I'll Be Home for Christmas

Merry Christmas!

Yeah, so it's not close yet, but I'm not going to be around to say it properly. Am I going to die? Maybe--I haven't thought about it. Am I going to be out of touch? Absolutely.

I'll be here starting December 19th:



Oh...that doesn't tell you anything? Yes, I know, it is a pretty picture. Ok, here, how about now:



Still no luck? Man...I guess that picture is also pretty vague. I mean, there's grass and flowers, but what place, outside Death Valley, doesn't have a freaking flower? This picture may help more...



Right? Got it now?? I know you've got it now--clear water, void of trash?



It's Büsingen am Hochrhein!!

I'm going to experience my first ever (see: EVER) white Christmas. And it's going to be in Switzerland!!!



I am so far in love it hurts.

Boomerang

Here is a revised version of a short story I wrote for my Creative Writing Class...

Enjoy! :D


Boomerang
By: Stephanie Rosemeyer

When I first started renting my soul, I wondered what people were going to trade it for. The first time, I was shared shitless. I kept thinking what I would do if it didn’t work. I pictured all the dogs of Hell finding me in my aluminum trailer on my plot of land in Tuscaloosa. I saw my body ripped to pieces for finding a loop in Satan’s scheme.

That’s what the guy thought would happen, too. He went to church and played the bongos. He was black and said he didn’t want to take a chance on ruining his chances of getting into Heaven by parting with his own soul. He told me, “I’m already saved, thank you very much. Ain’t no way I’m gonna be damned when yours is for rent Craig’s List.” I thought his selfish motives would work for my experiment. He wanted to open a restaurant and needed some killer recipes. I get breakfast there—on the house.

Satan’s dogs didn’t come calling. A month later, when I was sleeping, I felt something big and heavy pressing down on my body. I couldn’t open my eyes or inhale, but I didn’t care if I suffocated to death painfully slow. I was more afraid of having to live longer with that oppression so I stayed still, deflating my own lungs. Voices from the corpse atop me came into my head and every cell in my body felt like spikes, grinding against one another. Satan said I would endure him if I ever sold my soul again. I laughed for the next hour because it kept deflating my lungs.

My next customer was a woman who wanted to be a country singer and make it big. She had been really sweet—blonde, cowboy boots, sweet smile. She was hesitant to rent my soul at first. “Honey,” she said to me. “Are you in an abusive relationship? I used to work at a woman’s shelter and I know the signs when I see ‘em.” I told her I was happy with my arrangement and asked her why she didn’t just sign up with a label. “You’ve got the boob thing going on, and it’s a lot cheaper to sleep with an executive.” She told me she didn’t want to have to sleep around for someone to recognize her talent. Who am I to judge, I said and took her money. That month, I slept with my lights on so I could see him whenever he came. The spikes came back and he pulled chunks of my hair out he was so pissed, but I was more upset because he broke my light bulbs. He left a demon at my door that taunts me every morning when I wake up. He stopped trying to bother me when I told him his dip shit boss should’ve thought of a return policy for the souls he takes. Fuck him. I found the loophole.

Another time, a man came to me who wanted to be in politics. “No, not President—that’s too much shit to deal with. I want to be chief of something,” he told me. He spoke down to me like a politician as if I was a damn five year old. I told him he should think it through a little more and he told me he wasn’t going to worry about it. I got pissed at his attitude. “Satan isn’t a god damned career counselor,” I told him. I never voted for that asshole.

I was getting cocky and the king of Hell agreed. He started scratching tallies on me as if I didn’t know how many times I had sold my soul for someone else to use. There are scabs all around the ten lines that pierce through my body. He can keep ‘em coming. When my soul comes back, it gains five years of life—that’s the stipulation for losing your soul on someone else’s account.

When I was young, I never knew how desperate people are to get out of their shitty lives, but they all want the same fucking thing—my soul to save theirs. There was one time a man came to me, desperate as all hell. His wife left him and he told me, “I want to kill the bastard who touched the bitch in my house! She’s my wife and, damnit, I love her!” I made sure he wanted to pay the seven digits I charge for a job he could do with a piece of steel. He thought Satan would have a better method of getting vengeance. I looked at the demon at my door, sweeping my porch, and I thought he was a dumb ass. After I swiped his credit card, I told him what he should’ve done. “Fuck a whore and use her dirty needles to stab the pussy you call wife. You should’ve just stabbed that bitch with some STD.”

That night, he visited me. I guess he thinks I’ll stop with more frequent visits from him, and I’m pretty sure ‘ol Beelzebub is getting used to tormenting me. He’s a predictable, sick fuck and shows up before I get to watch CSI. He said he would stab me with the dirty needles his legions used. He was blinded by rage and almost tore my head off. I told him to suck it and come up with his own ideas.

One time, I had a seven year old come in. I asked her who the hell she was and how did she find my trailer. I didn’t even use Craig’s List anymore. They wanted me to fill out some survey, so I switched to MySpace. But this little monster said she heard about me from her grandma and wanted my help to get her mom a job. I told her I didn’t need to help some bitch open her legs. “Tell your grandma that I don’t do pro-bono. I’m not here to help sorry shits like you.” I made her repeat my message. Her voice shook, but she said what I told her to tell her mother: “Get your mother fucking ass off the couch! I’m a responsibility! Use some lube on that shit and make your cunt useful as some trucker’s fuck!” She even threw the bottle of KY jelly at me like I told her to.

No one bought my soul that month but Satan still came. I made him chamomile and he just poured the boiling water on me. It’s petulant. The loophole is that he can’t kill me while people are buying my soul. Every time some desperate fuck buys it, it comes right back to me like a mother fucking boomerang. The bastard who thinks he’s so smart for blindsiding God didn’t see me coming. The only thing he cares about is having more of a soul count than God.

Fuck him. I’ll sell my soul for eternity.

Note to Self:

I want this cake.



SO EFFING ADORABLE!!!
<3

I have Editor's Block, Not Writer's Block

I am really frustrated by my writing.

I'm in a conference course with Professor Doody and I am supposed to turn in 50 pages of an original manuscript by the end of the semester. I have 12 pages, but it gets better. I've been working on them, tweaking, rewording, etc, and I like what I have. Then I wrote an email to Doody about what I'm doing with the pages and it hit me:

What I have isn't going to work.

I may be curbing my writing style to fit what he wants from me, but I agree with what he is telling me. I need to start off with drama. I am not good at writing drama because I never know how much is too much, what is going too far, if anything is even realistic...blah blah blah

I realized that anything can happen in life, and things I write can be ridiculous. But, I want it to be plausible. I don't want what I write to be outlandish stories that no one can relate to, but I think what I need is a story to base my ideas off.

I thought I had that--a friend's relational situation I was "mimicking" but it isn't the same at all.

I hate writing. It's so hard. I edit myself too much, and Doody called me on it. He said I'm too hard on myself. It's true. Like, right now, I am looking at what I wrote and I see "I" everywhere. I want to go through and edit my blog to minimize the use of "I" so I don't seem sell-obsessed, which I am.

Fuck it.

I hate writing. I don't want to analyze myself anymore.

The end.

Monkey See Monkey Do

Today my small group leadership class was pretty hilarious. Somehow, on the topic of nonverbal group communication, the focus shifted to homosexual tendencies of the males on campus to "hold each other and whisper sweet nothings in each others ears."

While my Prof was quite visually recoiling in his disgust, there was one brave soul who stood up for the baffling enclave and compared it to a football team. Like football players who also display homosexual acts (grabbing a guy's ass, etc), it is accepted because they are a part of a team and as such, their masculinity is pre-estalished. Likewise, because the group of guys on campus have lived in one of the campus dorms, there is a shared history--a bond, if you will--that establishes the same team-like mentality.

It was really nice to have that explained to me.

Then, the topic got a little confusing. Another reason these guys do it is because they are wary of interacting with the opposite sex. That's right. Because the girls on campus are so aggressive and demand a "ring by spring", any interaction with a male is practically a date. Guys have realized that many girls on campus do, indeed, talk to their friends after a social interaction (i.e. a "Hello" in the caf) and they sit together to analyze what he meant.

One girl in the class clarified this point by saying that one of her friends quite literally would have a single conversation with a male and come up to the dorm and say, "Well, I don't know if it would work out because he doesn't want kids."

What.

In.

The.

Fucking.

Hell.

Is.

Wrong.

With.

These.

Girls.

Before you get excited that I am frustrated with women "accepting traditional gender roles", calm yourself. I am a feminist. I believe in equality for each gender if the person's skill set is viable but I also believe that women are not men. Period. For the most part, women do not make as much as men because they do not negotiate their salaries, they do not pit companies against one another in a kind of bidding war for her employment, and women are typically not as aggressive in the workplace as men.

Because I believe that, I know that when I enter the workplace, I will fight against the kind of passive acceptance many women have because I know that employers will never give the best card first. You have to fight for that shit.

[on a side note--to a degree, men have to fight for this, too. attaining a fair wage is not a gender-mutual issue because employers want to pay people as little as possible!]

To the point--I was surprised when I heard that guys are afraid to interact with women because they seem desperate. Quite honestly, it is that trend with women on my campus exercise, and it makes me mad to know that I was right.

No wonder guys don't talk to me when I try to engage in what I intend to be strictly friendly conversation--they think I am desperate for an engagement. It further hinders my quest to be friends with them because I am thick. Of course, thick women are ALWAYS hard up for a man in their lives.

FUCK!!

Stupid desperate girls, throwing themselves on guys when I want to have a guy friend to distract me from drama-laden estrogen-bearing psychos!

Ugh. Just...ugh.

Martin Luther King Jr. is a Pervert

People say the craziest things. Here are a few little dandies that I've had emailed to me:

"If you sometimes feel a little useless, offended or depressed...always remember that YOU were once the fastest and most victorious little sperm out of millions."

"Light travels faster than sound. This is why some people appear bright until you hear them speak."

"We'll be friends until we're old and senile. Then we'll be new friends!"

"I don't care if you lick windows, take the special bus, or occasionally pee on yourself...you have in there, sunshine, you're friggin' special!"

My favorite, though, is from a paper I read at work. I wrote it down verbatim because it was just THAT good:

"I attract a lot of perverted men whom tend to ask if I am a stripper. The answer is no, and little do they know that I have a passion for dance, drastic makeup, heels, and tattoos."

Believe it or not, this last quote was embedded in the intro of a paper about Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I have a Dream" speech.



In his fight for equality for all, do you think he was considering the future of exotic dancers?

An Article and a Half

I have subscribed to a few newsletters from Slate magazine because I appreciate the point of view and stories the site puts forth. Usually, I skim over the newsletter about Culture (See: "Culturebox"), but in my inbox today was a paragraph of this following article, and it so compelled me that I had to read it all.

It's effing hillarious.

"The J. Crew Catalog Destroyed My Spirit--Why mailmen give up."
By Paul Collins
Posted Thursday, Nov. 20, 2008, at 6:59 AM ET

Illustration by Mark Alan Stamaty. Click image to expand.It's a discovery worthy of a murder mystery: In a parking lot in the mountains outside Santa Cruz, Calif., a truck is found abandoned, the keys still hanging in the door. Inside the police find … a note? A body?

Not quite. Try 13,000 pieces of undelivered mail.

The recent discovery in Bonny Doon, Calif., of a former mail carrier's old stash was not exactly unprecedented. There's also the recent arrest of a Detroit postal carrier who squirreled away 9,000 pieces of mail into a storage locker, a work dodge worthy of a Seinfeld plot. A week earlier, a postman was nailed for hoarding 27,000 letters in Leeds, England; the week before that revealed a postal hoarder with 20,000 letters in Frankfurt, Germany. ("[He] didn't deliver mail addressed to himself either," a police statement dryly noted.) And all of them were dwarfed by the North Carolina postman who admitted in August to filling his garage and burying in his backyard nearly a tractor trailer's worth of undelivered junk mail.

But the hoarding and abandonment of mail is a phenomenon that extends at least back to 1874, when Providence, R.I., postman Benjamin Salisbury was caught throwing mail into the ocean "to avoid the trouble of delivery." Some things don't change much; a Long Island postman used the same MO in 1954, when he blamed a bum leg from the war for forcing him to dump his mail off a local pier. The scheme kind of worked … until the tide came in.

In 2006, the last year the U.S. Postal Service released figures, there were 515 arrests and 466 convictions for "internal theft." That figure includes abandonment and hoarding cases, where the motive has remained constant since the days of penny postage: A worker gets overwhelmed or simply disinclined to finish his route. "It's not a huge issue," Agapi Doulaveris of the U.S. Office of the Inspector General told me. "We work on referrals."

And there's the rub: For a referral to happen, first someone has to notice.

The deliveries affected are often what the U.S. Postal Service now terms "standard mail"—and what the rest of us call "junk." With the railroad-driven growth in catalogs, postal abandonment stories were already common by the 1880s. The New York Times complained of mailmen burning their bundles and in 1883 ran the immortal headline "To Deliver His Letters Some Time" after the discovery of a mailman's old stash in the basement of an Upper East Side saloon.

For a mail-sack slacker, there's a dark allure to hoarding junk. Think about it: If someone's first-class mail with paychecks or credit card bills doesn't show up, they're liable to complain. But if the umpteenth Eddie Bauer catalog doesn't arrive, well … who's gonna notice?

So, who does notice? The discovery of hoards follows some common narratives: They've been caught by meter readers, by housesitters feeding a rabbit for a vacationing postman, and by state troopers making traffic stops. A number of "dead-letter cars"—old clunkers filled up like a junk-mail piñatas—have been discovered by mechanics and used-car dealers. And a number of cases are broken after the stashed mail catches fire: In 1974, back-to-back cases a week apart yielded 1,200 sacks of mail in a Louisville, Ky., attic and another tractor-trailer load in a burning attic in suburban Connecticut.

Discovery becomes more likely in cases where a rogue carrier indiscriminately tosses both first-class mail and junk. In 1978, the postmaster of Roxbury, Conn., was retired after postal inspectors in a late-night raid found letters in the central office's trash cans. Among the locals, both Arthur Miller and William Styron were missing mail. "I have had over the years a large amount of mail for a well-known writer—I guess that's the term," Styron mused afterwards to the New York Times. "And in the last year and a half I've been saying to myself, 'Well, is my stock declining?' "

All these cases, however, bow before the Chicago mail scandals of 1994. Ranked dead last among cities in postal customer satisfaction, that year Chicago found itself on the receiving end of hoard stories seemingly every week. Letters burning under a railway viaduct, letters rotting under a porch, letters stuffed into a dumpster: The stuff was even found hiding at the post office itself. The post office, indeed, was as much a problem as the individual carriers: "Complaint lines might ring as often as 85 times without being answered. …" noted reporter Charles Nicodemus. "Mammoth mounds of undelivered mail were found at several stations—including one pile 800 feet long, nearly the length of three football fields."

It seemed an almost inevitable coda when, five years later, a final Chicago stash caught fire in a home and took down its mailman with it.

To be fair, the problem is not peculiar to the United States. Postal hoards turn up everywhere from Norway to Malaysia, where a postal worker caught hoarding 21,255 letters complained, "Why should I deliver the letters when I am being paid less than 500 Ringgit?" He might have taken a lesson from Italy, which gamed the practice to squeeze some money out of it: In 1974, the Poste Italiane was caught selling new mail to paper-pulp plants for $14 a ton. "Most of the mail has now been turned into cheap cardboard suitcases," the Times of London reported. Shamed by the resulting outcry, the postal service then resorted to stuffing letters into unofficial "ghost trains" that circled the country without any destination.

True to form, though, the most spectacularly eccentric cases come from Britain, where in 2004 one Staffordshire carrier achieved a monumental stash of 130,000 pieces of mail. Far from simply being too tired to carry their mail, British carriers have given excuses ranging from low blood sugar to the post-traumatic stress of having served in Northern Ireland. Most memorably, last year a cross-dressing carrier in Leeds took revenge on local yobs by tossing their mail after they made fun of her newly acquired lipstick and heels.

But when one hears of a Yorkshire postman who filled every room of his house with 35,000 undelivered letters, it's hard not to find a more universal parable of the overwhelming reach of modern communication and consumerism. The carrier, Rodger Parkinson, seemed almost relieved that his mail stash was discovered.

"I'm glad in a way," he told his judge. "It needs sorting."

The Corn Diet

When I was 13, I was helping my mom make hamburgers and while we were cooking them, I saw the fat bubbling around it and blood seep out from the sides. After finding out more information about the packaging, processing, and handling of cows, I gave up meat altogether...until I found chicken. Given that every diet requires some source of protein, I embarked on a chicken frenzy. I love chicken. It's not as fatty as beef, does not bleed, and since it does not gave to be ground up into stringy tubes to eat, like ground beef, I appreciate the whole packaging of chicken breasts, thighs, and wings.

But today, I read this article: http://health.msn.com/nutrition/articlepage.aspx?cp-documentid=100220333>1=31036

Seems like no matter what kind of protein we eat, it's fortified with corn. Given the indigestible nature of the vegetable, I question the value of eating meat. If I eat a chicken that is basically a cob of corn, I don't receive any nutrients from that.

