There was a bug on my foot this morning. A bug. Gross.
When my friend ditches me and drivers honk at me, when the weather is crappy and I don't have an umbrella, when my husband doesn't answer his cell phone, I can still count on something inexplicable to remind me that I am loved.
When I turned three, my parents asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I said a typewriter. It may seem like an odd thing for a three-year-old to request, but whenever we would visit my dad's office at the chapel, he would let me play on the typewriter. He would put some blank paper in, and I would tap out rows and rows of letters—no spaces—forming great unreadable stories. I would watch, fascinated, as the typing ball came up and marked the paper with the exact letter I had chosen. I loved the sound of it and the feel of it and the knowledge that I could create something real.
When my birthday came around, I opened up my presents to find a Fisher Price typewriter. It was yellow. Plastic. Instead of a keyboard, it had three pieces of molded plastic to look like keys. If you tried to press a key, a third of the keyboard moved with it. There was no place for paper, no typing ball with letters all over it, no fantastic typing sound.
Thanks, guys.
Can you imagine what might have happened if they had given me a real typewriter at the age of three? I could have developed a love for the written word early on. Maybe I would have published my first novel by now. Or become a journalist. Or a... blogger.
This article says introverts are more sensitive to stimuli. I knew it!
I do realize it's rather pathetic to only update this blog once a month. Honestly, I started to write something at least three times since the last entry, but I scrapped them all because they were crap.
I put the crap in scrap.
Meanwhile, check out my husband's blog. He is quickly surpassing me in prolificity.
I woke up with an adrenaline rush. I knew I would need it.
This morning I had the honor of meeting my first really horrible parent. I can think of no other way to describe her without resorting to name-calling. She actually dropped the f-bomb. At me. And meant it. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. I'd rather have given her the benefit of my boot.
What has 5 letters and strikes fear into the heart of any education system peon? A-U-D-I-T. Being a good little peon, I went to check the files I inherited two weeks ago to make sure they're in order. They're a mess. CRAP!
Meanwhile, after driving across town 3 times...
I get a call on my cell. I'm thinking it's a parent (good), or an administrator (bad), but no! It's only the biggest harp gig of my entire life! Sure, I've done some weddings and maybe a dinner or two. These people want to book me for an entire day! Cha-CHING!
And the week's not over yet.
I dreamed I was at a backyard party with some friends. A band was playing and I looked up to see that it was Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake, and someone else I didn't recognize. They were young, like teenagers. After their set, we were all standing around together. I turned and gave Britney a big hug and said, "I love you so much. It'll all be ok." I knew I needed to do this because nobody else was.
Not long ago, I turned 28. T-w-e-n-t-y-e-i-g-h-t. I don't know why this weirds me out so much. It is 27 + 1. I should have expected it. Maybe it's the fact that if I turned 28, there's probably a good chance I will turn 30, seeing as 26 doesn't seem like that long ago and it's two years either way. And then that's it. Bye-bye, twenties. Bam. Adulthood. I don't think I'm ready.
I'm married.
HOLY @#$%! I'M MARRIED!
This is probably going to sound like the stupidest thing I've ever said, but getting married changed my life. No, really. I couldn't have anticipated what it would be like to be in a room with 100+ people who are connected to me because of some degree of love. For this isolationist only child loner, it was the first time I really understood what it meant to have friends, what it meant to have family. I understood why people have children, and why I want to have children—I wouldn't want to miss out on an opportunity to feel this feeling again. And I think children embody it.
There were so many sweet moments that day that I'm afraid they'll slip away if I don't capture them in words.
seeing all my friends come through the door that morning for brunch
seeing the tears in Jason's eyes as I walked down the aisle
getting the church giggles during my vows (yep, that's me)
hearing the vows that Jason had written and remembering why I fell in love with him
waiting for permission to kiss him
strangers congratulating us on the beach when we went out there for pictures
being first through a buffet (that's never happened to me before!)
seeing half the room stand up when the photographer called "Meredith's Bible study girls"
kneeling down to hug my little cousin Catherine and having her run into my arms
Jason singing to me through our first dance
dancing with my dad (who remained incredibly cool throughout the whole event, I must add)
Derek's toast
hearing Superfreak come on (as requested by our PASTOR'S WIFE)
seeing Calvin get crazy on the dance floor
Ellie catching the bouquet (just like I did at her sister's wedding when I was her age) and Calvin catching the garter
seeing everyone wave as we drove off in the Barracuda
It was a most amazing day.
I gotta say... The day before my wedding was like walking on a cloud (once we got the dress crisis straightened out). I have never felt so much love in one room as I did at the rehearsal dinner. It was a day I would love to rewind over and over. But not necessarily when I'm trying to get to sleep. My body was exhausted, but my mind would not shut up. And then I would start to drift off and it got worse. It was like the person who makes stupid comments at a movie:
Oh, wow! That didn't happen today. And I don't know those people at all. I must be dreaming!
Dude, shut up! You're ruining it!
There was a glorious moment after 3am of absolute nothingness, but then around 5 somebody's sprinklers came on.
And... we're back.
It's the week of the wedding and I feel like I'm standing in line for a roller coaster. When I finally get to the front, I know all I can do is strap in and hold on. One of my bridesmaids called on Thursday in a panic. Her dress is at the tailor. They're closed until next week.
Here we go.
Chk-a chk-a chk-a chk-a chk-a chk-a chk-a chk-a... Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!
When I was little, I remember seeing commercials on TV asking viewers to sponsor children living in poverty overseas. I always told myself that when I grew up and had money of own, I would do it. Well, I did.
Her name is Annet. She's six years old and lives in Uganda.
I had just walked into the Borders at Pentagon Center. Jane Anne and I were browsing a display near the front when an announcement came over the PA system: "Attention, customers! We have a celebrity in the store today. Frank Warren, author of the PostSecret books, is here. He'll be in the café if anyone would like to stop by and chat with him." Just then, a man reached in front of me and picked up a copy of The Secret Lives of Men and Women. (I just happened to be standing right in front of the stack on the display.) He asked me, "Is that the guy who wrote this?" I nodded, dumbstruck. "What do you think he's like? I bet he's weird." And just like that, he was gone.
I whisper-shouted to Jane Anne, "That was HIM! The guy—Frank Warren!" A fixture of my Sunday morning, and I couldn't think of anything to say to him! I was so embarrassed. When I finally summoned the courage a minute later, I meandered over to the café to see if I could get him to sign a copy for Jason. There I saw a store employee wheeling a stack of the books away. He said, "Oh, were you waiting for him?" I said, "Yeah." "Well, no one came over and I guess he had to be somewhere." I was crushed. It was seriously like a minute between when Frank talked to me and when I peeked into the café. I figured he would have been mobbed. But alas, I had just missed him.
I have scruples out the wazoo. I am scrupulous. I am replete with scrupulosity.
In the 1986-1987 school year...
I was six, going on seven years old. I lived in Virginia Beach. I went to Old Donation Center for the Gifted and Talented once a week; I was in second grade. I attended Great Neck Baptist Church, where I accepted Christ and was baptized in 1987.
In the 2006-2007 school year...
I am twenty-six, going on twenty-seven years old. I work in Virginia Beach. I go to Old Donation Center for the Gifted and Talented everyday; I work with second graders. I'm trying to reserve Great Neck Baptist Church, where I will be getting married in 2007.
It's eerie, lemme tell ya.
5:45am: Wake up.
5:46am: Check district website.
5:47am-7:06am: Alternate between 3 local TV news stations and continue to refresh district website while getting ready.
7:06am: Depart home to arrive at school by 7:35.
7:06am-7:49am: Brave high winds, heavy rain, power outages, accidents, and flooding to fulfill contractual obligation.
7:49am: Arrive at school.
7:50am: Learn that a 2-hour delay was announced at 7:20am.
7:51am-9:10am: Work in my classroom while feeling like a chump.
9:10am: Hear announcement over the PA system that school has been cancelled.
9:10am-9:15am: Pack up my stuff while feeling like an even bigger chump.
9:15am: Depart school to arrive at home.
9:15am-10:04am: Brave high winds, heavy rain, power outages, accidents, and flooding a second time.
10:04am: Arrive at home.
10:05am: Go back to bed.
My mom just bought a table, made it Vietnam, with these inscriptions on the underside:
I'd love to know what it says. Hopefully not "Please help me—I'm being subjected to forced labor."
Ron put me onto this site on Sunday. People create and send in postcards with their secrets on them. Reading them, I couldn't help wanting to be a part of it, wanting to send in my own secret. So I thought about my most glaringly heinous mistakes, the things I wouldn't ever want to come out in a job interview or a political race, but I can't use any of them. One of the rules is that the secret has to be previously unshared with anyone. For every one of my scandals, I've told at least one person, for shock value if nothing else. I kept thinking and eventually I found it—that place where you bury things so deep, you don't care if you can ever recover them. On the verge of forgetting. My secret was almost gone—lost over the edge of the abyss—but I snagged it before it slid into oblivion. Just so I could make a postcard. But it's a really good secret.
What's your secret?
The appearance of my being pregnant with a baby watermelon has yet to subside. Hence, I went to see the doctor. His professional opinion: "There's nothing wrong with you." Fantastic. And... I beg to differ.
When I got home, there was a message from Stacey. The exact same thing that happened to me happened to a friend of a friend of hers. That was the best news ever! Why? Because it means I'm not a complete freak of nature. As was previously thought.
So I apparently really messed up my abdominal muscles with too many crunches. Silly me, I thought working out was supposed to improve your health. Now my abdomen is distended, and when I woke up this morning, I broke into a sweat, threw up, and started to black out. Have no fear; my condition has stabilized. But it's kinda hard to rest muscles you use for sitting, standing, ambulating, and other necessary functions.
The moral of the story is... If you ever have the urge to work your abdominals, DON'T DO IT! Stay on the couch!! It's not worth it!!!
Urinalysis was not designed for the shy of bladder. There is that intimidating line on the cup, causing you to wonder, Can I make it? Do I have it in me? Do I have what it takes? Then there's the lab tech waiting on the other side of the door. Listening. And of course, let's not forget the time constraint. Two minutes. If I am going to overcome the impending pressure to perform, I'm gonna need a lot more than two minutes. As it happened, I needed close to an hour and three bottled waters.
I've had better. And I've learned important lessons about things that mix well and things that don't.
Friends + Holidays = good!
Huge Chinese Buffet + Cranberry Cocktails = bad.
Stupid Movies + Jenga = good!
Ghetto-fied Neighbors + Inviting Them In = bad.
Cigarette Smoke + Breathing = bad.
Drinking Too Much + Gravity + Metal-framed Table = bad.
Fortunately for me, the more difficult lessons were learned vicariously. Even so, 2006 has nowhere to go but up.
I never do these things, but I found this one fascinating to think about. Plus, I have a take-home final I'm putting off.
Stolen from Astin.
Everyone has their firsts...
First best friend: Rachel Jackson
First school: Trantwood Elementary
First concert: Point of Grace (how embarrassing)
First screen name: Ich bin M
First funeral: Grandaddy, Christmas of 1991
First pet: my electronic fish screensaver
First piercing/tattoo: got my ears pierced when I was 6
First big trip: I'm sure I must have travelled to Alabama in the days before memory.
First flight: Newport, RI to Atlanta, GA (1990)
First time out of the country: moved to Scotland, age 10
First job: B. Moss, holiday season 1999-2000
First love: Eddie, fall of 1995
Everyone also has their lasts...
Last person you hugged: mom
Last person you kissed: plead the 5th
Last song you heard: Cool Water, Laura Veirs
Last car ride: from the primary school to home
Last time you cried: 2 Saturdays ago when I had to start my thesis
Last movie you watched: Chronicles of Narnia
Last food you ate: cinnamon toast
Last item bought: Unicef Christmas cards
Last shirt worn: turquoise sweater
Last phone call: Yuriy
Last drink: hot tea
Last thing you typed: diagnostic reports
I spent Thanksgiving break expanding my digital presence. So if you are looking for me, chances are you will find me.
"I wanna draw the line between who I am and who I invent." - Low Millions
The only problem with taking a vacation from yourself is that sooner or later you have to come home.
The good news: I seem to have inadvertently dropped a pants size.
The bad news: None of my pants fit!
When timing and/or finances prevent an actual physical getaway, I highly recommend taking a vacation from yourself. It's easy—just do something you would never think of doing as your normal, everyday self. You can start small, maybe changing one habit or routine. Once you get the hang of it, you'll enjoy the freedom of cultivating a complete alterego. I guarantee, the feeling is just as good (if not better) than frolicking on one of these tropical beach resorts you hear so much about on TV. And it doesn't result in sand in your shorts. Remember, what you get out of it depends on what you put into it. So get out there and be somebody else!
Have you ever tried to remember something—an experience, an image—but the more you focused on it, the fuzzier it became? Maybe memories are like records. The details are etched into the vinyl, but upon extensive replaying, they wear out.
If, at 2 or 3 in the morning, you listen to this, you will have very vivid dreams about these. If you find this in any way disconcerting, you can always check out one of these.
Sometimes I do things without realizing it or knowing why. This is one of those things.
Whenever I get food from the kitchen and take it up to my room, I pretend that I am sneaking food to a P.O.W. And I wonder if he would like the French bread pizza/Lean Cuisine chicken and green beans/turkey sandwich and potato chips. I think he would. He'd probably be glad to get it; he probably hasn't eaten anything all day, or all week for that matter. But what if this is his regular food? What if he gets one French bread pizza every day and that's it? That would be torture.
I'm sure I have other things that I do, vestiges from my childhood. And when they bleed through into conscious thought, I will write them down.
Do you do any weird things?
I am not a dramamonger. Those of you who know me, can I get a witness? The problem is... those who don't know me. I try to explain myself; they misunderstand; I explain harder; they run screaming... Et voilà, drama. I don't create it; it just follows me around.
There is nothing to eat in my house. Seriously, the contents of the pantry are totally wack. Shelves and shelves of paper/plastic products and condiments. I'll give you a detailed list:
2 packs of napkins
2 rolls of paper towels
1 bag of foam cups
2 bags of paper cups
5 bags of plastic cups
6 boxes of teabags
6 packets of flavored coffee
3 packs of coffee filters
1 bag of marshmallows
1 box of granulated sugar
1 box of powdered sugar
3 boxes of sugar packets
3 sets of plastic utensils
9 stacks of paper plates (plain white, solid-colored, animal faces, and Happy Birthday!)
3 boxes of plastic garbags bags
1 Swiffer mop
There is the odd jar of spaghetti sauce or can of tuna, but that hardly counts. If a natural disaster occurred today and buried our kitchen under tons of dirt/ash/lava/rubble/nuclear waste/whatever, archaeologists would unearth it thousands of years from now and think that we survived by hosting parties where other people brought the food.
I love to swear. The way my mouth surrounds the word and attacks it with such biting determination--as if the word itself should be twice as long and I just chopped it in half. It's the feel of freedom, of defying social constraint, of abandoning the version of myself that everyone else sees and thinks they know. The stupid part is... I can only do it when no one else is around.
I also flip the bird to inanimate objects.
I never feel like a pathetic single person until I go to the grocery store. What did I buy today? Frozen dinners for one and break-and-bake cookies.
Ok, I've gotta start this thing up again. Two years ago, I had plenty of material to write about and nobody to read it. Now I have regular readers and nothing to write. I keep waiting for inspiration, but it's getting to the point where I think I'm gonna hafta make my own.
Hmmm... What inspires me?
My latest Netflix rental. American Splendor. That was a cool movie. I was completely fascinated, mostly because the story had been going on under my nose for 20-odd years and I had no idea.
Camping. Communing with nature. And screaming babies. And barking dogs. And nazi park rangers.
School? No. In fact, I find school definitively uninspiring. Summer classes, being condensed, last approximately 3 hours each. My attention span for articulation disorders and cleft palate, respectively, is about 1 hour each. That leaves two hours, 3 times a week, of me wanting to poke my eyes out.
The boy. Yes, he is a significant source of my inspiration these days, but not the kind of inspiration that makes me want to run home and fire up the laptop. Rather, it's the kind that makes me want to plan the rest of our lives together and then hurry up and start living it.
What do you do when you need to talk to somebody, but don't want to wake anybody up?
On City Hall Ave. in Norfolk, there is mermaid painted to look like Lady Justice--blindfolded, holding scales. I pass her everyday on my evening commute. Today, however, one of the scale plates was missing and the scale was tipped unceremoniously in the other direction. Talk about a perversion of justice.
5. Children who weigh 59lb. generally don't have to be carried.
4. More than one person can usually ride in a car with a child.
3. Children don't travel everywhere with three pieces of furniture.
2. It doesn't take two people to lift a child.
1. If a child gets scratched or dented, it heals.
"Meredith, you changed."
"I'm still the same person, Amy."
"I meant you brought jeans."
I was trapped in an elevator. For a whole 20 minutes. It was all very Speed (only without the pyrotechnics... or the falling...). Fortunately, I had my camera with me and could therefore take advantage of the situation. It yielded some wicked Mirror Project shots.
This is me trapped in the elevator.
This is me trapped in the elevator without my nose.
This the view from the elevator that trapped me. (It all looks very calm and serene, doesn't it? Sure, UNTIL THE DOORS WON'T OPEN!!)
Here you can see the ground below. Thankfully, it never got any closer until I escaped.
Things that happen when I'm dreaming that don't normally happen any other time:
My finding myself in one of the I-states of the midwest, having to get home to Virginia without the benefit of a car;
The discovery of an express train from said state to Norfolk, VA;
My waving to someone I barely knew in college, now wearing a suit and riding a bicycle (less Mormon, more 19th century), and the fact that we both recognized each other;
Scooby Doo putting the moves on me;
Jennifer Connelly talking to me as though we had been best friends forever;
My riding a school bus with the two aforementioned celebrities.
This little piece of heart confetti made quite a journey over the course of its tiny life. First from the factory to the store, then from the store to my house. It was dumped out of the bag and funneled into a balloon. It rode the mile and a half to the party store to get helium, and all the way back to my house, floating near the ceiling of my car. Then the party started. A bridal shower. The confetti, contained in a balloon, went from one room to the other with a guest, then eventually back to the foyer, where the balloon was popped. The confetti fell to the floor, where it resisted vacuuming and clung to the feet of innocent passersby. That was in July. It is now October, and the day of the wedding. This maverick confetti, which I just discovered on the upstairs carpet, eluded capture for 3 months. The bride eluded capture for 28 years.
Excedrin, you had me at hello.
You had me at hello.
Some very random shots and a not-at-all-comprehensive virtual tour of my alma mater:
This is a tree. There are many of them on campus, though few as striking as this one, as the leaves have just begun to change color.
I discovered these benches behind the Muscarelle Museum of Art. In my four years at WM, I never toured the museum. I know, I can't believe it either. Is there no limit to what I will take for granted? I had hoped to redeem my lack of cultural curiosity this weekend, but sadly the museum had already closed for the day.
This is the hallway through the window in the door I always used whenever I had a play or concert rehearsal at Phi Beta Kappa Memorial Hall (PBK). Lining this hallway are photographs of past mainstage productions, including one featuring Glenn Close.
This streetlamp is competing with this tree for who can be the tallest.
These photos were taken of the construction around Small Hall. Apparently, it will no longer be so small.
And here we have Oscar, a.k.a. "The Ugliest Thing on Campus." Upon questioning aloud why anyone would have put it on the edge of the field in the middle of campus, my friends and I received the explanation from an aged alum... When this horrible sculpture made its debut on campus in the 1960's, it was intended to occupy the place of the sundial, the focal point in the very center of New Campus. The then-president of the college (thank God) thought such a modern sculpture looked out of place there and had it moved just beyond the New Campus buildings to the edge of the field. And there it stands, still looking out of place, but not as bad as before.
