Right and Wrong: Learning it the Hard Way

I admit it. I have a history of breaking and entering. But from my experience, I am convinced that even the most hardened criminal must have encountered something, some object in some house, that makes him blink before he gathers his loot and causes him to wonder, "...What the hell?"

Because my father has been slightly obsessed with the cat house he has built for Libby, I find my mind wanders frequently to the subject of cats and cat-doors. This leads inevitably to the only house I know that has a cat door on it. It belongs to John and Carol Platt, our elderly and rather feeble next-door neighbors. The moment the Platts enter my brain a photograph I saw once flashes into my mind and refuses to leave-- a particularly ugly thought that sticks like glue and won't be undone. It is because of this photo that I can never think the same of the Platt family again.

Many years ago, Shirsti, Koseli, and I were asked to cat-sit the Platts' kitties while they were away in China for several weeks. At first that is all we did, and the whole affair was quite innocent. For some reason however- and it honestly escapes my memory why- Shirsti and I decided to break into our neighbors' home through their conveniently flimsy cat-door. The task proved quite simple. We sneaked in like burglars, barely letting our fingertips brush the banisters as we tiptoed downstairs to watch movies on the big screen.
As time went by we became increasingly bold. After finishing the seemingly endless task lists my mother had set for us each day, we would escape gleefully, exclaiming as we skipped out the door,
"The cats must eat too!"
We invited friends to join us. We began searching the kitchen cupboards for food. Soon the basement floor was littered with popcorn kernels and stale fruit loops. We spent entire evenings sprawled out on the couch and soon we were completely at home in somebody else's house. We exhausted the movie supply. Not wishing to return to our real home, we started exploring. We stole about the living room, peeked into the bathrooms and down darkened hallways and then eventually- and really I'm ashamed to admit it- we entered an entirely forbidden area-- the bedroom.
The focal point of the room was an enormous canopy bed with 90's style drapes hanging from the top. Everything was neat and orderly and quite respectable. Through some sheer hanging curtains one could enter the bathroom which was adorned with a round porcelain jacuzzi. On the crowded counter top near some bottles of antiquated perfume I saw the photograph I mentioned earlier for the first and only time ever. It displayed Carol in a blue feather boa and nothing else. She was younger in the picture-- maybe mid-thirties. Her hair was curly and short, and her pouty lips were adorned in bright pink. A dreamy cloud framed the corners of the photo. No one expects to see their next-door-neighbor in a scanty, sumptuous boa. I held it in my hand for some time, stunned, not knowing if I should cover my eyes or run first.
"What's that?" Shirsti asked from the linen closet she was nosing around in.
"I...am not sure," I replied.
When the Platts returned from China, they brought us each back little silk purses as souvenirs. With eyes downcast and a guilty feeling in my heart I took the gift, hoping against all hope that they wouldn't notice the lopsided cat door on their house.
I had thought myself quite clever when we figured out how to unscrew the cat-door and crawl in, as slippery as snakes. Though I was slightly scarred I should be grateful for that photograph. It undoubtedly saved me from a life of crime.

Fear of Falling

I've always been overly cautious. In the wintertime, I walk the sidewalks like a ninety year old grandmother. My body hunches over, my knees stiffen. I rake the ground with my eyes searching for any potential peril.
My timidity has even been caught on tape. We have a video of me at a swimming lesson in 1996. In this video, I'm wearing a pink swimsuit with one ruffly strap and big purple flowers everywhere else. Amid the splashes and screams of other children echoing around the pool, you can hear my mom asking me questions as I doggy paddle and struggle to keep my chin above water.
"How do you like swimming lessons?"
"I...." The water laps up over my mouth and I gurgle incoherently. "I don't know if I like it..." Gurgle.
When I talk you can see that I have one front tooth. My enormous glasses are still on. They are dappled with water droplets. It's a miracle I can see at all.
The teacher takes my class to the deep end of the pool to dive off the board and I refuse to go. You can hear my mom coaxing me on the other side of the camera, occasionally adding a side narration to the camera itself,

"COME ON JOS! YOU CAN DO IT... she's not very excited about jumping in. Look at the way she's just standing there... YOU CAN DO IT, JOS!"

At this point I'm standing at the edge of the diving board. I look skinny. Terrified.
I would like to say that I faced my fear and jumped. I would love to paint a picture in your mind of a young girl, triumphantly throwing off her enormous glasses, raising her arms into the air and gracefully swan-diving into the pool while everyone cheers.
However, this is not what happened. Eventually I exit the diving board via the stairs, looking completely defeated and pathetic. I stand, dripping and awkward, and look at the water.
"That's okay, Jos. Maybe next time," my mom says.
While the other children cannonball themselves into the water, I gingerly sit on the side and then gently scoot into the pool-- both hands safely anchored to the wall.

I've never been one to put myself at risk. I'm not sure how I feel about this. Though I never suffer from broken bones or bruises, I've never jumped off the high dive or kicked a soccer ball more than five feet for the fear of falling.
It's a lose-lose situation.

Epicurious

I recently finished a book entitled Alone in the Kitchen With an Eggplant. It was a collection of stories and complicated, single-serving recipes assembled by a true Brooklyn foodie. For those of you who have never heard this term thrown around so casually, a foodie is someone who has an ardent and refined interest in eatables and elegant wines. For years now I have secretly sought to achieve foodie status. I have thrown extravagant wine and cheese parties. I have carefully baked salmon with a garnish of tiny green French lentils. I've used fondant and dream regularly of seven layer chocolate cakes garnished with clotted cream and organically harvested black stone cherries. In this book, the New York foodies flock to Le Bernardin, sampling Yuzu cured wild Alaskan salmon with a side of shaved red beets and coriander infused verjus. The maitre d' constructs the entree so that it resembles a skyscraper, and all the tasting menu items are accompanied by a $2,500 bottle of 1982 Chateau Margaux. To these people, dessert isn't really dessert at all, but rather the entree served as such. For example, in Paris, one would order candied tomato stuffed with twelve kinds of dried and fresh fruit and anise-flavored ice cream. In my imagination, the foodies eat off Waterford china plates and stock up on asparagus and Australian shallots at the local farmer's market every Saturday. Their houses are furnished with things from Anthropologie and they all have a wine cellar. All of them.
And here comes the most regrettable fact of all: I am no foodie.
I have an undying and passionate love for the simplest and most meager of dishes: the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. A foodie would not touch such a thing-- not in a million years. I find myself preparing this course for breakfast, lunch and dinner-- sometimes all in the same day. I eat them toasted. I eat them raw. I eat them cut into fourths, halves, and butterflies. I start around the edges, nibbling off the crust bit my bit before making my way to the middle. When I finish, I let out a satisfied sigh and lick the peanut butter from the knife like an undistinguished glutton. I do so quietly, and in a secret way, so as not to draw attention to the fact that I have immature taste buds-- probably the same that reside on my four year old nephew's tongue.
So there is my confession: I am not a foodie, and I may never achieve foodie status if I continue to use peanut butter as my sole sustenance. I've tried to think of minty couscous with rose water and macadamia nuts as dessert, but I just can't do it. In pure simplicity of mind, sometimes I think that ten thousand ingredients for one recipe is too much, and I prefer the pureness of the PB and J. My hope is that one day this most divine sandwich- more divine than caviar and lavender ice cream- will be recognized as the elegant dish it is. Until then, I remain a foodie imitator, piling my squares of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on top of one another until I slowly and delicately devour them all.

How to demolish an entire civilization and still feel good about yourself.

This is an email I recently wrote.
I seriously think I am so funny.
Thus, I am sharing it on my blog.

I have one thing to say to you: I am traveling through time today. Figuratively speaking, of course.

No. Really. I'm wearing a red coat, with big buttons. And tall, black boots. My hair is curly, like the way an English judge from 1776 would wear his wig.
I didn't realize it until I stepped outside, and then the realization hit me: I look like a British soldier, a redcoat, an enemy of the people, a soldier of war. This was especially apparent in the way pedestrians were eying me from the sidewalks and from inside their apartments. As I marched to class, (yes, really) with my shoulder bag strung haphazardly over my back and a loaded musket in each hand, children and puppies fled from my presence, screaming: The British are coming! The British are coming... again!
Last semester I gave a presentation on Benjamin Franklin. I tried to convince Daphne that if she joined me wearing knee-length knickerbockers and a long, white wig, we would make my presentation A+ material. She didn't buy it. I would have done it, but I wasn't nearly tall enough. Plus, I thought it would be better if Mr. Franklin simply ambled around the room, stared at various members of the class through his bifocals and occasionally touched them, creepily, on the shoulders.

Now I know why she wouldn't do it.

After I take the quiz in my next class that I'm supposed to be studying for, I am going to remove this red coat, hang it in my closet, and never speak or think about it again.

If you own a red coat with similar properties, I beg you to do the same.

Sincerely, your most loving friend,
Joslynn

So cute, but so wimpy.

My experience in college has widened my mind; I like to think my knowledge has increased, my awareness of the world is more acute, and my ability to see beyond my own perspective has improved. There is, however, a severe deficiency in the practicality department.

College has taught me to rush-- class to class, apartment to library--I push forward with complete lack of vigilance. As I made my way to Dr. Cheney's lecture this morning my mind was occupied with distractions. I walked and chanted in my head,
"The hair cells depolarize, the potassium channels open, the sodium channels close, the neuron fires and OPTIC!!! OLFACTORY!!! OCCULOMOTOR!!!!!!"
With my head down, my body bent against the wind I stepped into the street, my feet tapping to the rhythm of my internal study session.
Halfway across the road, a speedily approaching driver was quickly forced to slam on his brakes, narrowly avoiding steamrolling me under the wheels of his vehicle. He laid on his horn as I hopped, yes literally hopped, across the street to the safety of the sidewalk. I cannot convey how deeply I blushed then, or how scared I was to cross the street later that afternoon. I stood on the curb, putting one foot onto the asphalt and then quickly withdrawing it again until every possible approaching threat had passed.

For how well I claim to understand psychology and philosophy, I still seem to be fixated on my inner-childishness. I can tell you everything you could possibly want to know about Freud and Jung and Adler, but I cannot safely and properly cross a busy street by myself.
Explain that to me.

Glitch

My father is a faithful patron of the Macey's Thanksgiving Day parade.

Five years ago Dad could hardly sneak in to watch the second half of the parade-- due to his jam-packed Thanksgiving agenda. In order to make good time for this important event, he has learned to rise early, work quickly, and finish all preparations before the sun has fully risen. After speedily massaging the raw, naked fowl and popping it in the oven, he will inevitably go upstairs before any of us are awake and turn on the TV to watch the parade from tip to toe.

"Well it's a BEAUTIFUL Thanksgiving day here in the neighborhood of New York City," says one announcer to the camera. He is wearing earmuffs and a bow-tie.

"Why yes, Stan, it most certainly is," replies the female announcer on his right, "but the air is cleanest on (pause) SESAME STREET. Just look at those muppets!"

As an enormous float bearing Elmo, Oscar, and Big Bird fills up the TV screen, my dad begins his favorite part of Thanksgiving-- the critical commentary:

"Oh ho! Can you believe these guys? Every year they're drunk! They all have hangovers!"

There's a crash of cymbals and a high school marching band passes behind the float.
Bleary-eyed Stan takes the camera again.

