My favorite joke:

What's green and grows in the ground and has wheels?





....?





Grass.





I lied about the wheels.

To Cut, or Not to Cut??

Okay, this is a very serious question, and I need all blog readers' opinions. Friends, acquaintances, lurkers alike. We have a big decision on our hands.

For the last six years, I have alternated between some version of a spunky short haircut, and varying stages of awkward grow-out. I'm a big fan of styling said-grow-out, so it hasn't been an entirely wretched existence, but still: it's been a little awkward. This last year however, the hair kept growing and growing, and the trip to Europe resulted in it continuing to grow and grow, and it's now at a longer point than it's been in years.

This is good maybe, yes? Girls with long hair equals cute, yes? That's not my whole story though. I'd been planning in my head to get my hair cut before school starts, because I WOULD LIKE TO LOOK OLDER THAN THE 17-YEAR-OLDS I'LL BE TEACHING. But now that it's through the awkward stage for the first time in years, I'm finding myself a little reluctant to chop. This is where I'm enlisting second opinions. I'll break it down:

TO CUT?

Pros:
1.) MAKES ME LOOK OLDER. This is a significant pro. Think about it people. Would YOU want other teachers ordering you to move your little toush to class? Or pimply-16-year-olds asking you to Homecoming?
2.) Sassy, and spunky. Great for tossing at dance parties.
3.) Works with my hair. Generally, it looks healthier when it's shorter.
Cons:
1.) No more curls.
2.) Must shower and style it-- mmm, pretty much every day.
3.) Impending awkward grow-out.

OR NOT TO CUT?

Pros:
1.) I can style it in bizillions of different ways. Read: curly; straight; curly half-back; straight half-back; pig tails; twisted up; braids; pony-tails of various heights; etc. etc.
2.) It hasn't been long in years. I'm kind of enjoying the novelty. It's like Kramer and the car salesman: how long can we go??
3.) It's pretty...
Cons:
1.) About 80% of the afore-mentioned styles still end up making me look more like a high-schooler than a grown woman getting her Masters with fabulous literary information to impart.
2.) It starts looking scraggly when it gets long. I'll admit it.
3.) I don't FEEL as spunky or sassy with long hair. I feel feminine and bohemian. But not that sassy. Being sassy as a teacher could be helpful, I feel.

Okay. Your turn. What do you think? I am SOLICITING your comments and suggestions. Normally my comment max is around five, but I know there are more of you than that because I CAN TRACK YOU. Muah haha hahaaa. No really though: I need help. Thoughts?

Apple on the Tree; Ivy on the Ground

Yesterday I met the woman who is going to mentor me as her student teacher for this entire school year. I'd been praying about this, because my school/mentor placement will not only hugely affect my grad school education, it will also likely play a major part in where I get hired in the future. Two possible placements had already fallen through, and I was starting to feel seriously concerned. Most teachers, after all, are going back to school this week or next-- who was I going to be tagging along with??

The first teacher I'd been possibly placed with was an impressive teacher-- I watched one of her classes, and she had a great rapport with her students, and they were demonstrating great writing. But the school's theatre program had recently been cut altogether-- a big concern for a grad student hoping to get endorsed in both English and Drama. Although the teacher told me that I could assist one of their guest directors on a production, she said, "Do it at your own risk-- because we'll have our hands full with our English classes." The school would have also entailed a huge commute, and its student population was largely upper-middle class. Not totally the demographic I was hoping for... I want to teach lower-income students in the future, so I wanted to be in a situation that would teach me how to DO that.

I went back to the lady who coordinates placements. "Is there any way we could try to find me a school that has English AND Theatre classes I could observe...?" Ideally, I was hoping to be paired with a teacher that balanced both subjects, so that I could learn how to time-manage between those two very time-consuming subjects. But really, I'd be happy to just be IN a school with a theatre program.

A possible break seemed to present itself: one of my fellow teaching interns is currently the Performing Arts Director at his large, highly-esteemed Seattle district high-school. He was going back to school for his Masters, but had worked professionally for years, and had taught at the college and high-school level. He wouldn't have been able to "officially" mentor me, since we were both in the program, but I could OBSERVE his awesome classes... And in the meantime, I could be mentored by an English teacher down the hall. Additionally, this school has an incredibly diverse student body-- literally, any type of student I would ever expect to teach would be here. Talk about a learning opportunity! My intern friend and I got really excited about this prospect, and he talked to his principal, and I emailed the placement lady at my University. She came back to me with a pessimistic outlook: my cousins go to this high-school, and teaching in a school with 'relatives' is against University policy. This high-school is also apparently really hard to get into, and she guessed that they had already reached their "intern" quota for the year. "Don't get your hopes up," she said. Crap.

Monday arrived, August 18th, and I still had no idea where I'd be teaching for this year.

Then the placement lady emailed me. "I think I have what could be an excellent placement for you," she began...

And did.

She.

EVER.

This lady, Viola, is a high-school English teacher who also teaches the winter Musical Theatre class: a teacher that teaches both subjects! The school is a small alternative public school that focuses on incorporating a great deal of the arts and social justice themes into its curriculum. Did I MENTION that I went to a small alternative public school that focused on combining arts with academics and world-related themes?? This school is basically the Seattle version of MY high-school, which I LOVED. Viola also mentioned that she had just finished taking a workshop at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and would love to work with an intern that was interested in Shakespeare.

Fact: I am a Shakespeare GEEK. Like... major, MAAAAJOR geek. AND, when I was in high-school, our theatre classes went on yearly field trips to that same Shakespeare festival. What. I get to nerd-out with with my mentor teacher about Iambic Pentameter!!

AND, this woman has an extensive dance back-ground (she teaches a Fall elective on the Lindy-Hop, which I get to take too. Seriously??). Fact: I took ballet for ten years, jazz for five, modern for three, and tap for one. I LOVE DANCING.

ANNND, as we were going over the curriculum, she said that we would be working with the Social Studies classes on covering similar time periods and historical movements. This is exactly the type of thing I want to do as a teacher: open up literature to broader relevance and show kids how it connects to other elements of their world. She spoke about how important it was to her to teach in a way that helped students relate to it personally.

THATISTOTALLYWHATIWANTTODO!!!

She mentioned at one point during our coffee date: "Something you should probably know is that we'll have a lot of low income kids. We're about 60% free-and-reduced lunch." She looked at me like, "How will you do with that?" I looked back at her like, "Are you seriously saying this right now?"

I'll be teaching the kids I want to teach.

She said, "I give the students a tough curriculum, because I want them to believe that they can do it. I tell them, 'My daughter went to a private school, but I don't believe you should have to pay all that money to get a good education. You're going to be able to get that right here.' That makes them sit up straighter." That's what she tells them. That's what she teaches them. That's what...I...want...to...GAH! (Spazzing with excitement.)

We'll be covering the Middle-East, Asia, and then Africa in our curriculum. By the time we get to Africa, I'll be doing the majority of the teaching, and guess what we're reading? Things Fall Apart, by Chinua Achebe. Viola was thrilled to hear that I'd been to Africa. "You can use that in your teaching!" I'll get to revisit that transforming time in my life: I get to teach about Africa. She said, "Ooo, let's see if we can get someone to come in and teach them African dance!" Cool!!

Oh, and did I mention the school is like, three miles away?

I feel like this spot was created JUST for me. It is exactly, and everything that I want to do, and I loved meeting with Viola: she's going to be so much fun to work with. She's creative, and spunky, and energetic, and open. Praise the Lord-- what a gift, you know??

I "go back to school" on Tuesday!!!

Through the Storm

Last night was a really hard end to a really hard weekend. The big changes are brutally reshaping everything, and I wrote to Annie that, "for the rest of my life, I feel like I'm going to be walking on shattered glass."

This morning I woke up, and it was pouring down rain. I played guitar for a little while in my shadowy room, looking out at the heavy clouds, and the leaves being bent by the steady drops. I wanted to go out into it. I needed that storm on my skin; I don't know why. Maybe I felt that, if the outside felt like the inside, then the inside would hurt less. Maybe the idea of getting soaked in a rainstorm seemed cleansing. I don't really know.

But I put on a t-shirt and running pants, and flip flops and went out. There's a giant hill that leads straight up behind my house, and when you get to the top you can see the lake, and the other side of the city behind it, and the mountains behind that. My friend Aaron and I had watched a lightening storm from the top of that hill just last night. I usually start walks by heading up that hill; my legs like the wake-up call.

My hair was down. I just needed to be in the rain.

I got to the top of the hill and looked at the muddy bleary view; the lines of the city and lake and mountains had all run together. Sometimes getting to the top of the hill is enough, but I felt like I wanted to keep walking.

So I did, and my feet were wet because they were just in flip-flops, and dirt was getting caught between the soles of my feet and the sandals, and so I took them off. I took a few steps on the wet pavement in my bare feet, and that felt right. I don't know why. I stepped into a puddle and it felt soft. I stepped on the bumpy pavement and it hurt a little bit, but not like shattered glass. "This isn't as bad as it could be," I thought. And I kept walking.

I thought of me being in the storm, and how most people were in their homes, protected from the rain, or in their cars, protected from the rain, and it almost didn't seem fair to be in the wet and cold. But then I thought of some of the people I'd met in Africa, and I thought of some of the students I'd mentored that were going through really heavy things, and I remembered I wasn't the only one out in the rain.

I saw a woman with her dog, sitting under her porch roof, tucked back into a garden, and I almost went to talk to her, but then I thought that might have been even more strange than being out in the rain in the first place, walking in bare feet. I was sort of praying the whole time, and I remembered how I had thought that, part of God getting my back meant feeling His spirit curve around my spine and straightening me tall and helping me to walk with dignity, and so I straightened tall and lifted my chin and squared my shoulders and kept walking on that wet bumpy pavement in my bare feet. I had my shoes, and I knew I could put them on if my feet started hurting but I felt like God was nudging me. "You've got them if you need them, but I want you to know that you can do this."

So the walk turned into my own personal allegory, and I allowed myself to think about what the different moments coming in and out might mean. At times, I walked on the grass, and that was soft, and I thought that sometimes it will be easier, and it won't feel quite as stark or hard. I passed people every once in a while, and I thought that they probably thought I was a little strange, and I even thought of offering a couple times, "I think maybe I'm just a little weird," just to be helpful, but I didn't, I just let them think what they would think because people will SEE me walking through this, and I can try to be helpful, but really all I can be is me.

By the end of the walk, my feet were hurting, but I thought of Mary Ingles, who is one of my heroes, and who walked somewhere around 1,000 miles through the unsettled Ohio wilderness in the 1700's after she'd been taken from her home by an Indian raid. She walked in her bare feet, in early winter, with almost no food or clothes, and I thought, well SHE did it, and this walk through a Seattle neighborhood during a rainstorm in August wasn't nearly so hard as all that. And my feet weren't hurting badly enough to need my flip-flops yet, but I had them if I needed them, but, it was good to know that I was able to do it even without.

On the last bit, walking back down that big hill, I saw an apple tree and the apples were big, and probably almost ripe, and it was such a surprise, and it was something beautiful. Further along the road, there were summer roses dropping over their fence, and there were six perfect yellow ones, tinged with pink on the edges, fresh and lovely in the rain. They smelled beautiful. When I walked close to the fence to smell them, I stepped on a thick thatch of ivy that had crept over and along the sidewalk, and it was soft on my feet. Closer to my home, I saw a hedge of clematis, which is a vine that my mom has always had in our garden, and the flowers were bright pink six-pointed stars, open to the sky. I thought of how there will be lovely mercies at the end, even as my feet my hurt the most, that there will be cushioning moments and dear merciful gifts to make it easier.

I thought of how I'd begun the walk knowing that there would be rain, but walking in those cushioned shoes, and I thought that that's how I'd sort of begun this whole hard bit: knowing that it would be hard, but maybe walking on a cushion of hope that wasn't totally realistic. And this weekend was sort of like the shoes coming off, and it was really brutal, but there I was at the end of the walk in my bare feet, and I'd been able to get through it and there had been soft spots even along the way.

And I got home, and I was soaking wet, but the storm had woken my skin, and there was a freshness to it, and I opened the door to my house and I knew that it would be warm and dry and carpeted, and I thought, "Well we are going home, and that will be something entirely different from walking through a storm."

It is very difficult to feel hopeful at times. But I am trying. I'm trying to be in this, and acknowledge this, and to trust that there is a Rescuer, and to keep walking forward. Even when it's in the rain, even when it's just in my bare feet.

I'm not sure what else there is to do.

Pieces

My heart is broken tonight.

Written 8/10/2005

Misery landing
Like a tip toe
Tittering softly
With satisfaction?

What a discouraging thing
To concede a victory
To Defeat. It

Grinds away with
An unceasing hum:
Droning and drilling
What feels like a gaping hole.

Scrape, scrape
Like so many layers of
Paint off a wall
Color after color falls away
Leaving a bleak gray wash
And discarded pieces of
A rainbow
On the floor.

This is something of my
Present heart.

Just Call Me Gandalf

Okay, due to a recent blog about celebrity look-aliking, I went to this suggested website to do a "celebrity scan," which I've always poo-poo'ed as silly and somewhat narcissistic in the past, but which today seemed to be a far superior activity than writing my paper.

I uploaded a picture of myself:

...Expecting to get something along the lines of Kate Hudson, Drew Barrymore, and/or Gretchen Mol, who are the celebrities people have compared me to in the past.

Instead, I got nothing. I got REJECTED by the celebrity scan, which snippily informed me that no person in the world bore any similarities to that picture. What?? Lame.

I tried again. The first picture I'd chosen because it's a good picture, but it still looks like ME, like it's a very Greta-ish smile. After celebrity scan's rejection though, I had to up the ante. I uploaded a picture that's really good, but in all honesty makes me probably look more glamorous than I actually am, because my eyes are NEVER this light and dilated, and my hair is NEVER so effortlessly wind-swept. But, whine, I needed Celebrity Scan's validation:

THIS picture brought up results, starting with Jessica Biel and Katherine Heigl. What? Um, AWESOME! But where was Drew Barrymore? People mention her more than anyone else with me. I decided to try one more, and started looking through my I-Photo for a picture that wasn't QUITE as beaming-good as the last one, and that had more of a straight normal-Greta face. I didn't find that picture, but I found this one:

Haha! This picture is from a wedding, when I pulled out my tub of Vaseline--er, sorry, apparently I'm actually saving pennies by using the GENERIC "Petroleum Jelly" brand-- because I use it instead of chapstick when my lips get dry. I was actually intending to save this picture for a blog about how much I love Petroleum Jelly for its lip moisturizing purposes, and how if I was famous, I would freely endorse Petroleum Jelly just because I believe in it so much, and in the blog there was going to be a funny anecdote about how Petroleum Jelly once got me free food and drinks in a bar, but really-- who wants to read a blog about Petroleum Jelly?? And I can't save the picture for the P.J. blog, because I have to show the picture for this blog, because that is the picture from which Celebrity Scan announced that I LOOK LIKE THE FOLLOWING:

Sinead O'Conner. (And yes, they gave me the bald picture):


Jude Law:

What?? I look like a MAN?? Well... at least he's a good-looking man...

Oh but it didn't stop there: Just as I had finished telling myself that Jude Law has somewhat effeminate features after all, Celebrity Scan compared me to IAN MACKELLAN:

Ian MACKELLAN. A 70-something-year-old MAN, known for playing WIZARDS. What?? My silly Petroleum Jelly picture equals Ian Mackellan?!!

I have no way to make myself feel better about this. I can go find a staff and shake it at cave trolls all I want. It still will not make me feel better about being compared to THIS:


Stupid celebrity scan. I'm pretty sure I'm going to throw you into the bowels of Mordor.

Climbing out of the Skin

In the last several days, I have had at least five different conversations with five different people about fearing the beast that is failure. That was topped off by an article I read in the paper this morning about the Chinese's take on winning medals at the Olympics. Look at this snippet:

"China has staked its honor on these Games. It seems as if so much of its self-esteem is tied up in gold. Not silver. Not bronze.

Just gold.

The Chinese government will pay its athletes bonuses for gold medals. It has been reported that gold-medal winners on the table-tennis team will make $25,000 in bonuses.

...It's now a world where silver is considered failure.

Chinese swimmer Zhang Li won a silver earlier this week in an impressive race in the 400-meter freestyle, but reacted without joy. He never smiled during the medal ceremony. And when the winner, Korean Taehwan Park, pulled him into the pictures that the photographers demanded after the medal ceremony, Zhang sadly stared at their lenses with his disappointment.

Silver doesn't spend."

What is going on here? What is this world that we have arrived at, where a Silver Olympic Medal equates, as Iceman would put it, "A plaque in the ladies' room"?

In one of the books we're reading for grad school, there's a chapter about helping your students develop a healthy self-concept. The chapter talked about how, in our society, we have become increasingly award-focused, looking to all kinds of external evidence to prove our merit as students, and beyond that as human beings. We win with trophies, we succeed with A's, we flex with fancy career titles. Would anyone disagree that the standard measure of American success is judged by education level, job title, economic status, the appearance of family cohesiveness, and good looks? I mean... that sums it up, doesn't it? You give someone a quick once-over: yeah. They look good. They look successful.

The problem is, our happiness as a country has been shown to plummet since the 1950's--starting with Eisenhower's push to increase consumerism as a National value. It began as an effort to boost the economy after World War II, but the unstoppable progression of this national materialistic philosophy has damaged us in all kinds of ways.

We equate value with stuff. We define success with trophies. We need approval to be happy.

And Silver doesn't cut it.

This grad school book's implied answer to all that-- well, some of that-- was to develop an individually healthy self-concept-- an understanding of yourself that remains positive outside of what others think of you. The chapter warned against us only rewarding students with tangible trophies and compliments-- if they're never discovering the worth of what they're doing on their OWN-- will they ever? It talked about developing an intrinsic motivation in these students where, even if the possibility of a reward is taken away, the student is still motivated to learn and try.

In this context, mistakes are okay because you can learn from them.
Achieving a personal best is better than getting the best grade in the class.
The process is more important than the end result.
You can be imperfect and still be acceptable.

You can be imperfect and still be acceptable.

This last bit-- the desire to be perfect-- screws us up in all KINDS of ways I'm realizing. Women run into this all the time-- bodily dissatisfaction among females is considered a "normative condition" among psychologists. (I can't link to that one because I read that fact in a psychological study and I can't remember what study it was.) We generally process something along the lines of the following check-list: Is our hair thick enough? Are our eyes big enough? Are our lashes long enough? Are we thin enough? Are our legs long enough? How are our ankles? How are our toes? How toned are our stomachs? Are our boobs the right size? Is our hair the right color? Are our hands the right size? Are our noses shaped right?

If the answer to any one of those questions is a negative one, we have WORK to do. And the cosmetics industry has every product imaginable to help us fix it. Because: we need to be perfect.

The expectation for perfection is HUGE in relationships as well. We want happily ever after, and soul mates. We want to find The One, and we expect that once we do, we'll be complete. We grow up on this, but what honest relationship lives up to it? What kind of human can live up to it? If we try, the expectation eventually crushes us.

Say you have a dude that wants approval; that wants to be loved. Say he tries to be a hero and earn it.
Then say you have a girl who's been hurt and wants safety. Say she wants a rescuer.
Say the dude finds the girl, and she needs him. He rescues her, and she gives him approval. Two incomplete people almost-- almost-- can provide the other with what they need.
Then say the girl grows into herself; she becomes stronger, she becomes confident.
Say the guy isn't feeling that heroism anymore, and has lost out on his daily dose of approval.
Say the guy makes mistakes, like forgetting to pay the bills one month. Say he feels pressure from the girl to not let her down.
Say that they begin hiding things from each other, because they can't be perfect, and so the pretense grows and grows until it crushes them.

We can't be perfect. We can't get everything we need from each other.
And if we can't, then we will always fail at some point. And what's worse, we will inevitably let someone down.

But where does that leave us? Our culture is not a culture that accepts failure gracefully. True, we may still congratulate our athletes for getting Silver medals, but I would say that, overall, our national attitude is geared towards perfection.

So how do we handle that then? Does it start with having a self-concept that is tied to something other than external rewards, than human approval?

This is the picture in my head. I picture myself in these shadows with this skin on, and the skin wants rewards I can show people, that wants approval, that wants another human being to complete me, and that wants to complete another human being. And I picture myself wriggling out of that skin like it's a clingy, damp wet suit. And once I finally get done wriggling, and pulling, and hopping around until I'm out of it,

I step into a lit pool of grace.

I am alone, and bare, and shivering, and I am human. Every single one of my flaws is lit up in that pool. But as soon as they're brought to light, they begin to fade.

I am whole there. I am shown absolute approval for that trembling self. The skin is tossed away, and I am literally washed clean.

I really think this is the only way to get out of it. I think it's the only way to be content, to feel whole, to be okay with being imperfect. I know it has a lot to do with psychology too-- with getting to the place where you can acknowledge the merit of the journey even if it doesn't reap a reward. But even then, understanding your wholeness first is necessary-- if you're whole OUTSIDE that reward, you can see how great the journey was. If you're not whole without the reward, then the journey was worthless.

And being out of that skin means we can be in relationships with one another as people. As just people. I started writing a song once, that tried to get at this idea. The chorus goes:

It's just women and men trying here,
And none of us whole:
We're either dangerous pretense,
Or scared naked souls.
I'm not enough to complete you,
But I'll do what I can
To give you the best of my heart
With a steady hand.

I want to be a teacher that allows mistakes, and encourages the process, and loves students for their hearts and effort, not just their accomplishments. I want to be a girlfriend, and eventually a wife that is open about my weaknesses, and who sees my partner as simply a man, as-- I hope-- an HONEST man. I want to be a human that is whole not because of what I do, or who I am, but because I am loved by a Savior that took care of the perfection part already.


That is the self I want to live in.

Imaginary Conversation Amongst Spiders that were in My Close Proximity

In the imagined conversation, the spiders have walkie-talkies.

Kkkksschhhk. Come in Eight Pretty Eyes, this is Big Boy. Over.

Kkkksschhhk. Eight Pretty Eyes coming in. What's the situation Big Boy? Over.

Kkkksscchhhk. Suspect is still in the shower, but the water has stopped. I expect her to emerge at any moment now. Over.

Kkksschk. What is your position Big Boy?

Kkkksscchk. I am positioned prominently on the white wall, legs spread wide to maximize my breadth.

Kkksschkk. Which is enooormous, Big Boy...

Kkkssschk. Don't talk dirty to me now, Pretty Eyes, I've got a job to do. Over.

Kkssccchk. Sorry babe. Over.

Kkkksscchk. It's okay. I AM enormous.

Kkksscchkk. (murmured giggling.) Over.

Kkkssccckk. Ooohhhh, Eight Pretty Eyes, what I wouldn't give to be over that closet doorjamb with you right now... Over.

Kkkksscchkk. I wish you were here too Big Boy. But Queen Hairy Legs was clear on this one. We have to test the human's tolerance of our kind. And we have to evaluate her level of timidity. Over.

