I'm listening to Christmas Music and Sippin...Grape Juice?

Seriously. Grape juice. I'm not enjoying it, but I wanted something fruity and it was the only thing we had in the fridge that fit that category. I don't think anything could go together less: grape juice and Perry Como's "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas." That's why I'm making hot chocolate and waving as the purple juice swirls its way down the drain. Good-bye, attempt at being healthy. Give me a chocolate death any day of the week.

You know what? I miss snow. I miss fat flakes of frozen water kissing my eyelashes, the layer upon layer upon layer that was required just to venture outside. Granted, 35 degrees gets pretty cold sitting on a carriage just off the river, wind slashing at my face and stiff fingers like it's 12 below zero. Of course, glancing at the temperature in my home town (-17 to Savannah's 50!) makes me thankful that I am sitting in the South.

I can't help but stare at the barren ground beneath our deck. Because it rains in the South instead of snows, the grass is anything but dead. The trees in Savannah, Live Oaks, are green year round. Aside from a dramatic temperature difference, it is summer year round. Only in the last few weeks have the five deciduous trees in town turned color. It's two weeks from Christmas. And yes, I'm dreaming of a white one. Give me frozen lungs, snot that you have to chip from your nose, and white puffs of air with every brave exhale. Give me the ice crystals hanging from the dead tree limbs. I even long (slightly) for the sunny sky, indecipherable from the white horizon.

Of course, once Christmas is gone, I'll be able to embrace the Sunny South once again. But the one time that snow, cold, and slush is welcome is during December. I like drinking hot cocoa, looking at the Christmas lights outside and being thankful for central heating. It's weird, walking outside in a t-shirt in the middle of December. So now, I drink hot cocoa, staring at the plethora of lights on the fake tree (it's a sin, I know, but weirdly, we have so much furniture in the house now that we don't have room for a live one) and walk outside only when John needs to smoke. I stare at the white puffs that float from his lips, because 50 degrees is too warm for it to come out of my nonsmoker's mouth.

I never thought I'd meet people who have never seen snow in person. To them, snow is something perfect and gentle that floats down from the sky as the tween laughs and turns in circles, grinning at the camera. They are shocked to hear about the nasty side effect of the cold: ice. Ice on the roads, ice on your house, ice in your nose. When John told our friends about having a survival kit in the trunks of our cars in case we break down in the dead of winter, they stared at us. Apparently, being able to die from exposure to weather is weird. Huh. Fancy that.

Despite the danger of Christmas in Northern Minnesota, at least there was some snow. I can't wait to move somewhere (like the mountains, or even Oregon) that has all four seasons. I've loved having this heat (I'll take fire over ice any day), and as much as I bitch about the cold...there are just a few months out of the year that it needs to happen.

Second in one day.

I couldn't help but post again. I was thinking, after my last post, about teaching. And I got excited. I hate to say it but a big part of me wishes I could find ways to engage kids with writing that has nothing to do with technology. This is the absolute opposite of my favorite teacher and mentor, but I can't help it. I'm one of the Millennials that grew up with technology inundating my life, but I don't know how to use 90% of it. I finally just figured out Twitter, for god's sake. The only reason why I'm on Twitter now is because I rediscovered my favorite college professor (who now works as a journalist in Bemidji) tweets regularly. Plus, I realized that I can avoid the stupidity of the world (mostly) by following 'people' like CopyBlogger and the New York Times and Simon Pegg.

This probably isn't the way to go (and is similar thinking of way too many bad teachers), that I shouldn't use the tech just because I don't understand it. After all, without technology, I wouldn't have found the Lizzy Bennet Diaries on Youtube, which I'm determined to use if I ever have to teach Pride and Prejudice to my students. Mostly, because it's the funniest and most entertaining thing I've ever seen come from youtube.com.

I just want to be in, and create, an atmosphere where people want to write fearlessly. If that means I'm going to have to figure out...well, anything on Reynolds' blog, then I guess I'm going to have to get with the program. Wish more of my professors felt the same way.

Here I am!

So, it's been a while. Four papers left to write before I get a month off of school. Seems fitting that the last post was from the beginning of the semester, and I've finally gotten around to writing again at the end. I'm putting off doing what I have to do, especially since I've got work tonight. Astoundingly, I've managed to catch up on all the homework I procrastinated on (36 blog posts, 4 newspaper articles, and 20 pages of creative writing later...) and just have final projects (and my internship) to worry about now. And then, for roughly 6 and a half weeks, I only have to worry about bills and my job. Thank Jesus.

Due to complications with language requirements (Georgia believes that you should actually KNOW a second language by the time you get a job, not just say you've taken 4 language classes in high school and know how to sing along to your favorite German band), I'm going to be in school for a full extra year. I'm going to be at half time enrollment now, which will be nice. I'm taking two classes next semester. Spanish 1 (they lost their German teacher, which means I don't get to continue learning my favorite second language) and Advanced Creative Writing. I'm hoping this means I won't be on such a stress over load and I can actually spend time with my husband, especially since he's taking a quarter off of school. It seems like all we get to do is collapse at the end of the day and watch a little bit of TV (or read like a maniac, as I've been doing. Back into Charlie Bone!) before going to sleep. Or, like now, I'm banging my head against the wall trying to get finals done with for the next week and whipping around to glare at him when he coughs too loud.