If any of you were wondering what happened to me, I'll tell you: school started. I've had lots of ideas for entries this month, but not one stretch in the space-time continuum to type them out for you. Soon, I hope. Maybe that should be my new tagline.
In the meantime, check out my friend's new photoblog.
Tip: The slideshow at a 5 second delay is superhot.
I'm going on a trip, so expect lots of lovely pictures when I get back.
Toodles.
Meredith, age 6, dancing in her living room
Meredith, age 21, dancing in someone else's living room
If you knew then what you know now, would you do it all again?
That's a luxury of a question. I stand on the precipice, looking ahead to where I've already been and wishing--just wishing--that I could relegate it to the irretrievable past. But the hypothetical is real, and I must face the same challenge again, knowing everything that I know now: the pitfalls, the pain, the power of my weaknesses when used against me. How do I steel myself for such a battle? I know how to stand and fight in ignorance, but hindsight melts my courage. I am not the first to feel dread, however. The very Son of God grappled with the agony of foreknowledge, and I take my example from Him:
"Now my heart is troubled, and what shall I say? 'Father, save me from this hour'? No, it was for this very reason I came to this hour. Father, glorify your name!" - John 12:27-8
Hello, old blog! How I've missed you!
If a month isn't listed in my MT archives, does that mean it didn't exist? Did it vanish to the Bermuda Triangle of calendar units, never to be seen nor heard from again? July, 2004? Nope, that year it just went straight from June to August.
I would have written this post sooner, but when I saw how my lovely domain had become overgrown with spam for penis pills and gay porn (including one for "gay turkey" that made me giggle), I had to do a little cleaning.
For all those genuinely concerned--and I thank you for all your correspondence and well wishes--I am doing fine. I am still in school; I did not fail clinic; I am anticipating the soon return of my sanity. The next three weeks promise a MUCH needed respite from academic idiocy, after which I am sure I will be able to speak in complete sentences again.
In the meantime, send me love so I'll know you are still reading. And watch out for flaming farm animals.
Due to a pulled muscle in my posterior, I am officially on stand-by.
It's not everyday that I go to a movie and see myself on the screen.
Or maybe I just saw what I wanted to see: the cinematic depiction of all my impossible hopes and dreams. Truly, my own life bears very little resemblance to the story. The startling parallels are those stemming from scenes that haven't happened, and probably never will, but have been rehearsed ad infinitum in the theater of my mind. Why do I prize romance over reality? Why do I want my life to be a movie?
Because the first 24 years have set the stage for a magnificent story, and when I reach the end, I want the whole of the plot to have lived up to its beginnings.
I need a personal assistant. He or she would go to class for me, take notes, and brief me on the important points. He/she would also see to the nonsensical busy work of punching holes in massive amounts of paper and assembling notebooks therewith. He/she would be responsible for the washing of my car, the ferrying of my dry cleaning, and the choosing/purchasing/sending of graduation/bridal shower/wedding gifts. That would free up a lot of my time, which I could then use to respond to emails and comments that I find absolutely intriguing. Until the hiring process is concluded, please be patient as I have to tend to all these things myself.
Today I make my way toward Alabama. But don't worry, I'll be back. In the meantime, read about last year's visit.
After spending 7 hours at the mall(s) with my mom, I'm beginning to think I should hire myself out as a shopping caddy.
As probably none of you know, whenever an eating establishment requests a name to go with my order, I always give the name "Mary." Everyone knows how to spell it; everyone knows how to say it. It minimizes confusion. You can't imagine the myriad ways to butcher the name Meredith, and if it has the potential to come between me and food, something must be done.
Anyway, I offered up my customary pseudonym at lunch today, and something rather unusual happened. The cashier responded with, "That's a good name for you." I chuckled to myself and considered telling her it wasn't my real name, but decided against it. It's close enough to my real name to not be worth contending. Besides, that would have ruined everything.
As humans, we all struggle with life's questions...
Why am I here?
Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
How on earth do you keep people from posting stupid stuff to a listserv???
We have 50 people on our listserv, some of whom love to send fwds and others of whom hate to receive them. (I know, how hard is it to hit delete? Nonetheless...) For those finicky inboxes, I am the only line of defense, and I take my responsibility very seriously. I have asked nicely, I have asked in ALL CAPS, I have even turned on the moderation feature so that nothing gets by without someone's approval. Unless, of course, it's one of the other moderators who sends it!!! GAAAH!
And so my Sisyphusian torture continues. Feel free to offer advice, but remember, I have to see these people on a regular basis, so it would be good if they didn't hate me. Thank you for your concern.
I went back to one of the places of my past. It was ill-kept and overgrown. No one knew where I was. No one cared.
I picked through the dense brush, feeling my way, uncovering the path I knew was there, until at last I saw it. It was as I remembered. I stood in the same spot I did a year ago, and time stood still. I wanted to hack through this jungle; I wanted to take over what had been neglected. But I lacked the skills necessary for such a task. My wish to remember could not override the existent desire to forget. Someone wanted this place forgotten, and me with it.
I am typing this entry with my nose, as my arms have been rendered temporarily useless and are now hanging limply at my sides. I went rockclimbing today. It was unimaginably fun, but seeing as it was my first time ever, I wasn't exactly in good rockclimbing shape. Today's exhilaration is tomorrow's agony. Perhaps that will be enough motivation for me to go back on a regular basis and get good at it. I would love to be able to do pull-ups with my fingertips.
I have had a sequence of exceptionally good days so far this week. Yesterday, I greeted the dawn with a shaken fist, in a general funk at the prospect of having to go to school that day. As I shifted my car into gear to exit the driveway, I remembered I had a voicemail on my cell. I figured I better check it, just in case I needed to bring something or whatnot. Lo and behold, my class was cancelled! On the only day of the week when I have just the one class, it was cancelled. Hallelujah and pass the biscuits! As it was my dad's day off, too, we had a celebratory father-daughter lunch (which was a real boon since we rarely get to spend time together just the two of us). I spent the rest of the day cleaning and reorganizing my room, and in the same manner, my life, until at last I felt completely uncluttered and prepared to face the week ahead. I even got to bed early.
Which was a good thing because I forgot to set my alarm. Nevertheless, I woke up on my own not 15 minutes after it would have gone off. I got myself ready and even managed to leave the house early, allowing me to arrive at my class BEFORE IT STARTED for the first time ALL SEMESTER. Today was the day that the ODU Film Festival was screening Whale Rider, the showing wedged squarely in the middle of my 2.5 hour layover between classes, and in the same building as my class following it. I decided to skip the meeting of our professional organization, and the free lunch that went with it, in favor of cultural enrichment. I made it over there in time to get one of the last seats, even though I had doubts as to my ability to find the room. The film was fantastic, and so worth missing lunch. Afterwards, I plopped down in one of the comfy chairs in the lobby to wait out the last 30 minutes or so before my class would start. Lining the hallway were tables of Pizza Hut pizza and a sign that said, "Pizza for Lecture Only." I watched as the unobservant among us walked up and asked, "Is that for anybody?" only to be turned away disappointed. After I had been there about 5 minutes, my good buddy Stacey showed up early for class, so I didn't have to wait alone. And not long after that, the pizza nazis were closing up shop and offered the leftover pizza to anyone who wanted it. I got my free lunch after all. :)
For all interested parties:
Here is a visual display of the chromatic symbiosis between good (orange) and evil (peach) currently existing on my walls.
It's difficult to achieve a true representation of the different shades with my camera, but you get the idea.
Yep, definitely peach*. This will necessitate another trip to the paint store. Thank goodness the sale lasts till the end of the week.
*When you get it on your skin and it can pass for foundation, that's a pretty clear indicator.
Thanks to spring break, I currently have a good-sized block of time during which I am not obligated to anyone or anything. The perfect opportunity to paint my room. I am painting it orange, although as of now, it looks suspiciously like peach. I'll keep you posted.
In other news, we are selling the pool. It proved too much for us, so we are trying to unload it on the first respondent with a crowbar and a flatbed. Upon removing the cover, which had been in place since September, my father was greeted by a rather unfortunate addition: a dead cat. At some point, the cat had gotten in there under the tarp and had drowned. There's no telling how long it had been there. I took the incident as yet another indication that my family is not qualified to own a swimming pool.
Today in the mail, I received a REMINDER OF UNPAID PARKING TICKET. Only I never received the first ticket, and after reading the notice, I realized why. The ticket was issued in Arlington, where I used to live, two weeks ago, when I couldn't have been there. The make of the car is listed as Mazda; I drive a VW. The license plate isn't my license plate... but it used to be. QUIKAG. So some Mazda driver has swiped Quicksilver, and is racking up parking tickets on my old handle, eh? This calls for drastic action! The record must be set straight, and the evildoers brought to justice! This is a job for MCHILL!
This is probably the weirdest picture of me ever. In case you can't tell, I am holding a palm tree.
After amassing a ludicrous number of frequent flier miles on my trip to Papua New Guinea in 1999, and patiently watching them accrue over the years with every charge on my credit card, I'm just going to blow the lot and go to Iceland. Yes, yes I am. Because I need a vacation. Or, at least, I will by the time the summer semester is over. So much to do between now and August! Like, for example, learning enough Icelandic to not embarrass myself. I know nothing as of now, except that I think my name would be Merediþ Albertsdottir. (Hooray for special characters!)
I have been asked to participate in this online photography/writing project. The owner of the site approached me after coming across my Mirror Project submission. (Nothing like a good ego boost early in the morning.) Sadly, the site is currently experiencing some bandwidth setbacks, and can't accept submissions. All of the previous entries are available, though, and some of them are quite inspiring.
I am resolved to watch more foreign films. If I turn off the subtitles and act like I understand, I can pretend that my command of French or German isn't fast becoming dismal.
We are officially on strike, citing unsuitable working conditions. There is enough phlegm down here to drown a small animal. We can't even see each other, let alone come together properly to vibrate. In addition, the frequent coughing is placing excessive strain on the fibers of our being.
We are writing in the hopes of reaching an equitable solution for all parties involved. That equitable solution would be to ELIMINATE SOME OF THE STRESS IN YOUR LIFE!!! We thought this answer would be obvious, but apparently you needed your vocal cords to tell you.
If you continue to neglect your health in this way, we will be forced to render you speechless. We hope you make the right decision.
Sincerely,
Your Larynx
I need to write. I guess you could call what I have a constipation of the mind. It's all in there, but it's not coming out without some serious time and effort, two things I can't really devote at present. The activities of my outer life have multiplied and usurped the attention reserved for my inner life. So much to write. So much to write about. But so little energy left at the end of the day to write it.
Perspective... perspective... must keep perspective... must not let typo called to my attention ruin my day... must not let temporary slump signify loss of creative edge... must not let past failures obscure underlying potential...
Today, two childhood memories came to mind. They were linked by one common factor: grownups laughing at me. I realize now, of course, that they were laughing because I was so disarmingly cute. But unlike some kids who know this about themselves and milk it, I was completely oblivious. On the contrary, I had an amplified sense of my own dignity.
The first instance occurred at some sort of garden party hosted by my stuffier relatives. Anticipating the impending stuffiness, my mother had coached me in etiquette prior to the party. "Call everybody Mr. or Mrs. So-and-so." No problem. As it turned out, not everyone at the party was as stuffy as expected. During the introductions, one elderly lady even told me to call her Liz. I replied, "Ok, Liz," only to be met by giggles from the old ladies. I was afraid I had done something wrong.
Another time, I was at a neighborhood picnic when one of my new neighbors wanted to play "Can you say..." Being a mite too old for such games, I decided to indulge him out of politeness. Apparently, he was an Auburn fan, because all I remember is repeating "War Eagle" back at him and the whole picnic breaking up. That's when my over-developed indignation kicked in. I told my mother I had to go to the bathroom, and once inside, gave her a stern lecture about how I didn't appreciate grownups making fun of me and how I wasn't going back out there. She, in her infinite wisdom, managed to smooth things over, but I was never quite as trusting after that.
I suppose I'm not as quick-witted as I always thought, seeing as it took me 18 years to figure out what was so funny.
When I worked at camp, we had two rickshaws. They were named Rick and Shaw.
As you may have noticed, there has been a drop in prolificity of posts on this site lately. There just hasn't been much going on. I heard once that poetry was the expression of excess emotion. Maybe a parallel can be drawn to blogging. Entries arise out of an excess of something, whether it be something good to praise or something bad to gripe about. Usually, it's just something--anything--out of the ordinary. I can generally depend on at least one thing matching that description to cross my path each day. But not today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. No blips on the radar screen. No flies in the punch. Just odorless, tasteless nothing. Yuck.
In the past two weeks, among my friends, there has been one engagement, one bridal shower, one wedding, and one baby born. Thank goodness it wasn't all the same person.
Is this really my life? Sometimes I think it's more of an extensive practical joke. Smile, you're on candid cosmos!
I went for a run today around my happy little suburban neighborhood. I wore a long-sleeved shirt and pants, none of it tight-fitting. Hence my surprise when I sensed a car behind me slow down as it came near and the driver say and/or gesticulate something out the window at me. At first, I really thought I had imagined it, evidence of an unfounded paranoia around people of a different racial distinction than my own. I refuse to be that woman who clutches her belongings to her when a black man walks by. So when I passed by the house where the car had pulled in, I waved and said hi. I was greeted by a "Hey, baby" in a tone that made me more than a little uncomfortable. What the heck!! I know it's a crazy world we live in, still you don't expect to be cat-called in your own neighborhood. Mr. Rogers would have been appalled.
I found out over the last three days how college friends can emulate family, and not in the good way. There are seven of us. We see each other about three times a year, and at each occasion we resume our respective roles in the group. The roles we force each other into. The roles we can't break out of to save our lives. But maybe I'm the only one who wants to break free because, like any family, we have a pecking order and I'm at the bottom.
I may have deserved that place when I was in college. I was awkward and distant, depressed and enigmatic. They didn't quite know what to do with me, but then I didn't quite know what to do with myself. Fortunately, they took pity on me and included me in their group. Unfortunately, they are still taking pity on me and including me out of a sense of duty. I am long past being able to hold my own in relationships now, but they won't see that. They will only see the stuff of their expectations. It's annoying as hell, yet I keep going back. I have fallen into my own pattern within the pattern. I chase after the chance to change their opinion of me. I wouldn't miss it for the world.
I recently returned from a wedding in Missouri. I had never been to Missouri before (or as true Missourians say it, "Missourah"). The word tossed around all weekend to describe things was "surreal." It was surreal to be in a place that previously had only existed in my imagination--the mythical origin of my friend, the bride. It was surreal for her that the friends she had known in DC were now with her in her hometown. It was as if we were all keeping our eyes open for a rift in the space-time continuum.
The wedding itself was beautiful. The wedding planner, obviously experienced, even remarked that she had never had a wedding go so perfectly. It was like being dropped feet-first into a fairytale.
Since we--myself and the girl I was travelling with--stayed the whole weekend, we got to explore some of the sights of Springfield. Brad Pitt is apparently from the same town, but sadly we didn't get a chance to stalk his parents' house or anything.
On the way back, we drove through Kansas City. Parts of it are absolutely beautiful. I thought to myself that I would like to come back and see it sometime, but who plans a vacation to Kansas City, unless they have relatives there or something? Nevertheless, it's on my list.
Isn't it always the way? When you have the most to write, you have the least opportunity to write it. I had a most fantabulous birthday weekend, spent in Williamsburg with dear friends. As you can see, I did acquire my prized digital camera. And so I will save a thousand words and just give you a picture. Here it is, the first picture of yours truly posted on this site.
There I am with Tom whispering sweet nothings in my ear.
This is a Panty Parade
Send a pair of panties to the #1 person on the list below, and send this letter to six of your funniest girlfriends.
Only your name and mine should appear on the list when you send them. Move my name to the #1 position and put your name as #2 on the six letters you send.
This is not a chain letter!! It's just for fun! If you are not able to participate within 6 days, please notify me because it would be unfair to those of us who do.
A large manila envelope or the equivalent will mail the panties just fine. You should receive 36 pairs of NEW (let's make that clear), NEW, NEW panties in the mail. It will be fun to see where they all came from and just how creative people can be. We can always use a new pair of panties, or two, or in this case.....36!! So don't drop out!!
Remember, 36 pairs of panties for the price of ONE!
1. [Heart address label bearing name and address] small/medium (thong or other)
2. [Mary Engelbreit address label bearing name and address] small/medium (have fun!)
-----
Let me know if you want me to send you a copy. Meanwhile, I'll be on the lookout for 36 manila envelopes.
"What do you do in your spare time?"
It doesn't sound like a terribly hard question, and yet, I had no answer. I dangled on the other end of the telephone speechless as I mentally inventoried my activities of the last few weeks.
"Do you just watch TV and veg out and stuff?"
Gah! No! I do things! Really exciting and enviable things! I just can't think what they are right now. But I know I do them. I HAVE A LIFE GOSHDARNIT!!! But yes, I watch TV (when I can fit it in between the other exhilarating things that I do!).
Thinking back on the conversation, I suppose I could have said I spend time online. I have a blog. I'm a productive citizen of the information world. Although it depends on the listener whether that sounds hip or geeky. Maybe I should just stick with my original persona as the oh-so-glamorous human vegetable.
In a macabre tribute to the fallen deer of Monday's post, a McDonald's fries container frolicked recklessly onto the highway in front of me today. I didn't see if it survived the crash; it was all a blur of red and yellow cardstock.
I saw a deer get hit yesterday.
I was supposed to go to DC, but I had a bad feeling about it. (The deer didn't help any.) So after I had driven about an hour, I turned around and came back.
I didn't see it very clearly, because I was almost past it when it happened, but it seemed to me that the deer didn't look real at the moment of impact. It flew through the air the way a plastic lawn ornament would--frozen in a standing posture, somersaulting in a wide arc over the highway. Absurdly graceful. It seemed like slow motion, but that may be just a trick of my memory.
Last night I dreamed I met someone I have only had the pleasure of knowing online. She happens to write a very popular blog, and in my dream the sense was that I was in the presence of greatness. I was hanging out with a celebrity and my own status was rapidly approaching mini-celebrity by association. It was very cool. And surreal. As most dreams are.
I think I may have dreamed these things because I don't know anyone like her in real life and I wish I did.
I popped in my old Counting Crows cd (Recovering the Satellites) cuz I hadn't listened to it in forever and I wanted to see if it was still as good as before. It is.
So I'm singing my soul out with Adam and all of a sudden it hits me... I sound awesome! I sound like my voice is coming out of the stereo. Then I realized it was just my comp. The LCD on my laptop created a little echo chamber when I sang in front of it. There goes my dream of being a rockstar.
I was supposed to go on a camping trip this weekend, but it was cancelled in favor of camping in our homes. We picnicked in the kitchen with ham sandwiches and potato salad out of the cooler. We grabbed the ol' guitar and sang songs around the (candlelit) campfire. We sat back and listened to the sounds of nature relentlessly beating the neighborhood to a pulp.
Sideways rain on the day of the big test--just the thing to make you psyched for school.
First day of school today. Was late for class. The parking situation looked so desperate, I wasn't sure I would make it to my first class at all. But I did. Everything after that went swimmingly. At ODU, that is.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I sit here in my swimsuit, typing, when I should be swimming. I spent an hour cleaning out the pool, before I got too frustrated to go on. See, the problem is we have this tree. The tree grows over the deck and covers half the pool. Everytime the wind blows, the tree dumps crap into the pool. You wouldn't believe how much crap one tree can produce. No intelligent person would design a pool this way. This has become my mantra, repeated with each sweep of the net. No intelligent person... No intelligent person... No intelligent person... I keep begging my parents to trim the branches back, but they say it's the wrong season. If you cut branches during a growing season, you run the risk of killing the tree. So?
I went to ODU today to take care of some administrative stuff: parking decal, ID card, and books. The idea of school seems a little less intimidating now. The ODU campus is pretty easy to navigate.
Our next door neighbor came over and brought some spice bread. :) Her daughter is 24, living at home, and starting grad school at ODU this year. I didn't expect to find anyone my age in this neighborhood, let alone someone in the exact same situation living right next door. This could turn out to be pretty cool. Also, these neighbors happen to be Christians, a commonality that especially pleased my mom.
I vacuumed the pool today. One and a half hours and 11 mosquito bites later, I felt like I had truly accomplished something.
I'll write more later when I have more to write.
Today's the day. I will leave my self-sufficient urban living environment for the parental-run domicile in Chesapeake, VA (a.k.a "Bubbaville"). On my last day in the city, I wanted to do something really worthwhile, so I dragged my dad along and we went paddle-boating on the Tidal Basin. He said, "This sure beats loading a U-Haul truck!" It remains to be seen which activity will provide me with more closure.
To all my male friends:
Please don't become the eighty-year-old guy who gets his giggles by honking and waving at young girls crossing the street.
---
I seriously had to stop my car for, like, 2 minutes in the middle of a two-lane street because a gaggle of Canadian geese were crossing. A gaggle. And they weren't quick about it. But I didn't mind; how often do you get to stop what you're doing and give your undivided attention to 20 Canadian geese crossing the road?
I need a remedial lesson in sunscreen application. My face now has a semi-permanent mottled look to it, as if I've been crying, with a big white stripe down part of my nose. Lovely.
It was worth the 8-hour drive and the frying of the eyelids, though, to see my dear friends from college and hang out with them on the Outer Banks. We only get to see each other maybe three times a year. Thankfully, the other two are in fall and winter.
Dear Mr. Militant Vegetarian,
I am writing this to aid you in future social interactions, so that you will know what is appropriate mealtime conversation, and what is not. Here are a few general guidelines:
1) Don't tell me what my food is going to do once in my stomach, drawing comparisons from elementary school science projects.
2) Don't tell me what happens to baby cows if they are fed pasteurized milk.
3) Don't tell me the detrimental effects of protein. Some people happen to like protein.
4) And most importantly, DON'T SAY ANY OF IT WHILE I'M EATING!!!! Timing, man, timing.
I don't criticize your dietary preferences; I would appreciate it if you didn't criticize mine, especially in the presence of my friends, Chicken, White Bread, and Potato Chip. Thank you.
Your nauseated friend,
Meredith
Well, just about anyway. My roommate's mother and mother's friend were visiting from Pennsylvania for the weekend. Which is wonderful--I'm more than happy to have houseguests, especially family. However, one of these houseguests was rather picky, and instead of taking the fold-out couch, she insisted on sleeping in my roommate's bed. Which is in my room. Again, I was fine with this, once I was made aware. (I came home and opened the door to my room to find that my roommate had aged 30 years.) After all, I'm flexible. But I am not flexible enough to be able to fall asleep amidst such snoring that could rival an airport runway for decibel level.
The first night, I just endured it. I knew they were leaving early in the morning and I could sleep in after that. The second night, however, my situation was desperate. I got in at 2:00, and I had to get up at 7:00. I couldn't afford to spend those five hours trying to get to sleep. The last thing I wanted to do was to make our guest feel bad for keeping me up, but I had no choice. I grabbed my sleeping bag and fled to the couch. It was the most glorious 4.5 hours of sleep I've ever had. The most appreciated, at least.
The friends who were down at the Mall came and joined us when they had fought their way back from the District. They were sunburned, exhausted, and covered in ash like in Armageddon. To each his own, I guess.
What I did this weekend, documented chronologically:
- read Harry Potter
- played mini golf and chilled at Ruby Tuesday
- read Harry Potter
- went to Folklife Festival
- read Harry Potter
- went to church
- read Harry Potter
- went to see Nickel Creek @ the Kennedy Center, got back really late
- dreamt about reading Harry Potter
I now know what the EPC light on my dashboard means. It means, get comfortable because you're not going anywhere. My best guess is that it actually stands for Electronic Power Control, and just to make sure you actually take this warning seriously, the gearshift locks and won't let you out of Park. Time to call the professionals.
"Dad, can you come pick me up? There's something wrong with my car."
Ok, now it's time to call the professionals. We get on the phone with VW Roadside Assistance and they let us in on the handy dandy trick to override gearlock: the automotive equivalent of turn around three times, touch your nose, and bark like a dog. After about 29 tries, we finally get the sequence right and the car lets us shift into Drive. (Keep in mind that this whole time, I was parked on an incline, so with each failed attempt, the car locks in Neutral and rolls backwards 3 feet.) Afraid of having to shift gears again, we drive it all the way to the VW place, park it in front, and leave it for them to deal with, like birdpoop on a windshield. And they did. After I had only been at work for an hour this morning, I get the call saying the problem is fixed and my car is now back to its normal lovable self. Not bad, guys.
...
As luck would have it--as I'm driving my car home from the service station, a rock flies up and cracks my windshield.
I recently returned from a week-long road trip with my parents to Alabama. I'm sure you can imagine how thrilled I was to embark on this journey. Fortunately, it wasn't that bad. Ready? Here goes:
Day 1
We depart around 8pm for Chesapeake, VA, where my parents have made an appointment to be shown a house at 8am the next day. This is a 200 mile detour en route to our intended destination. It seems that the Senior Olympics convene in Chesapeake during this time. This makes it rather difficult to find travel accomodations. Lucky us, we get the VERY LAST motel room in the entire township and surrounding area. And now we know why it was still vacant. Let's just say that my mom wouldn't take off her shoes the whole time, and kept muttering something about us all getting crabs.
Day 2
We depart the heinous motel room to go check out the house. The house belongs to a friend of a friend and hasn't gone on the market yet at this point. My parents had seen pictures of it, but decided they didn't want it because it has a pool. Don't ask me what's wrong with my parents. However, after not finding anything else to buy or rent or occupy at the navy's expense, the house with the pool was starting to look pretty good. My parents put a contract on it as soon as they see it, and now I have a place to live in the fall. Everybody's happy. We make it all the way to Augusta, GA.
Day 3
At 6:45am, at my mother's behest, my dad calls the father of the bride to find out what time the rehearsal is that day. My dad reassuringly tells him, "We're leaving now." He neglects to tell him we're leaving from Augusta, GA. The bride's family spends the entire day in angst thinking we just left from Virginia. How fun. At the rehearsal, we meet the groom's family, who have the collective social skills of a hat rack. We enjoy most excellent BBQ.