"And here is the BEST high school marching band in the country-- they traveled over 2,000 miles from Pennsylvania to be here today. It's their first trip to NYC so we want to give them a warm, holiday welcome to the Big City," he says.
His smile has the odd ability to show all 32 of his teeth.

My dad's favorite part of the critical commentary is not the ridiculously huge floats, the creepy, King-Kong sized balloons, or the annoying circus music. It's making fun of the announcers.

"What?!? Pennsylvania is not 2,000 miles from New York!" He exclaims as if the announcers had done him an incredibly personal injustice. "What did they do? Get lost on the way? Stop in Disneyland first? Psh!"

After the parade is over my father reaches for the remote. As he turns the TV off he wears a satisfied smirk on his lips. For a man not accustomed to criticizing others, yelling at the stupidity of these holiday anchormen and women is a sort of therapy.

Another Thanksgiving Day, under the belt.

No Man's Land

I am an average American. I am an Earth abuser.

While walking on campus the other day, I noticed that the student body had taken upon itself the task of posting cardboard signs on the patio of the TSC. These signs were handwritten, and stated such facts as:

"Americans use 49 million diapers per day!!! Conserve!"

or

"Have you been drinking out of a plastic water bottle? It's plastic, NITWIT!!! Recycle it!!"

Further down the line, near the salt and pepper shakers were more signs.

"Napkins come from trees! Take ONE please!"

In case you missed the first one, there was another sign posted two feet away that read,

"YOU WASTE NAPKINS-- YOU WASTE TREES!!!!"

Though I hate to admit it, at this point I was feeling a little annoyed. Don't get me wrong-- I like our planet and think it should be kept in the best condition possible. However, I get a little tired of hearing the same news over and over again. Why don't we ever condemn the millions of people killing Panda Bears and rain forests while taking joyrides in their Range Rovers? Why do we glorify Rambo? Certainly he can take the enemy out with electrical wire and a bazooka, but he demolishes enormous trees with one blast of his machine gun in the process. How many napkins would it take to replace that precious tree, or the panda bear fearfully cowering in its branches? I'm sure that while directing "An Inconvenient Truth," Al Gore probably did not take into account that his $4 mocha latte in its plastic cup was probably contributing to that day's CO2 emissions.
I bet he recycles though.

For all our earnest efforts to stop global warming, America is still stigmatized as an extremely wasteful country-- a label we have no doubt earned. In Washington D.C. I stayed in an expensive hotel that had signs posted near every water spout exclaiming: SAVE THE EARTH. My initial thought was, "That's nice. But how?"
According to this $160 per night hotel, not washing my sheets, towels, and body is a good start.

"Millions of precious gallons of water are wasted everyday on room service..."

According to the statistics on the sign, the water wasted in washing millions of dead skin cells from my bedding is also the same water being stolen directly from the cupped hands of a dehydrated African child. I noticed the sign didn't say anything about the water used in their $20 pots of Earl Grey, nor did it denounce the thousands of plastic cups that are wastefully thrown into the garbage daily. Apparently that is a different kind of water.
I don't mind reusing a towel, but anyone who has seen an episode of CSI knows what resides on every hotel bed. If I am going to pay for room service, I WANT my sheets changed. The malnourished children will never know the difference.

Today I am wearing a shirt that says, "Save the Earth" across the chest. It's only a bit of a fad these days, but as I'm writing this blog I realize it is slightly hypocritical. I purchased the shirt at Old Navy for $3. It was probably assembled in mass quantities somewhere in China, transported by a ship or plane that belched out black smoke in the air or oil into the ocean, and eventually came to rest on my body. SAVE THE EARTH, it says. "Yes, this is a good cause," I thought, as I paid for it with my plastic card.

Tonight as I'm leaving the library I will play the part of the average American. I will finish up this Coke that I am drinking, belch carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, and throw the plastic bottle into the garbage.

Above Ground

She was an investment-- a friend that could be purchased with cash and lured into affection with edible reinforcement. Her presence was supposed to be my salvation. I got her in anticipation of my friends dropping off the face of the planet in the desperate hope that her fluffy plumage and bright song would somehow take their place. For the week that she managed to stay alive she did an excellent job. When I came home from class, there she was in her little white cage, pipping and flitting lightly from one perch to the next.

"You got awhat?" my sister exclaimed when I told her of my newest purchase. "A bird? Why a bird?"

Every weekend I volunteer at the local Petsmart and assist with pet adoptions. In my downtime I like to investigate the store, mostly hoping that some new bunnies will arrive, but always making a stop in the bird section to watch the Finches. They are tiny creatures, very versatile, highly colored, and, as I came to discover, each harboring its own unique personality. When I found the little birdcage with the curling white metalwork, I could not resist. I bought the cage, and a little finch to put inside it. I hung the cage from my ceiling and watched the antics of Pip the Finch while I wrote papers, brushed my teeth, talked on the phone, and ate breakfast.

Two nights ago I came home late and crept up to Pip's cage to check on her. I expected to see her sleeping in her little nest. She'd look up at me with a cocked head and sparkling black eyes, I would coo at her, she'd coo back and we'd both go to sleep. Instead I saw her lying on the bottom of her cage, her feet straight in the air, and her feathers askew like she'd just pecked a light socket.

My shaking fingers dialed a number on my phone.

"Hello?" the warm voice of a dear friend was only slightly comforting to my hysterical and slightly dramatic personality.
"Ahhhhh! Pip is dead!! (sob sob sob)"
The mellow voice on the other end tried to talk me through the process.
"You need to take her out of the cage, wrap her up, and put her in a box."
(Sniff sniff)
"Did you do it?"

I never realized how afraid I was of dead things until Pip expired unexpectedly. When I was younger I would pick rotting animals up off the road and bury them with my bare hands. Since that time my resilience has started to wane. I picked up a pencil and poked Pip with the eraser.
"I'm afraid she's going to wake up and start flying around."
The voice on the other line was silent for a moment. "She isn't going to wake up, Jos. Just pick her up and take care of her body."
I tried maneuvering the pencil so I didn't have to touch the tiny, lifeless body.
"Gah! Why can't I do it? It's so hard! I wish I had gloves."
"Jos, just imagine you're not doing it, okay? Just think, it's MY hand picking up Pip."
Grimacing slightly, I reached my friend's hand into the cage and gently picked up my little dead Pip. Her body was almost entirely weightless and she felt soft, downy, and fragile. Using the pencil eraser I stroked her belly. "Oh Pip. Oh Pip, Pip, Pip."

I wrapped her up in a little blanket and placed her in the box-- her tiny sarcophagus, a pygmy coffin. As I began to seal her tomb I stopped. Her left wing, extended, looked flexed, like it could flap and fly about the room on its own accord. I kept the box open all night just in case she decided to ditch her funeral and fly away.

Revise me!

Okay. So, for those gluttonous blog-readers, here's a post to satiate your hunger. It's a personal essay I recently wrote for my English class and I'm considering entering it into the Voices competition. Because of this, I require your questions, comments, and criticism. Note: Yes, most of it is made up and VERY exaggerated. It's the way I roll; deal with it.

My sister has been my idol for as long as I can remember.

In the dreamy nostalgic years Koseli and I pored over American Girl magazines and sat side-by-side on the bus. We used to spend days on end together; we built forts from patchwork quilts, had tea—really just cups of Ovaltine in my bunny tea set—in the garden, and jumped on the trampoline, our bodies temporarily suspended in air before gravity pulled us back to Earth. Even in our immature and childish years she moved with a kind of grace I could never reproduce. I remember sitting next to my parents in a school gymnasium as she took the stage wearing a small navy blue jumper, perfectly smooth curls, and a resolute expression.
"Spell Psoriasis," said the adjudicator.
She took a deep breath and began, delivering the letters decisively, one after the next.
"P-S-O-R-I-A-S-I-S," she said.
"Correct."

By the time she was in the eighth grade she could practically paper her bedroom walls with all the awards she had won: talent shows, 4-H competitions, reflections, Little Miss beauty pageants—my sister was the champion of them all. Much of my doodling was done in the margins of recital schedules or special invites; they covered twisty borders and glamour shots with objects from my fantastical imagination: elves on roller skates, weasels turning cartwheels, people with their heads cut off.

Throughout my childhood I strived to replicate her every move. I dreamt of the day I would conquer her in at least one subject, but wherever I stood she was always three steps ahead. She was prettier, smarter, and more successful—in my eyes she had everything. I found it profoundly unfair that while I was still struggling with my identity she had seamlessly incorporated herself into the world: sterling scholar, honor student, prom queen. While she planned service committees at the local retirement center I constructed sculptures out of garbage from my trashcan and covered all the cardboard boxes in our storage room with handmade paper. My talent was definitely there, but its purpose was maddeningly amorphous, even to me.

I come from a long line of doctors and engineers. My family as a whole is practical, hardworking, and academically inclined. In my house art is considered a luxury, not a livelihood. The only thing I liked about myself- my one safety and satisfaction- was the sketchbook of pictures in my closet. I wrote and illustrated stories in it ceaselessly. I painted for hours once with acrylics on an old canvas to illustrate what I imagined the Lobster Quadrille would have looked like after reading Alice and Wonderland for the first time. When I was finished, I proudly displayed the bright red dancing lobsters for my family to see.
"Maybe you should take up drafting," my father suggested.
"You didn't get any paint on the rug, did you?" demanded my mother.
"Those lobsters are excellent, Jos. You really captured the power in the crusher claw."

My sister, in all her perfection, was supportive to a fault. Her kindness towards my artistic skills made me love her and at the same time internally grumble about how much I hated her.

In high school I tried treading the path she had previously made. In my opinion it was a long and muddy road wrought with footsteps too giant for my faltering feet to fill. On every first day of school my teachers would peer over the roll at me and exclaim excitedly,
"Ah! Another Christensen!"
Their eyes would sparkle as they anticipated the pleasure of tutoring another genius pupil; it is a foolish assumption that skills run through genetics. Each one quickly learned that being the sister of a genius is not the same as being a genius yourself.

In an effort to establish a niche, I gave the track team a try. After nearly breaking my ankle on the first run, I joined the French club, the honor’s society, and the school spirit squad. Each was one booming failure after the next. The cold, hard fact had surfaced: I wasn't good at anything—nothing important at least. I was quickly becoming a masochist; a victim of my sister’s charm, and I considered accepting my position—being trampled under her shadow—and never pursuing an alternative. I settled with becoming weird, like one of those kids who shows up for school pictures with fake bruises over their eyes or who carries a cane everywhere. Even with my newfound identity, my nightmares were still haunted with phantoms screaming, "Why can't you be more like your sister?"

Eventually I graduated and came to college and my sister moved to New York. When separated from her I began to appreciate me—something I had never done before. I abandoned my attempts to appear decent and allowed the best and worst part of me to show through-- the part that loves chess, classic literature, teapots and old headboards—the part of me that is ultimately nerdy but definitely me. I began to decorate and draw plans for houses and offices and bedrooms. I took out my old sketchbooks and looked at the drawings again. This time it was different—they were mine, and they were good.