Kkkssscchk. Which is why I so bravely volunteered my massive self for intimidation purposes. Over.

Kkksssscckk. You ARE brave, Big Boy. And sooo massive.... But be careful. Over.

Kkkssccchkk. Please. It's a small white female. I expect her to be clutching at the shower curtain and screaming for the old man to help her within seconds of seeing me. I'll be on the ceiling by then. Over.

Kkkscchhk. All the same. I need you babe, I have egg sacs in mind. Bulging egg sacs with future baby Big Boys that will be MASSIVE, and ENORMOUS, and BRAV--

Kkksccchhkk. ALERT, Suspect has emerged! She's toweling off! She has not yet seen me! Over!

Kkkssckkh. What is your position?! Over!

Kkssccckkh. On the wall, on the white wall. I AM HUGE!! FEEEARRR ME! She's seen me, the human has seen me!

Ksscccskh. Did she scream?? Is she clutching the shower curtain??

Kksccskkh. Um-- no. She said, "AAAaagh, frick," but didn't scream. She's-- what is she doing??

Kkksccssk. What is she doing, Big Boy???

Kkksscchkk. She got the toilet paper-- She's-- she's coming this way with the toilet paper!!

Kssskkcchk. RUN, Big Boy, RUN!

Kkskscchkk. WhatisshewhatisshedoingAAAHHHhhh--???!!!! (crunch.)

Kkskkcchk. Big Boy? BIG BOY, COME IN!! COME IN, BIG BOY!!

(Static)

Kkkscckhhkk. BIG BOY??! BIG BOY!!! COME IN BIG BOY!

(Sound of flushing)

Kkkssccchkk. NOOOOOOOOOOO! Eight Pretty Eyes to Big Boy, DO YOU COPY??? (sobs.)


.........



Kkksscchhk. (sniffs.) Queen... Queen Hairy Legs. This is Eight Pretty Eyes. Over.

Kkskscckhk. This is the Queen, what is the status of the mission? Over.

Kkksscchkk. I think... I think Big Boy has been killed by the Suspect. (sobs.) Over.

Kkkssccchk. So the Suspect has a higher intimidation level than we thought she did. Damn. Well, RIP Big Boy, he was a good solider. Are you prepared for your part of the mission?

Kksksccchk. (sobs.)

Kkkscchkk. Eight Pretty Eyes, do you copy?? Over.

Kksccshhk. Yes Queen, I copy. I just...

Kkkscchk. Keep it together Eight. The Suspect is more dangerous than anticipated, and you're needed for your part of the mission. Are you capable of evaluating her killing-effort level? Over.

Kkskcchkk. Yes... yes I think so. I just... hover out of her reach, and see if she gets a chair to close the gap to... To... Kill me! (sobs.)

Kkssccchkk. Excellent. And if she comes close, you have clearance to run, do you copy?

Kkscccshkk. (sobs.)

Kssccscshkk. EIGHT EYES, do you copy?

Ksccshkk. Yes. I copy. But I don't know if I even want to run... I just... Want to be with Big Boy...

Kksccshkk. Keep it together solider. You can't die until you've laid your eggs. Procreation is our first objective. Remember that. Over.

Kksccshkk. Yes your highness... HERE SHE COMES! THE KILLER!

Kkscccshk. What is your position? Over.

Kkksccshkk. High over the door jamb. She's seen me!!! She's not going for the chair though... She's just looking at me with a disgusted expression...



AAgggh, frick. Gramps! There's ANOTHER one...!


That is the end of the Imaginary Walkie-Talkie'd Conversation Between Spiders. I didn't kill Eight Eyes. But I think she must be grief stricken indeed because she is still above the door jamb, after eight or more hours post flushing. Poor Big Boy.

But that's what you get for being an over-cocky sunuva...spider.

?

Ack, a disclaimer, if you're transferring to this blog from Annie's blog, this is probably NOT the entry you want to read, go read the one before, go read "From the Traveling Archives," because that's much more in the funny stinky cheese vein than this one. If I could figure out how to temporarily pull this blog, I would, but I can't figure out how to do that without deleting it altogether. So-- read at your own risk I suppose. Or just read the one before. --Greta

I wrote a new song, and I liked it, and I used guitar parts that were completely different than anything I've played before, and I was excited about this new song and so I sent it to a few people. I sent it to a new friend because he's a good guitar player, and I wanted to share the guitar parts with someone who would understand about different guitar parts. He just called, but it was late so I didn't answer, but he left a message and in the message he said:

"I got your song. I really liked it. It was really sad. But I liked it."

And I suddenly remembered just how sad the song is, because it's about the hard things that have been happening, and I suddenly felt embarrassed because who wants to voluntarily accept that into their life? And I'd forgotten about how sad it is, because I've been practicing the new song so much, and working on the new guitar parts, so even though I sing the lyrics often, I've become somewhat detached, which is a good thing, because I sing about these sad things and the more I do, the less power they have over me, which is a good thing. But I'd forgotten that this new friend hasn't heard the song as often as I've sung it, and probably doesn't know that even though some things are really hard, I'm also still in a good mood a lot of the time. And I felt silly for sending it and embarrassed that I asked him to listen to these big words, when really I just wanted him to tell me that he liked the guitar parts. And then I felt embarrassed for sending it at all, because I suppose in a way I was fishing for a compliment, even if it was mainly just wanting to share a new discovery with a friend, but it probably seemed like fishing for a compliment, and that made me feel embarrassed.

And I wonder, I guess, if my life is just too sad for people right now, because I know that when friends are being good friends, they step in and they say, "I'm here for whatever you need," but some weights are big, and some times are just not convenient for other people to step in and help lift them, even if they say, "In the middle of the night, WHENEVER." And I don't want to ask people to do that if they're saying those things mostly to show that they love me, because actually asking them to "BE THERE" is a really big thing to ask. And even though I really like this new song, and I want to play it for people, and I was planning on playing it at the open mic near my house, I worry that every time I play it, people will think, "Wow. This girl's life sucks. She is really sad. I don't know if I want to be around someone with that kind of sadness."

And I'm writing this on this blog, and I feel embarrassed to splatter this all over this blog, because people read this blog from cities that I don't know people in, and maybe you'll think I'm a basket case, and what is wrong with our generation that we would be comfortable splattering our innermost thoughts and emotions on a publicly accessed internet site?? and why would I want to participate in something like that, and if what I'm worried about is sharing too much, then WHY AM I SHARING SO MUCH?

I think I want to know that people will still be there. I think I want to know that I'm not too much. I think I want to know that I'm not too sad. I want people to hear this song, and to be able to just enjoy it, and I feel embarrassed that I'm sad but I really like the words in this song, and I think it's a good song.

It's not healthy to ask for validation from strangers. And I know and comprehend, truly, that I am taken care of by an amazing Friend who is omnipresent, and ever so patient with my sighs and questions and grins and weepings, and that really is sufficiently sustaining. So. So I don't even know if I want comments on this blog, because they might make me feel embarrassed again that I've splattered and that I've leaned on people that maybe weren't asking for it, but if there are no comments, that might make me feel embarrassed too, that I'm too much, and quick go to another website, go to a funny blog, and no comments sort of leaves La Vie D'une Fille on an island and just silly in a way that isn't fun. And I'm good at being on islands, but I think I'd like company too, because I just want to hope that I'm not too much.

So?

What.

This is me. For better or worse. And I like this new song. And I think I'll sing it at the open mic, and I just won't tell them it's autobiographical, and if they figure out that it is, and it's too much for them, then they don't have to talk to me afterwards. And if this new friend thinks it's too much, then that's okay too because this is me. For better or worse. And all I can be in this moment is that.

So.

I'll sing my song.

From the Traveling Archives

A bit of humor for you, via a silly evening in Nice with some Aussie boys that never made it onto the blog. Enjoy!

Setting: In our Nice (but not really nice) hostel room, which is almost entirely taken up by four bunks. Heidi and I are both in top bunks, our Irish lassies are both in bottom bunks. Lorna's bottom bunk is RIGHT by the bathroom door. There is one open window looking out onto the street.

Adrian: (Adrian is absolutely gorgeous, sweet-tempered, tall, tan, bright blue eyes. He stumbles in. Looks around drunkenly.) Oh... everyone's here. Hi... girls.
Chris: (Chris is short, with a good body, very tan, spry; cute but not gorgeous. He comes in chipper.) Hiii ladies! Here's the birthday boy! Come on Adrian. Let's change and let's go.
Adrian: (Leans against my bunk.) I'm a bit... sorry girls... I'm a bit rubbish.
Chris: Here's your water. Drink up. You'll be fine mate!
Adrian: I'm not... I'm... (Smiles weakly at me.) So sorry...
Greta: Don't apologize Adrian, you're fine!
Chris: Right then! Drink your water mate. You can do it!
Adrian: I don't think I can... I think... (Lowers his head between his folded arms on my bunk.) Unnngh....
Chris: (Cheerfully.) He's had a bit too many. That's alright. It's your birthday!
Adrian: So... embarrassed. It's only 10:30...
Greta: Don't worry about it, they can totally sneak up on you.
Chris: C'mon mate. We're going back out. I need to change my shirt... (Starts rummaging through pack.) I've lost so many t-shirts on this trip! Come on mate. You'll be fine. We'll just keep bringing you water!
Adrian: It's not like water is the...Savior...of all....Unngghhhh....
Greta: How you doing?
Adrian: (Smiles weakly.) What's-- what's your name again?
Greta: It's Greta.
Adrian: That's right-- I-- unnghhh-- excuse me-- (Goes to bathroom quickly, shuts door.)
Chris: You a'right mate? That's good, puke it up, room for more! (Grins triumphantly at us girls.) I've lost so many t-shirts on this trip! (Strips off his current one. Puts on a blue NY one.)
Greta: Chris, I think that is an EXCELLENT t-shirt.
Chris: Really?
Greta: That is an amazing t-shirt.
Chris: (Looks at me skeptically.) Naaah... (Strips it off.) This one better? I don't like NY anyway!
Greta: Oh, I was teasing you Chris, it really was a fine t-shirt!
Heidi: They're both good.
Chris: Which do you like better? Blue? Or green?
Heidi: Umm... both. But the green a tiny bit more. What's it say?
Chris: Erm, it says, uh... Mossimo... WARRIORS! Hunh! (Flexes and grunts.) Come on mate! (Goes and knocks on bathroom door.) Come on. Let's go.
Adrian: (Inaudible moaning)
Chris: Should I come in? You want me to? Sh, ladies, shh, it's alright, this is gentlemen stuff. (Grins and postures, waggles his eyebrows. Backs into the bathroom, shushing and posturing.) Sh, ladies-- just one mo'--
Adrian: (Groaning)
Chris: We'll get you water. Come on mate. Puke it up and let's go. (Pause-- moaning.) You're alright. It's your birthday.
Adrian: (LOUD SUDDEN RETCHING.)
Chris: Oohhh...
Adrian: (RETCHING. VIOLENT SOUNDS OF RETCHING.)
Chris: It's your birthday.
Adrian: (Coughs. More retching.)
Chris: (Comes out of bathroom cheerfully.) Well, he's not going anywhere! Here's the rubbish bin, just in case he, you know, needs a little help. He's havin' a poo. You know-- UNNGGHHH! (Mimes pooping. Grins delightedly.) Unnggh! Havin' a poo. Lots of trouble. UNNGH! (Dances around the room, "pooing.")
Heidi: We're sorry for being noisy last night-- we hope we didn't wake you up!
Chris: What?? No. You didn't at all! You must have been- like-- TIP TOEING! Sh! And lookin' over your shoulder-- sh! And-- oh! (Starts to climb up Heidi's bunk and pauses dramatically, looking over his shoulder.) Oh! Shh! And oh! Tip toeing! (Swings back down.) Come on, you girls should come out.
Greta: We have to catch an early train...
Heidi: We have to be up by 7:15.
Chris: What time? I'm going to set my alarm. Yours will go off. Then- mine. 7:15. DONE.
Laragh: What about us? We don't want to wake up so early.
Chris: Aaaah! Hi! What's your name?
Laragh: Laragh.
Chris: Laura! And you?
Lorna: Lorna.
Chris: You Irish? Look at your book!! (Lorna is reading Danielle Steele.) That's too many pages.
Lorna: Yea, Irish, yea.
Chris: I'm Irish!! Well, Australian. But Irish heritage! And Cuddles is Irish.
Laragh: Who's Cuddles?
Chris: Oh-- the other Chris. Two of us. But-- we call him Cuddles cause he's a bit chubby. (Looks over at me. Gasps.) What??? (Comes over close, peers right into my face.) You're... gorgeous!!
Greta: Thank you...
Chris: (To Heidi) She's... GORGEOUS!
Heidi: I know, she IS!
Chris: (Looks back at me. Shakes his head.) Wow. You're. Bloody gorgeous. Gosh.
Heidi: You should really turn your alarm off, you don't need to kill yourself getting up early for our sakes.
Chris: No! I've got it! What time again? 10:15?
Heidi: (Pauses.) Yes.
Laragh: Quarter to eleven.
Chris: What?
Heidi: Quarter to twelve.
Chris: Nooo... I've just been to Italy, I see Pinocchio noses on all o' you! (Friends yell at him from the street below.) Excuse me ladies-- (yells out window) STOP BEIN' SO LOUD, SOME OF US ARE TRYIN' TO SLEEP!!! (Looks at us, delighted.) Someone got me drunk! Don't know how it happened. I should get goin'. Night ladies!! (Leaves.)
Adrian: (Has been loudly retching this whole time. Finally-- after about 10 minutes-- he exits the bathroom and swings precariously from the bathroom door. Lorna reels from the smell. Adrian is an absolute mess, pants undone, incapacitated. Stumbles to bed in his cowboy boots and passes out.)

The end. :)