of my kitchen.

The flop, as I expected, were the bell peppers. The started to sprout, but a spindly, fluffy (sounds contradictory but isn't) mold started overtaking their pot. Each morning, I wipe off each of the jars. I can't imagine how many mold particles are in our air if this is necessary. Each evening, the bell peppers had more green and what spots than any of the others.

I started watering the peppers less, but the seeds just started floating to the top each time I did water it. I'm sans topsoil, so I don't have a lot of options for fixing the problem except pushing the flakes back down. Last night, I gave up and threw them out. I have more seeds and will try again this summer, and I'm hoping more fresh air and direct sunlight in an outdoor home will help them.

Everyone else, as you can see, is holding steady. The basil is by far my biggest success. Ten sprouts, each with their two jointed leaves, end up tilt at a near-45 degree angle by the time I get home. They're greedily taking in the sun and stretching out their leaves. I'm getting a bit worried that their roots will be too crowded, or that there will be too much competition for sunlight in that teeny pot, before I get them back to Ohio and switch them into something bigger.

Next to the basil, the chive is really going. They were the last to sprout and the first to reach an inch tall. Each sprout is still holding onto its seed casing, sucking down whatever nutrients are in those things. They remind me of the models my mom called "lollipops"–their head so much bigger than their body that it starts to wear them down, make them slouch. This is the pot I'm most afraid to water. It seems like one extra drop could tip them all over or rot the roots.

The marigolds and zinnias are stubbier than I was expecting at this point. Three zinnias and two marigolds–I'm not complaining. They still have two weeks to grow and solidify roots before the trek home. Then, I'll be ready to transplant whenever they are. I'll probably start a few more seeds, even though they'll be getting later into the season.

The idea of getting anything to flower on my first year is incredible. I feel like the zinnias have a better shot. They were the first to sprout and the second to open their leaves... and they just look a bit better off than the marigolds, who I have more pity for even than the bell peppers. Oh, marigolds and your little black stem.

For today, I'm putting off all personal-life projects (and my parents let out a sigh of relief). I'll be finishing up work for two classes today... and no, it's not writing that paper I've been complaining about. I'll be doing a photo shoot with Rachel, a creative component for my French class that I'll present on Thursday: a series of photos surrounding a character's rejection of gender roles in French Indochina. Why isn't every class this cool?

Then, I'll be creating a case study for my Ethics class. We'll be creating a scenario and making a decision, then defending our reasoning. But mostly eating pizza, I would say.

80/90, that damn journal

I have taken a break from my journal. For the entire semester. I don't know how it started. I know that I started feeling sick about it by the end of January. I started for a few days, looked at what I was tracking about my life, and felt sick.

I am not unhappy. I am a bit worse for wear, a bit more confused about my life, but I am not unhappy. And for some reason, all I write about are the depressing bits. All I write down are the times when I'm broken and alone, reflecting on the pieces of the semester that damaged me instead of the parts that built me up.

So I decided to make an official break. I stopped writing in the journal. I kept going on the blog, but lets be honest: I'm not creating. I'm blogging my life, and I'm loving it, but I'm anxious to get back to the creative projects I hesitate to write here, the real pieces that make me feel whole.

It's almost that time, graduation and real life. For over a month now, I've been chomping at that bit, stomping and anxious to tear out of the semester's confinement and write again. I've been scribbling notes and narratives and sources to research and connections. I've been digging into the history of my genre, this "new" fourth kind of writing, the growing fourth genre. I've been asking myself if I'm writing prose, what that means, what I'm writing if it's not that.

To sort myself out, I've undertaken this huge blog-switch project. I've been trying to figure out, since becoming engaged, how my name change would work with my Web presence. I was going to keep myself a Veit in the blogosphere and social media arena. I've since changed my mind.

Now, I'm building all of my sites with the name "Betz," even though I'm a bit concerned that this will somehow jinx me (what with it not being my legal name yet). I'm researching how to use two blogs effectively--one for me and Joe, one for my continuing education and passion for writing. I'm designing and redesigning and still not writing in my journal...

But I can't wait for this summer! I know that this is all over the place, but the goal is to have both blogs running... a new wordpress and la francofile, so that people can select the narratives the want to follow... and then I'll have my journal–my poor, neglected best friend–to start my creative nonfiction journal.

I feel so good about my writing life right now, and it's flooding over to the rest of my life. I feel like I can learn French. I feel like I can get a job or find freelance work to keep myself busy (and fed). I feel like Joe and I will be an outstanding, happy, focused-but-flexible family. I can't wait to share it with you.

79/90, links & changes

So, the bigger post for today is over at the other blog.

I'm getting excited for the summer, and I've been thinking about how I want to handle this blog. This blog has gradually been spinning out of control, capturing the tumultuous emotions of this last semester. I'm trying to get that under control.

Over the summer, my "real" writing, the real creative nonfiction, will be taking place in my journal again, which has been abandoned this semester to save myself and my poor journal from the writing out all of my negativity.

That means I have to figure out how this blog is going to function, and this is what I've been developing: A real blog, with a distinct look that I'm going to design myself, from new headers for posts to a logo to fun links. I want to learn a lot more about my passions, and I want to share my passions with others, so I'm looking at a lineup something like this:

Mondays: what's happening in creative nonfiction
Wednesdays: what's happening with PR firms and their big shift away from "traditional" PR (press releases and the like)
Friday: me, fumbling around learning how to play with cameras

+ a special bonus feature somewhere in there somewhere that's my own writing-writing as I start working toward some publications.

I'd love to hear what you think, since this is obviously all for you.

78/90, yes, i'm still packing

In a week from today, I need to be packed and ready to move out. In a week, at this hour, Joe and I will be pulling into our Pre-Cana session. We'll get home that night, ready for marriage, and wake up the next morning to get me ready for the move back to Ohio.

I'm looking around my room, wondering how my life will fit into the few boxes that I have. The donation pile keeps going. I wish I could say the same with the "Find Someone to Buy This" pile. I've been using my restless energy to gradually start moving things out, then rearranging them into new boxes, then finding more things I don't need and yet again rearranging things into lighter boxes.