Day 4
Day of Wedding No. 1. Dress that I ordered special to match the bride's color scheme does not fit. Forgot tuning key for the harp. Panic ensues. We rush to the mall and the hardware store. Panic subsides temporarily. At the church, I find out that my quick-fix substitute for a tuning key does not work. This is bad news considering that the harp at this point sounds like an, albeit angelic, flock of geese. Hick relatives to the rescue! The groom's brother-in-law has the necessary tool in his car. Now all that remains is for me to actually get through the songs without mishap. Yeah, right. I butcher the grandparents/parents' processional. It's so painful. And just when you want to crawl under a pew and hide in embarrassment, you have to go to the reception. I attempt to blend into the upholstery.
Day 5
Day of Wedding No. 2. With the stress of the previous day forgotten, we head up the road an hour to my father's hometown. There we meet my uncle and drive to my aunt's new house. My dad performs the wedding on their back porch and we have a big picnic. I get to see my cousins in various stages of starting their own families: my eldest cousin is married with a daughter, my next cousin has a daughter but is not married, and my next cousin is engaged with no children. And then there is Meredith, who is moving back in with her parents.
Day 6
We visit my great-aunt and -uncle in the morning. We marvel over their restored WWII radio and hear stories about the Depression. Actually pretty cool. My dad pores over family tree paraphernalia with my great-aunt; my great-uncle succumbs to the urge the rest of us are fighting and promptly falls asleep. We meet my aunts and uncles again for lunch and later catch up with some other friends of the family (read: friends of the parents) in the area. We resume our quest to patronize every Cracker Barrel on the lower east coast. We stop someplace in Georgia.
Day 7
We have nothing to do today besides go home. Books on CD from Cracker Barrel keep our stir-crazy selves effectively sedated. After having amassed an impressive collection of splattered bugs on the windshield, we finally make it back to DC. Next time I'm flying.
I am somewhere in the sea of heads to the right.
Our fellow sardines at the ceremony were some Mormons from Chevy Chase. They were really nice. One of them had saved my friend Joanna from being man-handled by a creepy guy in the rush to find a good standing spot. So we all went out to lunch together (us and the Mormons, that is, not the creepy guy). Why do Mormon boys have to be cute? That doesn't help me out at all. Anyway, they invited us to a dance in two weeks, but I'll be playing the harp in Alabama right around then. Darn.
Got my acceptance letter from ODU! I'm officially official!
(Does a happy dance.)
The coolest thing happened to me this morning. I was behind a garbage truck on my way to work (no, that's not the cool part). As I was nearing my office, the top of the truck brushed a tree by the side of the road, sending down a shower of white petals like confetti. My girlish squeal of delight escaped too quickly for me to stifle it, making the first words I spoke this morning, "Eeeeeee... yay!" :)
As you can see, I'm messing with the format of my site here. But don't get too accustomed to it--I'm not quite satisfied with it yet. I didn't have much time to fix it yesterday, what with all the retching (no, not because I didn't like the new colors; I'm pretty sure it was something I ate). So if you were worried about me because I was missing, you had good reason. I'm happy to say I am doing much better now. Everything that is supposed to be on the inside is staying there.
In the words of the great Bartles & Jaymes, "Thank you for your support."
Sorry my posts have been so infrequent lately. My internet connection at home has been inexplicably kaputt. This means I have to update the site at work in between the long periods of mindless tedium that hold the 8 good hours of my day hostage. Hopefully my connection will get fixed soon.
I sort of dropped off the radar screen this weekend. It's kinda fun to do that every now and then. To be incommunicato. I took refuge in my parents' new apartment, indulging in the digital cable and leather recliners. Good Will Hunting was on. And the war. That was about it.
Now I am back at work. Blah. Back where people can find me. And dump stuff on me to do. Ah, the life of a working-world peon.
So I talked to the head of the Speech-Language Pathology department at ODU, and all I had to do was mention William and Mary (and my GPA), and he wanted to hold a spot for me!!! Woo hoo! I felt so important. ;) So guess what I'll be doing tonight--yep, number 9 on my list.
Listen to our cry;
Bless the College of our fathers,
Let her never die.
There doesn't seem to be much going on today that is blogworthy, except perhaps my extreme laziness. I am a master procrastinator. I can do nothing like it's my job. Oh, wait... Anyway, here is a list of things I should be doing, in no particular order:
- Call up the VW place and make an appt. to take my car in
- Get my hair cut
- Call up the harp place and make an appt. to take my harp in
- Buy plane tickets for my friends' wedding in June
- Start practicing (harp) for my other friend's wedding in June
- Keep practicing for my friend's wedding in June
- Find out when that wedding is, so that I don't buy plane tickets if it's the same weekend
- Talk to the head of the speech path dept where I want to go to grad school
- Apply to grad school
- Get my transcripts and GRE scores forwarded to grad school
- Get recommendations for grad school
- Get my financial aid forms in for grad school
- Go to the grocery store
- Do laundry
- Restring my other guitar
- Do my taxes
- And last but not least... the myriad office manager-type stuff that I get paid to do, but has no real impact one way or another
I'll cross each one off as it gets done. (And replace it with whatever I'm putting off that day.)
These are my lubbly-jubbly friends: Chad, Heidi, Alex, Becky, Carissa, Kelli, Corey, Joanna, Corby, and Meredith (not me).
picture courtesy of Corby
I love these guys.
My online poll:
Should Meredith...
a) move to Norfolk to pursue her master's in speech-language pathology.
b) stay in DC and dedicate herself to serving in her church and deepening friendships with people here.
c) none of the above. (Please provide alternative option on your write-in ballot.)
Click here to cast your vote.
My new roommate is a cleaning MACHINE!! Even now, I write this to the whirrrr of the vacuum cleaner above my head. She got up at 9:00*am* on a *Saturday* and proceeded to turn on the dishwasher (which I had refrained from starting since she was still asleep when I got up--but why I got up at 7:00am is another story), mop the hardwood floor, and clean the panes on the back door... from the OUTSIDE! It's actually my week to clean the bathroom, but I have a feeling if I sit here long enough, she's going to beat me to it. She's the best roommate ever! :) She doesn't say much, but MAN can she clean!
(Oh, and she makes her bed everyday, too. I definitely can't keep up.)
This is it, folks! This weekend hails the rebirth of Jairus' Daughter! New design, new layout, new everything. Derek's gonna help me code it, so rest assured, it will be *spiffy*.
In other news...
Chad and I are definitively broken up. I think. We only seem to be able to get along when we've broken up. And then we get along REALLY well. So well, in fact, that we can't stand to not be together and we start dating again. And driving each other schizo. I never had any aspirations to be a soap star, but here I am, heroine of my very own daytime drama. Well, we can't get married, that's for sure... cuz then we'd never get along again.