Koseli maintains a blog, and this was the beginning of her last post.
"Joslynn and I have begun writing stories together. We've set no rules for ourselves as to the subject matter, the characters, the plot, the style, or the voice except I will indicate where one of us ends and the other picks up. We welcome your quips, your criticism, and above all, your praise to help us overcome our fear of publicizing our writing. We expect unprecedented numbers of comments, a syrupy sweet drip of feedback that lures us back to our email-storying fury. On a side note, Miss Joslynn is 19, my Tibble Twin sister, tall and beautiful, a sophomore at Utah State, and a far more talented writer than I."

Even though there was no ulterior motive to this message, when I read it I realized how much I have grown. In that instant I knew that I had come into myself enough that I did not need to be Koseli's carbon copy anymore. I never recognized it in my insecure, art-loving younger self but I have always been an individual, broken free from routine and radically different from anyone else. More specifically, I am me, and for the first time I like who that is. And so, it seems, does my sister.

There is no greater joy than being loved for oneself. Who I am, my distinctions, shine through me now. And because of that my sister and I are finally on an equal level. In many aspects she is still my idol; but in a few others I am hers.

Back in the Blogosphere

What do you think of my blog's new design? Do tell, do tell!

Whiskers in the Jar

From the time I was able to actualize the world, I developed a rare affinity with the felis catus. As a young child I was often seen in cat-form; springing, leaping, hissing, growling, and running in an awkward feline fashion on my skinny hands and bony knees. I drank water from a bowl. I wore a frumpy fur coat in the summertime in order to connect to my inner-cat. I even ate Friskies on multiple occasions.

I am a lover of all creatures furry and soft. But being a fan of felines seems to be an anomaly. I remember being persecuted by dog lovers in elementary school for not joining their ranks, and then seeking the shelter of the other few kitty lovers I could find in my class to mirror my affection for small, purring balls of fluff.

Cats make excellent companions. Their relationship with man begins with civilization itself and stretches back over 9,500 years. I read that a grave site in Cyprus dated during the Neolithic period contains the skeleton of a ceremonially buried human and, right next to him, the body of a correctly embalmed cat.
Muezza was the Prophet Muhammad's favorite cat. The most famous story about Muezza recounts how the call to prayer was given, and as Muhammad went to put on his robe he found his cat sleeping on one of the sleeves. Instead of disturbing the cat he cut off the sleeve and let him sleep.
Slippers was President Theodore Roosevelt's gray cat with six toes on each paw who is said to have appeared at diplomatic dinners.

As you can see, I am not the only person that enjoys the company of a kitty. And I, too, have my favorite.

My love for cats was strong before, but Libby, of all homely creatures, has made it unstoppable.

These days she can be seen wallowing on the garage floor or sunning on the pavement near the Dogwood Tree. When she is not dormant or latent, meowing in a lachrymose manner, or staring balefully out the window, I still like to take her into my arms and carry her up to my room. Arthritis makes it hard for her to move, so I spread out a blanket and a kneadably fluffy object for her to paw and I scratch her ears or rub her neck until we both fall asleep.
She has been a constant, though often independent and indifferent, companion to me. She follows me around the house when I'm straightening things up and surprises me in unexpected places-- like popping out from behind a pile of dirty clothes or from under a discretely clothed table. She likes me to hold up a fist so she can knock her skull against it and rub her head on my knuckles. She likes watching me vacuum. She has awakened me many times in a low blood sugar stupor with her consistent meowing and sandpaper tongue. When I was away at college I would always mistake a teddy bear or stuffed animal for my cat, and it would fill me with intense longing to have her companionship again. Now that I am home I don't take her presence for granted and give her many, many kitty kisses. She may look raggy and ugly in her old age now, but that is just because she has been loved so thoroughly that it shows in her shaggy hair and crooked smile.

To all cats, unappreciated for the elegant creatures you are-- this one is for you.

Oh my, what a beautiful man!

I fell in love with him instantenously.

The first time I saw him he was surrounded by beautiful women on a little white couch. They touseled his hair and kissed him unceasingly. I do admit, I wished to do the same-- what girl couldn't when so unexpectedly confronted with such a handsome man? He bore this all with good grace, with the lazy beauty of one used to being admired. My eyes locked onto his face, into his ocean-deep hazel eyes, the gentle curve of his cheek and nose, his soft brown hair undulating in gradual waves over his head. For one second-- for one tiny fateful moment, he looked away from his devotees and glanced in my direction. He had the casual confdence of one completely at his ease. I could not hesitate. I reached out my fingers and with trembling hands took him into my arms and held him in a tight embrace. In return he kicked off his booties and commenced to suck on my shoulder.

I had come face to face with an angel.

His name is Barek Gabriel. He is four months old, and he is the third grandchild to be born into my family.

Barek is perhaps the best behaved baby I have ever met. I do not speak completely from bias. I have spent much of my middle school career tending impish and ratty children. Truly, young Barek is neither an imp nor a rat. He is a handsome prince in a most un-froglike form (unless you dress him in too much green) and only utters cries at the hungry hour. His birth and name come with stories fit for a fairy book. His life, considering from where he has come, is sure to be blessed.

Dearest baby Bear,

I am a fan. Welcome.

Love sincerely,

Aunt Jos

Counter Spark

D.
There. The conclusive multiple choice answer to the one hundreth question of my last final. I am one of the first to finish. Bonus! With renewed vigor and confidence, I bolster my now textbook-free shoulderbag over my arm, throw open the doors of Old Main and walk into the sunlight, onto the quad, and away from my first year of college.
Growing older has changed my perception of myself. I slept in this sweatshirt. My hair is piled haphazardly into a messy braid. Even so, I still feel pretty. I can smell the shampoo in my hair and the intermingled scents of several perfumes that ordinarily would be awful, but make up a kind of personal medley of smell. I smile at all who pass, sniff the air and reflect on the coming summer. As I speedwalk to the shuttlestop, I catch a whiff on the wind-- it's a mixture of wet hay, mud, and the early morning smell in spring-- and I am transported.

I used to walk to school.
That was before a bus came to the end of our street-- before all the black ice in winter, when Angela Turnbow let her little brother fall on his bottom so she could hold me up while we walked down the hill.

8:00. My socks are folded, the perfect tinted fushia to match my shirt with the cat faces.
"Today's the day," I would remind myself each morning, as I zipped up one of many colored jackets.

Malibu Musk. $4.75.

I borrowed Sasha's tight yellow and black shirt and I'm wearing one of Koseli's sports bras, even though I'm not even close to needing it. They won't know. No one will.
I won't take off my coat.

It's early morning, and I hear the loud bell from Monte Vista Elementary School from my backyard. It fills me with nerves. Koseli jumps from the swingset.
"We're going to be late!"
She runs faster than me over the dewdrop grass, a spot of red jacket beyond my reach.

Recess. I'm lying facedown on the blacktop. Rocks. Blood. My tooth has fallen out. My glasses are broken.

Mrs. Terran's kindergarten class. Chalkboards. Graham crackers.
The tiny desks and chairs are filled once again with my classmates. I hold Cecily's hand as the teacher asks, "Joslynn, where are you going?"
Not knowing how to respond, I tell her, "I'll come back!" as I grab my pink backpack off its hook and ran.

First grade. I chatter to Koseli on the bus about a turquoise crayon I found in my totetray. Sun-warmed leather. Dirty leather. Dust. She corrects me; it is not turquoise, it is blue-green.

We cut over the canal road and the blue corrals on the way to Mrs. Tripp's class. The horses lift their heads from damp hay and whinny a welcome, their hot breath frosts on their noses and their eyes are warm and brown... anxiety.

The shuttle arrives at last and I am snapped from my reverie.
For one instant-- one single, flashing moment-- I begin to climb onto the bus and I am still the little girl I once was; the shy girl with scared eyes, big glasses, and even bigger teeth.
The next second I am myself again-- the embodiement of that little girl; her dream, her future, in physical form.
I square my shoulders and step onboard.

Minor Details

Anastasia's Attic is a dream store.

Whenever I visit I walk with the reverence befitting a chapel. I weave in out of precious breakables and reach out my shaky fingers to touch gems and jewels and emerald hairpins and glass bell jars and tea cups and velvet hats with feathers in them. The big front door is heavy and old; it squeaks slightly when the handle is turned and the little bell at the top jingles a welcome. The first inhalation of Anastasia's air carries the heavy scent of mulberry and potpourri and soap and musky perfume.

I don't know anyone who has ever had an obsession with cake plates besides myself. The Attic is hostess to many different assortments. Each one is beautiful and unique-- irresistibly intricate and perfect. Lined carefully on white wall shelves are silver coffee pots. They make me giddy. Sachets and coin purses fill me with euphoria. I dance at the prospect of hardbound classic literature. It is all wonderful and it is all located in one place.

I was in middle school the first time I was bit by the decorative bug. It happened after Anastasia's Attic. Looking at beautiful things gives me a strange itch to recreate my known property and make it different; to make it lovely. Since that time I have covered boxes in handmade paper, sewn pillowcases and curtains, reupholstered a chair, created a homemade bed canopy and changed my sheets several thousand times.
I am on a quest to find the peace and contentment that comes from a world of beautiful places. It's the same feeling I get when I look at Pottery Barn magazines with Lindsay. It is my bed and breakfast dream. It is my bookstore vision. It is my destiny.

Pleasant things are found in unexpected places. For a beauty addict like myself, it is easy to adjust things just so and still be discontent. I want claw-footed tubs, afternoon tea in the garden, golden sunbursts, castles and marble halls. I fear that my materialistic ideals will consume me. How can I concentrate in class when my mind jumps from fondue to fondant in a matter of seconds? Shall I continue to pour over books? Or should I give up and join the ranks of women who hoard Martha Stewart suggestions in baskets and try to make a career of it?

There are many places on this Earth that I adore, but few hold such a lovely spell as this.

The Mind That Knows Itself

I like a good bath.

On a frigid evening, a steamy, aromatic bathtub is a girl's most valuable weapon against illness, unhappiness, and discontent. Whenever I make the effort to bathe, I do it thoroughly. I draw my bathwater up to the brim and fill it with bubbles that thicken and foam under the faucet. I can often languish under tropical bathing conditions until my fingers shrivel and turn purple; my tolerance for such heat has accumulated over the years. For me it is a time of reflection-- a time for genius and enlightenment and epiphanies.

I started reading in the bath in fifth grade. Chasing Redbird was constantly weighing on my mind; this is evidenced by the wet fingerprints that have left permanent wrinkle-marks on its pages. I suppose that most people don't make a habit of multi-tasking. I've slowed down the novel-reading since I've started college, and now limit myself to obsessively reading the backs of shampoo bottles. It's not nearly as interesting, but it's all I have.

Despite this, every once in a great while I have the good fortune to stumble across comical gems of various shapes and sizes in my tub at school. Ordinary, inanimate objects often carry disguised humor under incredibly droll circumstances. Because of this, the bath has become a whimsical place for me.

For example, a shaving cream bottle I found on the left side of the tub:

St. Eden SPA
Ladies Shave Cream

Green with Envy
Prevent razor irritation
Soften hair and skin

Direction:
Moisten legs and apply to the area to be shaved. In a thin light film.
Shave with a wet razor. Rinsing it often. After shaving, Wash entire
area. Will not stain.

Warning: For external use only. Avoid contact with eye. If condition
worsens, consult a doctor.

KEEP OUT OF CHILDREN

Made in China


Needless to say, I had a nice solitary laugh in the bath when I picked up this bottle and started reading. I'm sure that anyone in the proximity who happened to hear me giggling thought I was going slightly mental.

Perhaps I am.
Or, maybe I just always was.

Welcome to the Noosphere

Professor Drysdale likes class participation. He always has. He jumps at the slightest raised hand-- the tiniest flicker of the wrist excites him. He bounds across the front of the classroom, flipping his pencil in the air and cracking the knuckles of his long fingers against his thighs. When he talks his Adam's apple moves up and down and mesmerizes me from my front row seat.

I pay attention in class. I take notes. I don't lean back in my chair, I don't chew gum, and I don't talk to my neighbors.
I also don't contribute to discussions.
Drifting into senseless fantasies is perhaps one of my less obvious talents. I have dreamed up ridiculous visions in each of my classes. In more embarrassing scenarios they often involve characters in books that I have read, or in extreme cases, characters that I have created in my mind.
Needless to say, my talent is not obvious because I usually do not make it so.
It is an infallible principle; if the mouth never opens, nothing regrettable will ever come out.

And then my nose started to itch.

It began somewhere between a discussion about the Jonestown Massacre and the bystander intervention model. A tiny, creeping, pinprick of a nuisance entered my right nostril. At the time I believe I was thinking about horses-- Black Beauty to be exact-- and how fragile their ankles were. I thought about what it might feel like to be horse, and to have a bit placed in one's mouth and to pull a sleigh over white hills.
"Now, what would induce 38 people to simply..."
From the windows I could see the snow softly drift down to the Earth and muffle the grass in sparkling insulation. How sad to be a horse out in the snow! How sad to be a dead Ginger in the back of a cart!
"...brutally raped in murdered and not a single phone call to 9-1-1..."
I had cried while reading Black Beauty. I had found it undeniably saddening. All this long while my nose continued to itch. Without bothering to bring back my wandering mind, I casually reached up with my hand to brush the right side of my face (including the nose) and satisfy it all with a gentle scratch. As I lifted my hand, Mike Drysdale's exuberant voice permeated my reverie,
"Ah ha! Comment! What have you to say, Miss plaid scarf?"

I froze. I peered behind my left shoulder to stare at the girl who was not responding to the professor. I looked over my right shoulder and still saw no one in plaid. Then I looked down at the red and gray and black tied in a trendy little knot around my neck and looked up in horror to the front of the classroom.

"Um... nothing. No. Contribute. Not," I stammered. My voice squeaked and sounded unnaturally high.

"Very good!" said the professor, smacking his hands together and rubbing them warmly as he stared me down.
"I guess sometimes it's good to just raise your hand to say no," he said.

I closed my eyes and put my head down on the desk to dream about unicorns.

Pigeons on the grass-- alas!

NEGLIGIBLE old star.
Pour even.
It was a sad per cent.
Does on sun day.
Watch or water.
So soon a moon or a old heavy press.

I have officially had the pleasure of being formally introduced to the true nature of the English major. They may be a poetic genius, or a literature extraordinaire, but they are always-- in my opinion, at least-- completely bonkers.

I'm afraid it's beginning to have an effect on me.

The girls I sit next to in American literature history class are all English majors. They love Thoreau, and Wharton, and Chopin. They search for metaphors in one word poems. They have stringy hair, a pestiferous vocabulary, and strained eyes insulated with thick lenses for heavy reading. They use hand gestures when they talk. They fight all the time but never resolve their arguments. They are dynamic and caustic-- their debates create a cacophony of shrillness over which Evelyn Funda simply smiles and sways her hips and says, "tell me more, more, more."

Literature goes through cycles: romanticism, realism, naturalism, and modernism. The more innovation and progression that literature undergoes, the more freedom both author and reader have to write, experiment, and interpret.

For example, when I read Uncle Tom's Cabin, I felt the conspicuous presence of Harriet Beecher Stowe in my head. I was reading with the author's lingering breath moistening my ear. She had an odd way of placing her thumbs on the lobes of my brain and whispering, "This is a bad character! You don't like him! Here is the plot. Here is the problem. Now think THIS!"

Until I came to college, I was used to this type of reading. I did not read to find new meaning in someone else's work-- I read to gain information only. I read the world like an encyclopedia, a Dicken's novel, or a Sharon Creech book. I read to take; I never read to contribute.

And then there was James.

Henry James was different. When one reads Daisy Miller, one feels the decisive indifference of the author. Was it sad that Daisy perished in the end with no elaborate bedside scenes or fallen lovers? Frankly, it would seem that James simply didn't care. I undoubtedly did not either; I found the writing trite and egotistic and boring. When I opened the book, it seemed to me that James would immediately rise from his tea, tip his hat, and leave the room. Well, it's all well for you, Mr. James, but I am being force fed this nonsense, I would think.

He may remain indifferent, but the members of Evelyn Funda's English class could not.

And all the while the English majors would snip and snap and twist and take and talk and soak in all this terrible, terrible literature.

And then Ms. Stein popped into existence.

Gertrude Stein was the worst of all. When I read "The Making of Americans," I felt like I was in a glass box. Not only was the box glass, but it was a glass box with no holes, and no air, and no door. I read the words and tried to make sense of them-- words that are words and not much else; words that are abstract, that are the medium of the message, that are a perfect Picasso of words and nothing else--but I failed and failed because my brain cannot make order out of chaos. And all around the box was Gertrude Stein-- pressed hard against the glass, laughing, laughing, laughing-- and me inside trying and repeating and trying and repeating... and all the English majors were at war with each other, and there were papers and punches flying in every direction, and there was blood on the floor.

And serenely smiling over it all was Evelyn Funda, saying "more, more, more!"

I don't understand English majors or American literature. And yet, as sad, and as sorry, and as petty as it seems, I try very hard to fit in with them.

It will forever be my blight.

A LIGHT in the moon the only light is on Sunday. What was the sensible decision. The sensible decision was that notwithstanding many declarations and more music, not even withstanding the choice and a torch and a collection, notwithstanding the celebrating hat and a vacation and even more noise than cutting, notwithstanding Europe and Asia and being overbearing, not even notwithstanding an elephant and a strict occasion, not even withstanding more cultivation and some seasoning, not even with drowning and with the ocean being encircling, not even with more likeness and any cloud, not even with terrific sacrifice of pedestrianism and a special resolution, not even more likely to be pleasing. The care with which the rain is wrong and the green is wrong and the white is wrong, the care with which there is a chair and plenty of breathing. The care with which there is incredible justice and likeness, all this makes a magnificent asparagus, and also a fountain.

~Gertrude Stein

The Perpetual Self

I knew I would give in before we even entered the park.

Over the past few weeks, I have kept an admirably steady strain of weak justifications as to why I should not ride the skycoaster at Lagoon. As talented as I am at rationalizing, however, I am simply no match for the power of persuasion.

Miss Packard and Miss Edge raised the question of the skycoaster long ago, and since the moment the idea was first introduced I stewed over my options and dreamt up many honorable excuses for their benefit.
The first stated concisely that I was afraid of heights. I was privately convinced that this phobia combined with the fear of free falling would certainly result in my spontaneous and tragically early death. Prior to this point I never considered myself a weak individual. Give me a crinkly old book or sit me at a desk all day, and I will survive the boredom. Poke me with pins, draw my blood, feed me on nothing but bread and water-- I will scrape through physical pain unscathed. But dangle me from a cord one hundred and fifty feet in the air and drop me head first at 80 miles per hour and I undoubtedly will extemporaneously expire from the sheer idea of an adrenaline rush.
That is who I am; I am soft of heart, mind, might, and body. It is this that caused me to look into the pouty faces of my friends and be converted against my will. I followed them to the gallows quite willingly, tripping behind with delayed steps and a very confusing mixture of pressurized fear, bewilderment, and rapidly vanishing dignity.
It only took one look-- one glance in my direction to flip flop my willpower-- one look from two pairs of ooey gooey eyes and I was unceremoniously suited up with a purple jacket and clipped to the left of Natalie Edge and Brittany Packard several feet above the ground. And then the cable began pulling us up.

I believe I closed my eyes as we were lifted, but not before I saw the trees fall quickly away, the hoards of amusement-seekers shrink into tiny colorful dots below, and the ground become sadly and uncomfortably distant. I death-gripped Natalie's arm and squeezed my eyes shut. "You can stop now!" Brittany continued to yell as we dangled from the rope.
And then we heard the fateful voice come over the gentle hum of atmospheric wind, "Are you ready? 3, 2, 1, fly!"
Brittany pulled the cord, hard and fast-- like a band aid. However, she paused one moment to say, "This is it!" and I felt my intestines retreat further into my body in the fearful anticipation of being splattered and smashed on the sidewalk.
And then we fell straight down-- it would be a quick, fast, painless death. I can't remember if I screamed or not. In my head I was yelling bloody murder, but I think I only was able to voice a weak and kitten-like mewling on the way down. I stopped as soon as we began swinging back and forth-- Peter Pan style-- but continued to leech myself to Natalie's arm and absolutely refused to extend my own.
Sooner than I could have possibly hoped, it was over. I was more or less in shock, and rather light headed from the fall-- but ultimately I was completely unharmed and utterly speechless.

Because of my dear friends, I have learned something new about thrill seeking. For those of us who don't normally look for excitement, a bit of regulated free-falling doesn't hurt a bit. Yes, it scares us to death-- but afterword we can happily fall upon the ground and kiss its stable beauty, and simultaneously walk taller than the trees.

Britt and Nat,
We are as good as blood sisters now.
Welcome to the club.

I knew I had red hair for a reason...

You're Anne of Green Gables!

by L.M. Montgomery

Bright, chipper, vivid, but with the emotional fortitude of cottage
cheese, you make quite an impression on everyone you meet. You're impulsive, rash,
honest, and probably don't have a great relationship with your parents. People hurt
your feelings constantly, but your brazen honestly doesn't exactly treat others with
kid gloves. Ultimately, though, you win the hearts and minds of everyone that matters.
You spell your name with an E and you want everyone to know about it.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Revenge of the Nite Bite

The basement freezer has always been a rank dungeon which houses the oddities and outcasts of the food world. Freezer burned dinner rolls, untouched, uncooked, and ill-assorted meats of all kinds flank the wire baskets lying within this big white casket for frozen food. Occasionally, however, a sweet treat can be found in the very deepest corners of this particular freezer.
It is here that I first discovered the Nite Bite.

They came as gifts from the diabetes camp management. Innocently wrapped in bright blue plastic with pink letters, they were the only colorful object in the freezer's grasp. Designed to keep little diabetics from getting midnight low downs, the colorful candies appeared to be delightful as well as tasty. Chocolaty brown with a texture similar to a tootsie roll, I unraveled my first Nite Bite with delight and sank my teeth into its frozen surface.

The first words that can possibly describe the sensation of eating a Nite Bite are a combination between chocolate, chalk, and mud. The Bite is thick, glutenous, and filled with the powdery sensation of protein packed grossness. Overwhelmingly sweet and undesirably preservable, the half-thawed goop sticks to the roof of my mouth, throat, esophogaus, and stomach.

In other words...

Bees sting,
Flies bite.
I just wanted
A Nite Bite...
But I learned my lesson the hard way.