Baby has been enjoying the process. There's more space in my room, and the circles she runs around my room–weaving between my legs, desk legs, electrical cords and chairs have gotten bigger, faster, louder. She doesn't make it through one lap without stomping her back foot, that Thumper-like action that reminds everyone: This is our territory. This is our own.

I want to take my room with me. Just cut this room off of the house and carry it home, strapped to the top of my car. I want to keep this place, for her mostly. The thought of confining her to a section of carpet, an island in the slick flooring of my parents' kitchen breaks my heart a little, and I again wonder what she'll feel when I'm forced to leave her behind.

Today, she jumped onto the bed with me, curled up next to me hair while I laid on my back reading a book. I turned to look at her. She pressed her nose against mine and left it there, letting her little puffs of air tickle my nose before laying down and trying to chew on my hair.

Now I'm at my computer and she's off in a corner, licking my suede boots. My eyes pan over to her and on their trip back to the monitor, I catch sight of the cords plugging my life in. Each of them–fan, lamp, extra strip of outlets, cell phone charger–each is wrapped in electrical tape, striped like Kingsnakes. Maybe she will fare better when she's on the safe carpet at my parents' house. Maybe, after a while, she won't even miss her first home. 

77/90, a mess

::nearly titled "s mrdd" because my fingers slid over a key::

Today, my department officially gave me the go-ahead for graduation. I wrapped up my exit interview, was asked if I would change anything about the program and spent some time talking about how awesome France is with the director of my program (PR, baby! yee-yah.).

There are days when I'm really excited about PR–days when I think about the difference that I could make working for a nonprofit. These are mostly days when I'm doing PR work; when I'm reminded of how natural it feels more me to be standing in front of people, talking; when I'm typing away at a my computer. I love the work. I love the energy I get. I love knowing that I could use my skills and my passion to make a real change.

Then I step away from it for a day, or I start writing-writing again, and I know, as I've known since second grade, that this is what I'm meant to be doing. This is what excites me when I wake up. This, these blog posts, have become the marker for each day.

I live for the feeling of words floating from my head to my hands; I'm most excited by the way we can play with–manipulate–language and emotion. I'm most excited by the idea of creation, the opportunity to leave something behind, to put something on a shelf of a library or bookstore or coffee shop that people can pick up, interact with and feel something. Maybe even feel like they know me in some way.

And then I go into a French classroom or think about the next year, and I wonder, "What good is my life if I cannot find a way to use this language? What have I done if I go so far, but never really speak it?" I want to read every book that I touch in French. I want to find every book that has meant anything to anyone and absorb it, taking in their culture and history. I want to be surrounded by these passionate people, these social liberals, these opinionated peoples.

So I'm a bit torn about my life right now. From the outside, for a lot of people, it seems put together. We got lucky, Joe and I; I'll never pretend that it was anything but luck and our blind faith in every opportunity. It seems so organized–managing long distance, then marriage, then France, then higher higher education. I guess that's some kind of structure. But I feel like people think I've got it together. Every congratulations, every accolade lately has made me feel like a fraud.

Because, here's the truth: I have no idea what I'm doing. I want all three of these things. I want to bring them together and be a successful wife-mother that does some PR work while writing her creative nonfiction book(s), working with clients/organizations/environmentalists that speak French. That's what I want. I want all of that after Teach for America, after seeing the world, after going to graduate school in a city that has everything, after starting to really feel like an adult.

Because I'm not mature yet. I know that. I know I'm still figuring out what all of this really means to me. I know what is necessary. I know that the writing is absolutely essential. I know that Joe will teach, and I will do anything in my power to make that possible for him. I am willing to be anywhere for the chance to see him settled in a university setting. Because the rest will work out in some weird way.

It took me a while to realize that the best things come when your not looking, Joe being the best example of that. The best things have been happening for ages before you catch on to how great they are–before you can really start to appreciate it. So I'm trying to go with it. I'm thanking God that I have a year to teach one class and spend my days writing and kissing my husband and speaking another language. I'm thanking everyone for letting me go, figure it out, and for once let myself fall into where I'm supposed to be instead forcing on a shoe that doesn't fit.

76/90

Please understand that I realize how annoying these links are. It will only happen for the 90/90 period, then you're on your own bouncing between blogs. Hint: This one, post-graduation, will focus on creative writing, while the other blog will focus on marriage and life in France.

For now, here's a link to a post about the wedding.

75/90, a not-so-wasted day

For as long as I could reach the mailbox, checking the mail has been one of the minutes I look forward to most each day. There are those that respond to this by saying, "You've never gotten bills." To that, I say several things. First, false; I have gotten bills. Second, "You have never worked at a Hallmark store."

Now there were lots of things that I did not enjoy about working for Hallmark. There were several things that I liked very much–like putting out the new cards, finding the niche holiday that matched something I care about, or coming across a discontinued card in a drawer and saving it to give to the perfect friend at the perfect moment.

I have an amazing pen-pal. I've had a series of amazing pen-pals, but that is not what this post is about. I promise to come back to this at another time.

What this post is about is the series of events and emotions that took over my Monday evening. I had an explosion following a group meeting. I've been praying for patience, repeating the Serenity Prayer like Zooey Glass and the Jesus Prayer. I've been trying to internalize it, and I failed today. I fell apart a bit.

After that, I realized that school for the evening was a lost cause. I couldn't sit down in my quiet room and write another paper. I've been saying this everyday. I've been failing at something everyday, and today I'd had enough.

I had emotionally exhausted myself, left the meeting and came home only to leave again. I had errands to run. And this is where the mail is important. All of my errands culminated in the stamping and addressing of several packages–a gift to my aunt, recovering from surgery; a card for my boss, whose mom is struggling with cancer; a letter to a pen-pal, who anxiously awaits Ph.D. program responses; a packet that has to make it to France by the end of the month.

Looking at that list, I realized how little I had to complain about. My life, overall, is going okay. Now, all I could hope for was to make everyone else's a bit better. I started to feel better about the night. I worried that the total of out-of-class writing that remains for my undergraduate career is 10 pages, split between three different project. A mere pittance.

