Girl Meets World

Leaving home

Garrison Keilor never told me in Leaving Home that everything would turn sacred.

My Coppula hoagie is savored a little longer. The wrinkle on my Grandma's face is memorized. The chipped sink in the bathroom slathered with blue toothpaste immortalized by a blog description.

I like to go through times like these because life suddenly stops and change, as uncomfortable and painful as it can be, shakes things up.

My life has certainly been shaken--and stirred.

The look of my bedroom is a testament to that: tomato boxes, Avon boxes, egg boxes, filled with most of my worldly goods litter the perimeter. Baby cacti stand at attention, waiting for transport. Beloved films and books that I think I don't necessarily need, spines out, stare forlornly at me on their shelves.

I am poised for movement. I am packed. I am ready to go.

But there are a few loose ends. Aren't there always?

These loose ends are mostly self-indulgence. Secretly I can't imagine this world without me. I have to laugh at that, but I've been a part of this maelstrom of family for my entire life. I'm suddenly going to be unattached, starting over.

I like the idea and am liberated by it, but am scared too by the enormity of this idea being realized. I take minimal credit. So many people have funded, pushed and advocated for me to see these things--once just passing thoughts--come to fruition.

And now, more ideas are popping into my head, and I'm finally believing that they can happen if fostered and cherished like this one. There's just something about setting goals and truly believing in them that somehow counts.

I always was confused by sermons that talk about faith and belief and trust and love and hope; but the truth is, they're all connected. In fact, they are so similiar that I think writers got fancy with many names just to point out the various shades of one great feeling that has no name.

That's what I'm feeling right now: sighing and singing, mourning and dancing, leaving and taking. It's a nor'easter of everything good and sad.

Housed Sitting

For nine days I will have watched house for two dear friends in the mountains. I've been accompanied by two small terriers and a tank-full of freshwater exotic fish. We've learned a few things in the past week that I'd like to share with others who may find themselves sitting on a house--or having one sit on them, as this case shows.

1. Garden only when necessary. The storms flew in on swift winds this afternoon and knocked over almost all of my friend's pepper and tomato plants. After a few minutes of Lucy-style stomping around the plants, I decided that I'd beaten gravity enough and was dirty enough to go inside and say that I have a semi-green thumb.

2. Keep everything out-of-reach. Dogs like to chew things. I have a feeling that they're kind of stressed, too, so they chew practically anything for relief. I thought it was kind of cute at first, but when the male dog got hold of my friend's boot, I had second thoughts. Liability lies with the human in residence.

3. Sweets are the enemy, particularly when they are on the counter. My friend bought a small package of mini cupcakes. She said I should have one, and I did the first day. I've had one each subsequent day I've been here. They stare at me on the counter, but I've decided to move them to a nearby cupboard. Perhaps this is overstepping housesitter protocol or something, but I'm decidedly against eating the entire, delectable, sweet container-full...I will have willpower. I must!

4. Dogs will pee. I made the mistake of only letting the dogs out the allotted times given by my pals, and one left a lovely little puddle on the linoleum, twice. I've decided to let them out as much as possible. The dogs are crated during the day and they go out when I return. When they come in, we chill a while in the air-conditioning, and then the boy dog disappears. I hate cleaning up excrement. I'm not really a dog person, but we are getting along most of the time. This is just a reminder that I should not have dogs, nor date anyone that likes dogs. :-)

5. Life is different. You can't find the lightswitches, even though they were pointed out to you. The shower makes an erratic spray that your back isn't used to. The remote control seems more like a computer science project than convenience. Things are different, and novel. I've been alone most of the week here, and it's a strange joy from home. I like home for the company, showers and cats, but there's a peace here. There are blackberries the size of my pinky in the yard and horses prancing across the way. Different, but usually in a good way. Life will go back to normal for a bit, but this away-from-home trial is a definite help for the things to come.

If you get the chance to housesit, do it. There's nothing like jumping into another environment for a while.

Ba-Da Bing, Ba-Da Brooklyn

It looks as if I'm going to live in Brooklyn.

In a strange twist of NYU antics, the first lease outside of Manhattan happened to be the year I decide to go to NYU. C'est lavie.

Though I am a bit down about this placement, I'm sure to have housing, and that's what matters. I'll have a 34-minute commute each way on the subway, which isn't really new because I commuted all four-years to Seton Hill.

I've been hearing that Brooklyn is amazing from various sources for its affordability and culture, so I'm not that upset. I'll know two neighborhoods, and probably interact with a variety of people, not just the college student crowd, which is excellent practicum for a journalist.

I've also "met" my new Brooklyn roommate. She's from Belgium. We've e-mailed the past couple of days. She seems as driven as I am, so I think we'll get along.

It's finally happening, so be prepared, dear readers, for Girl Meets Brooklyn .

A clean deception

Every now and then when my hands are soapy and look like logs, I scowl at our dishwasher.

Nothing about it is really scowl-worthy. It's actually a pretty sad piece of equipment. The buttons actually stand out from the appliance, a la 1930's cash register, and the plastic cover falls off every now and then when our cat, Suzie, slides into it when she gets excited about linoleum.

It's not the appliance itself that inspires a scowl; it's the story.

Washing dishes started as a fun event. "Mommy, can I help?" She thought I was angelic and domestic.

And then I wanted to quit, but not so fast; it became my job. In our old house, we didn't have a dishwasher, so Katie and I switched off nights. However, when we were searching for a new house, we gravitated toward prospects with shiny faucets and power sprayers, but even more so to those with dishwashers.

For a while we used the dishwasher in our new home. The sparkle of Jet-Dry and the dash of Cascade funneling into the small holding tank for deployment was a sight sweeter than any yellow-gloved hand I'd seen. And then, suddenly, my mother reported that the dishwasher was broken.

Though Katie and I were crushed, we resumed our washing round-robin, but not without our quabbles about whose turn it was each night. Years went by filled with family dinners and holidays all fraught with cooking, and inescapably, encrusted cookware, silverware, crockery, Tupperware, plates, bowls, mugs and glasses.

But the fact could not be avoided: the dishwasher was broken and no one seemed compelled to fix it, least of all two waterlogged children, too consumed with Lisa Frank stationery to truly invest.

And then one day, not too long ago, I heard a gurgling in the kitchen. The sound was controlled, though, and made me think of hearing a favorite song for the first time in a long time.

The dishwasher was running without care. I believe my mother was even multi-tasking as she washed dishes electronically.

We'd been betrayed. The dishwasher, my mother confessed, had never been broken.

"It didn't hurt you and your sister to wash dishes," she said. "It was using too much hot water."

At least that was her defense.

I just think back to all those times when my sister and I would fight about whose turn it was to wash dishes and think that she knew the whole time that the dishwasher wasn't broken. She was just trying to teach us responsibility and compromise.

I still scowl at the dishwasher. After about a week of washing with our as-it-turns-out unbroken appliance, the machine broke again, probably from disuse. My dad quickly disconnected the water supply, and spiders began spinning in the spout.

The dishwasher is now a space eater in our kitchen. It's also a conversation piece, like our sparrow magnet chimney.