Thanksgiving is coming up. I think John and I are going to do what we did last year: chill at home and eat a lot of food. We might actually do turkey this year, considering that I forced my hubby to eat ham (I've only had two instances in which turkey was delicious, my dad made them both) last year.

You know, at the end of the semester, I feel like I should reflect on what I've learned. I hate to say it but...the only things I've learned (new) came out of my internship with Deep, teaching middle schoolers about how awesome writing can be. My journalism classes, though I like the teachers, didn't cover any groundbreaking information. One of them was so boring that I used it mostly as time to make lists and organize my planner for the week. Were they easy? Sure. Ridiculously so. But the work that I was supposed to do (blog posts) was more busy work than actually educational (we had to analyze the coverage of some article twice a week from NYT or WashingtonPost or Wall Street Journal). I get that the exercise should have taught us to think critically on a regular basis, but after my Mass Media class in 2010 with Professor Sewall, this was an unnecessary exercise. It's hard to get the voice of snarky comments and criticism out of my head while reading the news. But easy does not equate to fun or informative. 

My independent study creative writing class taught me that when I'm stressed, writing is the last thing I want to do. Also, that it's hard getting back into writing after abandoning it for a few years. I got some really good feedback and I got to read some great stories and talk one on one with my professor about them but...it mostly consisted of me making up excuses why I haven't turned any chapters in. It was a fun 'class' for sure, but not a lot got done. I'm hoping to either continue what I've got next semester or start with a new idea that I came up with a few weeks ago. Either way, I'm trying to use these classes to write my 50 pages of fiction that graduate schools are going to be asking for.

And Deep. I've never really taught before. Not on a 'regular' basis (once a week). The overall experience has been fantastic. I love the kids that are in this group and seeing their writing transform has been rewarding. But dear god, did it take some nail pulling. Here's why:

I just found out that being called a "Chathamite" (we live in Chatham county) is considered a serious insult. One of John's SCAD professors got in trouble at the DMV for joking after receiving his GA license that "I'm really a Chathamite now," not realizing that it was the wrong thing to say. He was pulled aside by some very angry people. Chatham county schools are so bad that if you are called a 'chathamite' it is basically saying that you are a serious...idiot. To say the least. That's just depressing.

A few of my kids are where they "should be" with their writing, and it's always a treat to read what they've got to say. The others are behind. Sarah (my teaching partner) and I went into the first day with readings from Series of Unfortunate Events and activities that we thought would be fun and engaging. We came out confused. Everything had gone over (the majority) of their heads. I'm going to say that it has taken a few weeks for us to learn how to explain concepts and exercises as simple and clearly as possible, but it didn't take long for us to find out that these guys were reading and writing at a 3rd grade level. A few weeks into the workshop, we voiced our concern to our 'supervisor,' who said that while we weren't the only ones having trouble, we just needed to look at the small accomplishments. I'm so glad she put it in perspective for us.

I finally saw some seriously huge improvements this last week. There's still a couple kids who are fighting tooth and nail against our suggestions and edits, but overall, they all stepped up in their writing again. There have been weeks when some of them regress, but for the most part, it's just because they are so eager to write that they don't stop to consider what they are writing. And I can't be angry about that. Every time I want to pound my head on their papers, I go back to week one in their notebooks and compare it to where they are now. Did they use an adjective that wasn't there before? Did they use a metaphor this time? Did they name their characters this time? Did they write something not based on a book series, movie, or tv show?

One thing is for sure: I couldn't do this full time. Not middle schoolers. As much as I love these kids, it's only because I know that these guys received a scholarship that they competed for to get into the program. They WANT to be there. Even on a Friday afternoon. If I taught middle school, or high scohool, English, I would become discouraged. I already hate our education system. But looking at these kids (who have a passion for writing and usually are doing it outside of workshop in their free time) and imagining what normal classes are like, I shrink away in terror. I might ask to come back to Deep next Fall. I would do it this next semester, but I just can't bring myself to do it again right away. No matter how much perspective I get, I can't stop feeling overwhelmed at how unfortunate these guys are, stuck in this education system.

There are days I wish I could go back to middle school to when I discovered my love of writing. I see that passion in these guys, and I miss it. Maybe that's why I abandoned Dance of Dragons for Charlie Bone. As much as I love G. R. R. Martin, there's  something about young adult writing that I devour like a vampire slurps and licks at a blood smoothy (I couldn't help the simile. I've been trying to get the kids to use figurative language by coming up with weird descriptions. I gotta share this one with them). I wish I could take time off of school and work and dive back into writing and reading without caring about academia, or what people will think of me if I start writing 'genre' pieces. That's the message I try to get to these kids: it doesn't matter what you write if you write it well. Just write what you love (thanks Reynolds!).

I was talking to an old friend from back home and discovered, the last time I loved writing was when I was in an environment that I knew my writing was appreciated and maybe even enjoyed: high school. Maybe that's why I couldn't do much for this creative writing class. As much as my professor tried to tell me that he was interested in knowing where my writing was going, there was the pressure that it had to be...adult. I don't know how else to describe it. Maybe I'll try again this next semester. Since it isn't one on one, he can't stare at me with small, beady eyes and frown as I try to describe what I want to write about.

Well, it's that time again.

I've been in school for about a month now and honestly...I'm ready to be done. I was excited for these journalism classes, but the initial giddiness has long past worn off. In fact, I'm just tired. The only thing I'm still slightly stoked about is the book I'm writing in my independent study class. Other than that...I've never been so behind in homework. Now that John is going back to school and I get every Tuesday and Thursday to myself at home, I should be able to relax a little and get some work done. Finally. It helps that we are just down to Doreen. I'm going to be calling to ship my baby Monte Carlo off for junk soon. I find my heart breaking.

I've had my Monte since I was 15. My dad bought her for me as an Easter present (honestly, I think he was just looking for a holiday excuse that was most convenient). He had to put a number of hours into her to get her running smooth, and there was that electrical problem that took four years to figure out...my first car was just as temperamental as the teenager driving her. And she still is. That electrical problem only occurred during the summer (when I was working McD's and at my most volatile), and only seemed to cure itself when my dad came around (much like my moods--my dad has always been and will forever be my best friend). When we finally fixed that (just before I moved to Savannah), the air conditioning broke. Of course, the ride south became steadily more uncomfortable, but she kept chugging along, nonetheless.

Then, just a couple of weeks ago, our Fiat's rear window was smashed out by an angry homeless guy. We drove my baby for one day, and I had just named her "ol' faithful," when she died. We called my favorite mechanic to see if we could save her (not just out of nostalgia, we really need two cars), but he declared her unfit to drive.

"I could spend the whole afternoon fixing her, but I still wouldn't let my own daughter get in that thing," he warned. He wasn't even able to jack her off the ground, she was so rusted through that her frame deteriorated every time he tried to boost her up. "You're from the North, I'm from the North, we both know this was bound to happen." He was incredibly sympathetic.

My dad taught me how to drive in Monte. I had my first, very awkward, kiss in that car. Monte Python's "Always look on the bright side of life" was playing when my crush went for it. Talk about lack of romance. A deer hit me in that car (seriously, it hit me. It came running out of a field and somersaulted over the hood of Monte, the ass cheek of the deer is permanently imprinted). I went on my first, incredibly nerve wracking date with John (I was determined to have some kind of control in the situation, and she was a comfortable old shoe) in that car. And I drove from Minnesota to Georgia in my green, mean, accelerating machine. I screamed and cried in the traffic through Atlanta, I shrunk in fear going through my first ghetto.

But she's kept me alive for 6 years. Her lack of electric locks was charming, the not knowing if the windows would roll back up was all part of the fun. When I saw the odometer clock past the 200,000 mark somewhere in Tennessee, I knew we were living on borrowed time. What with the Jeep gone too, I'm reluctant to let go. I just want her to work again. She's my last big, fat reminder of 'home.' My dad's signature is all over that rusted beast, and so are the signs of my teen years. As cliche as this sounds, all I'm going to have left are memories.

I've had so many life-changing moments in that car, I'm just not ready to give her up yet. Unfortunately our checking account is telling me otherwise. I wonder, if my car could talk to me, what she would say about my life so far. She's literally seen it all. 

Disconnecting

There has been a lot going on in the news lately. Everything from the Snowden leaks about the NSA data gathering across the world to one of my favorite soccer players returning to play in the US (Clint Dempsey). All signs point to some serious issues with our nation and her people and yet...

All I can think about is what I'm going to do when I graduate (hopefully this Spring). A part of me wants to disconnect for a while: delete my Facebook and Twitter accounts, and move to the mountains (this Savannah heat is absolutely killing me). My sister-in-law in Ellijay, GA made us partial owners in their coffee shop. If they get that up and running, I could get paid to make coffee and read books all day. My husband and I even talked about selling everything, buying a sail boat, and living a nomadic life for a while. What about graduate school? What about school loans? What about a job? I just don't know.

After high school, I knew exactly where I was going and what I was going to do. It was pretty easy. I had grown up with parents that strongly believed in receiving some form of secondary education. From the time I was in preschool, I knew I would be getting at least a bachelor degree someday. So what do I do, now that that moment is so close? The economy suggests that it will take a miracle to get a career (not a job) right out of college, so should I jump into finding my master's degree? Will that help my future prospects of landing on the right career?

That was the plan. Until I burned out. Honestly, I'm not sure how much more of school I can take. Don't get me wrong-- I love learning. I just spent this whole summer studying the history of Savannah, Georgia, just so I could get my tour guide permit to tell strangers how awesome this city is.

I'm frustrated with the institution of it all. I've had few good teachers since starting the university path in 2010, which doesn't really encourage much faith that I'll find better ones at yet another school, pursuing yet another degree.  I've already started the extensive research that goes into finding the right master's program (or several, since you really shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket), but there are so many more schools I haven't looked at yet. It's exhausting. I'm exhausted.

My next concern is this: I just spent a whole summer outside driving horses, talking about history. Every day, I felt my skin crinkle as I experienced sun burn (for the first time in years), felt sweat drip from areas I didn't realize could sweat. I even enjoyed the weeks of rain--my callused fingers sliding on the thick plastic lines, barely keeping hold of the horses when they toss their heads as thunder cracked in the sky. Yelling over the roar of trollies, the honking of speeding cars; my voice seems permanently husky now. I came back to my video production job on Monday, and I realized...I hate being in a silent, cramped, dimly lit room. Maybe it is because I feel like I'm not learning while I'm there. I was engaged this summer, learning tour routes and the history of Savannah actively. I've got my history tour down so well that I'm going to start researching other tour routes so I don't get bored, giving the same tour over and over again. I hope that by the end of this year, I'll have downtown Savannah etched into my brain.

Yet I realize, I can't be a carriage driver forever. I work with people who have literally been doing this job for over a decade, and they are burned out. The money is good and the hours are convenient enough that it's hard for some of them to leave. So what about this job specifically appeals to me? Weirdly enough, this goes against my introverted self but...I think I love interacting with the people. Yes, it is tiring to put on a show for tourists up to six times a day, sometimes with a horse that is on the brink of a wild stallion-esq frenzy, but I love it. I've met people from all over the world, most of them with interesting things to say. I do have bad tours now and then--maybe they want to hear more jokes or more about the film industry in Savannah (like about Forrest Gump being filmed here), but I'm telling them about the city history because I think it's funnier. Maybe they want a ghost tour. My ghost tours are horrendous, I won't lie. But the majority of my day is spent talking to people who are either riveted by what I have to say, or will educate me because they are natives, finally exploring the tourist attractions of their city. And even though I seem to have grown up without the love of horses that most women seem genetically predisposed, I have come to love some of those buggers. They all have their own characters; the good and the bad.  My favorite horse, Murphy, dances on his way home. I didn't even know horses could do that.

I think it's safe to say that I've learned more this summer than I have in the last year and a half at school. This is the first job I've ever had that feels more like a trade, and I love it.

Fortunately, I just found out that my Creative Writing class, which is independent study, will be forcing me into finally writing something extensive. My professor wants either a full chapter of a novel (30-50 pages) or a full short story by the end of the semester. That will help with the portfolio I'll have to provide for a master's program, if I do go that route. Who knows, maybe I will even get it published. Now I just have to think up a plot. My synopsis is due next week.

Is the American Experiment Over?

I'm scared. In fact, I'm terrified. There are those, like my dad, who say I'm over reacting. That our nation, the United States of America, is just going through some hard times--we will surely recover. My husband has put into words his thoughts on the matter, which I believe is definitely worth the read.

Every day I read about the threats our country's making, the deals they're striking, just to try and arrest the whistle-blower, Edward Snowden. I hope you all have been following these developments, because I think that this is a great example of how far we have fallen. One note in particular: China is asking the US to reconsider it's treatment of human rights activists--for the second time. Anyone remember Bradley Manning?

I remember Obama's first campaign. I remember watching a speech he made while sitting in high school. He promised transperancy, promised a health care system that would include everyone at no cost to Mr. and Mrs. Taxpayer.

Ha.

By next year, my husband and I will be scrambling to come up with the $500 fee (each) we will have to pay to get out of paying for full health care coverage. That $1000 will be cheaper than paying for the health care itself. More than anything, I'm scared that I won't be able to find a job. Or that my employer, a tiny carriage company, won't be able to keep me on. The idea of health care for everyone is definitely appealing, and I am all for it. Until it starts forcing company owners to stop hiring--even Walmart said they would stop employing people permanently just to get out of paying for health benefits.  The prospect of being homeless is something I've had to face a few times in the last year, and I know there will be more of that to come in the future, especially if the job market gets any more competitive. I wonder if anyone running our country has ever felt that way.

And now we hear about the US spying not only in our backyards (and our computers), but all over the world, and that in order to be safe, we must sacrifice our liberties. Ben Franklin disagrees; "They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." The US is alienating its own citizens, and the allies we have left in the world.

I don't want this to be an Obama hate-blog, because as much as I dislike him, he isn't the one to start it. But he sure isn't finishing it. What scares me is this: not being able to defend myself if, like Thomas Jefferson suggested, people decide it is time to 'water the tree of liberty.' What really scares me though, is if we, the people, decide that we'd rather just go back to watching Jersey Shore.

My new love

I am in love with a beautiful thing. Her name: Doreen.

What seemed like a disaster has turned into a new and exciting chapter: John's Jeep died outside of Savannah on our way back from Ellijay a couple weeks back, and then yesterday, horror of horrors...my car started to stop working. We panicked. Well, I panicked. I bawled my eyes out after we finally got her home. What were we going to do? I sat on my tiny plastic white stool in our midnight blue kitchen, staring at a cobweb on the ceiling and the perspiration on the walls and I thought, "God, help us." Obviously losing both modes of transportation isn't the end of the world. People take public transit all the time to get around. But I was so sick of things going wrong, so sick of having to shell out all our saved money. Any time we scrounge together a few dollers, it goes right to a bill, an emergency, or groceries. I just wanted to get ahead. Not knowing what to do, I wiped the snot from my face and began washing dishes.