I've mapped out the rest of the week, but more importantly, I've realized that despite the freak-out, the prayer is starting to take hold. I'm turning my attention more towards others, and in turn giving myself more time to be a Person: to address the needs of others, listen and remind them that I love them.

The night ended with cookies, again for my boss as she "diets." I burnt my palm on the side of the pan and was surprised when instead of cursing or slamming my spatula or bursting into inexplicable tears (all of which my roommate and fiancé have witnessed... at the same time), I wrinkled my nose a bit and went on plopping the cookie dough onto the sheet. Because in the end, that's all we can do. Keep munching the dough, moving through the pain and remembering that it's worth the wait.

74/90, sweet tea 2

I'm on recipe number two in the quest for the perfect iced tea. This time, I went for a more traditional Southern sweet tea method but stuck with the same tea bags (Republic of Tea's Ginger Peach, one of my all-time favorites).

I saw the tea syrup method posted across the blogosphere, so I thought I'd give it a shot. It's a lot like the concentration that I used last time, but with more water and more tea bags. One of the big tips that I noticed was to add the water to the cold water, before it starts boiling (and before you add the teabags, obviously).

So, I dumped in a cup of sugar, my hand shaking and scattering granules across the counter from just thinking about all of that sugar in the tea. I would never have guessed that's how much is used. I tried to do the teaspoon per glass guestimate, but I didn't know how many glasses were in a gallon, which is how much tea you end up with.

The recipe I used–I'd link it, but it was a mix across several sites–didn't give a real measurement for the water to use with the tea syrup. I decided to just fill the kettle and go from there. With the sugar-water whistling, I tossed in the teabags and left the kettle cooling for a solid hour.

After squeezing out the teabags, I poured the "tea syrup" into our big pitcher and added more cold water, then stuck it in the back of the fridge, which seems to work better than icecubes.

A few hours later, I was brave enough to try it. Our pitcher is rather large, ruining many attempts at instant iced tea, lemonade, you name it. I'd filled it almost to the top, since I have no idea what a gallon looks like, and I was afraid it would be weak.

I took a sip and was surprised to find that sweet, syrupy texture with, surprisingly on my first go, a good balance of tea and sugar. I still think it's almost too sweet. I get a tea aftertaste, but don't like the feeling that's left in my mouth.

So, the verdict is that this is a solid method. I'll cut back the sugar a bit and keep letting it steep for an hour.

I've also discovered that my iced to really needs lemon or peach. The tea I used was a ginger and peach, but I want the real peach flavor or the bit of tartness from lemons. As I sipped my tea, I felt like something was missing. So next time: using straight black tea and adding fresh lemon–to the glasses, not the overall pitcher.

73/90, shopping with a body

Yesterday, I got to spend a lot of time with Sam. Sam and I share a lot of things: wine, long times working at mt cup (a local coffee shop), gender, strong opinions on feminism, a passion for traveling, a willingness to try anything, and a tendency to be overly dedicated to school. This means that most of our hang-out sessions are canceled because one of us is panicking about an assignment. (It's most likely not due for another week, but we panic early and see it through to the end.)

So yesterday, we met at mt cup as she was getting off of work and started in on what was supposed to be an afternoon of homework and bike rides. After about an hour of homework, we were getting itchy. We decided to come back to my house, have a glass of wine and start again.

We didn't even make it back to our computers. We sat on stools in the kitchen, both with looks of light concern. Sam commented on the day–that it was off, weird, spinning outside of us while we were left observing and not able to latch onto anything. I agreed–it's like we're not really here. Like what we're doing doesn't matter at all in the long or short run. Like we'll wake up in a few moments and prove that all of the panic was a wasted dream.

Hello, existential crisis. My name is Megan, and I'm trying really hard to graduate right now. Please come back at another time.

Deciding that we couldn't shake this thing, we did the next best thing. The next best thing is always shopping.

I needed shorts, and the shorts that I needed were on a massive sale rack at Forever 21. This meant driving to Castleton Square, a third trip to Indy for the week–never expected that in my lifetime.

By the time we made it to the dressing rooms, our fingers were aching from the weight of the hangers. Along with shorts, we found frilly, delicate tank tops that would look amazing on our trips (me, France; she, Ireland). We had button-down tops, trendy rompers, tank tops with beads and lace.

By the time we finished trying things on, we were back down to just a few pairs of shorts, and a body-image rampage–buy one, get the second free.

I had been frustrated looking for shorts online, because no one online looked like me. My shape is not that complicated. There is an hourglass involved, a bit of a bulge at the stomach, some boobs that do not rest flat against my chest. The 1920s phenomenon, where the prepubescent boy body took full force so that all that fringe and all that sheath dress could lay flat against you, was still holding strong.

I am what I like to say is average height, but what I understand is actually a bit short. I am not super thin, but I did wear a few skirts that were size 16 in girls until about a year ago. It was incredibly hard for me to let those go and accept that my body had changed and settled in. Trying to keep this understanding (and accepting that my life for the past year has led to some weight gain) becomes nearly impossible when the store is filled with employees that look and slouch like their mannequins and when all of the shirts are designed to flow along the body of a flat-chested, long-legged body.

I am not a large. I am not sure where to find the shirts that will button or pull or wrap across this chest without getting two-sizes to big once it hits my waist. Each time Sam and I stepped in front of a mirror, so excited about a light, flowing top and saw that extra fabric hanging off of our chest a full inch away from our body, seeming to add a foot to our girth, we were a bit more angry.

I wish I could make an argument here that solves this problem, or that I could say I found a store near me that understands how to make the cuts of trendy shirts work for more than one body type. For now, I'll just be glad that I saved money by only buying the shorts that I set out to find. And will thank Katherine Hepburn for making the high waist a classic wardrobe piece, so that I can stuff all of that extra fabric inside and have people see what I really am–the shoulders, waist and hips that I'm beginning to love.

72/90, hello, world

Yesterday at a public relations summit, the focus was (shockingly enough) social media. A topic that seemed to pop up throughout the day was the use of social media by undergraduate students, or rather, their inability to use it professionally.

This is not the first time I've been told to clean up my Facebook photos and watch what I post about myself. This was the first time, though, that I've been encouraged to use my networks in a positive way. I stopped for a minute to think about this. I follow PR firms. I follow my favorite news sources, a few industry blogs. But I never talk about them. I never talk about my ambitions in the field.

I do, however, talk about my hopes for equal rights–real equal rights for women and actually giving rights the GLBT community, starting with the respect and understanding that they deserve. I do openly say that I'm an outspoken liberal and, a seeming contradiction, a Roman Catholic. I do express my opinions on changes to Web sites that I disapprove of, my political views, my writing–no matter the subject–and my true way of speaking (a.k.a. use of profanity).

Brad, my Ethics professor an a "social media" whiz (he denounced the social media label in a talk today...ask him to explain), Brad talked about the need to come across as a person on social networking sites. If a company only tweets about their latest products and promotions, if they only speak as a corporation, we lose interest. We gloss over their icon in our Twitter feed.

Instead of eliminating the personality of my personal media sites and becoming something sterile that regurgitates the posts of people and organizations she's passionate about, I'm going to keep on keepin' on. I'll make a point of retweeting and posting the amazing things that amazing people in the nonprofit world are doing, to enhance my Industry Side. Out of courtesy for the people that may stumble upon me as an Authority on finding environmental and humanitarian nonprofit tweets, I'll eliminate the profanity. Or at least most of it.

Because what it all comes down to, and the one philosophy that Brad and I both hold, is that if a company is offended by my environmental views, if they feel that I am too passionate about the cause of women's rights, if they feel that single-sex couples are not couples, then they're not an industry that I would support in my private life. Therefore they're not an industry that I would dedicate my professional life to.

Because the one thing that I've always felt and that my parents have always insisted on is that I dedicate my life to a career that I love. I'm not hiding my views, and I'm not hiding my profiles. I keep certain elements private to protect my family more than myself... but I refuse to change my opinions for an employer.

I'm curious to see if my tweets and Facebook statuses change from here out. My passions haven't, and my habits haven't. But have I been tweeting about these things consistently? Maybe this bit of the conference should serve as a reminder in this way: It's time to start being more accountable for my passions, to start having a role that's more active than e-mailing my representatives in Congress.

71/90, guacamole box

I gave myself $15 for groceries this week. I have a large store of carbohydrates in my cupboard, so I only needed some produce. We've talked about this.

Among the other things I got was a box of guacamole. I know. This sounds bizarre, but here's the deal. It comes in two 7-oz. plastic pouches, so that it stays fresh longer than a tub (giant waste of packaging, but I'm resigned to that for now). It was on sale for $2, which was less than it would have cost me to buy the same amount of avocados, jalapenos and lemon (the listed ingredients, along with salt and garlic powder).

So the ingredients are totally legitimate. What's even more legitimate: This is the second best guacamole I've had in my entire life (next to my own, oooobviously). Once I got the stuff squeezed out of its plastic pouch–which takes longer than making your own guacamole, I do believe–I stood in the kitchen eating tortilla chips and dip.

As I stood there, I read the guacamole box. It suggested that there were 13 servings inside. I laughed out loud. Yes, I think I did only eat two tablespoons. On my first chip. After eating about half of the first pouch, I cut myself off.

As I moved to the next side of the box, I noticed a recipe: Quesadillas with Guacamole Recipe

1 1/2 c shredded cheese

4 tortillas

1 c guacamole

Shmear together. Grill. Really? Is this a recipe? Do we need this documented somewhere?

Then I remembered the 3-ingredient cookbook of Joe's, each featuring a different can of Campbell's soup concentrate. I remember going through a phase in high school when I would clip the recipes off of cereal boxes (for variations on Rice Crispy treats) or salad dressings (for variations on salad dressings). When did every processed piece of foodstuff in our kitchen start getting a recipe slapped on the side?

Or a better question, who decides that these are the best recipes to put there? What about the nutritional value of the food? If we have this captive audience–these people on-the-go that need all their food in some kind of box so that it better fits into their Green, Reusable shopping bag, then why not feed them healthy recipes?

I thought about this force-feeding of healthy recipes and then realized I was still eating tortilla chips. Does that make me the pot or the kettle in this situation?

I came back upstairs, worrying that I will never fit into my wedding dress. I looked into Baby's cage and she sat looking up at me, chewing on the walls of her cage then pacing and repeating. I noticed that the three strawberry caps I'd given her were still in the cage. But here's an odd twist of events: She ate the leaves off and left the berry. Now, let's review...

Things Baby Will Eat

1. Bananas
2. Toast (really, just the jelly)
3. BLUEBERRIES
4. Raspberries, but not really
5. Apples (all of it)
6. Yogurt Drops (animal snack–surprisingly tasty)
7. Paper
8. Phone, fan, computer and lamp cords
9. Sheets, blankets
10. Glue, paint and the perfect binding (books, magazine)
11. My hair, after she swats me in the face
12. Her cage

Things Baby Won't Eat

1. Carrots
2. Broccoli
3. Cauliflower
4. Celery
5. Tomato
6. Wooden chew toys
7. Paper that I give her to chew on
8. Anything remotely like foliage (except her hay)

Needless to say, I was surprised she opted for the leaves and not the berries... Sounds familiar.

70/90, in bloom

A week after planting my kitchen window garden, my thumb is feeling a little greener. This summer should include a bouquet of my own flowers, an Italian pasta salad seasoned with my own basil and a nice chip dip with fresh chive.

After only a few days, a zinnia was breaking its way into the world. The black seed casing clung to the green stem as it leaned toward the 6 a.m. sunlight. I was afraid it would never fall off, that it would weigh down the skinny seedling. Then two more buds popped up and the seed casings started flaking off.

Then eight–yes, eight– little basil stems with their first two leaves broke through the soil. I worry that they'll get overcrowded, or worse, that their roots will be too weak and they'll crumble when I transplant them. I just hope they make it to the transplanting stage. Three more weeks and I'm home.

I got worried when nothing else was blooming. And then today there was another breakthrough: five blades of chive and a Marigold are working their way toward the Sun. I immediately call Joe when I find the green specks, like our dog was having puppies.