I still wonder about the dishwasher these days, when I'm up to my elbows in Dawn and speghetti sauce. Why did he so quickly disconnect the water?

Then I let my mind rest, warmed by the thought that when I come home someday I'll hear that ancient appliance gurgling once again, my parents in the kitchen laughing about how they put one over on their children for over half their lives.

When in doubt, pack it.

When in doubt, pack it. I have lived by this motto, and it hasn't let me down. However, with the prospect of moving into a considerably smaller place, I find that I'm going to have to say no to my motto, and learn to think differently about the plethora of stuff I've acquired.

Since I lived at home throughout my years at Seton Hill, I did not master the fine art of dorm packing. I have always had enough storage space: a large closet, two bureaus, a large bookcase and cedar chest. Decorative items and books abound. Everything is where I need it when I need it. In just a few weeks, however, if I need something I've forgotten, it'll be exactly 331.1 miles away. Paranoia sets in: Should I bring just a few more pens? What if all the ink runs out of all my pens at the same time? I would have to miss my class and get more pens! Then I would fail and have to go home, my head hung down in shame. I think I'm thinking about this too much.

This isn't trip packing, I have to remind myself. Instead of packing for certain activities, I have to pack for every situation one can imagine. Will I go rock climbing? What about dancing at a formal dinner? I've experienced a variety of situations in my reporting experience, some of which have included rock climbing and dancing, so I'm not thinking completely unrealistically.

I have a wonderful list, filled with over 100 items that I probably will need, including super practical, yet almost forgotten items like light bulbs and duct tape, screwdrivers and nails. I've also considered the seasons. I may not come home for Thanksgiving because of the short vacation and the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, so I will have to have a wide variety of clothes for layering and my trusty electric blanket.

And then there's an added packing element that I have not mentioned yet: New York living costs. I've stockpiled this summer on non-perishable items because nearly everything costs double in Manhattan in comparison to my hometown. This means that, while my room may look like a stuffed sausage at the start of the semester, I will not have to drop cash on daily living items that can seriously deplete the wallet. A little bit of planning has gone a long way.

The actual event of packing is more difficult than I would have imagined, too. I need boxes. I'm trying to keep everything for each "room": kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, etc., in their respective boxes. It's going all right, but I get overwhelmed every now and then by the magnitude of moving, not only the stuff, but a life--my life.

Mistake and Bias

Two books read in succession: The Feminine Mistake by Leslie Bennetts and Bias by Bernard Goldberg.

Both take on the question of women and the workplace and their children. Though my friends and family know the majority of my opinions on this matter, I will try to stay away from them, as I usually do to protect myself and, in this case, so I will not have to cite this blog for my class this fall when I will write a book review of Bias.

The manner of these authors' arguments is my main concern.

The Feminine Mistake is an excellent, yet sometimes exhaustive look at women and the workplace. The argument of Bennetts' book is that women should continue to work after they're married, through their pregnancies and children's early and teen years because they substantially threaten themselves by not working, particularly financially. She gives several back-ups including divorce, abandonment, depression after the children leave and difficult workplace re-entry after an extended leave. The book's tag line is a nice summation; it's a quote by Ann Crittenden: "Leslie Bennetts tackles head-on the popular myth that a man is a financial plan."

The book has a heavy emphasis on the experiences of women in these circumstances, and minimal authorial commentary. More showing than telling. However, many of the sources, which she says are mostly of the stay-at-home mom sort would not offer to give their names. I wondered why they would not give their names, and thought that perhaps Bennetts could have been a bit overbearing herself and with her questions, but I cannot attribute almost all of these ommitted names simply because of this reason. In any case, with her unnamed sources the burden of proof and the opinion lies solely on the author's shoulders and interpretation. Bennetts thrives under that load, though. She looks her readers in the eye and points out her flaws and debunks them, through a plethora of named females from all walks of workplace and childcare life combined with intermittent statistics.

However, as I've learned, statistics and the opinions surrounding them can be altered to suit an author's needs.

When citing a New York Times report of census data that 60 million women were single or living without their husbands, compared to the 57.5 million women living with a spouse, Bennetts brings in a demographer, William Frey, that says, "the institution of marriage did not hold the promise they might have hoped for."

This is, at best, a dramatic statement. At worst, it's a vague, self-serving quote. Women may not be in marriages because of the death of a spouse, hardly a reason for the loss of promise in the institution of marriage--just the result of the biological condition.

Bennetts is redeemed as the book progresses, however. She looks at each situation that a woman may face, seeming to say to women who believe that a couple should decide what is right for them on a case-by-case basis, "Hey, woman, wake up! Chances are you'll be on your own again someday, sometime! Be ready!"

Oh my, I've let my opinions in...which brings me to Bias.

Bias is structured in three parts: tirade, viable case, vendetta. While I understand the importance of naming names, Goldberg takes this to an extreme. He laces his points with his personal experiences (or should I say slights?) in the newsroom to illustrate his points. I took his statistical evidence a bit more seriously than memos and calls and watercooler chat that he remembers, but stats can always be tainted by set-up.

When Goldberg hands out stats on journalists versus the public, for example, based on a Los Angeles Times nationwide survey, I was suspicious. What journalists were surveyed? What sector of the public was asked? How were the questions asked?

And while the intentions of Goldberg are probably noble in trying to make the reading of his statistics a bit more palpable, the statistics are not written in parallel form. This statistic: "75 percent of the public was for the death penalty in murder cases; 47 percent of the journalists were for the death penalty," seems to leave something out. What about journalists who are for the death penalty in murder cases and, for that matter, what about the death penalty in murder/rape cases or serial murder situations? They are not delineated here and the reader is left making a decision based on the limited information available, through, ironically, Goldberg's tinted lens.

At the same time, Goldberg is proving his own point that journalism is about flash and kaboom. Going into the details of this survey would take away from his argument, or would it? Much of this book is filled with statements concerning Dan Rather and the issues Rather had with Goldberg after publishing his critique of a network news in aWall Street Journal article, "Networks Need a Reality Check." Each statement made by Rather or the network execs becomes a paragraph (or ten) in the book, hence my description "tirade." He could have spent a little more time explaining the survey and skipped the hundred or so exclamation points which make the book seem in some points like an e-mail hastily sent to one's boss, instead of a serious look, as Goldberg claims, at the media industry.

Maybe, I keep thinking, Goldberg was too close to the system--too "CBS insider" to truly assess the situation with, ironically, limited bias from himself. Though he doesn't claim to be unbiased in his editorial-like account, I can't help but think that he should have been. I would have taken his points more seriously. As it is, my bias as a reporter viewing a jilted reporter tends to make me hear his prose like a boss listening to a whiny employee:

"I have written exactly two times about Dan Rather and liberal bias--or, for that matter, about Dan Rather and any subject, period! Two times!"

To that, I would ask, okay, you can write about one person--your superior--two times, but how many times in those two pieces did you mention that person? Nine, 65? I would have to say somewhere in that range because the name Rather rang in my ears at night when I put down this book. I dreamed of news desks and combovers.

As I said, The Feminine Mistake and Bias have something in common. They both take on women in the workplace. However, Bias' take on this issue is to initially say they're not going to make a stand either way, but actually make one later in the chapter.

Early in the chapter ominiously named, "The Most Important Story You Never Saw on TV," Goldberg says that "this is not an argument for or against mothers leaving the house to work in an office or a factory. That is not my concern, despite the troubling statistics, at least relating to lachkey children. The argument here is that once again the elite journalist on television have taken sides."

Whatever Goldberg. After stating this disarming claim, I was comfortable for a bit. Okay, I thought, back to the media bias. He stayed on the topic for about 10 paragraphs and then let working mothers have it at chapter's end: "No wonder elite culture treats them (working mothers) as hothouse flowers, who must hear nary a discouraging word. But the fact is that working moms are at the very center of variety of cultural ills. Maybe a little stigma is what they deserve."

Sort of different, huh? He says throughout the book that he is not advocating one side or another; but his opinions, construed conservative or liberal, are sprinkled throughout, despite his protestations that they aren't. I think he uses this to inadvertently make a point about his kind of journalism. Goldberg thinks that a journalist cannot completely disengage from bias because a journalist is a human being. He gets to the root of the issues and gives his opinions on bias in the media, but also gives us his opinions on those issues, too. The book is generally a mess, an overstuffed, overcooked turkey on Thanksgiving Day.

I'm going to have a field day on my review.

Pre-release Potter

Do you know how Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows ends? I do.

I've held the much-anticipated volume in my hands and have read each envied word of the final chapters. I don't intend to write a spoiler, so no worries.

There are spoilers circulating on the Internet, of course, and I hold no exclusive claim to fame, but it's something, though. The library wasn't expecting their copy to come in sooner than the release date, but we're not letting it out of its hiding place until the 21st--and only the staff have access to it. One of the many perks of the job, I suppose. Or one of the only... :-)

The Maine Idea (II)

A needham is a native Maine chocolate filled with coconut and mashed potatoes. The idea is a little wacky, but the experience is unforgettable. My trip to Maine was more than a little like eating a needham.

The idea that I was visiting a male friend at his home on an island in Maine was a topic of some interesting conversations pre-travel. However, it all worked out well. Friendship(s) are intact, and I had a relaxing vacation with Stephan and his family.

Unlike some people, I do not enjoy traveling simply for the sake of movement. I like reaching a destination and then branching out from there on bike, foot, boat or chaise lounge.

Learning that a lake was not a quarter of a mile away from Stephan's home, needless to say, was all the vacation I would have needed. In the span of two days, I visited the lake--or pond as the sign said--three times.

The walk was lovely, but I think I enjoyed the view of rippling blue between the tall trees most of all because I knew that the view of the swimming hole was next: cool water lined by a rocky shore overlooked by millions of pines.

I did laps with Stephan's brother, John, across the lake; but seeing nothing but dense green with a few particles of white flying by in my goggles was downright creepy, so I switched to backstroke. Blue is such a soothing color, especially when footage of Nessie flits through my mind in the middle of an incredibly wide lake.

Silly me.

However, there's much more to do besides just being a lake bum. About halfway through the week, I traveled to the the top of Mount Battie. I spent the day with Stephan's parents, David and Kathy, and we were to picnic on the rock face of the outlook. David went out to a ledge (an uncharacteristic thing because he's afraid of heights) and was readying our picnic spot, when our cooler, filled with Maine factory-fresh cheese, soda and other perishables, did the unthinkable.

A little bit of a rocking motion (pardon the pun), and the cooler and its entire contents spewed forth and down over the rocky ledge, down, down, down into the green canopy below. But our eyes weren't on the food, they were on David's outstretched hand, grasping only the sky.

And then he said: "It's still going!"

Our lunch took about fifteen seconds to completely reach the bottom of the trail-less ravine. I take comfort in the raccoons and squirrels eating like kings that night.

The semi-non-perishables--a loaf of bakery fresh bread and an oatmeal chocolate cookie were left in my arms. Our lunch. And what a great lunch it was.

After that, we hiked to the top of a Mount Megunticook. Around and around it we went. The terraced trail was a challenging, yet fun jaunt, and we found a luna moth on our way. When I reached the top, a little sooner than his parents, I had a moment to reflect: I felt more accomplished than I had in a long time. Actually living out a common metaphor, it seems, is better than using it.

There's much more to say about Maine. About its endearing L.L. Bean fetish. Its docks and harbors filled with boats worth more than my upcoming education. Its seafood. Its beaches. Its life. However, there's a lot to say, and I've spent too much time on this blog already.

But I guess it comes down to a question. I've always wondered if you left part of yourself in the places you've traveled to, but really, I think you bring more back with you. Maine is an addition in every way.

I don't need to look any further than the the calorie count on the needhams package to prove that.

If you'd like to see some photos and commentary, check out the extended entry...

Stephan, John and Kevin around the breakfast table. I think Stephan was playing with the jam.

On the first full day of the trip, we went to this old lighthouse. I climbed the ladder (probably not a good idea), but the view was amazing.

Islands, islands everywhere. Adjacent to this pier is a dock. Several private boats are anchored there. I was swarmed by black gnats not far from here after a rain shower.

Below the pier, shown above, is masses of seaweed. I made the landlover mistake of calling it moss. John really got a kick out of that.

I don't think I can remember a colder Fourth of July, but I chalk it up to Maine. haha. Rain was falling, and most of my photos have lovely shots of drizzle, but this one turned out. I give a lot of credit to the town's firemen for this amazing show over the river. Fireworks spewed from one end of the pier to the other by the time this was shot. Surprise. Shock and awe.

Overlooking the harbor on top of Mount Battie. This was shot not far from the cooler's demise location.

This luna moth met its end along the path up Mount Megunticook. Moths were the least of my worries, however. I was fodder for the mosquitoes. I don't even dare count the bites scattered on my arms and legs.

This was an odd find in the middle of a charming town called Camden. Many of the buildings are built on stilts and the water rushes beneath until it empties out into the ocean via this beautiful waterfall.

You look and look at views like this. It's called "postcard territory." Compliments to Maine.

How can red hotdogs--a thing they only do in Maine, I'm told--be organic? Word is it's beet juice. I haven't altered the color on this photo. I couldn't believe it.

My feet love the water, as does the rest of me. I learned to love the lake, despite my misgivings about the stuff on the bottom.

The swing is great, but the rocks are a constant fear. Good times, and I didn't die.

Photo alterations by Pixer.

(If I've gotten any names of places wrong, I apologize. A journalist on vacation can't get everything absolutely right.)

The Maine Idea

Maine is a beautiful place. I can't believe I've actually stepped away from it to look at this computer screen, but I just thought I'd remember this trip with one small--very small blog--about my trip here while on my trip.

I've swum in a beautiful lake, watched fireworks over a river and shopped at a little Maine standard: L.L. Bean.

But there's much more to do and see. Tomorrow I'm taking on a mountain.

The cry of credentials

Though every semester at Seton Hill seemed more difficult than the last, when I look back on it all, I find that my first freshman semester rated highest on my stress-o-meter. By the end, I had the know-how and the faith that I could get through it all, but at the beginning, I questioned myself. I'm doing the same thing now, but now I know that I'm doing it.

I guess a lot of my pre-formed stress is from Facebook. What an awful thing that community of credentials and interests and self-indulgence really is!

One of my soon-to-be classmates said on her message board that she is feeling overwhelmed and more than a little inadequate after viewing our class's profiles. I must echo this sentiment. Facebook offers the voyeuristic ability to pore over every piece of work information and background experience that every student has. When looking at that for admittedly ten minutes or so, one feels a sensation akin to looking at pristine models in a fashion magazine: like a blemished average person. Also, the image of one person slips onto another and then another and you forget who was who and then you just lump them all together into some mega journalist image in your mind. Why should they want to go to graduate school? They are awesome and perfect and have nothing to add to their knowledge of the craft...I'm so not ready for this--and so on...

However, I've stopped that lurking and self-pitying. I've reminded myself that I'm accepted. I'm forking out (or will be) a lot of dough for this education. I've got the ability somewhere deep down inside to make it through, just like I did in my undergraduate years at SHU. I'm going to make it because it's just what I do.

It's not been a secret that I've felt displaced in the past few months. Direction is hard to come by when waiting on answers from your future makers at colleges. Time is an ally and an enemy. I read over my application essay that got me in. I remind myself that I have all of the abilities that I said I did. I imagine that my classmates feel something of the same. And I catch myself doing it again--trying to bring everyone down to a human level. We all have families that live in little houses with picket fences or drive cars that sometimes won't start in the morning.

It's so easy to elevate people, including yourself, to something higher or lower than reality. Our minds act like bubble paper, sometimes cushioning and other times obscuring us from what is essential to see things as they are or could be. These mega journalists are going to be my friends and co-workers. I am on their level and they're on mine, and we have a job to do. We depend on every other human being to tell our stories, to pay our salaries (someday). I hope humility and confidence will balance themselves out in their own time.

Just the Family Vacation

I love my family. I love trips. I'm not too sure about the combination of the two.

This week is my family's first trip together since our disastrous one to New York City about four years ago.

That's not to say we haven't traveled at all in the past few years. I've turned into a traveling fiend. Dublin, Philadelphia, New York, etc. My sister and mother love to travel, too. My dad loves to go to Civil War and history-oriented locales, but he hasn't in the past few years, so we're doing locations primarily he likes in central and eastern Pa.

Today we visited Lancaster, Intercourse, Paradise, Bird-in-Hand...You can just imagine some of the retail merchandise...In any case, it's been quite an adventure.

Our family does fight in the loud and obnoxious way that most families do. Today we had our first fight and I was an integral part of it. Nevertheless, we plodded on in our lovely rental that doesn't actually plod--it really flies. In fact, my mother rode the white line at 75 mph until a tractor trailer almost plowed into us with his cow catcher-like bumper.

Tomorrow we travel to York and the Harley-Davidson factory. We are not bikers, nor do I foresee anyone owning a bike, but we are going there to broaden our minds.

Today, we were pretzel twirlers and bud-eaters. I'm not really a tour person because I watched Mr. Rodgers' nearly every day of my childhood, but it was pretty interesting to watch a one-man pickling operation at a cannery. He packed twelve eggs into each can and then a long spout of purple juice slid into the jar, which was finally sealed and a label was slapped on.

It was a compelling spectacle for a few minutes, but I caught myself feeling sorry for the guy. I can't get the book, Nickel and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich, out of my mind. Ehrenreich is an undercover journalist who "exposes" what her life is like in various six- and seven-dollar occupations through her reflections. She is employed in the book in several vocations, including a maid, a Wal-Mart employee and a waitress, among others. Though I think her voice is a bit persnickety in the book, I find that her stories are nevertheless alarming, and make me think twice about my place on the proverbial totem and why I think her voice is persnickety. Have I accepted my class? Has she been spoiled by hers?

In any case, I think about the people who made up the rooms that I am sleeping in for the night. I think about the people canning the eggs and making my vacation omlets. I wonder how much they are being paid and what their lives are like. I've always done this, and because I do, I never really relax on vacations. I find that this awareness is heightened this trip, especially. Maybe it's because we're still in Pa. Maybe it's because pay raises and finances are a constant news item. Maybe it's just a great combination of all of that.

When people cook and clean up for me on vacation, I want to remember to respect them and to be grateful for this trip. We may fight and say a lot of things we don't mean, but at least we're given one more time to be a family before we scatter--or more appropriately--I move. It's strange that I'm on vacation at 21 years old with my family, but who else gets that chance? They'll be other trips to savor with friends and business trips, but this vacation is something else entirely: it's an affirmation of us, still as a unit, no matter where we go and what we do.

It's just too bad WallyWorld was closed today. The poor moose. :-)

Home Sweet New York

I have a place to live. Repeat: I HAVE A PLACE TO LIVE!

New York University just sent a lovely e-mail stating that I have a home for the next academic year if I respond ASAP. The message was received, of course, at the library (where I can't scream), but I did give my most winning smile to the couple I was helping at the library between my Internet surfs.

The message cannot say where I will reside exactly, but I am assured a place in NYU's housing buildings, all of which are in Manhattan.

I did do a bonafide Irish jig (that I learned from my Irish friends) in the library's back room and hug both of my fellow staff members.

Today was a great day. I ate Godiva ice cream and a Coppula hoagie, I was published, and I have a home--somewhere.

The next step is to envision this new abode and my new roommate(s).

In thick outdoor paint and messy memories

Paint and I have never gotten along.

When I was in sixth grade, I decided to spray paint a box for the scene--a diorama--of the play Romeo and Juliet. The can was nearly empty. The project (which was assigned three months before) was due the next day. So instead of asking my mom to take me to the store, I improvised, which often works in my life. After I rummaged around in the basement, I located my would-be savior: a can of exterior latex paint left over from our home's remodeling. At first, I daintily applied paint with a paintbrush. However, my deadline weighing heavily on my mind, I decided the process was going too slowly, so I dipped my hands in and went for a fingerpaint look. Instead, the box rebelled, and drooped with the paint's weight. During the endeavor, I unwittingly covered half the sidewalk in whitewashed white, and gave rise to a beloved family story: Amanda-cried-like-a-big-baby-because-she-had-to-scrub-the-walk. As for my procrastinated project, my mom helped me construct another box which we covered in contact paper and filled with a Barbie and Ken balcony scene. However, the memory of scrubbing the sidewalk and picking paint chips out of my hair for a week has stayed with me. I was haunted by paint, and particularly exterior latex white paint.

Until today.

My sister's boyfriend, Nick and I painted the back porch with the exact paint I misused so many years ago. This time, however, we had a little help from a sweet piece of equipment. The entire porch was whitewashed in around two hours with our new stain sprayer.

In a lucky twist of machine antics, we were very lucky the sprayer didn't catch fire. Though we read all of the instructions for operation, we neglected the section on permissible paint types. As we learned half way through, when Nick checked the manual, latex paint of any kind should not be used in the machine. I can just imagine the scene if my mother came home and our house were in flames and all I could offer in explanation would be "It was the paint, mom!" And she would sigh, and we would reconstruct the house out of contact paper.

Nevertheless, we painted on, despite our knowledge that the machine could explode in our hands. The realization eventually grew as numb as our hands holding the jiggling tool. At the end of the day, though, we finished a lot quicker than manual painting, and the sidewalk has minimal splatterings. And our house isn't in ashes, which is a definite plus.

I came in still wary of paint, however. It's in my hair and my skin is bright red from numerous scrubbings. And while paint and I have never gotten along, I'm happy to say that power tools and I do. I shall revel in electric drills and paint sprayers and electric hedge clippers as long as I draw breath on this polluted Earth. Huzzah!

The difference between black and white: A computer transition

My Dell was a one-of-a-kind because I built it, or at least that's what Steve said... Black, with silver embellishments--a standard student edition--my college computer was a genuine treasure. It ran more programs than I probably should have tried. It never contracted a virus. The speakers were stellar, and I even installed a cut-rate DVD player without calling a tech during its tenure on my desk.

My Dell is now in a clothes basket.

It's cleaned, both inside and out, for its new owner. I didn't realize what a task this would prove to be. With all the programs that I had loaded on the hard drive, in addition to my own photos, documents and music, I thought I'd never finish. Thank God for Box. I have all of my files loaded onto three one-gigabyte free accounts. That took awhile, but they're all there. I also have backups of my written work on CD. After all, Jesus saves...ask Dennis Jerz, if you don't get that one.

The buyer was a happy find. I pitched the idea to the library where I work and one of the board members said he was interested in purchasing it. My Mac plans are now in motion. I'm probably going to buy one in August (for possible free iPod and student software discounts) and tough out the next few months on my sister's computer or at the library. However, I am tempted to wait just a little longer for the new operating system, Leopard...but I think October may be a bit too long to wait.

It's bittersweet saying goodbye to my first large appliance. Cars have personality, and just enough attitude to make you feel like they own you, rather than the other way around. Computers--or maybe I should say this one--feel like you have worked together toward a common goal. I wrote many papers, many blogs and many articles on my black wonder, and I shall miss it. I'm probably buying a white MacBook, so the difference between the two will be as drastic as literally, between black and white.

In related news, my computer desk decided it was time to die. I decided to move the desk out of my room for obvious space reasons, and the pressed board leg buckled and then unhinged itself. I heaved the mess out the front door this afternoon and it's garbage truck bound.

The transition's already beginning...

The faces of refuse

For the past two Tuesdays, I've witnessed the human condition in its barest form. Some say the human condition is evident in politics, religion or in relationships with the opposite sex, but I have a very different point of view: It is in our trash.

Trash, also known as treasure--as I've been told at least four times--is a window into people's lives. I'm not surprised that the paparazzi sort through it to get an intimate look into their subjects' activities.

With a reporters' eye, I sorted through every type of container one can imagine; and in the process, I have formed a very different, and perhaps distorted, view of my church's rummage sale contributors.

There's always a bag with kinky lingerie. This bag usually incites some gasps from the ladies, but this year was something incredibly different. Some woman (or man, perhaps) liked body suits to the extreme. I think we found one in every color. In addition, the bag contained a montage of Victoria's Secret commercials from the past fifteen to twenty years, complete with beaded bodices and even a corset or two. No one ever admits to contributing anything, but I have a feeling that someone in the room that day did donate those unmentionables...Someone turned just the slightest shade of pink when the bag was opened, and then promptly returned to their work. I like to think that the owner of this bag got over their need to please their partner and threw it all out in a moment of self-affirmation.

And then there's the dusty, gaudy ceramic angels, their backs stuffed with 62 discordant artificial flowers. I think that that person had to do crafts in prison, rather than make license plates. They didn't have the funding for matching flowers, so they used every single one to try to please the warden for her birthday. However, the warden was not pleased and decided to shut down the angel ceramic program because it decayed society, rather than contributed to it. The remains of the program were immediately sent to our church's sale. The contributor is ready to make cell phone covers with Paris Hilton.

I tried to be discreet with my critiques as I sorted, but sometimes it was just too much. I felt pretty low when I did make some statement like, "Whoa, that's an amazing pile of something," and someone piped up and said that it was their mother's favorite ornamental Christmas wreath/sock holder. I did get a dose of my own medicine, too. I donated a few pairs of shoes and another lady said she couldn't believe what some people donated as she filtered through my bag. So, okay, they were pretty bad, and I should have tossed them, but I was trying to be a giver. I imagine that she thought the owner of the shoes was an almost impoverished student, who tried to sell the shoes at a yard sale and then donated them afterward when they didn't go. Some people are so dead-on it's scary.

However, what always supercedes these images is the buyers on the morning of the sale. A crowd gathers at least an hour before the sale building opens, and they rush in or pound on the door at 8:59 a.m. to get in. The sight is one to behold. People from all backgrounds, race, sex, age, whatever, come pouring through the door, like speghetti through a loose sieve. The images I have are dashed. I see the new owners in the flesh, carrying off their spoils. Trash is treasure and the leopard body suit just might fit...

(No--I didn't buy a leopard body suit, you sick people. :-) I did get an iron, a leather jacket, a big box for moving to New York, and ironically, a trash can; however, minus the sweet stainless-steel coffee pot that an elderly man scooped up before me.)

My new summer job: Advice booth

This sounds like a promising venture for summer employment. I wonder how Americans would respond to an advice booth...I mean, with a money-back guarantee, how can you go wrong? However, I hesitate to think that many people would respond favorably to a 21-year-old giving life/love/philosophical advice.

I think, if anything, I could get into a whole lot of legal trouble if I told someone that they should invest in something cool like neon pogosticks instead of some promising stock. Maybe I'll just leave the advice booth to the Londoners.

Just as an aside, though, these --ist blogs are fabulous. The content is fresh and well written. I check The Gothamist the most, of course, but I'm always impressed by the variety of coverage by each city's writers.

A ranking of gadgetry

From a conversation with a friend about modern conveniences, I put this little rank together. At the extended link of this entry, you will see how you fare based on your top choices (in light of my pseudo-psychological tomfoolery) and view my answers. :-)

Rank the gadgets below based on your use, need and want of the item in your everyday life.
(ex. 1=most important to 7=least important)

a) Microwave
b) Computer
c) Cell Phone (camera use not included)
d) Camera
e) iPod (or some other comparable music device)
f) Hair dryer/Straightener
g) Palm pilot

If your top choice is...

Microwave: Try to slow down someday. "Slow roast" isn't only a label given to the media's coverage of Rosie O'Donnell's behavior, it's a real cooking term that you just might enjoy if you tried picking up a skillet or pot of some sort.

Computer: Try a laptop and move it into a sunny locale like your front porch. Don't worry, you will still be blessed by yours (or someone else's) wireless connection. Computers are fabulous gadgetry, but just remember that there are real people out there, not just "sort-of real" people that "say" "LOL" all the time and make videos that they post indescriminately on YouTube.

Cell Phone: Landline only rhymes with landmine in your book. You've never heard of it, or if you did, you choose to forget the time when talking was connected by wires. You are an empowered being, proud that you have your own off-beat texting language you share with your closest "FIVE" friends know. LOL! I mean, 5+6+5.

iPod: If earbuds are your only friends, try disconnecting once in a while. Music is your life; that is, except when you put newscasts/podcasts/simultaneous webcasts/iCasts/iUniversity casts on your lil' Vernon (you've named it, of course).

Hair dryer/Straightener: Life is SHEAR GENIUS. And you need to get your roots done. Hellllo?

Palm Pilot: You still have a GigaPet and it secretly lives in your desk drawer with your palm pilot named Filbert. I take pity on you. I'd help you if I could, but I can't. I'm sorry.

My ranking:

1. Computer
2. Microwave
3. Camera
4. Hair dryer/Straightener
5. Camera
6. iPod (not applicable yet)
7. Palm pilot (will never be applicable--I like paper planners.)

Starting over

My screensaver is set to rotate my pictures from the last four years. Today, I received my first e-mail from my first friend at NYU and several IM messages from a SHU friend of four years who was trying to insure that we would remain friends beyond graduation. The past and future fought today in my corner of cyberspace, and I starting thinking.

I can't really say what these next few months hold for any of us. I don't have an apartment/dorm in New York yet. Karissa is moving away. My friends are scattering to the four winds.

And my mind turns to the hackneyed sayings/songs of transition: "When God closes one door, somewhere He opens a window...," "I'm a survivor, I'm gonna make it," "Buildings with a hundred floors, swingin' round revolving doors, maybe I don't know where they'll take me...Break Awaaaaaay....."

The way I see it, there are two ways to look at every transition. First, as an insurmountable obstacle that has no over, under or beyond. Second, as a challenge.

The past few months, I've spent largely alone. I've decided that February is the worst month of the year, with March as a close second. I don't like to wallow in self-pity, but there it is. My challenges somehow became insurmountable in my mind. Dreams became wispy memories and reality, a constant threat. But now, I'm remembering who I am and what I'm capable of being and doing. I'm not lost; I'm just waiting and resting for my next go.

And what I've gotten screwed up in my mind for so long is that my next go is now. Insurmountable is being replaced by action and planning. Though these months "off" have been part of my growth, I have realized that I am not one to let alone. I waste away without a deadline, a planner. And I guess that translates to "I'm a goal-oriented individual" on a resume.

Then the personal side is assaulted, but I'm looking at it differently these days. I haven't seen my Seton Hill pals as much as I would like, but I think this is preparing me for the much longer separations that are sure to come. They are still, and always will be, a part of my life, but in a different way.

Challenges await. And I'm not afraid now, because I know I'm going to surmount them, not the other way around. Maybe I'll give God the credit or the Vitamin D of the wayward sun, but something has changed.

We're all about to start over again, to grow some more. It's spring; May, June, July and August are my favorite months of the year. I can't think of a better time to start another season of my life than in this moment and in the embrace of so many people I love. We're going to make it; I'm going to make it.

And, if nothing else, there's an impetus for this change and our imminent success: student loans.

Trippin' out

I savor travel. I love trips that don't feel like trips, but more like a short residence in a different locale. My upcoming journey isn't one of those.

On Friday, my mom and I will fly out from Pittsburgh to New York, and the following day, return. We're staying in a hostel. I never have and she hasn't either. I think this thing is going to be quite an adventure.

My original intent for this trip was to attend a luncheon with professors and fellow grad students, but somehow this tiny weekend trip has burdgeoned into a trip of epic slashes. I'm categorizing it as a mother/daughter student/professional development trip. Trying to keep it all in perspective, but the next few days may change the course of my life...especially if I get killed in a taxi. No, no. I won't dwell.

Yellow wonder, the NYC cab

While in New York recently, I tried to hail a cab for the first time. It didn't work out very well because it was rush hour and I didn't understand the whole cabbie light on/off thing that was going on.

Instead, I went to a hotel and a kind man with a whistle and a voice that put Ella Fitzgerald to shame, hailed one for me. However, I know that this will not always be the case. I will have to hail my own cabs, pay for them, and somehow deal with the possibility that I may die in one of these yellow cages.

Thanks to Gothamist, my New York savior, I am now cab savvy. Their link to the New York City government cab page is just what this newbie ordered.

Did you know the maximum number of passengers allowed in a cab is 5? And that a cab driver must know the "lay of the land" to every destination given by a passenger?

Maybe now I'll move onto the NYC subway system...or not.

Building bridges over the wall

The street disappears at the foot of an upright concrete mountain.

I saw the wall before the Belfast guide pointed it out. I was thinking, "Isn't that strange, a big wall in the middle of nowhere. I bet that's a jail back there." But there isn't a jail on either side--at least one that I couldn't see. My Irish friends, however, know all about it. The divider between two neighborhoods in Belfast is a tangible representation of lingering hate, a jail for both Catholic and Protestant factions. It hurts now to think of that street to nowhere.

While in Belfast, I was in a fog of sensation overload. The sights, sounds, smells (of fish and chips), were often too much to make me belabor the fact that I was living in what once was a warzone, and still is to some degree.

My impressions of Belfast, a month later, are a bit clearer. I'm beginning to take the discussions with my friend Mags in an entirely new way.

I'm a historian's daughter. My father, a Civil War, Kennedy and 9/11 buff, never was certified or anything, but he's passed his need to remember the past to me.

Mags and I were kindred spirits. She passed along her knowledge of Irish history, which she is majoring in, to me in small, digestible increments. I note now that I was the one who kept Mags talking, long after everyone moved onto other topics. :-)

I'd read up on Irish history before I went to Ireland, but the nuances of the history and the various interpretations of the past were never more apparent to me. While in Belfast, our friends not only talked to us about Irish history (and their living in it), they beefed up our knowledge with two films:H3--a great film about the hunger strikers, and The Wind That Shakes the Barley about Irish history. We didn't finish the second one because it was too early in the morning for bloodshed. As it turns out, Wind hasn't been released in the U.S. and isn't slated to do so until July. So, I'll have to wait.

In any case, this Time article: Postcard: Belfast, made me go back to the place I learned to love so much. The contentious walls, barbed wire and painted curbs are a reality for both past and present, but one on the fringes of my mind. I like to believe in the optimism of the article's author, that things are getting better. Mags and Pat Joe seemed to think so, but were wary of the country's direction.

Last night I finished The Kiterunner at 3:45 a.m. The reason I kept reading was to see if the Afghan narrator found redemption. He did to some degree, but the timeline wasn't finished by the last page.

I'm learning that there are no last pages or conclusions for a person or their country, just the way we view circumstances and how we move on in spite of them. Redemption is a choice, an act of bravery for everyone.

I want to see the walls come down, not only across the oceans, but a little closer to home. The destructive inertia of our time isn't unstoppable. Naive? Optimistic? I believe that there is Good in this life if we choose it. As for the rest, there will always be a few who never cross the bridges and walls that will always stand. As for me--and you can only ever be sure about yourself--I'm ready to be brave.

Time to upgrade

It is time. I believe I'll begin with the camera, then move onto the iPod, the cell phone and then computer. It has come to my attention that all of my technology, save my digital recorder, are ready to move on to other owners.

My Fuji, though a battery sucker, has served me well. My photos are big and beautiful. I thank thee.

My CD player jumps like an overactive Mexican bean. You are the weakest link...Good bye.

The cell phone...ah, the cell phone, is costly for its minute-by-minute charges. Au revoir Virgin Mobile.

And finally, the computer. My Dell, once high fashion and amazing, is too large for travel. I hesitate to think that I'll be taking fast flights home every holiday from school, so I need something that I can work on while traveling. I can't believe I'm writing this, but I think I'm going to buy a Mac. I may even splurge for the MacBook Pro because NYU has a great student rate. I'm really worried about software, though. And I have four years of stuff on this computer that I'll have to save on Box or something.

Does anyone have any suggestions for buying cameras, computers, cell phones or iPod purchases? Tips, photos, whatever. I need some direction.

Babies and blogs

Babies and blogs have never meshed in my mind. If I ever do have children, I think the blogging would stop then. I would send photos and commentary through e-mail to family--not on a blog. I made up my mind about this a while back--you know, taking in the grand scheme of life and blogs, but I am definitely sticking to that decision after reading this horrible story of a mother's blog being ransacked by an angsty teenager.

Though I would not blog about my children if I have any, I can see how blogging was a fun and seemingly harmless activity for this mother. And while she was perhaps naive, this situation was entirely uncalled for. I am happy to hear she fought back and was aided by other bloggers/friends/readers.

Some of the responses in the Gothamist comment section were chilling, however. One comment even said:

"Hey Margaret -

You chose to put your personal life on the web. And then you chose to put pictures of your child on the web. Copyright your photos or deal with it. The scenario you've described is harmless - and quite honestly - funny. Have a laugh."

Have a laugh? I suppose it could be funny for someone who doesn't have children, but I'm not one of them. I wouldn't want someone going through my scrapbooks for the fun of it, and then pasting them into another and then showing it their friends and calling that life their own. Sickening.

Thankfully Xanga has taken down the teen's blog for "violation of Xanga's terms of use."

The teen's blog was a creative remix of online content, I'll give it that. Could this be construed as fan fiction? I don't think so. The entire situation is reaffirming what we already don't know about blogs, copyrights and online property. I can't wait to see where this goes in the next few years. I can't wait to see if Xanga reposts the blog...

Going to the dark side...MacManda

I'm in New York. Crazy things happen here. I am in the Mac Store and I'm seriously thinking about buying one of these...things.

Dr. Jerz (PC user) wants to say, "Hi, Karissa. Hi, Mike. We made it here first!"

See--I'm playing on a MacBook Pro...starting at $1,999. It has everything, including things I can't pronounce. Cheers from New York. We're presenting tomorrow. Wish us luck.

Away from home, home again

I found my way back to Belfast with a cup of tea this morning and watching this (a big song we listened to the duration of the trip).

The seven-hour flight was easy because we went out for our last night in Belfast. The feeling that all in one day we were having tea and high "fibre" cereal, walking the cliffs of Ballycastle, dancing the night away and finding ourselves looking at the docile shots of the airplane safety passengers is almost too much to ponder.

The first day of the trip was similar and I suppose it is fitting that the end of the trip was more of the spectacular same.

I think the most difficult part of coming home was saying goodbye to Maguerite, Pat Joe and Kate, our amazing hosts. I can't say enough about their hospitality and generousity, particularly in their own tenous situation of possibly moving to another flat. Their kindness never faltered--even when I told them I didn't take milk in my tea.

However, I have not seen the last of them. I have just signed up for a Bebo account and have their e-mail accounts. I'm making Wednesdays my Irish writing days, so they will get a letter every week, whether they want one or not. I've also invited them to visit me in New York to keep the travel love flowing.

Saying goodbye to Ireland was difficult. I don't usually have the presence of mind to do this, but the moment my foot left Irish soil at the airport, I marked it. Tears filled my eyes unbidden when I saw the green of Ireland vanish in a white screen of clouds. I think that was the best way to have it, though. The pain of watching the fields slink away would have been even worse.

The flights were rather uneventful, but U.S. Customs was an experience. I hesitate to write much on this subject because of the tight security, but we went through some extra stuff because we visited Mags' farm.

In any case, we made it back into America without any international incident, so all was well.

After being deposited at home, I thought I would have crashed, but I was elated to see my family again. The entirety of my luggage was spilled out on the kitchen floor, and I handed out gifts: chocolate, wool and nearly every kind of tourist trap item out there--except glass and pottery.

Something trite is bound to follow, but this trip has changed me. I made it another country. New friends who have been beaten with a hammer, new places with interesting details that I won't talk about in this blog. I guess it all comes down to one thing. There are times in your life when you question your ability to live up to your dreams. And when you suddenly see "traveling to another country" crossed off your mental list in an Irish grocery store or an abbey or the loving look in a once-stranger's eyes, you can scarcely believe that it is real.

I've actually pinched myself--okay, so that was trite.

After the gifts were disbursed and my suitcase lying stagnant once again in my bedroom, I picked through the mail that arrived in my absence. I opened it last. Dreams come in cream envelopes with purple torches on them. It's official. I'm accepted at NYU, and I've the letter to prove it.

So that means that I'll have the Irish visit me sometime soon--a dream within a dream, or maybe a reality I can now believe.

Dublin for dummies--try a tour

I went to jail in Dublin. It was delightful.

The gaol tour was just one of the sights we saw on our "Hop On Hop Off" bus. I really recommend these. I thought it was a really cheesy thing to do at first, but we did get to see everything we wanted.

We visited the National Gallery and I saw my first Vermeer. Oscar Wilde's house was just across the way. Diana visited the Guinness factory and went on the St. Patrick's Cathedral tour by herself, while Athena and I toured the formal gardens outside it and viewed the burial spots of Jonathan Swift, Oscar Wilde and others.

There is a lot to see in Dublin, and we didn't get to do a few of the things we wanted, but it's difficult in a two-day span.

I'll have more on this trip when I return, but Internet access is being shared between the three of us, and I think I have more than used my fair share. Back soon with more details.

more...Ireland

Cows and sheep dotted the Irish countryside yesterday, as it has for centuries, but I was there to see it. We took a trip north to my friend, Maugerite's farm home near Armagh.

Her father raises dairy cattle and sheep on a lovely farm with two houses and several barns filled with bovine companions with sanguine expressions.

Maugerite's sister Clare plays a sport called hurling, also known as something I can't spell, and she gave us a chance to practice in the green, green lawn behind their house.

When we came back inside, we had another two cups of tea (which they say I drink strangely--that is, without milk), and ate a beautiful lunch/dinner of potato bread, bacon, sausage and loads of toast.

The stars in the country are so clear, and arriving in Belfast from the hills is a sight only the airplane ride can rival.

Traveling to Dublin today and tomorrow. Back with more stories and excitement soon.

Irish eyes are smiling

Churches are numerous. Curbs are painted to label political/religious affiliation. Barbed wire is the current safety system. Belfast is beautiful.

My friends and I are staying in a quirky student flat near Queens University with three bedrooms, a bath that never seems to dry, and a lovely kitchen/living room combination of neutral colors.

Yesterday we visited Carrickfergus Castle. A fishing port is located beside it, and a beautiful view of the sea is everywhere.

