I really try to delight you all with a quippy post at least once a week. When the clock's about to strike the one-week mark, and my carriage is about to turn back into a pumpkin, I can usually come up with SOMETHING to post.
Something...
...to post...
Well.
The carriage is now a pumpkin, the dress is tattered rags, my pals are all mice, and prince charming is nowhere to be found. Time is up. In fact, it has been more than a week since my last post, and there's really nothing fantastic happening in my life. Let's face the reality: all I do is read, write, read, write, read, write, which is not very interesting, and most of this happens in Carswell 212-3, my home sweet home for about 40 hours per week. Looks like we're taking a peek into this little slice of heaven, then.
Okay, so the last time you saw my carrel, it looked a little bare. Did you really think I'd leave it that way for long? Let's take a little gander at my carrel NOW--
What have we here? Let me walk you through the necessities that I have accumulated in my carrel:
a few fleece blankets because A) it's always cold in here, and B) I've been known to nap on my carrel floor
a pair of sneakers (see them down there by the floor?) for the weekly comm department jog; next to the sneakers (out of view) is a pair of heels that I slip on to teach on Fridays
that bulletin board in the background was a luck-of-the-draw sort of item; I happened to have one in my carrel, and I'm not sure that anyone else did
Ohio Northern pennant - woo! One of my students asked if that was near Wooster, where her mom went. Small world.
there's also a stress polar bear floating around somewhere
near my green sneakers, you'll also see my green jacket (it's COLD this week) on top of my green bookbag in which you'll find a green binder and green notebook; you think maybe I like green?
various papers and books are strewn about the shelves (which you should NEVER try to adjust because they fit ONLY where they are currently mounted)
water - always (and for the first month, I could only find room temperature water, in the water fountains; since then, I have discovered the water cooler on the fourth floor - heck yes)
you CANNOT see the paper plates, plasticware in Spongebob mugs, trailmix, chocolate-covered espresso beans, and various other vittles that I have accumulated on the shelves over my desk
and of course, I'm working away on SOMETHING, which is probably why my classmates (Bulgarian Radio and IDF, to be exact) assumed that I was the only member of the cohort who hadn't procrastinated on our upcoming midterm; they were wrong... sort of
headphones, rubberband ball, highlighter, colored pens, hand lotion, hand sanitizer, binder clips, paperclips, tiny stapler, and more can be found in here, too
There you have it, folks. This is all I do with my time. I sit in my carrel, I read, I write, I read, I write, I grade, I read, I tweet, I read, I write, I Facebook, I read, I write, I eat my lunch, and I read some more. Welcome to my life. It's very exciting.
Okay, so for YOUR sake, I suppose I'll try to do something interesting in the next week. Maybe I'll... get a life - who knows. I mean, we do get an extra hour this weekend (you know, daylight savings time), so perhaps I can fit a little excitement in that hour. Or maybe I'll fill it with reading and writing.
Nothing could make a better introduction to this post than lyrics from Little Big Town, "Boondocks," which is one of the ONLY country songs that you'll find on my iPod, and sometimes it makes me cry (but what doesn't make me cry? so that doesn't tell you a whole lot).
I feel no shame, I'm proud of where I came from, I was born and raised in the boondocks. One thing I know, no matter where I go, I keep my heart and soul in the boondocks.
For some of you, the picture I'm about to paint is quite familiar, and for others - well - you may know nothing like this. Welcome to this slice of my life.
After contemplating all of the possible topics to blog about after a weekend in Ohio, I decided that the scene at my local bar on Friday night was the best choice to give you all a little of the local flavor. Here we go... I walk into Patrick's, the bar in McCartyville (population estimated at about 125 people, one blinking stoplight at intersection, Catholic church, bar, drive-thru: that about sums up McCartyville; oh, and did I mention that Patrick's is .9 miles from my mom and dad's house?), where you KNOW you'll always know someone (better yet - you know you'll always be RELATED to someone in there). It's better than Cheers. Door opens: to my immediate right is my godfather, Uncle Crash, who buys the first round for my sister and me. I look across the bar, and there's my dad with the parents of one of my high school classmates (who happen to live across the road from my grandma and grandpa, too). As I walk over to sit next to Dad, I stop to say hi to the husbands of my two best girlfriends from high school who are sitting at the corner of the bar - the wives are at home. All the other people filling my peripheral view are familiar faces; we probably went to the same church, I went to school with their kids, I babysat their kids, they know my dad, or something of the sort. I'm home. Dad's decked out in Anna Rocket gear, but he didn't make it to the game. He says his buddy, Tater, didn't show up and he didn't want to go alone. I knew he'd rather shoot the breeze at Patrick's with me than go to a cold, rainy football game that we were probably going to lose. The Heitmans, sitting next to him, confirmed my suspicions. In no time, my older brother arrives with his girlfriend, my cousin Lisa walks in (she lives across the street), cousin Jason shows up later, Pickles - who is pretty much an honorary uncle - takes his usual seat on the opposite side of the bar, husbands and boyfriends of cousins round out the cavalcade of familiar faces. The bartender graduated high school with my sister. The other bartender (and bar owner) is the little brother of my senior prom date. All of us live within, probably, five miles of each other. And my homecoming is in full effect. Oh McCartyville...
The night winds down. After much storytelling between two of the best storytellers in the world (TJ and Lisa) and myself, the jukebox starts playing Johnny Cash. My sister and I perform our meticulously choreographed dance to "Ring of Fire," and the crowd goes wild (not really, but let's just pretend). If Hank Williams had started playing, it would have been a perfect night. Nonetheless, I realized that THIS is something that I can only find here. There can be no replication or imitation of home away from home; this only exists here. Note to readers: the names in this post have NOT been altered to protect identities. Names like Crash, Pickles, and Tater are the names EVERYONE calls these people (except Grandma Buehler, who calls my uncles Crash, Burrhead, and Buck by their real names - Ray, Greg, and Dick). It's also important to note that Pickles is Tex's brother, and Pickles is the mastermind behind the selection of the St. Patrick's Day Queen in McCartyville, and Tex is usually on special security for that particular event. More to come on McCartyville St. Patrick's Day festivities this spring (I'll give you a teaser: it involves a hay wagon used as public transportation through the 125-person town to jump from house party to house party with ease). Peace, love, and home sweet home-- Emily
This post is dedicated to my grandma, who I told last week that "I've never felt more dumb in my life" and to my classmates who might be telling their grandmas the same sort of thing. And if you're one of my classmates who does not and/or has not ever felt dumb, well, aren't you just special? You can just stop reading now - please and thanks. So about a week ago, exactly, my grandma asked how school was going. I responded, "Grandma, I've never felt more dumb in my whole life," to which she expressed total disbelief. I continued, explaining that I'm surrounded by super well-spoken, intelligent people that just make me feel like a small fish in a big pond. At the same time, that's what I asked for: to be the small fish in the big pond. And now I'm lamenting it. It seemed like every time I opened my mouth in class, something stupid came out of it. Great. Maybe I'll just stop speaking? (Do we really think I can do that?) Time for an intervention. But before the intervention, let's get something clear: I'm not posting this in an attempt to fish for compliments (So many fish metaphors, so little time! I'm the small fish, fishing for compliments, in the big pond. Let's see if I can add more fish metaphors from here.) I'm hoping that, in posting this, someone else who feels dumb will find that they have company. Misery loves company, right? Well so does the perception of ignorance. This will be the "I feel dumb but I'm really not dumb" support group. I could probably find a more intellectual way to phrase that, but who cares, I feel dumb. On Monday and Wednesday, validation came my way. FINALLY I received some grades for a few class assignments. Okay, maybe I'm not so dumb after all. Although, the voice in the back of my head was saying, "Or perhaps you are so far gone, that these are pity grades." Let's ignore that voice because validation, my friends, is good. I recognized that maybe I was being a little dramatic (and really, when am I ever dramatic? I don't have a tendency to blow things out of proportion...). I had lunch with my favorite professor at Wake on Thursday (I know, week 6 and I already have a favorite prof) to talk about the internal struggles that I'm having. Clearly, I'm capable of the work, but inside, I keep telling myself that I'm not. What's the deal, self? Get with it! You're intelligent, you're hard-working, you're capable, and you're usually confident - what is happening?! Our conversation brought to light my unrealistically high expectations for myself. Once again, being a know-it-all perfectionist is not paying off for me. And our conversation also brought to light the notion that my classmates were probably feeling the same way - at one point or another. We are ALL extremely talented with diverse experiences, backgrounds, and interests. We're each going to excel in different areas, and none of us can do it all. While I may feel like the dumbest person on the planet today, someone else might tomorrow. And last night, I received confirmation of this notion after witnessing a classmate do her impression of me (which I hope to see again). She had to set up the impression, as I think she was super afraid that she'd offend me. Little did she know, it was exactly what I needed to hear this week. She started by explaining that the impression is based on the way I ask questions in class and that I must not realize how smart I really am because I always ask questions that help everyone else understand what's going on, but everyone else is afraid to ask them. Ah-ha! I DON'T ask the dumbest questions in the world! I'm NOT the only one who doesn't get it! In "taking