Unbeknownst to me, my husband was looking at Carmax, trying to find out if we could be financed for a car. He had come across a decently priced car, one that would have functioned like the Jeep (low gas mileage but a lot of space with 4 wheel drive). After making some calls, he found out we could get that financing. After doing a little bit more looking, he found Doreen. A Fiat 500 Pop (in other words, the most basic of the Fiat 500s) sat in the lot of the brand new Savannah Carmax. And we heard that we could get financing...with no money down. This was beneficial because...we are broke. Again. Living day to day. Again.

Anyway, fast forward to today. It wasn't until 9PM that John finally got behind the car of our new baby, and he loved it. The Fiats may be tiny cars, but they actually have more room inside (including trunk space) than a Mini. We fit inside comfortably. But, ladies and gents, this is not a car to be a passenger in. I'm not saying the ride is bad, because it is excellent, even in sports mode (yes, I said it, THERE IS A SPORT BUTTON!!!). It just feels so tame in the passenger seat. I enjoyed watching my husband's eyes light up in the darkness as we sped through town and out to Tybee Island. I was brushing my finger over the iPod, finding songs to test out our new sound system with. It has a Bose 10-speaker system with a sub-woofer. Did I mention it's a 2012? This is the newest car anyone in my family has ever owned. And then it was my turn. I wasn't expecting much--like I said, this is the base 500 model. Cheap, but still an Italian sports car. That's right: we own an Italian sports car. She's our little Ferrari.

Okay, so the ride is great. But this isn't the passenger sort of car. I touched the accelerator and she jumped forward, orange indicator on the dash telling me that I wasn't yet above 60, but I felt every twitch of the wheel, every slight motion of the tires. My hair whipped against my face, the windows down so we could smell the salt air. My eyes ignored the speedo and I stared only at the red lights in front of me so not to crash, not that stopping is an issue. A gentle kiss of the breaks is all she needs to come to a dead stop. John bellowed with laughter as I screamed, rounding a corner too fast. We came to a red light and I looked at my husband, my hair plastered to my face, and I realized I was grinning so hard my cheeks ached. Time and time again, I stomped the accelerator, just to feel the thrill of that 0-60 in 8 seconds. This is what's laughable: my Monte Carlo can do it faster. But I've never been able to FEEL that speed, FEEL the breaks, FEEL the acceleration, FEEL the road. I've always kind of hated driving. Sure, my Monte is fun to accelerate with, but that's it. Her handling sucks. She has the turning radius of a moon and her brakes are more like weak suggestions.

But Doreen. Doreen is a different animal. She is Italian. She was made to handle. And I love her. For once, I don't want to be the passenger. As the ocean breeze knotted my bangs together, I felt my nerve endings fire like never before. Speed. As minimal as it was (I was afraid to go too fast, the cops around Savannah and Tybee have been hitting everyone pretty hard), it was there, and I felt every MPH. When the turn came for me to go home, I hesitated. My fingers clutched at the wheel, and I almost didn't push the blinker into place. The road curved before me. Go, it whispered. Just go. Forget about school, about payments, about your home, about not making friends, about money. Go.

And then I hit the blinker.

An update

Things at the carriage job are going pretty well. Not only do I have a pretty rockin' farmers tan going on, but I'm finally speaking the tours while my trainer drives. I'm happy to have a break from the driving because honestly, I can't feel my right middle finger any more. I didn't realize how much strength was required to handle a couple of one-ton horses, so let me tell you--you need a lot. It's nice to feel muscle building back into my body again. My husband said I've finally stopped giving 'girly' massages. Apparently my job is also enabling me to give 'man massages.'

While I despise the nights I have to work as a groom (which means taking the horses temps--that's right, I'm getting horse farts on me all night long; dumping the diapers--the memory of which is enough to make me want to hurl; and watering the horses--or rather, getting soaked while the horses splash the water around like a couple of babies in a bathtub), I am actually gaining some valuable skills. Like speaking. If you know me, it's hard to believe that I took a job that requires me to be communicative at the top of my lungs all day long. I'm a listener, an observer. It's what I do best. I think my husband is pleased that I am having to learn how to talk to different groups of people, figuring them out and adjusting the material I spew accordingly. Honestly, I hope I can learn to do that well. I've never been the most verbose, and that usually works against me.