I've seen where Titanic was built. I've passed through parts of town that are still bombed out and gated. The political tour was a real, yet entertaining view of the city. In the cold rain and wind, however, the guide's wry sense of humor was often lost on the breeze.

On the first day of the trip, we raced through the Newark airport and were not surprised when our luggage was not as fleet of foot as we were. We were allotted $50 by the airport to buy essentials in the mean time. We bought pretty European clothes at a shop called Primark in town for the night, but the next day, however, our luggage thankfully arrived.

Today we're headed out into Belfast city center, but Tuesday we're headed to our friends' farm homes and Wednesday to Dublin.

Though I've traveled before, jet lag hasn't been this daunting. I'm coming around, though.

The Irish accents are delightful. I was most excited about this aspect of the trip, I think. Listening to people talk on their cell phones has never been so interesting before. "Grand" and "class" may join "arse" in my arsenal of favorite words. A smile is always on my lips when they open theirs.

Cheers!

Catching Ireland air with these new wings

If any trip were a pilgrimage, it would have to be this one. And I haven't even boarded a plane!

Ireland was an idea. Two friends invited me to visit our Irish pals who attended Seton Hill on their stomping ground. It quickly turned into passport paperwork, interactions with Orbitz, and now, two gargantuan suitcases that do not permit access to my bureau.

I'm leaving on Friday. I'll try to blog if I can, but expect loads of photos and commentary when I return.

The anticipation is delicious.

Accepted--I'm almost absolutely sure.

When one waits for something in their life for a long time, when it actually happens, amazement and sometimes denial of the fact follows.

Since Thursday, I've been questioning it.

On Thursday evening, my sister's boyfriend answered the phone. I received the message two hours after I came home and he happened to remember. I guess I can be happy for that.

I was accepted at New York University for the fall semester in the News and Documentary Program.

However, after he told me, he started to rescind everything that he said because I was getting so excited about it. He likes to joke, but he shouldn't have. Yes, ladies and gents, he is the villan of this story, but I have forgiven him because after a few minutes of denial of my acceptance, he gave me the e-mail and phone number of the woman I was to contact.

I called the number but received a voicemail. On the NYU Web site, it says do not expect a phone call or an e-mail confirming your acceptance, so I was a bit confused.

The next morning, I called the main Office of Admissions and they confirmed my admittance. However, I was still questioning the entire situation because it was over the phone. I called my contact again and did speak with her. As it turns out, the program tells people that they want to recruit early. I was dumbfounded.

Though I still want an acceptance letter in my hand, I have told everyone now. If I wake up and this is all some cruel dream, I will eventually thank God for letting me have it.

I am still waiting to hear from Syracuse, but there's already a waiting list for the floor in my NYC dorm... :-D

Falls=Numerous: Skiing

My feet were invisible, tingling stumps. All I saw were my new feet, about four feet in length and smooth as liquid steel. I didn't do my new feet justice. They were so professional-looking, and I put them to shame time and time again in snow drift after snow drift. I almost fell off the mountain twice.

I went skiing yesterday. I went down three times--the mountain, I mean, not the individual falls, which on the report (but I'll get to that later) I label "numerous".

I drove. Athena and Diana were my beloved companions in my car that smelled of gas. I am leaking gas from somewhere beneath my auto extrodinaire I've named Bertha.

It was a too-good conversation piece as we drove up to Seven Springs. Asphyxiation was setting in, and I think talking about tar bubbles or corn would have had the same effect: laughs.

After we parked Seton Hill style, which means making one's own spot, we were greated by a wonderful mix of mountain air and SUV exhaust.

When we finally got suited up after approximately two hours of waiting (and I'm not complaining, I'm really not), we hopped on the ski lift. I think this segment of the trip was the best. Except for when I had to get off, taking the skiing advice I got on the way up the chair lift.

I fell. Each time I got off the chair lift, I fell. I guess it was my thing. I knew how to take my skis off and put them back on flawlessly by the end of the night.

However, the first time, when the ski lift operator said for me to move out of the way in the most ambiguous language possible, I didn't know what to do or how to get up. Joy. So I took them off, carried my skis like a beautiful baby and almost cried when I stared into the mountain's face.

The first "run", as the pros call it, was a brush with death, and I'm not exaggerating.

We mistakenly took the Children's Stunt Path called Arctic Blast. I caught a glimpse of the sign and didn't see the word "stunt" in the title. Oh my holy ghost.

The little tunnel should have tipped me off. Tunnels shouldn't exist on bunny slopes. What cruel labeling. I thought Arctic Blast was just some happy title for the kiddies to get excited over, but it really was an arctic tundra of ice, stunts and would-be death. Now, looking back, I see that trail as it would be if children actually skied it. Only their legs would stick out of the snow, a line of them on the perimeter of the slope, kicking, kicking and then not moving at all.

But it did go down that path. I tried to steer clear of the tunnel, and then my skis crossed and stuck together. There I was, sprawled for the first time on my back, looking up at the big gray sky, so happy to be breathing. Sonny Bono kept racing through my mind.

With the help of my pals, I stood upright once more. Then I went off the edge of the world. Quite a stunt, eh? After crawling up an incline of about 45 degrees in skis, I wanted to slide down on my arse and just be done with it, but I didn't. With much cajoling from my friends, I got back up again. Again. Again.

I get more and more like Bridget every day.

On my third run, I hit a bunny slope curve too fast and went down. What a surprise. However, this time I turned my knee a la contortionist. Thankfully, I was almost down the hill. I don't care to share the last leg of my journey, except for one thought: "People actually have fun doing this?"

I've gone ice skating. I've fished in cold temperatures. I gone snow tubing. Even when I fall on ice or catch nothing or end up in a snow drift with my tube over my head, I still have a degree of fun in the process.

I enjoyed the time with my friends. Since they are in school and I'm writing, I don't get to see them very much. They supported me when I fell, and it wasn't figurative.

On that last run, however, they weren't there, but they found me. First-Aid followed. Thank you, Andy, wherever you are. The ice was lovely. As for the insurance form, yes, I am a beginner. Yes, I did learn to ski just today, and no, my falls were not one or two, but rather numerous-- frequent and body-shattering. No, I can't write that in? Okay.

I do not care to look at my legs today, and my arms hurt when I straighten them. I look like a battered wife, a mountain climber and a professional base jumper--not a skier. I think I'll stick to my 80-degree pool with water flowing over my skin, not into it at 30 mph.

Sounding off

The pastor paused for dramatic emphasis after telling a sad story he'd heard in the news. The world was depraved. We knew it, but he wanted the congregation to let it sink into their groggy Sunday heads.

And then we heard it. The pause was tentative, just long enough for that sound to permeate the entire crowd.

Flatulence.

Who did it? We all knew the general vacinity and swiveled our heads accordingly. Maybe it was the elderly lady in the fifth row from the back. Maybe one of the young guys in the back. Maybe we'll never know.

Nevertheless, it was the most memorable part of the sermon--and for that matter--church. You hate to say that, but it was true.

I will admit, I couldn't stop laughing. It felt like heresy. The entire congregation seemed to shake the pews with their witheld laughter. Red faces, tears streaming down faces.

Then, once again, slowly, and with many reprisals of laughter, we turned to the sermon on self-control.