You Are Here: The Museum and the Zoo

Since I started feeling better, somewhere around the beginning of December, I've been plagued by these ridiculous daydreams. 

And by that I mean that I've been perpetuating these ridiculous daydreams. They mostly involve my job situation, but not always... I imagine myself as an intern at the art theater downtown (I don't think they even have those, but this is daydream logic, so bear with me), I imagine myself writing scripts, I imagine myself in plays, I imagine myself going back to JBU in January. 

My psychiatrist says that daydreams are the sign of an active mind. 

I think they're a brand of masochism. 

My friend Katie texted me about a week ago. "Hey Meredith, do you want to hang out over break? I'd love to see you!"

All this Christmas break hanging out with high school friends who are doing well in college is... humiliating? Infuriating? Making me want to get up, run around, scream, throw things?

But Katie. Katie is a friend from school. All of it. We go all the way back to Kindergarten. Our moms both worked at the school, so we were in with the other staff kids. Think Little Rascals with school uniforms. Like, plaid jumpers. 

Life Rule #345: don't say no to your plaid jumper friends. 

I decided that we should go to the local art museum (The Colorado Springs Fine Arts Center). I drove.

"Meredith, how are you doing? I feel like we haven't seen eachother in forever!"

"Well, I'm taking a gap year, living with my parents, working..."

"Really, why?"

(This is the part of the conversation where my counselor has encouraged me to say "Health reasons. How are you doing?")

"Well, I was diagnosed bipolar this summer. I thought I could take it, just throw some pills at it, you know, but I had this crazy manic episode at the beginning of September. I was psychotic. I spent ten days in the mental hospital... I tried to do school after that, but it just didn't work, so I came home."

"Wow. I'm so sorry." 

We exited the neighborhood at this point. 

She told me about her boyfriend, her twin sister's boyfriend, her sorority, her work on the event planning committee, what it's like to drive in Chicago, the terrible weather. 

We arrived at the museum an hour and a half before it closed. Katie paid for my entrance fee. 

The featured exhibit was carnival-inspired art (with distinct feminist undertones) by Pamela Joseph. I neglected to read her bio. 

We entered the gallery. Color and craziness, freaky and fascinating. There was a paper-mache she-man cat that was lifting a leopard, a "museum of torture," a wheel of fortune that had pieces of a baby doll decorating the middle. 

"This is weird. I feel like I could do some of this stuff... I want to get paid for throwing a bunch of random things together and calling it art."

"Hey, don't dog on modern art." 

"Alien Fortune Teller" was an interactive piece. My favorite fortune teller is in the Penny Arcade in Manitou Springs, but the alien twist... nice job, Pamela.

"You are the master of your fate. Your future is cloudy, but you hold the power of decision. You will experience great success in your next endeavor."

Well, thank you, Alien Fortune Teller. 

The exhibit repeated most, if not all, of its images in varying forms. She-man cat had a whole wall of sketches and a painted mesh banner. 

We slipped in and out of Pamela Joseph's wild daydreams. 

"So. Have you watched the 50th anniversary episode of Doctor Who?" 

After I dropped Katie off at her house, I drove back downtown to go to the Electric Safari at the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo. The Electric Safari is another annual CoSprings deal. Basically, droves of people come to walk around the zoo in the dark (and the cold) for half price admission. Also included, light displays. Some people bring their babies. Sometimes I think I'm going to be a very lazy parent.

It's also an annual old-guard church group event. I've known most of these people since I was a youth group rookie in fifth grade. 

"My favorite places I went with YWAM (Youth With A Mission) were probably England, Ireland, Italy, and South Africa."

"I started my own film business. It's called Twelve Stones. I record the activities of different ministries around the world. God's doing amazing things, and people need to hear about them." 

I stared at the light displays. A pink elephant shaking a tree, two bighorn sheep crashing into eachother.

At one point David, who is now a pole vaulter at the University of Nebraska Kearney, sat on a metal elephant head and sang to the crowds.

"Prince A-LI, marvelous he, Ali-a-BWA-BWA..." 

This happened about four times. 

My favorite exhibit, probably because it was inside, was the reptile house. The reptiles were in glass cages with colored sand and various pieces of pottery. 

I leaned close to one of the snake cages. The snake wound its body around the decorative branch. There was a beautiful contrast: the red scales and the yellow sand. And I let the daydreams descend in force. 

A theater, a manuscript, my hand held tightly.

The lengthy conversation that will never happen. That monologue I've practiced a hundred times in my bathroom mirror. 

What I would have done, who I could have been, what I should have known. 

"Sleepy?" 

In a way. 

"Yeah, I'm just tired."

Someone Had to Know

My friend Liz got me a cigarette case for Christmas.

On the front it says, "It's exhausting being so fabulous."

Merry Christmas!

You Are Here: The Glen

If anyone reading this can see random links in the blog entries, I'm sorry, I didn't do that, I don't know what they do, probably best not to click them.

Ok. 

In the absence of something really interesting and secretive and Colorado-Springs-y to do with my friend Morgan, I took her to Glen Eyrie. 

I could tell you that Glen Eyrie is a castle owned by the Navigators, or I could tell you that I've slept through my last two Glen Eyrie volunteer shifts.

For a few weeks, I had been picking up shifts as a housekeeper or a coat-check at the castle. But everyone else was getting paid for the work that I was doing, and I ... well, wasn't. And apparently the goodness of my heart would just not wake up last Friday or Monday.

At the same time, the hiking trails around the Glen are only accessible to staff, conference guests, and volunteers.

Also, you can hike in Colorado in December. It was 45 degrees out. 

"Mom, where is my volunteer pass to Glen Eyrie? You were the last one in the PT Cruiser... Mom, you did not put it in the photo album pile!"

After securing my pass, