Better Safe

At this point in my academic career, it is safe to say that I know MLA format like the back of my hand. When a student comes into my office and asks how to do their Works Cited page for a paper, I go to the whiteboard with confidence in my citation skills. Sometimes though, I second guess myself- like the other day.
The good news is a couple years back I had to get a book that has citation styles for MLA, Chicago, and APA (score), so all I had to do was walk across the room and grab it off my shelf. I haven't used it in close to a year, it's just been moved from shelf to shelf. When I picked it up this time, though, I found a glaringly green sticky note on it that said in my handwriting, "Better safe than sorry-" I could only assume that I wrote it in a moment when I was trying to decide what to do with it when I was moving, deciding eventually that it would be a good idea to take it "just in case."
That phrase though has been rolling around in my brain ever since I saw that note to myself. Yes, while things like that book, good friends, a stable (relatively) bank account, makes sure that I always have a safety net for my life, sometimes you can't be safe. It's just not possible. You can prepare all you want, be cautious down to the last penny, but sometimes life gives you shit that even the most pious and well prepared people can't handle.
I was talking to my mother (once again, the keeper of much wisdom) about the theology going around these days that if you do the right things, if you just have enough FAITH (whatever that looks like) good things will come to you. After we both agreed that was complete crap, my mom, while walking into the Onion on the North Side of Spokane said, "Sometimes you just have to accept the fact that your agenda and God's agenda don't work out. And God's not punishing you for not being faithful enough, not at all. My daughter will never be well. And that sucks. What can happen though is we can continue living our lives and hope that she has a long and happy life in whatever situation her health is. You can't be angry or mad at yourself because that will get you nowhere. It just happened."
Sometimes we can never be safe enough. I can write as many sticky notes as I want, pray as hard as I can, but life happens. Brelin is sick in the context of everyone else's standards. (Even though she might say she's feeling better this day or that day.) But that doesn't mean I'm allowed to be pissed, or sad, or depressed forever. Prepare, but don't count on much of anything.
It is nice, though, to have that book.

Moderation

I have wanted knee-high black leather high heeled boots for I would say a better part of 7 years. Over a third of my life, then, has been spent pining/hunting for the perfect pair of black boots.
I found them.
My mom was in town this last weekend and there was a ridiculously giant sale at Macy's on shoes. Not a little sale, mind you. They took all their shoes from last season, found an abandoned space in the mall and set up tables and tables of shoes. I see the sign: "EVERY SHOE 19.99." No fucking way. My mother, being the skeptic as she is, couldn't possibly believe that EVERY shoe could be 19.99, so when I picked up the boots she said, "Those are not shoes, they are boots." Of course when I asked the man putting Nine West pumps onto a shabby card table three pairs at a time if the boots really were 19.99 he replied dolefully, "Yes....every shoe."
I decided to try on the boots.
But I must preface.
The reason I have never been able to buy black boots is not because I've never had enough money, nonono. I simply have not been able to fit into them- my calves have always been just a touch too big. Invariably the zipper on every boot I ever tried on would get about halfway up the calf (the part where there isn't any muscle) and then would get stuck. I tried to suck my calf in, point my toes so as to change the length of the muscle, but always ended up feeling worse about my life because my calves were too muscle-y. And my calf ended up looking like a busty woman spilling out of a corset made for Paris Hilton. My attempts never worked: until this time.
So yes, the boots I bought on super-sale "fit". Sometimes I have the urge to suck the calves in, and the boots are pretty much vacuum sealed onto the Cougar Calves. But they fit, dammit. And I look hot.
I decided today would be a great day to wear the boots. It's cold, I was doing a reading in front of people for my Creative Writing class, and I wore cute charcoal gray trousers. The boots were perfect in every way for the first 6 hours of wearing them. The last 4 didn't go quite as well.
Home now, I still have the feeling on the bottom of my foot that I've been dancing for 10 hours. The balls of my feet are also swollen. SWOLLEN. I didn't realize it was possible.
As Lewis mentioned to me, though, after a certain amount of time things just need to end. Moderation really is the key, I guess.
I'm still learning.

Candy Bowls

Every time I pass my co-worker Allen's desk when he is not there, I steal his candy. It's not candy I would normally eat, as it is Easter-themed candy corn. I don't even like candy corn.
I feel like I'm not the only one who does this.

Confessional

You were getting excited about me telling you one of my deepest, darkest, secrets...weren't you?
Well sorry. Besides, if you know me at all, I'll probably tell you something about my life you weren't expecting. In the words of someone I know, "You're a sharer, aren't you?" Why yes, yes I am.
Regardless, listening to Pandora (the sweet internet radio), Dashboard Confessional comes on because I guess they're in the same genre-ish as this artist Matt Nathanson, who I rather enjoy. Dashboard Confessional, though, I tend not to enjoy overall. The man is whiny, and their popularity peaked in my sophomore year of high school (not a good one, as my boyfriend was a jerk), precisely during the semester that I took Photography. Someone in the Independent Study class would invariably put it on, as it must have chronicled their romance (and fallout thereafter), as all CDs played on heavy rotation signify. There is always a soundtrack to a relationship and then to the disaster that is its end.
The angst-ridden band Dashboard Confessional, though, is not my soundtrack. Instead, they remind me of flooding the Photography washroom. And getting away with it.
I had just finished stealing and eating a terrible breakfast Hot Pocket from the gargantuan Photography teacher's stash and was still waiting around for my print to wash. If for some reason it was underdeveloped, or I had not gotten the darkroom process correct, I would have to spend even more of my after school time alone in the classroom, sve the Independent Study girl who loved Dashboard. I'm not sure how I fenagled my way into that particular unsupervised situation, but I did. And it was glorious. So, I hung out in the darkroom in the overstuffed recliner and realized, OH SHIT.
Walked into the washroom, water everywhere. Feet soaked in water as I scramble to find some semblance of a towel, of course forgetting to first turn off the faucet so that the water is no longer going through the hose pointing out of the washtub and onto the floor. Why would I do the logical thing first? This is why I am not an EMT, I've decided.
So, my print turned out badass and I ended up ruining some other kids print that were just laying on the counter. They sucked anyhow, I did them a favor.
That is why when a Dashboard Confessional song comes on for some reason I can't turn it off. I will mercilessly make fun of it, oh yes, but I will not change it. The flood must be remembered, and I'll listen to three and a half minutes of whining for that memory. I think it's worth it. Now stealing that gnarly Hot Pocket, so not worth it.

Fiercely Independent (for my mother)

For one of my classes, a memoir reading class taught by a totally badass professor, we read a book called Fierce Attachments by Vivian Gornick. Most of the people in my class didn't like the book because there wasn't a "story" but I enjoyed it because it was about the attachment (mostly volatile) that she has with her mother. While I don't have any large conflicts with my mother like this woman had, I realize more and more every day that I am becoming her.

The woman is 51 years old and just broke her elbow while taking a "brisk walk" with my father. She likes to remind people of this event and add that, "Exercise will kill you." But, what I noticed more than anything is that I don't think I've ever seen my mother so frustrated as when she had to ask me for help turning the ignition key in her car. She was pissed. She is fiercely independent, and she has led me to believe the same things.

What she's taught me:
You not only can do anything a man can do, but you can probably do it faster and better.
You can multitask- men cannot.
Only ask men for help when you need it- otherwise you simply look pathetic.
From when I was fourteen: "Men are like buses, if you wait around long enough another one will come by. So no need to worry."
Trim the fat of your life: you can't spend your life dealing with other people's problems. If that means you have to be the bitch in the relationship and leave, then leave.

My mom is the shit. And, I feel like she has made me a somewhat intimidating person. But, I'm over it.

Gornick's quote from her mother reminded me so much of mine: "When a woman can't tell a man to go to hell, I have noticed, she is often crazy."

I have to agree.

An Offering

I have had a bike with one wheel sitting outside my apartment on the tiny "patio" since I moved in. I've never been much of a bike-rider, and with Pullman's massive hills I question the safety of journeying on the bike due to my novice status in this area. The other wheel of this bike is in the locked storage closet outside, so I just assumed that no one would steal the bike. It's not like you can ride it away. And I was correct- no one ever rode the bike away. It was there for months and months, getting buried and un-buried with snow, always hangin out with the flattened cardboard boxes I used to move in with.
And then just a moment ago I looked out the window and it was gone. Just...gone.
I assumed it would always just still be underneath the cardboard boxes. One wheel is still there and I never noticed that a bike was not attached to it. So...no one took the wheels, just the body of the bike. I don't blame them. It's a nice body, and clearly I haven't ridden it ever. Instead of being upset, I have chosen to consider it an offering to someone who will get bike riding love out of it. Clearly I have not.
And now, I can look out my window without guilt that I'm not out riding my bike.

Back in the game: a bit apprehensive, but getting over it.

Hello all, I seem to be back in action. Mostly due to the fact that I remembered how much I enjoy writing even if no one reads any of it. While not the best writer in the world (like most of my other friends in the blogging-world), I do believe that I might be interesting to some people. And, if you don't see me on a regular basis for some reason or another, here I am. I'm waiting to hear from you. Also, maybe if you come visit me I'll buy you lunch. Either way, on with the musing of the day:

Brelin recently invited me to go to a concert with her in Portland. I was surprised for a moment when she failed to mention to me what band it was. Oh yes, friends, she wanted me to go to a RASCAL FLATTS concert. I puked in my mouth. I recoiled from my gut reaction and weighed my options: I would get to see Brelin, who I see maybe three times a year, BUT (and this is a big BUT) I would have to listen to a slightly overweight man sweaking out like Windex on a whorehouse window some supposedly uplifting song about his mother. Options weighed: not a chance in hell.

That, and the fact that there is no way in hell I would let Brelin drive to Portland by herself. That would be the worst sister move in the world.

So to sum up this anecdote, I think I'm with everyone when I declare that listening to Kool and the Gang's "Celebration" for 4 hours in a row is far better than any ONE Rascal Flatts song.

I'm back.