Delayed Honeymoon

Well, we're back. John and I just returned from a three day honeymoon in Gatlinburg, TN. Sadly, I don't have pictures to upload because I had to use my dad's old film camera (it's actually old enough that it doesn't have zoom, and the flash is an attachable light. Shocker, right?) because my digital camera isn't working as well as I'd like. For the first time in many years, I am going to have to wait for my pictures to be developed!


Anyway, this has been the first vacation I've had that wasn't scheduled, wasn't really planned, and was almost totally stress free. I loved it. I have never been to Gatlinburg, and I was also eager to get into the great Smoky Mountains. While my husband prefers the ocean, I have always been a mountain girl. When I went to the French Alps, I took close to 300 pictures I was so in awe. I couldn't get one picture that captured what I saw and how I felt--the sheer size and the rough cliffs rendered me speechless. Can't say I didn't try.

So, was glad to go to Tennessee. Seeing some of the oldest mountains in the world was an awesome experience. Granted, we were seeing them in winter so most of the trees were bare, but it was still an impressive sight. Even skeletal looking it's hard to deny the beauty, especially as the sun set while we drove through the winding roads. I can't wait to see them again during the fall and summer seasons.

We went straight into Gatlinburg from where we were staying in Pigeon Forge to eat and walk around. I loved it. The German-style town is decked out in Christmas lights right now, so even though we arrived at night and couldn't see that the town was in the shadow of the mountains, the lights were fun to look at. With theme rides and bazaar sideshow attractions, Gatlinburg is definitely the family friendly Las Vegas of the South. John and I walked up and down the strip enjoying the cool weather and pondered what weird attraction we wanted to check out first. We both decided that if I could ask Neil Gaiman one thing, it would be why he didn't use Gatlinburg as an Olympus for his gods--if there ever was one, Gatlinburg should be it. From the Chocolate Monkey store with weapons to the sketchy ghost film theater and all the Ripley's Believe it or Not stores, it's hard to believe Gatlinburg wouldn't have a god or two running around.We ate at a BBQ restaurant (it's the South, how can you skip a good BBQ?) and wandered around some more before going back to the hotel to relax. Before we left for the night, we stumbled upon what I think was both our favorite part of the trip--The Village. From the outside, it looks like a continuation of the cute German style stores, and it is, sort of. Walking through the arched entrance it is like someone has muffled the sounds of the roads only feet away. A small sitting area with a water feature (with fire flickering on top!) greets you. From there, branches of cobblestone walkways lead to more stores. It felt like we were transported into a small Austrian village--the ideal small town where no one locks their doors and fairy tales come to life. It was charming, to say the least. We could scarcely believe that just a few feet away was the bustling neon strip with the sound of rumbling cars and heavy foot traffic. Because it was getting late, most of the stores were closed and the muted night air added to the enchantment. I expected a sprite to appear dancing around the flames on top of the water feature, spy nymphs poking out of the evergreen trees.

The next day, we drove into the mountains a ways and took some pictures. I hope they turn out, I haven't used a film camera in quite some time, let alone one as elaborate as the one I have. We returned to Gatlinburg to try our hand at an elaborate mini-golf set up that scaled a short bit of the mountain. After playing a round through the outdoor course, we then went inside to the glow-in-the-dark black light course. We walked around more, and had dinner at Johnnie Rocket's. 50's theme diners being my weakness, I ordered a dark chocolate malt and enjoyed the ambiance.

We did actually cut our vacation a little short--we both were eager to get home to MoMo. I've never had such horrible separation anxiety from a pet before. I missed seeing a furry face sleeping next to mine, his purrs lulling me back to sleep from a bad dream, his leap onto the bed to wake us in the morning. John and I may not want kids, but MoMo is definitely our baby.

I think what I loved the most about this trip was how much more I felt connected to my husband. Anyone could say that we spend time together on a daily basis to some extent--after I come home from work, when he gets home from school, the weekends when I'm not out filming something. But there is usually some kind of buffer--one of us (or both of us) is on a computer, someone is texting, someone is watching TV, ect. On this trip, there was not one moment where we were not totally focused on each other and the world around us. Our phones never really made an appearance, and I never felt like we weren't really paying attention to each other. As we walked along the Christmas-lit street at night or when we were talking in the car, I caught myself feeling...well...bliss. I felt like I was falling in love with John all over again...and again, and again. I don't think I've ever been more myself, more at home with the man I married. For a few days, I forgot my worries about money, school, and life. For a few days, I got to spend uninterrupted time with my best friend, and not once did I feel less than happy. Sure, I missed our kitty, but we missed him together, lamented his absence together.

All in all, it was a great couple of days.

There you are!

I seem to have found the hope I lost this semester. Part in thanks to my loving husband, part to my favorite high school teacher's pep talk...but mostly, I think I found it hiding on the other side of my Intro to Theory class: my last day was on Thursday. I didn't even know that old feeling of excitement had returned until I woke up today. I lay snuggled against my warm hubby, feeling our cat, MoMo crawl on top of my bedside table (attempting to push my Harry Potter book off the side, by the way) when I caught myself thinking about teaching.

I considered the scenario of standing in front of my own class of college students, wondering what the hell I was going to say. I considered my dislike of the typical 'get to know ya' first days, my loathing of text books, and my absolute new-found hatred for literary theory. If this was a research class I was going to teach, I needed to find a way to make it interesting. I figured I'd start off by asking them to tell me their names, what their favorite literary genre was, and what author they loved most. If that isn't a conversation starter in a room of English majors, I don't know what is. Then, I'd hand out the dreaded syllabus and ask them who knew what a multi-genre research paper is. Who says research has to be all five paragraph form, who says it needs to be boring? The multi-genre research paper is my key to all things relatable, exciting, and creative in an otherwise dull class. Maybe by that time, people will know what it is. In my first creative writing class at Bemidji State University, only one other person knew what a braided essay was. I guess it just hasn't caught on yet. Thanks again, favorite high school English teacher!

In a research based class, I'd make the MGRP the final semester (or midterm) goal. The rest of the time I'd spend giving examples and having them write research through different types of methods. The first paper might be interview based. I'd ask them to take a historic topic and write about it through the context of another event. For example, I'd ask my grandmother to tell me about her school experiences as she lived through WW2 in Holland. Or I'd ask my mom what life was like growing up while Richard Nixon was in office (talking about Watergate), and how it may have effected her outlook on life. For something closer to home, they could interview (for example) a teacher about their daily routine, and how they coped with the events of 9/11 (as it was a school day). I would stress the importance to my students of seeing everything in context. One thing I've learned over the last semester is how important it is to make subjects relevant to students. I hated my literary theory class because it seemed so useless (and at times seemed insane or just stupid). Research writing doesn't have to be a tedious, panic-attack inducing thing. If my theory teacher had been open to a little creativity, this semester would have been a lot different. I wouldn't be yelling in my sleep about my theory paper, for one.

I even tried to think if I had read any books that I could use in the class to help people see the creative side of research. I almost laughed when I realized I already have two such books on my bookshelf.

Anyway, it's good to have my excitement for my future career back again. I was so happy this morning, I got up and made my husband breakfast in bed. I know this next semester is probably going to be full of more research papers, full of five paragraph themed essays (I'm taking an advanced Composition class among others), but I'm feeling more relaxed about it. As my teacher said, I just need to give the professors what they need, and escape with my voice and style in tact. I think I'll be able to do that without a nervous break down now.

For old times sake, I wanted to include my first attempt at at MGRP...but Scribd seems to dislike the file, no matter what I turn it into. Ah well, I'll just have to take another crack at it in the future.

Makes my Day

I can't help it, but these guys have made my day: Obama vs Romney and Hitler vs Vader. I know some of these are just plain offensive...but I can't stop laughing. There are a few that fall short of funny, but most are definitely worth watching. If they weren't so vulgar, I'd throw these as examples at students and tell them to come up with something similar. These are the height of creativity...and brains. They aren't mindless rap videos, you actually need to know something about each character to get references. When Hitler says "Come in to my shower," my jaw dropped. The Obama vs. Romney one is probably my favorite. They don't favor one politician or the other, and the surprise cameo is hilarious yet still manages to send a message. My hubby loves Dr. Seuss vs Shakespeare. I hope people can see past how offensive they can be and just realize how creative and (surprisingly) intelligent they are at times.

PMS Needs to Come with an Excessively Happy Mode

Earlier today, I wished that anger motivated me to write, because I'd be half done with my research paper by now. I came home in tears, my literary theory class making me believe, more than ever, that this research paper is a farce. I don't know what I'm doing, or how I'm going to do it. I'm tired of being told that literary theory is the end all to understanding literature. It was to my great surprise when I turned, with a furrowed brow and a trembling lip, to my literary theory reading for the night. There were two articles at the back of the book "The Tempest" by Shakespeare, one by Stephen Greenblat, and one by George Will. The former argued for the use of literary theory, and the latter argued against. I don't think I've ever been so entertained. Their scathing retorts and pointing fingers made me laugh, though it was obvious neither were ever going to meet as friends. Their anger at the cause at hand helped me relax. In fact, I'll be trying to incorporate quotes from both men in my paper.

Will made the point that approaching literature from a political point of view makes literature primarily interesting as "a mere index of who had power and whom the powerful victimized." He continues with, "by 'deconstructing,' or politically decoding, or otherwise attacking the meaning of literary works, critics strip literature from its authority. Criticism displaces literature and critics displace authors as bestowers of meaning." He believes that the knowledge of literature and history is faltering, which results in a collective amnesia and deculturation. He believes that political goal of the victim revolution is social disintegration, something sweeping university campuses.

Greenblat countered rather scathingly, but states overall that it is impossible to separate "The Tempest" from imperialism. He refers to the history of the 1600's in which Shakespeare wrote the play--colonialism was a given. Greenblate argues that art is not cement (Will says a shared and stable culture is 'the nation's social cement'), "it is mobile, complex, elusive, disturbing. . .a community is founded on. . . the play of language, the scholarly honesty." He believes it is all but impossible to understand works of Shakespeare (and literature in general) without struggling with "the dark energies upon which Shakespeare's art so powerfully draws."

They both make very valid points, but I will say it is hard for me to take some literary theory seriously. Will hits the head on the nail by poking fun at feminist critics and Melville's story "Moby Dick"--"Melville's white whale? Probably a penis. Grab a harpoon!" I've read way too many critiques over the semester that seem to be stretching to prove a point. I don't see anything wrong with theorizing Lovecraft's rough childhood may have inspired "The Outsider," which ends with a beast realizing he is the thing people have been running, screaming, from. His mother reportedly used to call him 'hideous' so often that he may have believed her. Things like that stick with a person. Of course, as my husband argued, just because you are a writer who loves creating horror fiction (in Lovecraft's case, the man to change the course of horror fiction writing forever), does not mean you had a rough childhood, or that it is the end-all inspiration for the writing.

Do I think there is any validity what-so-ever in Margot Norris's feminist critique on "The Dead" by James Joyce? No. Her argument was based solely on the feminist voice that 'wasn't being presented.' Norris states, "Joyce performs in 'The Dead' not only a critique of patriarchy, but a critique of his own art as contributing to the oppression and silencing of women. 'The Dead' must therefore be read not as one text but as two texts: a 'loud' or audible male narration challenged or disrupted by a 'silent' or discounted female countertext that does not, in the end, succeed in making itself heard." I can see where the feminist critic could look at Joyce's background and his history of writing concerning women, but honestly. . . maybe Joyce didn't include a whispering woman in Gabe's mind simply because it wasn't the point of the story. The only commentary on women I could find within "The Dead" was Gabe's treatment of the women in his own life. Unable to socialize well with people or in situations he could not evaluate as he did art, he confined his wife and other female characters in a box, as things to be studied. A fem. critic could go on about that all day. Norris lost me when she failed to realize that Joyce was not writing to express distaste for the female sex--but to explore the bursting reality Gabe is subjected to, and whether or not his character will change for it. There is so much meaning in this story, to be sure. But a commentary on Joyce's feelings toward women via the 'silent female narrator'. . . I'm sorry, but it is going to take a lot more argument to convince me there's any validity in Norris's paper.

I'll end this rant on a humorous note:

Halloween and Other Stuff

Well, I've just passed the last legal-landmark of age: turning 21. I can now accompany my husband to buy wine instead of waiting in the car. On Tuesday, I languished in a day devoted to me--and being able to spend it all with my husband. Granted, I had to attend class, but I did get work off. We used that time to go to Longhorn Steakhouse and eat (on my end) lobster and crab soup with bacon mac n' cheese. Not having the ingredients for my dad's bacon mushroom mac n cheese (which I usually request for my birthday), we went to the only place we knew had the closest thing. John ate french onion soup (which was surprisingly tasty--after an unfortunate incident with bad french onion soup, it took a lot of bravery for me to try it again) and an amazing BBQ sandwich. After, we went and bought an ice cream cake from Publix (also tasty). I received some great presents from my parents in the mail, and my hubby made a dent in my amazon wishlist by getting me "Tales of Beedle the Bard" and "The Casual Vacancy" by J.K. Rowling.

I spent the day thinking about how much has changed in a year and a half. For the first time in my life, I realized that I didn't care if I was given a gift ever again, because I was given the best gift of all on May 7th of 2011. I was introduced to the man of my dreams. If ever there was a reason to believe in a higher power, John is my reason. Of the billions that inhabit the Earth, I managed to bump into my soul mate at a party I wasn't planning on going to in the first place. Home from school, all I wanted to do was hang out with my dad before he went to his check up appointment at Mayo Clinic. I was still having a hard time being away from home knowing my dad was living with cancer. It was my best friend who convinced me to go to her friend's birthday party to relax and celebrate. When I arrived I realized I didn't know anyone there but Bill, a man I had met just days before. My best friend not there yet, I wanted to turn around and go home. Maybe it was the allure of the campfire, or the sign of recognition on Bill's face, but I walked over and sat in the only spot available--directly next to my future husband.  

I think of that moment often; the animated hand gestures as he spoke, his ability to make me laugh despite my sullen mood, his eloquent words, the firelight glinting with the mischief in his warm eyes. Before I knew it, it was 3AM the next day, only a few people lingering around the dying fire. I had just enough time to get home and wish my dad luck before he left for Rochester, and I couldn't bring myself to miss that opportunity. I left that party intrigued by John, hoping that we would bump into each other again soon.

I'm not saying our lives have been perfect--love can be a struggle some times. But 100% of the time, I'd rather be arguing with John than anywhere else I thought I'd be at this time two years ago. All I want for birthdays, Christmases, Easters, Thanksgivings, Valentine Days, and any other holiday is to spend time with my husband.

****
 Yesterday was Halloween, and for the first time in my life, I got to hand out candy to trick or treaters. Since I can remember, my family has lived out in the country...not a very likely option for kids to go knocking on doors. When I was a kid, my dad would take my brother and I to the Saint Hilaire Lions Club. They put on a costume contest and a hayride for the kids in the area. I loved riding around the neighborhoods, seeing the homes decked out in flashing lights. I was excited all day--for some reason, all I've ever wanted to do was hand someone some candy on my favorite holiday of the year. When the knock came at the door, I pushed homework from my lap and raced to the door. I flung it open and beheld...kids wearing winter jackets. Perhaps they had costumes on underneath, but they were dressed like I used to be this time in Minnesota. It was only 55 degrees in Savannah. My first year without snow, the first year I look forward to kids wearing costumes, and the natives are bundled up like there's frost on the ground. One look at the candy, and eyes popped wide.
 "How much can we take?" One boy asked, hopping on his feet. Murmurs of 'trick or treat' flew across the others, the moms standing with a watchful eye on the steps. I paused, trying to remember how much I got when I went around to homes in Saint Hilaire. Apparently, my answer came too slowly. Before I could open my mouth, hands dove into the plastic bowl I carried, children dashing ahead of parents with prizes being stuffed into coat pockets. I blinked, looking at the almost empty bowl before going back inside. Though one group of kids near cleared us out, I still couldn't help but feeling happy. Giving candy is definitely better than taking it!

Fear of a Thing Inspires

Fear is an excellent driving force. When I first began college in 2010, I was afraid of failing classes. I studied my ass off to ensure that didn't happen. So it didn't. When I was given the opportunity to interview for the Video Production position at Armstrong, I was terrified that I would get the job, and that I wouldn't. I'd never gone out for a job I really wanted before. If I did get the job, what if I couldn't do it? So I researched, I practiced interviewing...and I got the job. And I'm doing pretty damn well for never touching a video camera before, and with minimal experience with editing film.

But when I got the hang of classes at Armstrong, I stopped caring if I didn't get all A's. Honestly, I just stopped caring about school. There is not one class right now in which I participate, in which I put forth all the effort necessary to do more than average work. I've never gone a full semester of not speaking in a class before...but that's what's happening. I've become that person in the back of the class taping pictures of eyes on my eyelids to appear interested. I still worry about assignments, tests, but only enough to make sure I don't scar my record with D's or F's. I'm worried about my 7-10 page paper for my Intro to Literary Theory class, because I don't really know what I'm doing. I don't have a solid grasp of my own thesis, or how I'm going to incorporate two different 'isms' (psychoanalysis is one so far). I've been in the class so long, it's hard for me to argue against the way of critiquing via the 'isms' of theory, so I'm doing what I've been programmed to do (and I wasn't programmed all that well). In the effort to balance views, I asked my husband to ask his SCAD teachers if I could do an interview with them on my topic--H.P. Lovecraft's "The Outsider." None of them believe in the worth of literary theory, and that's what I need. But now, I'm terrified. One of his professors actually said yes (probably because he's in such a good mood. He's just been given the option of turning one of his books into a movie--can you say PAYDAY?). I haven't felt this short of breath, this anxious and hand-wringingly stupefied since high school. I said I'd get him the interview questions and a summery of what I'm doing by Monday. That's one weekend to get my head on straight. Suddenly, this assignment means more to me than anything I've done since starting college. If I can prove to him that I can write, even a little bit, I might gain some kind of inside track that could help me if I get accepted to SCAD. Even if it doesn't, I just don't want to be a disappointment--my husband has awed them with his talent, I don't want his professors to think badly of me. Suddenly, my writing has meaning again. Call me shallow for caring what this prestigious author thinks, but it's kick-started a fear that will make me take this paper seriously. Fear has energized this lethargic writer, and I want to take advantage of it.

D.A.D

http://www.change.org/petitions/the-state-of-georgia-create-a-domestic-abuse-database-for-violent-offenders

Last night my husband received a text from her sister: she was in the hospital.

Her boyfriend of about 8 months beat her up pretty badly. I watched my husband's fingers flash across the mini keypad, his breathing labored.

My sister-in-law was sent for an emergency MRI because they thought blood might be flooding to her brain. This is not the first woman in my life to become a victim of abuse. My husband's anger and worry has morphed into something we can all take part in: finding a way to reduce the risk of this happening to other women. My husband is starting an organization called "DAD or Domestic Abuse Database. Similar to that of sex offender registries because the crime is eerily similar in how it repeats. The objective is to create pressure on our leaders to enact laws requiring those who commit acts of domestic violence to register themselves with the state government and to require those state officials to maintain these databases."

This woman's story is a prime example of why a database like this is needed. Connie Nelson knows her life will change again once her husband is released--it has been 12 years since anyone has seen him. If he comes after her again, the chances are small that someone would be able to recognize him and to help prevent access to her.

Please, help begin the change that society desperately needs to reduce the risk of abuse.

Rather...uninspiring.

I've done something amazing. I left the small town of Thief River Falls to follow... what I thought was my dream. I love Savannah. I love the people I meet, I love my new job as a Video Production Assistant, I love AASU's campus. I love the weather, I love how different each part of Savannah is (just the other day I drove through what looked like Mexico, then straight through Hatton, ND, and then back into what I identify as Savannah). I'm surrounded by magical trees. I feel like if I climbed into them, I'd find my head surrounded by fairies and trolls beneath my feet. My campus is literally a plethora of flora from all over the world. I've seen seeds from plants that make me feel like understanding where shapes came from. I love sitting next to the water fountain watching butterflies float by my head, spanish moss dangling from branches shading me from the hot sun.

Yet, here I sit, frustrated, and uninspired. My teachers are definitely of a higher quality than what I've experienced (mostly) in higher education so far. But I've been spoiled. One high school English teacher and his influence nags in the corner of my mind. The word that floats around my head as I'm doing homework is: mediocre. I've never felt so inspired, so excited to learn and happy to be in a classroom than when I was studying under this teacher. I've had good professors in college, of course, but none that gave me the feeling that what I was doing with my education was so right.

So my baby comes home and tells me about his day, the characters he meets (I say characters instead of people, because they have literally transcended the idea of being a single human being and are now unique individuals with personality), and I'm sad. I'm angry with myself. Everything that I've done in the last three years of college feel almost worthless. I want to start over, but at SCAD. I hate how the buildings are in the center of historic Savannah (mostly because driving and parking is a god-awful nightmare and I feel like I'm about to have a panic attack from lack of space). I hate the idea of transferring all of my credits AGAIN, getting FAFSA to transfer...AGAIN. I hate the cost. I haven't written anything creative outside this blog in years. I've forced myself to learn how to write what a teacher wants, because that's the kind of English teaching I've been getting. It's lazy, and I despise it. Yet, here I am.

Now, there truly is nothing wrong with AASU. It's my first semester, so I haven't had time to find the amazing professors. But I don't want to have to search. I'm probably jumping to conclusions, but my husband has been encouraging me to stop selling myself short, to apply to SCAD, just to see what happens. My husband came home today and told me that he finally had professors that he knew would challenge him. Professors who have worked for the New York Times, taught at Columbia University, ect. I love the opportunities SCAD can present. I love how much help SCAD has given my husband over his PTSD disability. I love that the money he is paying is giving him an actual hand up over what I've experienced between my Financial Aid office and Registration Office.

Honestly, I'm tired of the education I'm getting. I'm tired of being in school. I don't want to transfer to another school again, but I want a better education. I want to be almost ensured a job outside of school. I want to make the connections necessary to advancing my career. It's not enough to work hard in America. You need to work smart. I don't know if I have that ability at AASU. I guess I'll find out by the end of this year. I'm just sick of hating something I used to love. I haven't picked up a pencil for anything other than to take notes because it's tedious. It's a chore, and all I want to do is watch Alphas  or Babylon 5 or talk to my husband. I've felt uninspired for so long that I've forgotten how to dream. This favorite high school teacher of mine used to tease me for being an idealist. I don't even know if I can be that way any more. John gets upset, telling me to stop being so negative, start dreaming, because I can do it. I can achieve these dreams. We've already achieved one of them: to leave Minnesota. That's a start. And yet, I can't stop being negative Nelly. I don't know what it's like to stop punching my dreams in the face any more. I encourage John to follow his dreams, because I KNOW he can do it. But because they are MY dreams, they feel unreachable. I don't know what happened, between 2010 and 2012. But dreaming isn't my thing any more. Idealism is a thing of the past. All I really want is to read Harry Potter without analyzing it. I just want to enjoy my favorite books. I haven't even been able to read a good book for hours on end like I used to. I get jittery, need to stand up and walk around, and continue feeling frustrated. I know I deserve to follow my dreams. Hell, I'm a decent enough writer that I know I could get into SCAD. The amount of scholarships is debatable. But I know I can do this. Or at least, I used to. I'm not sure what happened, but I want to be that senior in high school again. I've got the amazing and loving husband to get me there. Now I just need the will and the confidence to throw myself out there, despite every reason why I SHOULDN'T. I think the education system is trying to ruin me.

Plus size? Or normal?

This article on Yahoo News sparked a conversation between my husband and I on the issue of women's weight. He complained that men have it easy, that football has made being a bigger guy...'fashionable.' Whereas women have Victoria's Secret models to look at before staring in the mirror and thinking, "I do not have those boobs, those muscles, nor am I less than a size 6. I. Suck." Shopping in the 'Big and Tall' section for men is a complement. Just the words 'big' and 'tall' bring to mind giants with muscles, even if that isn't the case. Women get stamped with: Plus Size. To most women, this just makes them envision. . . fat.

One summer my family and I traveled to Minneapolis to do our back to school shopping. My dad and I wandered off and came to a store that looked like the epic all-female equivalent of Hot Topic. As I looked around, enjoying the ambiance, I noticed that every shirt I found was a bit larger than I was used to. I couldn't find a pair of pants in my size. Finally, I asked a passing employee if it was possible to get the jeans I was holding in a  10 or 12. She looked at me a moment before telling me that the store didn't carry anything under a size 14. Later, when I got home (ah, the days before wireless), I dialed up the internet and discovered the store I enjoyed so much was a 'plus-size' clothing store.

Today, a size 12, even size 10, is considered plus-size. As John talked more about the injustice against a woman's body image, I spouted something like, "Well, we're women, we almost have to have a bad self-image."

Now hang on a minute. I couldn't believe what had come from my mouth. Granted, I don't have the highest confidence in the way I look. Every time I glance in the mirror, I sigh and wish that I could be the weight I was in high school. That was just a few years ago, so why is that so much to ask? Probably because a woman's body doesn't stop developing until the age of 24. Also, probably because I love food. My point is, how many times have I heard friends, family, random women walking by talk about something they would like to change about themselves? About how they want to start going to the gym, but lack the motivation, time, ect?

There is a stigma out there, and it's called popular media. Every commercial break, every TV show, every ad campaign features the small percentage of people who have perfect teeth, spatially desired eyes and nose, waists so small that the man with the wavy hair and rippling muscles across from the woman has no trouble grabbing her and throwing her in the air to celebrate all that perfection. You get the impression that if they were to have children, those kids would be the next step in the evolutionary stage. Plastic surgery would fall out of practice. Anyone remember the car ad featuring women so skinny you didn't know they were pregnant until the camera panned in on their bellies?  Swollen ankles and double chins don't exist in that world. I'm not a fan of the idea of being pregnant, but when I looked at my sister-in-law with my future niece inside of her, I thought she looked beautiful in all her round and swollen glory. There's something to say about being able to create a human from scratch and expel it 9 months later as something more than the tiny cell it was before.
Media needs to get a little gritty. Plus size models should just be models. They should be the norm. After all, more than one-third of America is obese. Just think of how many more people out there are over a size 8.

Maybe it would help if women knew how to dress to fit their bodies instead of assuming the clothes that fit on that model without any body fat will suit every shape. I can't count the number of women and girls  (including myself) who has worn a pair of jeans or a shirt that hugs curves in all the wrong ways. Of course you aren't going to like the way you look if you are wearing the jeans oh-so-popular today. The ones that sit just below the waist, forcing you to wear a belt to keep it just above the butt crack line, squeezing all the beautiful curves out into a muffin top.

So, women should get educated on the real facts of life. I think encouraging companies like Vogue to go the direction of curves is just the first step. Maybe the next time a new TV show about a confident, ass-kicking crime fighter starts up it should feature a woman with a crooked nose. Or a balding man. Or maybe someone with a skin condition. Who says you can't fight crime with a pimple and psoriasis? And please, if it is a woman, teach her to wear sensible shoes. Ms. Kate Beckett, heels are not acceptable in the middle of a chase scene. Get some sexy Reeboks up in there. If you watch Megan Fox's feet in the first two Transformer movies, or Rosie's in the third movie, even they have multiple shoe changes. Come on, let's get real.

Save the Word

Officially the coolest website ever for this word-geek blogger: Save the Words appears to be a website sponsored by Oxford dictionaries dedicated to bringing back ancient and almost-forgotten words. I'm hoping to adopt a word as soon as my registration goes through...something like Senticous. Or icasm. My husband and I are enjoying just scrolling over words crying "pick me!" and learning to pronounce them.

Bad Timing

I'm sitting in the living room watching Italy run circles around Germany in the semi-final for the UEFA Euro Championship game, thinking about how much can change in a very short amount of time. For instance, it only takes seconds (lucky opportunistic seconds) in soccer to score a goal. We are in the 50th minute. That's 40 whole minutes for Germany to make a come back. I've seen them win a game in the last five minutes. A lot can change.

My husband and I are leaving for the South in just two days. We haven't really packed as much as we should have because things have changed. I took my poor hubby into the clinic yesterday, only because he refused to go in the day before. From the looks of irritation flashing my way via the doctor and nurses, that was a poor choice. In fact, I didn't even mind (that much) waiting until yesterday to go in with him--he seemed to be getting better. How wrong we were. They put him on oxygen, took blood to send down to the Mayo Clinic, and promptly ordered an ambulance to get him to the hospital. The doctor in the ER was amazing. He pumped John full of pain meds, antibiotics, and fluids as soon as he could. The nurses were kind. But they strongly suggested that he stay overnight. Now, my husband has good reasons for hating hospitals and I wasn't about to force him to do something he really didn't want to do. So, pumped full of these drugs, we went home. Yet another bad decision. I've never been so scared and worried in my life. It was a rough night. Because of our usual bad luck when it comes to anything medical (the last time he went to the ER in the middle of the night, he ended up with a doctor who almost killed him via overdose), he refused my insistance to take him back in. "It sucks there," was all he could muster between chattering teeth. Mayo won't be getting back to us for another week, by which time we will probably have access to a nice VA hospital--maybe one which John wouldn't mind spending the night in. At least Mayo will be able to tell us what is going on. His symptoms have suggested some tick related disease; I'm just praying it's nothing too serious. He has antibiotics and anti-nausea pills (the latter does not seem to be working, making the first useless). I know he's wishing for pain meds what with the migraine he's had for the last three days. Trust me, as someone who suffers from chronic migraines, I can't imagine the horror he is experiencing.

So, like the Germans, I'm hoping for some change. It's the 75th minute, and they are still down by two goals. The way the Italians are playing, they will probably score a third soon. It's day three on John's sickness from hell, and right now, it seems like there will be many more of these days to come. My only hope is that I don't underestimate how bad this sickness could be, and let the love of my life fall too far into pain and misery.

Married Life: Week Two

On June 02, 2012, I officially became Kristen Young. The day was perfect--sun streaming through the occasional cloud, leaves rustling with the slight breeze keeping the men cool. My heart felt like it was about to give out. It's been years since I'd felt so nervous--I think I was staring at a 6 foot tall girl pounding her way down the soccer field with nothing protecting the goal but my shaking oven mitts.

I hid behind a tree with my dad to keep my appearance as much of a surprise as possible for John.

 Someone decided to expose me anyway. My dad and I talked about nothing in particular, waiting for our signal. It was behind that tree that I realized--holy crap. I'm getting married. I suppose this is the moment most people reflect on their lives, what lead them to this moment. So I did. I thought of the first time I met this man. Thought of the first impression I had as I sat next to him in front of a roaring fire. A charismatic man, I knew I wanted to get to know him. But marry him? Does anyone see that the moment they meet their significant other? He talked about cars, joked about religion, was the life of the party. I met my bridesmaid that day as well. She was the object of much of his teasing about 'idol worship.' He was the most fascinating man I had ever met, and I was enchanted. I still am. I don't think I'll ever know everything, even all the highlights, of the 28 years that occurred before I met my husband. He continues to surprise me. These were things I thought about behind those trees, feeling stupid at the supposed secrecy. I thought about how I couldn't wait to begin spending the rest of my life with him.

The music began; Christina Perry's "A Thousand Years" was the song I'd chosen (no one would let me use "Bad Company" by Five Finger Death Punch. Spoilsports). I watched Ben walk forward to take his spot, Bible in hand. Then Kenzie, my MOH and Heath, John's best man, walked forward. I think everyone was a little nervous, very little humor was on anyone's face. Probably because my girls were focused on keeping their heels from sticking in the ground as they walked. Finally, I watched my honey start his walk, which was more like a great bound. I willed him to slow down, and as if he had heard me, he slowed to a more controlled speed. I felt like throwing up. I wasn't nervous about the act of getting married. I love John with all my heart, and I can't imagine going through this life without him. I was nervous about messing up the vows (which were short and to the point). And of course, I did. Twice. I was so focused on John and how handsome he looked in his suit that my memory missed a few beats as I attempted to recite the few words directed toward me.

Everyone seemed to enjoy the ceremony--from start to finish it was less than 10 minutes. We told Ben at the rehearsal that short and quick was what we wanted, and he delivered. I can't really give comment on what the audience looked like, or the expressions on my parents faces (though my mom assured me she was bawling). My eyes stuck to the ground as I walked toward John, scared of tripping on my dress. When I arrived to stand before Ben and next to John, my eyes darted between my hubby and the preacher. I did have to fight back some tears as I saw the happiness I felt reflected in my man's eyes. As we walked toward the tent full of food relief coursed through me--it was over. Now John and I could stop stressing and just relax. How wrong I was. From the mingling to the desperate feeling of confusion, we stumbled around trying to figure out just what happens at a reception. After all, we've never been married before. Lucky for us, John's Mom, Sharon, had. She did help lead us around, but it was a flurry of 'do this, now that,' before a long string of fabulous pictures were taken by Beth Iliff, my friend, Kara's Mom. By the end of the day, all we wanted was to go to our hotel and sleep. Our feet hurt, and our facial muscles jumped erratically from the effort of smiling so much.

All in all, it was a long, stressful, yet happy day. I'm glad it went well, but I'm even happier that it is now a memory. I'm hoping to suppress the memory of pain (my feet had swollen from the heat and no longer fit in my shoes. I spent hours in shoes that felt two sizes too small). I can't express how thankful I am to everyone who made the event happen, not to mention all the presents we received. Moving to Georgia has been made a little bit easier by the contributions to all who attended the wedding--the best wedding present of all.

Of course, the day had to start absurdly early. There were four other weddings happening that day, so our nails were painted at 6AM. Hair at 10. 

Of course, there was cake.

There were speeches from Heath (thankfully he kept the stories from their Navy days out of it), Kenzie (Adam Paulson was proud), and John. I know people expected me to speak as well, but I was still in nauseated mode. Something definitely worth documenting was how awesome my dad looked in his tux.

And my flower girl was up to her usual silliness.

My mom looked very good that day too.

 

The rings... I wanted to inscribe "One ring to rule them all" on John's, but it didn't work out.

Our friends, Adam and Shawna, celebrated their 6th anniversary on our wedding day. Six years to our zero.

Family came from all over to see us get married, and that meant more to me than most anything else on this day. I hadn't seen these people in a very long time.

My great aunts Joanie and Mary, grandma Betty, my great uncle Hermann and grandpa Don next to his brother Bruce.

We are coming up on our second week of being married. I'm still having a hard time getting used to calling John my husband. My signature still says "McCu--Young." I still have to change my name on everything official. Other than that...nothing has changed. John and I have been living together for seven months, so it's not like we're shocking each other with our habits, ticks, and perks. Getting married has been, for both of us, just an event in our every day lives. We get new titles: "Mrs, Wife, Husband, ect," which we have been enjoying using. But nothing else has altered, yet. I've fallen more in love with him since then, and happier than ever that I get to look forward to being old and grey with John. Let people continue to look down on the institution. Let those divorcees stay grim and negative. I'm happy being married to the love of my life. I don't think that's ever going to get old.

Thanks, Dad.

Getting Married

I'm getting married next weekend. It seems so surreal. John and I both feel the same way--all of the work we've been doing to get it in order, and now it's finally happening. We're both incredibly excited. We just applied for our marriage license (he contemplated changing his name, I considered briefly keeping my maiden name and tacking his last name on...but "Kristen Elizabeth McCullough Young" gets a little long) and should have it by Tuesday. We've been running ourselves ragged trying to get things in order, finalizing things (we had a bit of a kink in the process when we had to change the venue of the wedding since my parents, after 8 years, finally sold their house), and making sure we haven't forgotten anything. Family I haven't seen in years will be traveling to see us, something I'm looking forward to most of all. His mom is coming up, so I'll finally be meeting her. Hope it goes well. My sister-in-law has been an angel, taking care of almost all the decorating. We'll have amazing southern food. The caterer is southern herself, so John's excited to see if her southern mac n cheese is done like it should be. We're excited to spend time with family and friends, and sharing our happiness with them.

But what I'm hoping for most of all is that after the wedding, people will stop trying to convince me to not get married. I'm not sure where strangers get off by taking one look at my engagement ring and immediately giving me the top ten reason why marriage ruins a person's life. Good thing I have too many reasons why marriage can be successful to actually listen to these naysayers. For one, my parents have been the perfect example of how marriage can work. Each others best friend, they have been married for about 27 years. Yes, they've had their hard times, but not once in my life have I doubted their love for each other. Just by watching them, they've taught me how to compromise, when to step back from a situation, that communication is key, and that the most important thing in a relationship: keep showing up.

So to all you naysayers: I'm not marrying your significant other who has caused you so much pain. I'm marrying the man of my dreams. The man who rubs my legs after 12 hours of standing at work, who brings me roses when picking me up at 1AM from a closing shift because my car broke down. The man who kissed me despite being covered in salt and grease, making me feel beautiful despite smelling like a fry vat. The man who holds me when I have a migraine and loves hanging out with my parents. I'm marrying a man who I can confide in, share dreams with, and bounce ideas off of. He makes me laugh, and is going to take me traveling. We've even started craving the same foods, desire to watch the same movies. We talk about books; analyze plot lines and discuss characters. He's passionate and caring, and loves me with all his heart.
He introduced me to sushi on our first date, and it's been exciting, yet comforting ever since. I'm not afraid to be myself with him, and there's nothing I have to change to fit with him, we fit each other just fine, like puzzle pieces. I know we'll have our hard times, and that I'll want to lock him out of the bedroom at some point. Even my mom has done that to my dad. But the point is that we get through it. Being in love isn't about getting along all the time. It's about knowing that getting through the rough stuff is always worth it. John drives me crazy some times, just like I drive him mad. But we deal with it. We go on. Because all I want is to see him happy, even if it takes me a few minutes or hours of stewing and thinking to get over whatever has me riled up.

So, I'm getting married next weekend. I'll have a shorter name, and another ring on my finger. Everyone will know that I'm going to devote the rest of my life to this man. Most of all, I'll be in a beautifully ridiculous dress staring at my handsome man in a tux and I'll get to spend time with my friends and family and eat some awesome food. My man was made for a tux, you should have seen him at his fitting. Yum.

Questionable Education

I've been having a bit of an interesting mid-education crisis. I've been given the chance to really examine my decisions--what I want to go into, do I really want to endure the education program, what second major (or minor) should I take on that is more, as a college professor put it, more practical that I can endure and still pay the bills? The chance to which I am referring is my soon-transfer to the sunny, hot, and beautiful, Savannah, Georgia.

I've been receiving looks to this news (looks ranging from: 'why would you ever want to leave here' to 'wow, that's adventurous of you'), so I'd better quickly explain why the big cross-country move away from everything and everyone I know.

Mostly, we're going for school. Who knew that school in Georgia could be as cheap for a state university as it is to attend a community college in my home town in Minnesota? It helps that my boyfriend has been telling me about the South for so long now that I can't help but wish I could experience it, even just for a little while.

Secondly, I just need to go. Go somewhere that I haven't been before, experience a culture so unlike my own (though we are in the same country, it amazes me how different we Yanks are from our Southern friends), and just do something crazy. Not a whole lot of opportunity for crazy-ness in Northern Minnesota.

And of course, to escape the snow. We've been following the weather in Georgia through the winter. Granted, our winter has not been the typical oh-my-god-I-might-die-if-I-stand-out-here-for-more-than-two-minutes-winter, but when we hit 10 degrees, Georgia had an average temperature of 50.

So, we're going to Georgia. Southern accent and Paula Deen, here I come.

Anyway, the mid-education crisis. I've been talking to a professor at my college about my education decisions. I'm having a hard time deciding if I should go into the education program at all. This professor tells me that I don't need to if I want to teach college level students, but I will if I want to teach high school. It doesn't help that all I hear about the education programs (regardless of location) is how useless it all is. Whether or not that is true remains to be seen. I'm sure that there is something useful in those classes, but what I'd like to know most of all, is if I've chosen the right age group. I'm starting to think more and more of attempting college/university level teaching, but I'm having a hard time weighing pros and cons between that and high school. All I know is my experience in high school--that it was awesome. What I've seen in college, is that it is more hectic, less personal, but more giving with what I can and can not say--and teach. I know I want to teach, but to what age level?

Even getting away from the education side of things, I've got to figure out a second major (or a minor). That's going to depend on the university I end up at (I've been accepted to every place I've applied to throughout Georgia, so location doesn't matter), but mostly, what is considered practical? I would love to go into publishing (I think), or mass communications (maybe) or even editing (perhaps). But do I really? Are these areas in which I can find a decent job if teaching falls through? My professor even suggested something technical with writing (like programming weblogs/wikis), but I've never been very keen on the technological aspect of writing (at least enough to know how it all works). So what about business? Could I open a bookstore with that knowledge? Again, is that even practical? How much more math would I need to go into (if it involves Calculus, forget it. Sorry, Froiland)?

Too many questions, and I'm not even sure how to go about getting answers. If anyone has some answers, don't hesitate to comment.

Child Left Behind

Ha, if only.

Geek vs. Nerds

From: MastersInIt.org

I'm a bit of a hybrid... but definitely a Nerd when it comes down to movies. Can anyone say 'BSG love'???????