My first time speaking was this morning, the 9AM tour. I had my notes sitting next to me for a tour that I knew how to drive the best, and my throat began to close. I drank almost a whole bottle of water before the tour even began, because my head began to pound and my hands began to shake. I was scared. This is about as out of my comfort zone as I've ever been, and that's including the time I had to walk around the Berlin airport with a huge allergic reaction on my face that made Elephant Man look handsome. I stumbled over my words, every syllable clutching to my dry tongue and birthing through my mouth like that alien bursting through that chest. I'm pretty sure that if I paid enough attention, the looks on the tourists faces would have been akin to Sigourney Weaver's as she dreamed about the alien in her own body. I tried not to stare at my notes constantly, but it was almost impossible not to. Finally, about twenty minutes in, my throat had enough. I croaked out a final word before asking my awesome trainer, Beth, to continue while I tried to regain composure, and my voice. I was pretty upset with myself at this point. I felt like nothing I said made sense, and I was pretty sure that the people in the back row couldn't hear me at all, though that seemed more like a plus for them. At the end of the tour, Beth looked at me and smiled, "You did great!" I stared at her, uncomprehending. Obviously she had been on a different tour, and I told her as much. She laughed and said that I did fine, though I needed to learn to project my voice more. She said that obviously I would learn the tours better as I gave them. The second tour we gave was to a group of young Girl Scouts (Savannah is the home to Juliette Gordon Low, the founder of the Girl Scouts of America; Savannah is like Mecca to them), and I found myself having fun. The young girls wouldn't question anything I said (though I do try my best to sort out fact from fun tales in my tours, I refuse to give false information), and their leaders were very lighthearted. I enjoyed talking to them, and I gave the whole tour myself, Beth only chiming in when I couldn't answer a specific question. I found myself looking less and less at my notes, giving them a few more romance and ghost stories than I normally would. It's fun when your audience shrieks at the idea of bloodletting and skeletons being discovered in the walls. My third tour didn't go as well, and Beth had to help out again, but I am definitely feeling better about talking to complete strangers. By the fourth tour my throat hurt so bad that I asked Beth to do all the work so I could relax and take in more of her tour stories.

I still have a long way to go, but my initial fear is gone, so now I can go back to focusing on learning the history of the city. Not all of the horses are my biggest fans--Beau and Flynn seem to have it out for me, though I have fallen for Jeb and Murphy, a couple of misfits that actually seem to enjoy snuggling. And in fact, the hardest part of this job, aside from the memorization of dates and names, is working with very large, very alive, animals. I've never worked with horses before, so I'm trying to learn the characters of each horse I work with, as well as what spooks them. Jeb has an intense fear of tarps. We even have a horse that is a little racist. Murphy likes to dance on the way home. I'm not kidding, he actually dances. It's the most hilarious thing I've ever seen an animal do, aside from O'Shea's tendency to flap his lips after drinking water, making a great popping noise. Most days I really enjoy working with the horses...but then there are days that make me want to shoot them. Beau and Flynn were a nightmare one Saturday, literally trying to poop on me whenever they had the chance. By the time I got home, I had to go directly to a shower and scrub scalding water over my body. I was covered in almost every fluid a horse can excrete. I was in tears, wondering what the hell I was doing...but it made me more determined than ever not to let them push me around. Though I have become convinced that owning horses is more trouble than it is worth, I'm definitely having an interesting experience. Maybe I'll even have some great stories to write about by the time it's all said and done.

Looking Up from the Bottom of a Well

We're broke. Plain and simple. But, things are starting to look up.

One day two weeks ago, sitting in the Video Production office, I was stressing over finding a summer job. I had applied to God knows how many stores, restaurants, hotels, ect. And no one had replied. No one. Not a one. I was talking to my friend and coworker, Jess, and though I'm not sure what made me think of it, I said, "Wouldn't it be awesome to be one of those carriage tour drivers in the Historic District? Seriously, talking about history and playing with horses, what could be more fun?" And then it hit me. Just because I haven't seen a job posting ANYWHERE on the internet, it couldn't hurt to email one of the many and ask if they were hiring. So, I did. Instantly, I got a reply.

"Hey Kristen! We are always hiring. Why don't you come down to the stables for an interview?"

-Cara

My heart stopped. My one act of silliness, one act of bravery, whatever you want to call it; did I just land myself a job?

I did. I went in for the interview, and I loved my future workplace instantly. Not only are the stables less than a mile away from my home (biking distance!), but when I drove up the dirt road, a goat was staring at me. Just saying hi. I'm still not sure what his name is, but I pet him all the time now. A goat. I've never pet a goat before. He's adorable, with his alien looking eyes. And there are two beautiful dogs that love playing with me.  And two cats I just saw today. And a number of horses, of course. I've only really met about four of them so far, and they are such characters! And everyone I've met so far is really great. Cara, my boss, is awesome. She's a powerhouse of a woman (a single mom) and the kindest person.

It's day three. There is a month and a half of training before I get to go out on my own (fine by me, I've never worked with horses before!), which is most of summer. Today I got to practice driving the carriages around the historic district, Liz, a very sweet woman, teaching me. I sometimes forget which command to use and I need to learn not to be as jumpy as my horse (a semi passed us on the way back to the stables and Flinn, my horse, reared in fear and I almost screamed--oops), but things are going well so far. The funny thing is that I've got more of a handle on the history speeches than I do on the memorization of the harnesses and how to put them on and take them off. I'm not so worried, I mean, it's only my third day.