Maybe the only way to make sure we're eating food that will benefit our bodies will be to eat things that do not live off other things. Plants can't be corn-fed, and beans aren't made from animals, so hello protein.

I want to buy a few acres of land in an unpolluted carpet in the sky where I can plant fruit trees, raise chickens, and have a vegetable garden. Maybe I'd even have a cow so I could have some milk and cheese. Then, I would know exactly what I was eating.

I think farmers should learn about being responsible stewards of their trade. One thing I can't figure out is how they are losing money--corn is dirt cheap. They feed their animals with corn. They sell the animals to McDonalds and Burger King. Where is the lost money?

This is a stupid topic. I hate things. God, damn it all! Just give me a chicken that eats what it's supposed to eat so I can eat it. The food chain is the only hierarchy I care about, not the game corporations play with the working class. Those dirty bastards.

Cute as Less Than a Quarter

I love the Cake Wreck blog. I truly do. Not only does it provide me another thing to do besides checking my email all day, but I feel justified in liking it, even though I only have one reason.

Ahhh, cake blogs.

Something happened to me the other day that I thought was really funny. I went to Stater Brothers to get some brownie food stuffs for the STD meeting today (yeah, I'm making peanut butter-chocolate brownies), mainly because I needed to get change from my this-needs-to-last-me-till-I-get-paid-$20 to do laundry. I was paying for the chocolaty peanut butter goodness and it came out to be $-something.22

Twenty two cents--great! I will have change for laundry! I thought. I gave the guy, Owen, my $20 and waited for the change machine to spit out my .88 cents. Instead, Owen handed me $9.00

I know I am bad at math, but I knew this was not the correct change.

"It was 22 cents, right?" I asked Owen.
"Don't worry about it," he said. "I've got it."

I looked into my wallet and saw the pennies and dimes and change that were not quarters, frustrated with my need for quarters to do my laundry. So, I handed him a dollar and said that he didn't need to do that because I needed change.

Then he handed me four quarters. I needed quarters.

"Have a good day," he said with a smile, and it wasn't even said in the fake way cashiers say it. I told him to have a good one too and took my bossy self to my car and thought about why he was so adamant about covering the .22 cents.

Then I figured that either he wasn't in the mood to do heavy subtracting, or he saw me and thought Owen, this is a pretty girl. Let her know she is special, and take care of the piddly change on her bill. Twenty-two cents? She's worth it.

Turning Points

Hehe ^_^

Prop 8 passed.

Anyway, I used to be really on top of my homework. Now it's sucking me back into its never-ending depths. It's like one of Rosie O'Donnell's dresses: just fold after fold of material to get through.

I want a new car.

Prop 8

I want to be very clear about what I am about to write because it will, no doubt, offend at least one of the four of you who read this blog. But I don't care. This is my blog and I can write whatever I want. :)

I have issues with Proposition 8, and since I have already voted, I am proud to say I said YES on Prop 8. I think we absolutely need to abolish gay marriage and the concept of teaching about this "alternative lifestyle" in classrooms.

The arguments for prop 8 are very persuasive--everyone deserves a right to love, marriage is abused by heterosexuals, and only right-winged redneck fundamentalists are dull enough to gouge a hole in the logic that is progression in society.

I agree with this; everyone deserves a right to love. Marriage is abused by heterosexuals. Fundamentalists are radicals that are afraid of change.

This is what I do not understand: if marriage is a failing structure that is so abused, why do homosexuals want to be a part of it? What does love have to do with marriage in this postmodern world where anything goes and love is the most abused word in the English language? For once, I am on the side of the radicals because I believe that it is my duty, responsibility, and homage to my integrity, convictions, and God to not give way on the only gift God has provided people with that I should experience as He planned it.

What I mean is that I think it is more important to uphold God's standard of what marriage is than to pacify the small populace of homosexuals.

God calls his followers to be a light to the world, to be the salt of the earth, and to uphold His laws as well as we are able. I mentioned that love is already an abused word, and that may lead to more understanding about what should be a universally-accepted position on this amazingly controversial topic.

Language has evolved, there is no doubt about that. Words, especially in this postmodern era, have no meaning. Virginia Woolf said that "the meaning of words live in the mind, not in dictionaries." Without a basic understanding of words, there can be no definition. In fact, there would be so communication without definitions for words. Definitions give context and I think the only kinds of words that can function under this subjective mentality are slang words (see Urban Dictionary). Words must have meanings in order for anything to make sense because if you do not understand what "subjective" means and you define it on your own, not only are my words misconstrued, but you cannot make an argument against me.

Words must have meanings that are universally accepted because communication is vital and society cannot afford subjective communication. The problem with being subjective is that I can make anything fit into my world view. When people begin to manipulate context and word definitions with their own subjective interpretations, they inject their beliefs, opinions, and convictions into another person's beliefs. If you do not see the problem with that, you cannot be helped.

Therefore, it is vital to have a solid definition of what love is. There are 28 definitions of love in the dictionary and about as many synonyms:

Tenderness, fondness, predilection, warmth, passion, adoration. 1, 2. Love, affection, devotion all mean a deep and enduring emotional regard, usually for another person. Love may apply to various kinds of regard: the charity of the Creator, reverent adoration toward God or toward a person, the relation of parent and child, the regard of friends for each other, romantic feelings for another person, etc. Affection is a fondness for others that is enduring and tender, but calm. Devotion is an intense love and steadfast, enduring loyalty to a person; it may also imply consecration to a cause. 2. liking, inclination, regard, friendliness. 15. like. 16. adore, adulate, worship.

Because love is an emotion, it seems to be impossible to define. It is, absolutely, a subjective word. What is love for one person could be slight indifference to another, and it is this concept that makes a solid definition necessary.

When people begin to understand that love is not lust, when they understand the enduring, powerful, and complete authority of love in its true form, they will stop associating love with the shortcomings of lust, want, hunger, need, and desire. They will stop associating love with fleeting emotions because love consumes everything it touches.

When love is part of an equation, that is the outcome. Love equals love because it does not fade. Beauty, talent, wit, lust, desire, ambition, strength, everything. Everything. Every thing that is not love will fall. It will fail. The only word that might be slightly synonymous with love is stamina because it endures.

Not only would this understanding of love solidify what it means to be in love but it would reestablish marriage as the perfect union of a man and woman as God planned it.

The reason I advocate for marriage to stay between a man and a woman is because I am a Christian and as such, I am convinced that everything God created, He has power over. I also believe that as a Christian, I will be held accountable for the decisions I make, the laws I vote for, the people I support, the groups I am associated with, and the words I speak.

More than ever, people who hold convictions that there is a God who will judge us in the end need to uphold His laws. God directly commands us to keep marriage sacred, that the bond between a husband and wife are not to be broken by manly tools. Already, we have condoned divorce. Already we have condoned annulments. Already, we have joined people together who have lived together before marriage. Already, we have promoted premarital sex. Already, we have joined people together with shotgun weddings. Already, we have allowed people who do not understand the eternal nature of love to enter into the covenant that requires love to stand. Already, we have tainted the sanctity of marriage to accommodate society's standards and I have had enough.

God calls us to a higher standard. We have been scarping at the bottom of a barrel in a grave for morals that will guide us into what we think will result in universal happiness. We think we know what is best for us instead of looking to the authority on everything.

When we were kids, our parents gave us boundaries so we would know what was appropriate and what was forbidden. This kept us safe because left to our own devices, we would have stuck our fingers in sockets, dropped electric equipment in tubs, and shoved our bodies in dryers.

We need boundaries because contrary to this postmodern world, everything is not ok. What makes you happy can have consequences for other people, and society needs to wake up and realize that there is an end to the tunnel, even if it is man-made.

I fear that what will happen is that in the process of searching for morals, we will grasp the hands of Hell, and they will tell us, "Yeah, you really fucked up."

It is time now to enforce God's law, not man's law.

Burr At Me

I am so excited right now.

I just bought my luggage for when I go to Europe for Christmas.

I am practically there already.

Saturday, I applied for my passport, today I bought my luggage.

What does it look like? you ask? Please, let me show you.

This little treasure is my carry-on tote. I will use it to store my goodies, souvenirs, and overnight items, or even packing for mini trips, if need be.


The main luggage piece is this amazing rectangle right here:


A lovely specimen, is it not, of luggage finery? As one friend described it, "[it] looks like it may have been on a highlanders bare ass!!!"

I know you're dying to know what that looks like.





HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE

OMG I am so deliriously happy about going to Europe. You have no idea.

Paper Planes, Anyone?

Someone is writing a paper about a poem I wrote two years ago.

I am so tickled by this, I don't even know where to start. The girl--I'll call her Goo--is in my small group leadership class and is in my group. It's really funny how things like that work out.

Anyway, she wanted to talk to me about my poem because she has to deconstruct it for her literary perspectives class and she wanted my feedback and reason for writing the poem.

I kinda wish we had recorded it. She had so much to say about it--that it's about philosophy and how we start off as one thing and move further and further beyond that until all we're left with is to question "what is beyond that?" She also thought it had something to do with God and how He brings to us an understanding of who we are and the things we do...da da da da da

I felt really bad telling her that I wrote it in about four minutes because I had to turn in four poems for my creative writing class.

Lesson learned: stop prescribing meaning to stuff. Lol

I want a that orange-vanilla milkshake from JItB. Mmmm.

These Boots Are Made For Walkin'...

"What if your husband wants to have kids?"

Seriously. I hate hearing this question. If people who asked me this just thought about it for a second, they would realize how stupid it is.

I went and had pie with my friend tonight and she said this to me. I didn't intend on bringing it up, but I pulled my card.

"What if your husband didn't want kids?" I said this to my friend, the lady who wants as many kids as she has eggs.

"Well, I would say 'too bad for you,'" she concluded.
"Exactly."

She still didn't get my point, so I clarified.

"Look, if the man is really the husband God has planned for me, he isn't going to want kids."
"But what if he does? What if you get pregnant?"
"What would you do if you never got pregnant?"

She stopped and thought. "Well, that would suck."
"Yes."

I do this sort of thing with everyone who brings the topic up. People know I do not like kids. They're gross. I don't want that kind of responsibility dumped on me, and I don't want to deal with building up an ethical, smart, and self-respecting person in this shit society. I am also too selfish to want to make my life revolve around someone other than me.

I wish people would understand that not every woman has a natural desire to want to be a mother. Not every person's purpose is to raise a family, and it irritates me when people look at me as if they are scandalized that I, a woman, do not want to employ the God-given talents of my breasts for anything other than sexual pleasure.

No thanks. My boobs are for a man. Hah!

Uno Dose Trace

*insert Marge Simpson grunt noise here*

I have a couple issues to rant about tonight.
1. boys
2. professors
3. writing

I.
Why is the world full of so many boys? Please note, I am saying boys, not men. There is a huge difference between these two. Boys are the people Vanguard is chock full of--the people who will park next to a lady getting a pack of 35 bottles of water from her car and not offer to help carry it across the parking lot, even though they have a class together and he's wearing a suit like he just got back from church.

I'm talking about boys who will wait for a lady to open the Heath doors instead of stepping forward and making a gesture. I'm talking about the boys who will ignore the solitary girl on the floor of chapel and not offer her his seat. I'm talking about the boys who never got a speech from their fathers on what it is to be a man. I'm talking about the boys who chuck a piece of paper across the aisle instead of handing it to a lady. I'm talking about boys who think they are men simply because their balls have dropped.

Guys are entirely different animals altogether. They are on the way to becoming men, but they are not quite there. They see a lady carrying water across the parking lot and if she is cute enough, he'll offer to help. They open the door and walk through, but do the weird backward door-holding thing that says "catch this". They see ladies sitting on the floor in chapel and ask their buddies if they can all scoot over and then stop looking her way when there isn't room. Unless she's cute--there's always room for the cute ladies. They will pass a paper to a lady but it wouldn't be beyond them to chuck it and laughingly pick it up, either. They have heard the speech about what it is to be a man, but not the full version. Their balls have dropped, and with them their eyes and IQ.

Men, where are you in my life?

II.
I never thought I would live to see the day when a professor asked me to get coffee before one of my male peers did. I thought the beat of my sorry excuse of a biological clock I have ticking its outrageous mating call would work before this happened. I've been in school for almost four years and I had yet to be asked for coffee to talk about something by either a professor or male peer, and yesterday, it happened. Via email. My professor proposed a coffee chat time to talk about theology. Not only have I been asked to get coffee by a professor, but it isn't even a professor in my major. It isn't even about a topic I am altogether passionate about.

Thankfully, it is a male professor and maybe I can get in some practice before I "really" get asked to get coffee and talk about anything.

On another professor note, I wish I had taken advantage of working in the Writing Center and spending about the same amount of time in the English department that the English professors do. The professors crack me up, and I wish I had spent time talking to them over the last four years instead of being all ... well, whatever I was Freshman and Sophomore year. It makes me want to go to Grad school and act the way I should have here in college.

And yes, Professor A is really cute and encouraging, and even though I'm not writing this blog on my bed, belly-down with pillow and fists under my cheek, kicking my legs and giggling, I sort of got butterflies when he portrayed that pseudo-image of me. You think I would be that adorable blogging?? I wanted to ask.

III.
I need to write 20 pages. I have this (stupid) story that I have to write twenty pages of by Friday/Saturday and I haven't been working on it. I intended to do some of it today--tonight. I was going to pull an all-nighter and stay up at my favorite coffee place and write away. Until they kicked me out, anyway. I really planned on it. But then I began writing down my to-do list and thought, hey, I'll do some reading instead... and then we ran out of toilet paper and I was like, might as well get some water, too... Then I got back and was really upset so I blogged about it.

Now it's almost 11:00 and I wanted to be in bed by now, which is what I decided when I re-evaluated my plan, and everything is falling apart tonight.

Gosh.

A Novelist Joke

I need to write for my conference course.

I have no interest in writing more about this character.

This is my issue with writing: I want to be done when I finish writing.

Stand Up Comic

I can't believe how well I crack myself up. I know I say this a lot, but I truly do make myself laugh, probably more than anyone else in my life. I am a ridiculous person and I love myself.

I didn't intend on writing a blog today, but I think that was a good transition for a topic I've been wanting to rant about for a while but keep forgetting to:

Misconceptions.

Everyone I know has had a horrible misconception about me. My first impression is not a good one, I get it. The thing that grates on every last nerve of my being is that when people begin to hang out with me, talk with me, etc, they always always always always ALWAYS tell me how they thought I was some combination of the following: bitch, mean, mad, upset, angry, rude, or surly. Mostly, people say my first impression is being a bitch.

I think it is a consequence of having a healthy (maybe too healthy...) self esteem. I think I am awesome and I don't want to have masses of people flocking me to hang out. I'm a busy person and there are people I don't want to convey my awesomeness to because they are irritating. I'm not interested in having irritating people in my life. So, I put up this wall of indifference so that people interested can take a step and say something to me and I will respond. I am very open with people and it kills me that people say I seem like a bitch.

Why?

Well, read my memoir. I think that will explain it.

Sticks and Stones and All That

“Mom.” I smiled to ease the impact my verbal blow would cause and placed my hand on her forearm. “It looks like you have a mullet.”

Believe it or not, this is a marked improvement of my tactfulness. A few years ago, I would not have even tried to comfort her with a smile or gesture and I probably would have said something much more snarky. When I was in high school, my mom asserted herself against me and told me in no uncertain terms that with my rude, disrespectful, and malicious attitude, it was a wonder I had any friends. She told me the only saving grace was my wit.

“Just because people don’t know you’re being a bitch at first doesn’t make it ok,” she added. Hearing my mom call me a word generally reserved for the lowest of women, or recently, women who like bling and booty calls, made me reevaluate how I spoke to others.

My mother is not the only sensitive person in my life, and often times I have to monitor myself to accommodate people’s sensitivities I do not even know about in order to keep my job at the writing Center. To someone who is insecure in his or her writing, I need to be a source of encouragement, not berate the misuse of commas and abuse of the word “and”. It is much more difficult for me to stop my instincts when they are screaming to tell people that if they cannot say a portion of their paragraph in one breath, they need to consider adding some form of punctuation! Instead, I must gently remind them that if they find themselves writing “and” more than twice in one sentence, they need to use a period or semicolon.

I think having a high opinion of myself to begin with may have contributed to my struggle in monitoring my blunt delivery. I have always believed myself to be funny, witty, charming, and intellectual enough to allow myself the freedom to say what I want in any way I prefer to say it. After all, if people did not like what I had to say, they would leave me alone and I appreciate irritating people who do not linger in my life.

Given that I have a history of speaking my mind and not getting in trouble for it added fuel to the forge where I manufacture double-edged swords. Not only could I attack someone with a sharp, offensive comment but I could disguise it as something funny that made my victim have to think about what I had said in order to understand the sting they felt.

I was my own weapon and I loved myself for it.