My confidence is increasing, and I'm giving credit to my new gardening approach. The watering is a bit ritualistic. I refuse to give any living thing Muncie tap water, so each morning the little pots get two teaspoons of Brita water. Other than that, I don't poke or prod or stir or add more water. I let nature do its work.

Unlike before, when I tried to get conditions just perfect, just the right dampness at all times, I'm trying to stay out of the way. If plants can manage to grow in the "wild," with (and thanks to) animals stomping all over them, bugs swarming them at times and the unpredictable rain patterns, then surely these pampered pots can make it on two teaspoons of water and a thin layer of undisturbed soil.

No complaints so far with this method. It still isn't quite a One Straw Revolution amount of laissez-faire, but it's making my job really easy... though I do look forward to seeing their overnight growth and checking the soil when I get home from class.

I've started gathering my gardening knowledge in only a week. My mom teased me for picking two stinky flowers, and I wasn't sure why. Apparently, she said, Zinnia and Marigold work as a natural critter deterrent. Bunnies and the like think they are something awful, and the odor keeps them out of the flowerbeds, which is why they've stayed so popular over the years.

These tips are going to really come in handy when Joe and I put our organic gardening plan into practice.

69/90, hidden animals

While it would be easy to use this post to continue the cucumber theme from 68/90, I'm going another direction but continuing the discussion of food.

I am a vegetarian. Ok, a "flexitarian." The pain-in-the-ass of the Grass-eating Snobs movement. Here's my beef: I don't want to eat any animal that has had to stand in its own shit or eat food that isn't contributing to its health.

So yes. On ocassion, I eat steak. I buy it from local producers, who raise the animal and feed it well and have it slaughtered locally, following strict health regulations. This does not mean certified organic. This means being conscious of what you're putting in your body. Think about it: what happens when you don't nourish your body? You get sick. You lose your vitamin and antibody balance.

So why eat food that was living in these conditions?

Now. That was a clarification for this next bit. I've been reading a lot... and finding a long list of foods that I should not be eating. Not because I am vegan. Not because I am crazy about saving all animals. Not because I want to be a strict vegetarian. But because I support local food organizations and because I despise, with every cell of my small body, the food industry.

So, here is a list of foods that contain animal products that you know are coming from some nasty  CAFO cows:

1. Snickers: Okay, mass-produced caramels and/or nougats in general. They use gelatin.
2. Along with number one are: ice cream, marshmallows, any cereal with a frosted coated (read: any children's cereal), and some yogurts.
3. Chewing gum: This one's getting picky. Some of them contain lanolin.
4. Margarine: (and if I were a small child I'd count crayons, wax paper, soap and rubber cement) This "vegetable spread" (1) will be the death of you and (2) can contain tallow, which is from animal's connective tissue. Just eat the butter. Please.

So that's my list for today. Now, to share a list that's bit more inspiring. Check out these people who are eating (and not eating) cool things:

1. Food, Inc.
2. The Cove
3. Slow Food International
4. Local Harvest food cooperatives
5. Your neighbor, parent, grandparent, spouse, best friend with the cool garden
6. You. Grow something.

68/90, produce

I will never get over it, the wasted plastic that covers every bit of produce I buy. I have said to anyone who will listen that I am dying for the day when I'm back in a Farmers Market community, growing real food in real soil and not putting it in plastic bags in larger plastic bags with shrink wrap and twist-ties to take it home.

I grabbed a few groceries yesterday, most of it produce–and most of it placed on a styrofoam tray and shrink-wrapped. Ignoring the environmental travesty, it is a storage space travesty. Living with three other girls means that I have almost half a shelf and half a crisper drawer in the fridge. That means step one when I get home from the story is UNpackaging everything.

I got through the asparagus, guacamole and bananas (which are the worst and deserve a post all their own). It was time to free the English cucumber.

This poor guy was shrink wrapped, and the shit was clinging so tightly that every time I tried to rip it, I took off a bit of his flesh, too. The wrap would peel off in thin strips like some horrible sausage casing–and believe me, I know what that's like. Fighting food casings has been a lifelong battle. Please never ask me to eat a bratwurst.

Now, I know that we've picked up on the phallic undertones here. So to get the full effect, I suggest that you go to the store, preferably Meijer when they have their 10 for $10 sale (always includes English cucumbers). Then bring it home, stand in your kitchen and try to peel it.

Then thank God that condoms are not made from whatever horrible plastic wrap substitute these things are stuck in. I mean, to get that shit off I had to have the cucumber pressed against my stomach, wiggle it and tear the plastic to shreds. It's as horrible as you're imagining.

So give it a go and thank Trojan.

67/90, 2 hours

I don't often tell a story here without a heavy hand of reflection. My nonfiction courses dealt a lot with the composition of a work–what we make full-blown scene vs. scene summary, and how we create importance through reflection. Today, every moment felt vital, important, alive.

So for once, I'm not going to stress out, complain, boast or otherwise tilt my hand toward an emotion. This is an honest, exacting look at my past two hours. I'll spoil the happy ending... It ends with the beginning of this post. That is to say, with me realizing I was incredibly happy, there what a breeze flowing into my room, my cold coffee is delicious and my yogurt honey peanut protein bar is a wonderful dessert-for-dinner fix.

So I got out of class early today. I came home, put water on to boil and onions on to saute, brought my clean laundry into my room and ate fistfuls of Gorgonzola flavored crackers. I didn't feel the slightest bit bad about it. I've eaten pretty well today, and I gorged on those puppies. I didn't have beer. So there.

I decided that today was the day: time to pick up the wedding bands that have been in for a little over a week and replenish the produce drawer. I haven't done any real grocery shopping since Joe was here (two weeks ago).

I hopped in my car and drove out to Zales while Yoshimi battled the Pink Robots. I walked through the bookstore and into the mall–I didn't even pause to consider buying a $3 Bargain Bin book!

When I entered Zales, the women who helped us pick out our wedding bands was working. "Isn't she pretty?" she said to her coworker, "I love her voice." I share this because it's humorous. I mean, listen to me talk. Really? Whatever.

Her coworker thoroughly evaluated me. "What's the date?" she said, her eyes still measuring me. I told her, and explained our long-distance situation. "You look like you're twelve! I can't believe it." I thanked them and took myself to buy some alcohol, to remind myself that I was indeed old enough to be a real person.

Walking into Aldi, I successfully passed the Fit & Active snack everythings, the chips, the salsa, the nuts, the cookies. Ok, not the cookies. They have those little French cookies... the bistro ones, with the shortbread on the bottom and the milk chocolate on top (dark chocolate in my case). They also have pictures of the Eiffel Tower, a windmill, a bridge. You name it. They're a cultural experience.

I tossed them in with my Winking Owl Chardonnay. (Hello, four evenings of happy dinners sitting in my front yard.) I made it through the produce aisle without any splurges, grabbed dishwasher detergent and made it to the check-out unscathed. And then I saw the protein bars for "sustained energy and balance." Can't argue with that. So I got one, so there!

On the way home, the Cranberries were playing, and I thought of how much I miss the 90s. I remembered the day sitting on the swings when I told my friends how much I loved Eddie Vedder and all that he stood for. Even the flannel. I realized then that I was different. That not all girls liked baseball or listening to their best-friend-and-uncle's alternative music collection while watching him play Cliffhanger and Mortal Combat.

I remembered how we ran to those swings. How we would skip finishing our chicken nuggets in order to get to recess on time to score a seat on the limited swing collection. I remembered the year there were no more teeter-totters. I remembered the day that I saw the teeter-totters across the street from Joe's first apartment.

I realized that I was really happy. There were leaves on the trees. I was driving with my windows down. I was thinking about Joe. 116 days.

66/90, me = waste of time

I have remarkably little to report.

My family came to visit and attend an award ceremony with me, followed by a beer at Scotty's and goodbye until their next trip to Muncie: Moving Day.

When they left, I was supposed to start working on my French paper. I don't really know what's happened in the time between then and now. I read an article, ate some broccoli, loved on Baby, and nearly finished a book... but that feels like 20 minutes not almost two hours.

I don't know what's happening to my brain. Or if it's still between my ears. I tried to write creatively, since that was the original purpose of this blog. Instead, I stared at the screen and found an article about the game I forgot to watch yesterday because I was busy writing a different paper.

I couldn't sleep last night. I had a dream about an assignment, a six-page paper to go along with the one I wrote (in the Awake World) yesterday. In Dream World, I researched a public relations campaign and then I woke up–not sure which world we're in at this point–five times in two hours, considering calling Tiffany, the girl in my class that I always turn to with homework questions.

I officially woke up, into the official Awake World, at 5:48 a.m. It took until my alarm went off, twelve minutes later, to pull the covers back and figure out if this paper is real. It was not... but now none of my other assignments seem real, either.

This is the last Big Paper. The last push. The final assignment of my undergraduate career. Maybe that's why I'm not writing it yet. Maybe that's why I'm blocking out three hours before class tomorrow to let my brain recover, rest and restart.

Today was the final pre-graduation celebration. It was the last bit of bustling around for things out of my control–things like award ceremonies, office birthdays, homework late nights and holidays at home, which all include cake, brownie fudge sundaes and beer. They do not include yoga. They do include coffee. They do not include vegetables.

So. That phase is over. As is my random Scotty's Phase. After two bad beer experiences (an old bottle of Bell's Porter and a horribly acidic Stone Ruination), I am over it. Money in the bank. Fat off my stomach.

My mind is jumbled right now. It's 10 p.m. My fingers crack when they move to reach the keeps. My teeth hurt. I'm falling apart. I have a to-do list set for tomorrow that I feel pretty good about. My fiancé is back in a place where he can talk on his phone for more than ten minutes. The semester is almost over. My rabbit is cuddling up next to me.

All of this is to say that, for many reasons and out of serious need–physically and emotionally–I am giving up. And I am changing my ways, sister. For tonight, I'm packing. For tomorrow, I'm knocking out some things that have been on the "Get This Shit Over With" list for the entire semester. Including this paper (Silence and Nonlinear Structure: The Chaos of Women's Roles in French Indochina, if you're wondering... no wonder there's no motivation, right?).

I'm fighting the urge to type in caps lock. I'm am the whiniest, lamest snot right now. I have made people read about my nothing-doing, to close another night saying, "So I think I'm going to pack now." I get this way, trapped in the inbetween. I've never been a procrastinator, but with so much to look forward to after May 8, holding myself grounded in these moments and in these assignments is not happening. I'm going to need some tips from my friends on being successful working under serious pressure at the last minute.

Deadline of Rough Draft: 2 p.m. tomorrow
Needed: 5 pages double-spaced French
Have: 2 pages of single-spaced quotes to serve as an outline in both languages
+ a cover page + a works cited
+ a working thesis statement

Not a bad start, right? Granted, I did it yesterday. But there have to be people more behind than me, right?

At least I can do laundry and clean my rabbit's cage in the morning. And do yoga. And eat granola. My heart rate is slowing at the thought. Small things, then the big thing (a.k.a. The Paper). No translation work tomorrow. Then a big wedding step tomorrow evening: picking up wedding bands + opening our "Gift Registry" bank account.

Yeah, that's it. Tomorrow will be different.

I need a beer.

65/90, sweet tea

As the weather started warmer, I've had an insatiable thirst for sweet tea. Occasionally, I'll swing by a gas station to grab a bottle, but this is not cost effective... and most of the time it's more sweet than tea.

I want a hint of peach syrup with slices at the bottom of my glass, covered with ice cubes. I want just that hint of lemon with just enough sugar to pull the tart together with the dry, warm tea flavor. I want a pitcher sitting on my front porch, warming in the sun with a small collection of bees lazily circling.

I want to find the perfect sweet tea recipe.

I didn't like tea, not really, before I started dating Joe. He was drinking three cups of green tea a day, so I naturally joined in–not three cups, but most of one. For a long time, I struggled to get past the texture of the flavored water and the slime that my lip balm would make float on the water.

So last year, I decided to give sweet tea another chance. I bought a jar of instant, but it sat around so long after I'd opened it that the contents turned into one solid tea brick.

Then I tried making iced white peach tea, but didn't concentrate the tea flavor. I added ice, forgot about it, and let the whole mess get watered down. It sat in the fridge for about a week before I dumped it down the drain.

This time, I spent twenty minutes sifting through Iced Tea, Sweet Tea, Peach Tea, Quick Summer Tea and Southern Tea recipes before I found a few that looked like a good starting place. I'm avoiding sun tea for a bit... let's master inside first before involving the outdoors.

I brought two cups of fresh, cold water to a rapid boil. I poured it over four tea bags and let it steep for 20 minutes. I added what looked like a little less than two quarts of water.

At this point, Rachel, my roommate, asked what I was doing. She said she'd never used the concentrate method. She'd used enough tea bags and water to make a pitcher. I said I trusted the recipe, and I put the pitcher in the fridge.

At about 10 p.m. last night, when my eyes were burning from eight straight hours of computer work, I went back to the kitchen. I added some sugar to the tea, stirred it with the biggest spoon that I could find. I put the sweetened tea back in the fridge.


I still haven't tried it.

There are several domestic skills that I've mastered. Like scrubbing a sink or removing stains from glasses or making beds or baking pretty much anything (assuming the stove functions properly). There are also several that I am a large failure at. Like not killing things, growing things, cooking rice or removing stains from my clothes.


I'm always afraid to add to this list. It always moves me ahead in my mind, to the day my future child

asks me to help her make tea and I have to say I can't. I'm afraid to try the tea, even though that was the point of this whole thing, to keep trying recipes until I make one work in just the way I want it–that hint of flavor, that deep caramel color with hidden fruit slices and that perfect ping of ice cubes against the glass.

I'm going to go get a glass of tea.

64/90, indoor gardening

It may be that graduation is less than a month away. It may be that the sun's out. It may be that all of the things I've done to make this house feel like home are now packed away. It may be that my body doesn't know what else to do with the nervous energy sparking in me like a chewed-up electrical cord.

Whatever the reason, I can't shake this nesting feeling. Instead of working on assignments– and at times, even instead of working when at work– I'm developing a future homestead: reading about gardening, finding the perfect way to make sweet tea, looking at luggage we'll be needing to buy soon, lusting over cameras, looking for unique ways to turn things into bookcases (most popular "thing" to bookcase: the ladder).

I pushed through several hours of work last night, then realized that most of my time working (most of my time being home) was spent walking up and down the stairs to get a drink or find things to pack. Most of my time in my room working was spent pushing Baby away from something she was chewing on or trying to take pictures of her.

I needed to settle my mind and calm myself down. I needed to put my hands to work and have a tangible thing that I accomplished. At Target picking up a bag of food for Baby, I noticed that their standard selection was back in the One Spot. The plastic shovels and spades and garden gates, the flowered placemats, the theater popcorn containers. The small hothouse pots of herbs with astronaut dirt.

I walked out of Target with rabbit pellets, a new lipstick (my color for the wedding), zinnia, marigold, basil, bell pepper and chive (and clementines, of course). The plan was to wait until I got back to Ohio and settled in for the summer, then work with my grandma to start learning how to garden. I can't start a garden in my parents' yard, since I'll be gone after a few months, so I was planning to leech off of a bit of space in my grandma's backyard garden.

My five little pots line the window sill and have three inches of growing to do in the Muncie sun. If all goes well, my grandma may want to transplant a few of them. Otherwise, I'll be transplanting the little darlings into larger pots and having my own little urban garden. Now, I just need a few Topsy Turvy tomato growers.

So yesterday afternoon, I set myself to gardening in our kitchen. I started with a snack, scooping avocado out of its shell with a spoon. Then, I rinsed the avocado pit in warm water, stuck three toothpicks into its sides and suspended it over a glass of water.

This sounds familiar for good reason. Statistics say that roughly one in five avocado pits will sprout. The last several tries (roughly seven) were failures (example), but I think I've figured it out.

Past mistakes & Their Corrections

1. Using toxic Muncie water --> Using filtered water
2. Hovering the pit over water in a Ball jar --> Using a wine glass to help
1. Keep it classy
2. Keep less water under it at a time
3. Keep the bottom of the water from turning icky and thick
3. Stabbing the pit with Q-tips --> Stabbing the pit with toothpicks like you're supposed to
1. Which means I now have approximately 500 extra toothpicks
2. Correction, I baked bread last night and checked it twice, so that's 498 toothpicks

So we're off to a running start with the avocado. I'm not naïve. I'm not expecting her to grow and flower and give me avocados in 5 years unless I move out to California. I am expecting the large root, followed by a little sprout that can be transplanted and will grow like any other very temperamental house plant.

I then put 1/6 c of water into 5 bowls, dropped in a dehydrated pellet of dirt, watched it expand, drained the extra water (ok, so maybe I guessed on the 1/6 measurement), let it dry a bit and put it into five little cups labeled with their futur inhabitants. I then sowed 5 seeds into each pot, pushing them 1/4" into the soil with a fork (it was handy).

Next to the wine glass in the kitchen window, the little seeds are warming themselves in the sun. I'm going to keep these guys going strong, watering them with a mister per their directions and not messing around in the soil to make sure the seeds are still ok. By summer, they could look like this:

63/90, moving

I couldn't concentrate last night. My mind was bounced between projects, weighing time lines. I kept drinking water to keep myself from the eating that happens when I don't know what else to do. I kept running to the the bathroom.

Then I decided to just clean the bathroom, though I'd originally promised myself I was done doing the cleaning in this house. I used cleaning wipes to scrub every surface.

I considered using them to clean the mirrors, but restrained myself. That never goes well. You end up getting out of the shower and look at the warped, slimy fog clinging to the mirror and feeling like you're in a horror movie.

I looked at the clean bathroom, decided that it was for sure the last time I'd be doing it and felt the need to keep going. I grabbed the vacuum and the dollar store version of pledge that makes your hands smell like lemon if you use it too much.

I love my room. It took the first year of living here to gather my things about me in a way that felt perfectly comfortable. And as I was taking down pictures and folding up blankets and dusting off random things (Mary and Joseph, a pig made out of cardboard, a ring holder that has the shape of a sombrero), I felt a pang in the pit of my stomach.

Since I was seven, I've shared a room with my sister. For the first two years of college, I lived with a girl in one Z-shaped room on campus. Now, for these last two years, I've had the ability to close my door and close out the world. I've had a room of my own.

For the next month, I'll be gradually packing up my boxes and returning home, moving back into a room with my sister. I'm excited to have her so close again, to replay those Slumber Party games. I can imagine that she's not so excited to have someone else crowding her space and closet again.

From my sister's room, I move onto an apartment with my husband. It's strange to think that he may not want the pictures that I've had hanging in a collage by the window. Or that the way I arrange my books doesn't match the way he arranges his. It's strange to think that the next few years of life will be remembering how to share a space with someone and learning how to accommodate the needs (spacial, aesthetic, organizational...) of two stubborn people in a small apartment with no money to decorate the way they'd like.

It's strange to think that the need to be on my own and carve out a space far away has started to feel so childish and removed from me. In high school, the furthest into my future I could think was a college graduation and an immediate move to an apartment alone in a city where I knew no one. I thought that the being alone would be a challenge, and I have an endless need to challenge myself–to take on tasks until I'm just above breaking.

Now, the challenge is the connection–allowing myself to become codependent, to share my space with someone and not seek to please them, but seek to live in peace with them. This sounds easy, and I love my family (I'm including Joe in this) so much that it feels easy... but we know it's not. We know that this is why we go away for college; we threaten to run away; we break rules and cheat on chores. The challenge is to not need these things. To be always happy that you have the opportunity to share your space, your experiences, with someone.

62/90, The Sweet

Sorry I'm linking a lot lately. I'm trying to keep this blog more "creative" and my other blog more personal-life based. It's a progress. So...

Check out this link for a long blog post. I'm making the extra click worth it.

Hint: It's a music video.
Hint: look at the title.

61/90, francia

a post on la francofile, to celebrate some married life news...

60/90, talking

I've been building up today for a while now. I had my last weekend away until graduation. I'm not settled in Muncie, in a room that is more bare than when I first moved in. I've been gradually packing up my life.

I've made a Last Month To-Do list, which is an overwhelming thought, but I'm getting better at the small bites. Even as I say this, I'm fighting the urge to bounce to another open tab and start searching for summer clothing or looking at Paris attractions instead of typing here.

I've promised to cut sugar out of my diet (with the exception of chocolate chips in my pancakes). Now, as I type this, I'm thinking about the miniature Reese's cups that I got for Easter.

My nose is running, then bleeding, then just leaving an irony scent in my nose that fills my mouth and leaves me nauseous. I don't want to eat. I don't want to drink. I want to sleep, wait for the sun to rise and lay in my yard.

This is not writing. This is not even blogging. This is thinking, and it's getting old. It's getting to be tired content on this blog, but I've run out. Yesterday, I had a real thought. I type that and it felt nice. It's too early for thinking, for real story telling. I consider opening the book I bought this year, the one I found on the shelf for a journalism course when buying my text books.  Telling True Stories. Instead, I keep typing.

I made Earl Grey tea this morning. This is a decision I can really feel good about. I'm determined to break myself of my caffeine addiction.

Now, I'm a coffee snob to my core. I am in no way saying that I am giving up my beloved beverage of choice. I'll never go without coffee. In fact, I've been reading an increasing number of studies that say a moderate amount of caffeine while pregnant is acceptable, just not while breastfeeding. This has made me a much bigger fan of children and a much smaller fan of breastfeeding.

So. Day One. "Studies say" that caffeine first thing in the morning is bad for you. It messes up the acidity of your body, creates a mess in your stomach because it can't soak into food you've been munching on throughout the day. I'm waiting until at least 10 a.m. to have coffee. I am trying not to drink it when I'm tired.

I realize that black tea has caffeine, but I'm feeling like the small percentage in a cup versus the amount in four cups of coffee, and the soothing nature of tea, will promote a yoga-peaceful state of mind and not screw up the acidity of my insides. We'll see if I can make it through the midmorning caffeine migraine.

The reward: A cup of coffee on my 12:15 break from classes. It's five hours. I can do it.

59/90, synesthesia

The green plastic of the hose warms the water sitting in the coils. The sediment– Calcium and Magnesium and earth and radiation– swirl from the hose walls with each flick and swish and pull as it is pulled into position, as it is raked across the mulch and positioned before the flowers.

Light travels faster than sound travels faster than water, and you hear the rush a moment before the sputter of air and then solid stream leave the hose, which is warm in your hand. You're surprised by how cool the water is, like it's been hidden below ground near blind fish. You remember that it is hidden below ground, but not with any fish.

The sediment leaves the hose, mixes with the mulch. The air is filled with the metallic water, the ozone and earthworm smell of sun right after rain, the urine that still saturates the shaved wood. You're in the hot house again, walking along the rows of flower flats– geraniums and violets next to tomatoes and parsley. You're on the gravel walkway between rows at the flower shop– or is it a green house? Or is it a nursery? You don't know, but you remember the first time you got a plant to pot yourself.

You picked the purple petals with the yellow trim; you picked the frail stems. You thought it was dust that day, when you pulled the curtains back and the sunlight brushed the sleepiness from your room. You didn't know what to think when the dust started flying from the flower petals and dying all over the top of your bookshelf like vampires. You closed the curtains again. The bugs kept flying, kept multiplying before your eyes, covering the petals and stems and dirt and leaves until you were afraid they were eating you too.

In years after then, you would try again– an avocado plant, a hostos, a section of your grandma's garden.

The stream of water has formed a moat around the newly planted flowers, set in place for graduation celebrations outside the art museum. Pieces of mulch float like burnt birch canoes. The men gather the hose, shut off the water and get into their truck, move on to the next flower bed across the lawn while you stand in the settling earth worm and ozone scent of things you couldn't grow.

58/90, happy easter

Happy Easter.

Here's a link to my other blog. It's like your hunting for eggs.

57/90, small things: moving

posted on la francofile blog today