As fun as it is to sit in the sun (or shade if the roof is on the carriage) all day and listen to history, the process to getting my tour guide license is a huge process. I've got to pay to get a background check, a 7 year driving history, and a $100 test for the license itself. But I've got about 43 more days to it all. I've already started studying. Savannah has such a rich history that it doesn't feel like work, it feels like reading a really good book.

My biggest problem, by far is: what's going to happen once school starts again. Not only do I have an internship this Fall, but I'm going to be going back to video production and having a full school schedule. I really really want to keep this job, and told Cara that when she hired me. Though there is a night shift, it would seriously limit my availability for filming for my school job, not to mention seriously limit my husband and homework time. I would have dramatically less hours, but the money would still be good (and needed!). I'm really hoping that as the summer goes on I'll be able to iron our my schedule and work with Cara to find a way to keep working hours without killing myself, and still helping her company. Anyway, that's a future concern.

For now, I'm just basking in the Savannah sun, eating up the sights, and learning as much history as possible!

Okay, What? Mind. Blown.

Edgar Allan Poe was a crazy, drunk and opiate addict, right? He died of his addictions, say so many biographers (including one I watched in high school). But, thanks to an interesting (and weirdly factual) site called Cracked.com (I've linked to the article), my mind has been blown. Poe was killed via rabies, not having drank a drop of alcohol years before his death. You must read this article, and clear the poor man's name. It's shocking how making the wrong enemy can follow you beyond the grave...his nemesis being the one who perpetrated the myth. Read it and be amazed!

It's the Future!

When I was in middle school, I remember taking a computer class that taught us the basics of coding. Because it was just the one class, I can't recall anything except that once you got into it, the basics were actually pretty easy. Here is a video staring people like Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg discussing the wave of the future. I instantly thought about how in a few years, coding might become another 'language' requirement!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKIu9yen5nc

If it allowed me to work in an office like that, I'd try it!

Hmmm...Should the Past Haunt Us Forever?

Should it? I just got Eminem's greatest hits songs. Everything from "My Name Is" to "White America" (only through 2008, so it's omitting actually most of his best work). I am trying to get myself to start working out in the mornings (could I pick a worse time?) and I needed work out music. Nothing pumps me up more than, well. . . most of Eminem's good music. I say 'good,' because as we all know, he does randomly slip back into the typical rapper (sex, drugs, violence). I came across this article while looking for writing blogs for my online class: copyblogger. In his song "Almost Famous," he depicts his rise to fame from the guy in a wife beater hiding in the corner to the man thankful to be alive (and out of rehab). But, Eminem is permanently attached to who he used to be:

"Now there he goes in Dre's studio cuppin his balls
Screaming the wood off the panelling
And cussing the paint off the walls"

I don't know anyone, really, who loves Eminem through and through. They always bring up his first few albums (I do too). There has formed a serious stereotype attached to those who listen to him. To be honest, most days I feel conflicted about this topic in general. Do people really change? Can they ever get past who they used to be? Eminem, as a person, has done bad things. Rapped about terrible things (killing his wife, for instance). Does that condemn who he has become? 

"Cus I ain't looking back, only forward, this whole spot blowing
Who coulda known he'd grow to be a poet and not know it
And while I'm being poetic let me get historic and raise the bar"

And though he seems to be the only rapper with lyrics that seem to have some meaning (White America, for instance) no one can deny, he tells it like it is. There is no political correct filter in Shady's mind, nor regard for the harm his words might bring.

". . . that's why they put my
Lyrics up under this microscope, searchin' with a fine tooth comb, its like this rope, waitin'
To choke, tightening around my throat, watching me while I write this, like I don't like this,
Nope, all I hear is, lyrics, lyrics, constant controversy, sponsors working 'round the clock, to
Try to stop my concerts early, surely hip-hop was never a problem in Harlem, only in Boston. . ."

One last point to this questionaire post: Eminem knows himself. Notice how I didn't pull from secondary sources? These are his lyrics. Eminem today, knows who he used to be. Maybe he doesn't apologize, but he makes sure we know he is a changed person. When considering who someone is today, should all their past transgressions be pulled out and waved around like a flag? I don't know. Comments?

Video Production 1

Here is the link to my blog for Video Production 1. I just got done with my first movie review, which is only half bad. I lost steam while writing it, which is something that happens a lot when I post on blogs. I'm probably going to have to start writing my reviews out by hand before posting online so there is some kind of feel of congruency.

http://keyvideoproduction1.blogspot.com/

What a day!

This is officially the best example of a great school day.

It began by waking up at 9:30am (sleeping in, yay!) with my hubby and MoMo. John and I went to breakfast at a cute hippie foods place (I had the best muffin I've ever tasted in my life, and John ate a salad) and hung out at a table outside, chatting while the birds sang, the sun streaming through leaves. At noon, he dropped me off at school where I attended my Public Speaking class. My energetic and hilariously fun professor ran around the room "lecturing" (I say with quotes, because her lectures are quite fun, and lecturing doesn't normally involve me laughing, nodding, and speaking out in class). I then spent an hour laying on a bench in between some trees reading A Clash of Kings and listening to the water fountain. It was 75 and sunny today. Is it seriously January? My Northern Minnesota mind is laughing hysterically. Then I went to my first Video Production 1 session. My professor is only a part time teacher at Armstrong because she is a full time teacher at SCAD. And you can tell. My whole semester will be made up of blogging, filming, picture taking, and editing. We'll be doing group projects all semester not just learning the THEORY of directing, producing, editing, and writing-- we'll actually be going out and DOING it. Actually running around Savannah, if need be, on whatever project we have given ourselves. Holy. Crap.

My only worry is just this: group projects. This is actually a required class for Theater majors. There is only one other English major in there with me, who is focusing on Film Studies as a part of her Communications degree, so it's required for her too. I think I'm the only one there because it sounded fun. And every student who spoke in class sounded...well... like a theater major. My coworker, Jessica, who is also a theater major, knows exactly what I'm talking about. She doesn't like the other people in her major either. Ha. It's hard to describe exactly what is so unattractive about this group in particular. It could be the inability to understand when it is appropriate to interrupt in class (and saying things in ways that suggest even though they desire to work Broadway, they have no actual people skills)...or maybe it's because no one seemed to understand the simplest requests of our professor. I think most of the 2 hour class was spent with our VERY patient professor repeating instructions several times over.  But anyway, aside from the students, the assignments are brilliant. There are supposed to be 15 people in the class, and because we are going to be working in groups, we have to pitch our work to see who has the best ideas for assignments. The first pitch I have to do is for a documentary assignment. I'm going to try selling the idea of following John's editors and their story: they just started up their own magazine. Their launch party is next Saturday (which is going to be so amazing, I can't wait to report on it). I'm going to take a camera (hopefully my boss will let me use a camera from work, my own digital isn't working) and photograph the party. Not only do they have a number of local bands performing, there will be an art show, hoopers and fire poi (you know those guys who light sticks on fire and do crazy tricks with them? Yeah. That's those guys.). Not to mention the free food and the selling of the first edition of their magazine. I'll talk more about it later as I work on the assignment.

I've never been so excited for school. Not only do I have a blog in my Video Productions class, but I had to make one for my Freelance Writing and Publishing class. I have to think up a theme for that one. I considered 'technology in the classroom,' but for each post (there will be three) I have to do interviews with professionals...and I think calling up an old high school teacher is considered more 'available' than 'appropriate.' For example, if I did a cooking theme, I'd try to call up Paula Dean's restaurant here in Savannah and see if I could talk to their chef. Or Paula herself. I'd do that if I didn't hate cooking so much. Food I love. Cooking, not so much.

I've never been so excited, and I've never felt more inspired. Through my classes today I kept hearing the words "be creative, don't just do something because it will get you by." And my brain ran with it. My first informal speech in Speech Communications is talking about three personal things I bring to class. The first thing I thought of was my pencil--I'd talk about the hundreds of lives its created, a mother like no other (it's pushed out lead like hundreds of children on to paper). Should be fun, though nerve wracking. I hate public speaking.

I'll post more as the semester progresses, and include links once I get the other two blogs going. I hope things just keep getting better!

Damn you, Literary Theory.

An idea hit me a few months back and I was hoping for some feedback, despite it being the product of too much literary theory studying:

I wonder if anyone has ever written a paper on the potential metaphoric meaning behind 'rock, paper, scissors.' As I dallied across the internet the other day, I spied a picture of a chalk board that questioned why paper always beats rock (it was supposed to be a joke, but I took it way too seriously)--what's it supposed to do, wrap itself around the rock and hope it wins?

The first thing that popped into my head was: "Don't be so literal." Perhaps my literary theory class is going to my head, but:

If you were going to think about this game symbolically, why not make this game one of war? After all, whoever wins the game usually wins a prize, and what is more of a prize than land, treasure, political power, ect?  So, as I lay in bed pondering the damage my lit theory class has done to my thought process, I wrote out the symbolism of this age old game.

Rock, obviously, would stand for sheer power or physical force. This could mean a military--army, navy, air force, what have you. Rock is normally viewed as a material of nature that seems impenetrable (time and weathering aside). When I think of rock, I think of castles, strongholds, and the men behind the rock--the fighting force.

Paper then, would stand for knowledge. The weight of words and the power in language is immense. It can do so much more damage than physical force. Words can inspire people, give them ideas, hope, the courage to stand up and do what is necessary whether for good or bad. Words can also bring down reputations, destroy paradigms. Bliss should not be found in ignorance, but in the knowledge handed down or discovered by others.

Scissors represents the control the powerful have over those words. I consider China's restriction on their internet, USA's WW2 propaganda, or Russia's 'Pravda.' One hopes that truth will out, but this is not always the case.

In essence, Rock beats scissors (armies can take down deceitful regimes), scissors beats paper (powerful governmental figures can control the output of certain knowledge), and paper beats rock (words, even those unaccepted by their government, can hold more power over armies; the right words in the hands of the people can inspire a coup).

Anyway, let me know what you think. I wonder when this 'game' originated.
Of course, to write a paper you'd have to think of several good (and consistent) examples, explore more into the history of each section, ect. But still, make for a fun one, I think.