When my mom blazed at me for the first time in my life, I soon realized the importance of having a network of people I could share a mutual, healthy respect with. It is a struggle for me to bite my tongue, turn the other cheek, let something slide, and cross a bridge when I am itching to let an unsuspecting person tremble at the thought of asking the Data Analysis professor to explain cross multiplication when I need help understanding integers or whatever I was supposed to be learning, and I was not graceful when I detailed exactly how that girl should try something wild and keep her mouth shut. Being nice to people I do not know does not come easily to me, but every smile, every moment of eye contact, is a conscious effort at my attempt to be an open, friendly, and considerate person. Just don’t tell my mom.

When Hell Freezes Over

I am a little bit broken hearted right now.

I was so looking forward to this day. This morning, to be specific. Nothing else I have going on today is worth looking forward to--just homework. I had really high hopes for one of my appointments this morning because I am really interested in getting to know this man. I've been just dying for a chance to speak with him, get to know him, and be able to be his friend. He came in yesterday to make an appointment, and I didn't fawn over him and beg him to sign up for a time with me, but he did anyway.

I mean, you have no idea how long I've been wanting to throw myself at this man because I am enamored by him. I want him to take an interest in me and see if anything can happen.

Anyway, I told myself I wouldn't be some airheaded bimbo who tells him what he wants to hear. "You're going to be yourself," I promised. "If you woo him, it will be by the prowess of your editing skills and undeniable attractiveness of you."

He slept while I read some of his paper and I didn't watch him. I just did my editing, figuring out ways to make his argument stronger and gave him the same criteria I use for every other paper I read. He looked at the marks on his paper and said, "damn!"

I felt pleased to have taken him by surprise. I don't care if it was a positive or negative exclamation--it was an exclamation.

I reviewed my notes with him and he disagreed with some, and we had a little power struggle. "It's Turbanian, not MLA" he told me.

Yeah, I know. I know Turbanian. This is not it. I didn't say that, but I let it go. He has my notes and will find out soon enough that I was right. And, if I'm not, that's fine. I don't care.

But he left with my comments and my ink and I had to read another paper with a horrible prompt. I wanted him to stay and tell him I would read his paper during chapel--anything to make him know that I am competent of so much more than he had on his paper. He was five minutes late and I talked with him a bit before I read the measly four and a half pages I managed.

Should I have done something different? Instead of editing for his respect, should I have edited with his ego in mind? Hell no. I'm not ashamed of the work I did or the remarks I gave him. I'm ashamed that I didn't do enough and that he is going to get to spend time with another employee here. One I don't particularly like because she reminds me of people I went to high school with. That girl, the one I used to be, is who will get to spend time with the man I want in my future, to some degree.

To top it all off, I couldn't even find my fucking mascara.

How Artard-Ray'd

Yes, I cave to people's requests...and when I say "people's", I mean to Michelle (and Sheyanne?) who popped my blog comment cherry and made a reference to it. So, here is the short story I wrote, even though it's not one the one I wrote when I was in class. I thought it was retarded, so I wrote this one and I like it much better. Hehe ^_^

The Power Ranger

“Where were you last night?”

The smooth plastic figurine in his shirt bumped against his chest and he ducked beneath the metal poles that suspended a canopy above the metal tables at the center of the empty park. His halting, rhythmic stomps sent the white cotton t-shirt fluttering from his emancipated frame as the toy jostled around within the cocoon.

“Did you see the star?”

He adjusted the black belt looped securely through his jean shorts and scraped his fingertip against the edge of the grooves on one side of the table where a drop of ketchup had crusted. Satisfied to have it transferred promptly from finger to mouth, he scoured the rest of the table.

“It fell, Jason! I saw it and tried to tell you but you were gone.”

His head was bent, peering for treasures under the table and the bauble inside his shirt obeyed gravity and shot downward, a strange silhouette of right angles cradled in the fabric.

“Let me see your toy.”

Jason collected the bulge back to his body and left the small pile of bread crumbs and sand he had harvested beneath the table. The soft sound of the rubber soles of his black shoes played in harmony with the squeaking wheel of an advancing shopping cart.

“Put this in your shirt instead.”

Jason fisted his trinket, a jumble of arms and legs, and rubbed a finger over the round shape of the figure’s head. He squinted up at the center of the plastic red ceiling and ran his tongue against the backside of teeth turned in opposite directions. A mimic of protest whimpered from his lips and Jason turned to scoot away.

“Stop leaving! I always show you my stuff!”

He moved in time to the rhythm of the solid form beating into his chest, his head a constant bob. He nervously pushed both palms flat on top of his head and smoothed down his side-parted greasy black hair. The wheels of the grocery cart were turning faster to expel the squeak it had been holding, increasing to the squeak, squeak, squeaksqueaksqueaksqueak that now pursued him.

“Let me have it!”

The hard plastic crashed into his back, the metal tray at the bottom dug into the backs of his ankles. Baseball cards, newspapers, wrinkled gum wrappers, empty soda cans, and toilet paper flew out from the impact and Jason flew forward, his face landing in hard dirt.

“Look it! Stop, that’s mine!”

Dumbfounded, Jason had begun to clean off his knee-high white socks from the debris and held a Baseball card in his hand. It was Gary Bennett.

A hand flew out and snatched the card, ripping it apart. Jason checked his hand, a white streak visible on his tanned skin. His jaw dropped to squeal, and his face contorted with rage. An eye twitched. His forehead wrinkled.

The offended hand reached down the neck hole of his shirt and he produced the treasure of his belly, a blue Power Ranger figurine. He tucked it in his elbow and launched himself at the person ripping to shreds the toilet paper, gum wrappers, newspapers, and baseball cards.

His limbs got tangled with someone else’s and he bit something that wasn’t his but tasted like vinegar. A moment later, Jason was planted on the ground, a hand pushed against his face, shoving it further into the dry dirt. Jason closed his eyes tight, reaching for the Power Ranger with his fingertips to rub its head.

“I’m keeping this!”

A foot weighed down Jason’s chest and he felt the bony figure of a mass settle on his stomach, pinning him to the ground. He coughed and sucked in a cloud of dirt.

His Power Ranger began to slide from beneath his arm and he instinctively tightened around it, kicking his legs wildly. The figure bounced on his chest and wrestled with both hands to steal his toy. Jason sat up, his head free from the force of the malicious hand and struggled anew for rightful possession of his bauble.

Jason saw his Power Ranger in thin hands that weren’t his and smacked to brush them away. He tried to put it back into his shirt, but saw that it was now a bulge in a yellow shirt, stained by grass, dirt, blood, and sweat.

His Power Ranger was gone, forever. His legs were splayed apart when the thief pushed Jason’s head in a derogatory gesture, submitting him to further humiliation. Something of a moan burst out of Jason and he swiped his runny nose and leaky eyes on his dirty arm. He watched his trinket dangle from the vagrant’s arm carelessly.

He stood up and tucked his shirt back in his shorts. He watched the Power Ranger sway in the wake of a swagger from the confident walk of a miscreant. Jason’s calloused fingertips pressed into his palms and he rushed toward the criminal, the same undecided and cadenced.

The solid form of the tormentor was bent over the shopping cart of trash, making room for the Power Ranger in the seat of honor next to the ripped shards of baseball cards. Jason reached out and pushed, a harrowing shriek burning through his nose. Tumbling, caught off-guard, the offender hurtled blindly into the metal pole.

A solid thud reverberated and pushed the body away, to its knees. Jason grabbed his Power Ranger from the shopping cart, pressing it against his bosom.

Jason crept to the figure crawling weakly to the metal table. The treacherous hands shook, groping for something to hang on to. Finally, the fiend collapsed, the head rested against the metal grooves of the table.

Jason struck his finger out and pressed it along the bumpy surface, hot from the sun, and slid it from one end to the other, where blood flowed, guided by the metal railings. He swiped his finger in it and pressed the warm, stickiness to his Power Ranger’s mouth.


He bobbed his head and smiled in triumph. He shoved his bloodied hand on the antagonist’s face, leaving an imprint of blood above the dull brown eye. He pushed the face into the edge of the seat. He bared his teeth and narrowed his eyes and snickered at the still form. He sucked the rest of the blood from his finger and put his Power Ranger back to rest, the treasure of his belly.

A New Expert Named LiLo

I have a question: since when did celebrities become people well-versed and integral in deciding who people should vote for President?

I have seen too many articles about Lindsey Lohan's opinion about the republican candidates, and I have to say that her opinion makes me want to vote for McCain-Palin than anything else, just out of spite. Why is her opinion worth so much when she is so waked out, haggard, and ruined that even Hollywood is thinking Girl, you need to slow the fuck down. I don't trust her opinion about the future of American because she didn't care about her future enough to take care of herself ... but that's not important. A Presidental candidate loses my respect and chances of convincing me of his or her potential to run the country when celebrities well-versed in paparazzi etiquete are vouching for that party.

Why isn't anyone rooting for Nader? I love that guy.

About more important issues:

My classes are amazing. I should say, I am doing amazingly in my classes. Granted, I only have three of my textbooks, but I am still caught up with all my work! I even have more work done than I need to have done! I am excited at being so responsible and diligent with my work load.

Today, I had to write a short story in my writing class and it had to start off with "Where were you last night?" I think I came up with a pretty bitchin' story! Maybe I'll post it on here or something after I type it up. A couple people read theirs in class and I was surprisd how similiar mine was to this guy's story who was sitting next to me. They ended in the same way! What the heck.

On a totally unrelated note: I think I am gaining weight again. This is ridiculous because while I haven't been following my diet to the strictest level I am capable of, and when I say that I mean I am eating more sugar than I should, I still eat plenty of fruits and veggies, dairy and meat according to the food pyramid thing. I drink a lot of water, don't use any additives, and use only the smallest amount possible of "good stuff". When I have snacks, I get a handful out and put the rest away. For my snacks, I have animal cookies with Nutella, and I don't even douse them in the delicious chocolate hazlenut spread. I use a reasonable amount.

Anyway, I checked myself out in the mirror today and I think I am gaining weight, which does not work for me. Good thing I meet tomorrow with someone who will give me an assessment so I can start a workout regiment. I have 12 weeks before I go to Europe, so believe me when I say: I am super-motivated!!

Maybe I should make a paper chain thing to count down the weeks...

Out of the Fire, into the Pot

I am really happy to be back in school. I like to learn and I'm really excited about this whole Senior year thing. I still don't think I have really learned anything, but it's ok. I have grown these past four years, and I think that's the reason I am really pushing myself this last year.

I have a bunch of goals. They're realistic, too, which is really going to help me out as far as accomplishing things goes.

For one, I have the ever-remaining goal to pay off my debt. Thankfully, over the summer I was able to come up with a really fool proof plan for savings, so not only am I saving up for a new car, but also putting away money for a rainy day...because I know it's going to be raining after I get out of school. My credit card has been paid off for the last month, and it's at a stable, manageable $25 balance that I am pretty ecstatic about. I use it only to pay for my haircare (I buy these online because it's cheaper) and my gym membership.

Speaking of my gym membership, the other ever-remaining goal of getting in shape is on the brink of becoming something I will actively pursue. I think I've written before that I've already established a healthy eating routine, so I have the diet part down to a great science. Coming from an English major, that's probably not saying much, but at least I understand how it works: eat fruits, veggies, meat, and dairy. Basically, I figured that by the time I make it through the food pyramid, it's time to sleep and that works very well for me.

Another goal I have is to get my English Honor Society chapter up and running. We already have an event going on, we just have to meet and figure out where to host it. Hmm. I need people to do my bidding.

I only have one downer about this new year. I thought I had really grown and become more comfortable with talking to people I don't know, but in the classes I had yesterday, I was still the same person who didn't try to talk with people, didn't reach out and connect and everything else I've been doing the past three years. Don't get me wrong--I'm much more social than I've ever been, but I'm still not as actively friendly as I would like to be. I think I have this road block in my mind that makes me think that if I approach someone just to be nice and say hello, they're going to think Oh my gosh, why is this fat girl talking to me? I can't be seen with her. She needs to leave. What does she want from me?

Being thick is hard in a place like Orange County, but being a thick person trying to be friendly is even more difficult because no one wants to associate with the thick people. Most people who do end up doing it out of pity, and that's ridiculous.

Another goal I have is to get a guy to touch my hair. You have no idea how amazing my hair feels and I am just dying to be walking around campus one day and get yanked back by a guy who has his palm against the back of my scalp, running his fingers through the long thick mass of chocolate waves that is my hair. This goal may be easier to accomplish if I got my perfume back. New goal acquired.

I'm going to talk about my new room mates now.

Actually, I'm first going to address my feelings about having new room mates. Again.

I am pretty upset about having another set of new people to live with. In case I've never addressed it before, I've had new room mates almost every semester. Freshman year, I changed room mates in the middle of the year. Sophomore year I had the same girls all year through. Junior year, I had one girl the same and two other new ones, and the next semester brought two new girls, and I fell in love with living with them. Now, I have two new room mates and I'm planning and scheming how to get one of my past room mates from my second semester of Junior year to take the place of one of the girls I'm currently living with. It's probably not going to happen, but I really wish it would.

The issue I have with having 12 different room mates in four years is that I thought I was easy to live with. I'm a really laid-back person and not a lot gets to me. Maybe I need to re-evaluate myself because clearly I am not, given my history with living with people. I keep thinking, somewhere in the back of my head, do I have commitment issues? How am I going to adapt later down the road when I have a lease to deal with? Am I unbearable to live with, or am I ridiculously picky?

I can see where I am ridiculously picky, but I don't think I am unbearable to live with. I don't know. It's just something I am scared to find out about myself. I mean, how could I lie to myself all these years and find out all of a sudden that I am an impossible room mate? I honestly can't say that I am. I think I am fun to live with, easy-going, and keep to myself as much as the others around me do.

Anyway, the two new girls I'm living with are nice. We're all getting along quite well, so I am really grateful for that. God knows it could've been a disaster. God knows it almost was a disaster because I was about to go all kinds of crazy since they threw a new girl in on us at the last minute. I wanted to bust a cap like nobody's business! Breathing exercises really work well though, and it helps that I found out while I was driving to school.

I am really bored with writing about all this now.

Suffice to say, I am looking forward to a hectic, crazy, tight schedule.

Colleges in PA: http://www.collegescolleges.com/states/Pennsylvania.htm

Jobs for Socs majors: Sociology majors who are interested in organizational theory gravitate toward organizational planning, development, and training. Those who study the sociology of work and occupations may pursue careers in human resources management (personnel) and industrial relations. Students who especially enjoy research design, statistics, and data analysis seek positions in marketing, public relations, and organizational research. Courses in economic and political sociology, cultural diversity, racial and ethnic relations, and social conflict can lead to positions in international business.

Skills of Successful Sociology Majors

• Ability to recognize trends and patterns. Sociologists must develop a keen eye for detail and a gift for spotting relationships between pieces of information. By cultivating patterns from otherwise abstract data, sociologists can break through puzzling roadblocks during research assignments.
  
  Following these trails can lead to important discoveries and understandings for sociologists throughout their careers. To grow their talent for uncovering these relationships, many sociology programs expose students to new courses in game theory and traditional classes in art. Viewing data from unusual points of view not only breaks up the monotony of data analysis, but it usually results in the recognition of important patterns.
  
  
• Ability to create concise reports and essays. Whether reporting to superiors on the results of research or developing new funding proposals, sociologists rely frequently on their ability to write effective reports. Sociology students learn how to modulate their writing for different audiences. When preparing reports for peers and colleagues, they can use industry shorthand and insider terminology to keep memos and files brief. When writing external reports for funding agencies, or politicians, or the media, they translate that jargon into easily digestible nuggets of information.
  
  
• Strong critical thinking skills. Sociology degree programs challenge students to build their analytical skills through a series of increasingly challenging assignments over the course of their studies. Sociology majors spend time in introductory courses examining the techniques that professionals use to investigate theories. As they move through intermediate and advanced courses, they start to use those techniques on their own research projects. By the time they near graduation, sociology majors use their keen critical thinking skills to solve problems and identify opportunities in their own research.
  
  
• Oral presentation skills. In addition to powerful writing skills, sociology majors must develop the ability to speak comfortably and clearly in front of clouds. This skill particularly benefits students who intend to pursue careers in academia. Meanwhile, sociology professionals who work in the private sector also utilize this skill when presenting information to government agencies, funding panels, or audiences at professional conferences.
  
  
• Interpersonal communications skills. Regardless of their career paths, sociology majors will rely on strong person-to-person communications skills throughout their working lives. Students learn early in their degree programs to conduct effective interviews with key subjects. In addition, sociologists often work on teams where long hours and tight deadlines can lead to friction between colleagues. Quality sociology degree programs prepare students for future challenges by creating realistic scenarios in which students can improve their interpersonal communications.
  
  
• Develop skills in modern data and analysis technology. As with many other careers, modern technology and computers have revolutionized sociology. During the course of their degree programs, students learn to manipulate data using complex pieces of software and hardware. By running research data through sophisticated tools, sociology professionals can spot trends sooner and generate results faster.
  
  
• Grant writing skills. Many sociologists must compete for funding from government agencies, from private funders, and from academic boards. Skilled professionals learn to apply their strong writing skills to create attractive grant applications. By stating clear goals and framing up outcomes that advance the agendas or the missions of funding bodies, sociologists can collect vital funds that allow them to continue making breakthroughs in research and understanding of human interaction.
  
  
• Research skills. Sociology majors learn to use all of the resources at their disposal to chase down leads and build sets of information for analysis. Many sociology degree programs introduce students to the tricks of efficient library research early in their academic careers. Bolstered by fast searches on the Internet, sociology majors learn to digest catalogued findings for use in their original research projects. By the time they graduate, students learn to conduct personal interviews and mass surveys in order to generate their own sets of raw data for analysis.
  
  
• Management skills. Many professional sociologists rely on the help of support personnel and other team members to conduct research and to move projects forward. During their degree programs, students learn to blend the best practices from the business world with the traditions of research professionals. By the time students earn their sociology degrees, they gain the talent to motivate the different kinds of specialists that will help them accomplish major breakthroughs during their careers.
  
  
• Planning and organizational skills. Because most sociologists work on time-sensitive projects, students learn how to plan and arrange their tasks to save time and to work as efficiently as possible. Many colleges and universities provide introductory courses in time management and task coordination as part of their core programs. These skills reap huge rewards later in a student's career, when they must marshal scarce resources under tight deadlines.

Trends for Sociology Careers

Because of the breadth of study involved in obtaining a sociology degree, career choices are diverse. Graduates holding a degree in sociology often find employment as researchers, consultants, or administrators for federal, state, and local governments. A sociologist may also find employment in the private sector with educational institutions and businesses.

Although competition for academic jobs remains fierce, many businesses and government agencies have expanded the roles that sociology professionals play in their organizations. Businesses invest more heavily than ever before in understanding their customers' wants and needs. Government departments and political campaigns also want to know everything they can about their constituents. Therefore, experts at the United States Department of Labor expect the job demand for sociologists to grow steadily over the next ten years.

U.S. Census Bureau U.S. Bureau of Prisons State Department of Correction Human Services Insurance Advertising Public relations Management training programs Census workers Marketing trainees Correction officers And much more

Youth Services Mental Health Area Agencies on Aging Banking Computers Retail trade News media Stock brokers FBI agents Personnel officers Sales representatives

Shopping in PA (no sales tax on clothes!)
http://www.shoppinginpa.com/shoppinginpa/TalkShop.do

"Grahm, it's not rocket launching!"

Today, I got to have lunch with a woman who has worked at Tyndale for about 13 years in the Editorial department. She talked to me about my proof reading test because...sigh...I failed it like a dumbass...but she just went over it with me. I was really surprised how much she and I had in common. It was like seeing a nicer version of myself in 20 years or something. The funny thing is that I only get an hour lunch break every day. We went to get lunch at 1:00, and I got back to my cubicle at 3:30.

It was awesome.

I wouldn't be opposed to the idea of working at Tyndale at all. I mean, I would miss my friends and family in California, but I really think I could work well at Tyndale. I really like the company and they publish quality books, but a part of me does wonder if there couldn't be more out there for me.

I was doing some research on publishing and editors and I began to entertain the notion of becoming an agent. I think I can recognize good writing when I see it, but I think I am too biased for the kinds of subject matter and in-your-face kind of topics that I wouldn't have a great amount of authors to work with--I would need a diverse portfolio. I think I would make a good agent...the only company that I would be interested in would be Zachary Shuster Harmsworth, but they hire people from like, Harvard, Oxford, Yale, Columbia, etc. There is no way Vanguard is on the same kind of claibar as those school, evident in the fact I'm not sure if I spelt "Columbia" and "calibar" properly.

Being an agent would be fun though. If not that, I would be interested in working as an Acquisitions Editor...I know that I want to have an impact on the content that would be published since I think the Christian populace needs to be exposed to more "racy" and unconventional ideas. I believe that yes, we are a part of this world and not of it, but I think we ought to better understand it. I really love working with content though. That's my thing. I think I would be great in any publishing house I go to, but I really like the family-owned aspect of Tyndale.

I think it is safe to say that I will not be in California for the rest of my life, and I will move to bigger and better things. I would be happy moving to Illinois, or I can deal (quite well) being in Michigan (Zondervan). I don't know how I would feel working for huge corporate places though. I really love doing the family-run thing, but what's great about Tyndale's family-thing, is they are still a big company. I mean, the #3 Christian publishing house--that's pretty damn good.

Ugh.

Note to self: remember you have to finish college first.

July, July, oh those Julies.

I like reading through my blogs. Yes, I am vain. I don't make any excuses for it. The funny thing about my vanity, is that I can't even think of something I have to be vain about! If someone asked me (which I'm glad no one has...) what my favorite feature of my anatomy is, I would be stumped. It's a surefire way to get me to stop talking.

"What's your favorite feature of your body?"

*insert crickets chirping*

Normally, the first answer would be my hair. However, my hair and I have been at odds lately. Sometimes I like how the long waves tumble down my back, the curls being ever so slightly mussled and unruly. Other times, I wish the dry corpse excuse of hair would take its amber waves that look like grain and hit the road! I seek soft, loose hair that is my natural color.

Note to self: don't let friends dye your hair anymore.

When I got a haircut before coming out here to Illinois (say that with a French accent...much more fun), I couldn't get over how ama-za-zing my hair felt. It was the perfect silky smooth texture I have been craving, and I'm really not sure if it is the straightener my stylist used or the product. So, I'll have to surrender more money to have her do my hair again and buy everything she uses on me. Next time though, I'll ask her to not straighten my hair. I'm sure that'll save me some product, and I don't ever straighten my hair. Talk about time consuming!

I'm big on saving time, actually. I also have a knack for wasting it. I don't know anyone who would dispute this fact.

Changing subjects, just because I got an email that reminded me of it...

There is another intern here (call him 5.0) who cracks me up. Not so much lately, but when I first emailed him, I couldn't stop laughing. 5.0 is a self-proclaimed poet--stop snickering, it gets better. I would email him the most mundane things for the sole purpose of seeing how ridiculous his response would be.

Did you know I do things for a reaction? That is truly my only hidden agenda, and now it's not even hidden. I love reactions and the element of surprise.

So anyway, I would sent out an email to invite the 'terns for a round of Phase 10 because that's the only game I brought with me, and...there's no better way to bond with strangers than over a semi-competetive game of cards, right? My email was simple:

"Hi, [5.0] :)

I hope you’re adjusting well to your job!

Mondays seem to be Phase 10 day for interns at lunch, so would you like to join us today at 1:00 in the caf?

~Stephanie"

His response:

"As much as I would love to me graced by my fellow interns’ company this afternoon, and engage in grand competition over a midday meal, I do, alas, have a meeting at that time. Hopefully, the fates shall smile down upon me, and I will be able to meet you good people in the very near future."

My response was much less eloquent.

Another time, I sent out an email because...well, this is what I sent (verbatim):

"Yes!! I found out how to change the font color for replying emails! The default font color is blue when you reply to an email, but mine is now black.

Muaha! Oh, if technology was a beast I would be the hunter it fears.

How is everyone doing today? Good weekends, I trust?

~Steph"

His response:

"Congrats in your epic quest. May all inboxes from henceforth fear the name Stephanie Rosemeyer, for she shall smite them whenever she crosses their decrepit existences. Forevermore, on this day, computers across the land will weep and gnash their teeth in the ancient computer tongue of binary, for on this day, their sins were exposed.

Blessings on you and your household,
[5.0]"

Like his other email, I wasn't sure if I should reply back with some ghetto verbiage (which I am quite fluent in), or consult some Shakespeare and make a sonnet!!

Maybe this is my favorite one...

My email:

"Hi, [5.0] :)

If you’re interested, Amy and I will meet in the caf today around 12:45 for a round of Phase 10 and you’re more than welcome to join us.

Also, I wanted to apologize for not saying hi today in chapel. I didn’t realize you were sitting near me until I glanced over and by then it was too late. I’m not very good at the “late hello” thing.

Anyway, hope to see you at lunch!

~Stephanie"

His reply:

"Sounds good. I must also implore your pardons for the lack of salutations. I was almost certain of your identity as a fellow intern, and thus sat close by. However, as we have already established, greetings were not exchanged. The guilt is just as great upon my own brow. Let us, with great haste, put this conundrum out of our minds.

See you at 12:45 for great feasting and phasing,
[5.0]"

I am sad to say, though, his recent emails have been much more conversational and I intend to ask him why he doesn't put forth any efforts to his emails anymore! Hahahahahaha

Yes...this is what I get paid to do every day. It's a shame I don't blog more often during work...

My Best Friend is a Mop

I am really excited right now. My friend from California is coming over to Illinois. She is going to be in Indiana for a month, but we will spend more time together later.

I am so excited to finally see someone I know and love here. It has been so so so SO lonely this past month (plus some) and I am just sad that she told her nephew in Indiana that she would see him on Thursday instead of like, Monday.

But still, I am glad to have someone I hold dear here with me.

If I had two personalities, I would go crazy

Talking to my mom always makes me feel a little better, even though she is one of the most frustrating people in my life. She makes me laugh and I always appreciate a good laugh.

I don't know about you, but I have a lot of internal dialogue. I'm actually not sure if it should be classified dialogue, since what I have more aptly can be defined as debates. Being on a diet that is more of an exercise regieme and "make-food-to-eat-since-there-is-no-meal-plan-in-Illinois" kind of diet, I feel like I am going through the detox stage. I constantly crave sugar.

Ice cream. Cheesecake. Cookies. Carmel. Whipped cream. Ice cream. Chocolate. You know, ALL the sugar-fortified goodness that I am used to treating myself with.

I once heard that it is OK to treat yourself once in a while so that when you crave something, you don't go overboard with it. I agree with this, but I am also trying to be economically wise. Quantity over quality, I suppose. The other week, I got a quart of pecan ice cream and pretty much ate it, to my horror, in two sittings. Granted, they were a few days apart, but when I realized what I had done, I decided to put an end to it.

Since the beginning of this month, I have been working out every night. By "working out", I mean exercising not only my self control but my body. Since the 1st, I have escalated my nocturnal work outs from 30 sit-ups to 100. So, every night, I do 100 crunches and other random exercises that I don't know the name of but they give me a burn so I assume it is effective to some part of my anatomy.

How this relates to the ice cream horror story: I have realized that no matter how much I work out, if I "treat" myself every now and again, it's not a good thing. I need to learn a new way to treat myself other than with food so that I learn a new lifestyle that will be healthy with my new life I am trying to get to.

However, I am also poor.

I have too many financially-dependant goals. Want to see them?

1. Pay off credit card bills (who doesn't have this goal?)
2. Pay insurance
3. Pay rent
4. Save money for a down payment on a new car for next year

I guess #1-3 aren't really goals as much as "fixed expenditures", but I like to think of them as obstacles to get to goal #4. Personal goals are as follows:

1. Escalate workouts over the summer to reach 300 crunches per day
2. Make healthy food choices by creating a two-week menu
3. Save $70/month for emergency fund
4.

You know, I have always functioned well with to-do lists. As unfocused as I am, I am going to make one for the next month.

Wet Nails Make Typing Hard

I can't believe I missed making a post for April!!

That is not what I came on to write about though. I have recently applied for an internship and I am torn between wanting it to my capacity of wanting things and sabotaging my chances of getting it so that I can do other, equally important things. I know God knows best, so I am letting Him deal with it.

The issue I have is that I am exactly 50% sure I do not want this opportunity because then I won't have to stay in school an extra semester because I would be able to take summer classes, working two jobs to make tons of money, live with people I know and love, and exercise. Then I am 50% sure that I do want this internship so that I can learn everything I can about advertising and promotions but then I worry about paying rent, not doing any summer school, and being away from home for two-ish months. That last one is sort of the least of my worries, but then I also hope that I have deny the internship due to housing issues so I can blame my dad for stealing my chances of having it instead of feeling totally fine about it.

Enough of that.

I really dislike my friend right now. I am pissed off at her and I always plan to tell her so many things about how unhappy I am with her, but when I am around her, I am just glad to finally hang out with her that I don't want to ruin it by discussing issues with her that could either destroy or build our friendship up more. I am upset at her for never calling me because I feel like that reflects how she feels about me. I understand that our schedules conflict, but I call her 100% more than she calls me. I call at least three times a week and I always get the voicemail. So, I leave a message. She calls me back two weeks later and gives me a list of excuses why she didn't call me.

I had been planning for three weeks to tell her, "You know, I don't care the reasons why you don't call; I just care that you don't." Last week, I finally said that. She said, "Awww...Steph!"

I was not looking to touch her heart. I was looking for something to say to influence her to call me more because without interaction, I cannot be a person's friend. By her not calling me, I do not feel she values our relationship or me as a human being.

Another thing I wish I could tell her is how much I dislike her "fella." I think he is immature, not ready for what she needs, and fake. I don't care how many times she tells me that "he acts differently around me. You just don't know him like I do" because I think that a person's quality is evident no matter what or who is surrounding the person. When I watch them together, I think he loves her, but not compared to how she loves him. He can't even hold a candle to how much she loves and adores him.

Her whole world revolves around him, which I feel is another problem with their relationship. When I watch them together, she bends her life to his will and whim while he doesn't seem to give a hoot about how she feels or what she does. She is always prompt to meet him, waits for him to get home from work, and waits on him hand and foot while he works at Starbucks and goes to school to get a degree in business (probably the stupidest degree ever) so that he can be a manager in a company that has a high turnover rate. Not only is his only aspiration to be a manager in a company he hates, but she went to a store and was offered an assistant managing position with no degree at all. This is just one example of how different their work ethic is, which is a big deal considering who she is and how she feels about people who don't work hard.

She far outshines him not only in her ability to work at the kind of level it takes to move up in a company, but he doesn't seem to appreciate her. From all I have seen, the only way he expresses his love to her is to work on her house (yes, she even has a house). She is thrilled by this, but I don't think she understands that her house is an object. Working on her house is not the same as loving her the way she needs to be loved. I mean, at the end of the day, a house is a house, and it doesn't make her feel any better about herself. She needs a man who tells her constantly how beautiful she is, stands up for her to his and her family, and compliments her heart.

Since she has begun to date this guy, she has plummeted in how she takes care of herself. It's that whole "equal yoke" thing but in this way, it is the looks department and if you don't think looks are important, then stop reading now. Sure, they are not the sole reason to love someone, but they sure as hell depict to the rest of the world how you feel about yourself. Before she dated him, she would primp herself, accessorize, put on makeup, and just doll herself up because it made herself feel good and she liked to do it. Since she began dating that frumpy, unmotivated bum she has turned into a frumpy lady who hates it. She tells me things like "I don't feel good about myself" and "I just don't have time to take care of myself the way I used to!"

Perhaps leading your own life the way the guy you are so attached does would enable you to take care of yourself the way you used to, since he doesn't seem to care enough about you to make it easy for you to maintain the lifestyle you used to have! And that is how I feel. He lives his own life because he knows she can and will provide for him and he floats around life depending on her.

It is a twisted relationship and I am sick of it. I want someone for her who will let her relax, build up her self-esteem, and give her freedom to do what she wants while he provides a life for her, the way it should be. The reason I say all of this is because I see this happening the way it happened with my brother.

My friend is paying off debt like none other, working two jobs to pay her mortgage and new car payment, which is fine because she bought it all and she needs to pay her bills. But he is doing nothing to help. If he wanted to help, he would get a second job even if he is in school. My mom works three jobs and goes to school, so I don't see why he can't do the same. At the very least, he could get a degree in something that will actually make him money, or to get a career that is easy to advance in. A Business degree is like having a pen because it is easy to get and it just means you are capable of leading people in one direction. I know this because I used to be a Business major. It is so pointless.

Anyway, about my brother--he paid the bills and everything while his girlfriend went to culinary arts school (oh my gosh, another pointless degree, like business!) and their agreement was that they would switch spots while he went to film school. Three years later, she is working in a buffet, they have a kid, and filming is a hobby he sometimes exercises by filming his daughter.

Maybe I am disillusioned from reading romance books when I think that people are quite capable of fulfilling their dreams, but I do not care. I am fulfilling mine, so that entitles me to believe it.

I want to tell her to get her head out of her fella's ass and live her own life. I want her to be happy with herself without him because he doesn't build up her self-esteem. I want her to admit to me that this whole phase in her life where she is dissatisfied with everything is just a phase that she is over. I want her to love herself because she is lovable, not because someone periodically tells her she is loved. I want her to see my point of view and not make excuses for everything I see and just respect my point of view because I cannot help expressing my observances. I want her to consider what I have to say and think about it and see if I have any good points and act on them. I want her to quit waiting around for her guy to become the man she needs because I don't think he cares to do that anytime soon.