one for the team" and asking questions all the time, I'm not airing my ignorance, I'm coming to the aid of my classmates (most of them, that is; the rest of you that just "get it"... well, I just don't understand you, and I can't help you in any way). We are all in the same boat (and in that boat, we are fishing for knowledge... And she does it again, folks!). So to my classmates, and all of you out there who feel dumb every now and again: we're not that dumb! We're not that dumb! When we take a moment to assess our own talents and skills, we may reclaim our confidence and move forward. Shake that stress off and just keep doing what you do best. And we should applaud the talents and skills of others, even though they make us feel inferior, because maybe they need that validation to see the light. We don't all have to be good at the same things, but we need to recognize that we're all good at something. Another thought for the day: I'd really like to start a Perfectionists Anonymous group. A recent Google search revealed that SOMEBODY has started a blog on this exact topic. http://perfectionistsanonymous.com/ The motto is "Get rid of stress and prosper in life." Let's do that. However, she hasn't posted anything except an "About me" section that contains some great insights about the plight of perfectionism. This is a brilliant blog idea! Help us! Perfectionists support group - GO! Speak for the masses, perfectionistsanonymous.com! Peace, love, and fish and ponds of all sizes and shapes-- Emily
On my two-month anniversary of moving to Winston-Salem, I reflect on my first trip back home since I moved, which was this last weekend. If my return to the original palindrome is news to you, and you're upset that you didn't know, allow me to explain the troubles of coming home for the weekend, which I hope to remedy in the future. First of all, my ratios are all out of wack. (What, Google? "Wack" isn't a word? Shut it.) My driving-to-Ohio to awake-in-Ohio to asleep-in-Ohio ratio was nearly 1:1:1. Seriously. 17 hours driving, 20 hours awake, 17 hours asleep. This is problematic. I've ruled out the possibilities of driving faster, sleeping less, and teleporting, which doesn't leave me with many other options. I need to get that ratio to at least 1:2:1, though. And if you factor in the time spent on school work within the time awake in Ohio... forgetaboutit. Okay, so the ratios need work. Next. I have determined that the drive from Ohio back to NC feels shorter than the drive from NC to Ohio. And for those of you considering a trip down to see me (wink, wink; nod, nod), this should be delightful news to you. It takes about three hours to get through Ohio, and it flies by on the way to NC. If you're on your way from NC to Ohio, though, you hit that Ohio border and it seems like your home should be around the next corner. Nope, not so. Three more hours. From there, you're in the mountains of WV for about two hours, Virginia for about an hour, and NC for about an hour before you arrive in Winston. These diminishing increments of time spent in each state make the drive FLY BY on the way to North Carolina.
Luckily, I know when I'm
getting closer to Winston when I start seeing exit signs for towns that
are on the weather map of my local news station. When I reached Galax,
VA, I was a happy camper! Woot! I'm in the foothills! Almost there.
Ratios - check. Ohio to NC: good, NC to Ohio: sucky. Next. And at the risk of sounding like a recovering drug addict - I'm off the GPS. Yes, people: I'm off the stuff. I'm officially able to make the drive without the GPS - I'm like a baby weaned from my bottle or an actor who's finally memorized the lines and has gone off the book. Admittedly, I have to rely on it every now and again to find my desired mealtime destination or fuel stop (seriously, on Sunday I let my tank get down to less than 1 gallon of gas in the foothills of Virginia, and the GPS was a necessity to insure I was within driving distance of a gas station).
Ratios, Ohio to NC v. NC to Ohio, off the GPS.
Speaking of stops, if you're really trying to make good time (and I'm ALWAYS trying to make good time), you'll only stop for gas once and you'll pack a meal. If you follow this advice, the drive takes seven hours. I suggest beef jerky and Mt. Dew. It's my favorite road trip meal.
Ratios, Ohio, NC, GPS, limited stops.
And don't forget your sunglasses for the day time. Oh, and don't wear all black because you'll be hot the whole time. And if someone would invent the opposite of sunglasses for the night time, that would be freaking fantastic. I thought I was hallucinating at night after staring into the bright and shiny light of the day all afternoon. Let's see if I can improve my skills/strategies in some of these areas before the next trip. Peace, love, and an oil change-- Emily
What have we here? Let me walk you through the necessities that I have accumulated in my carrel: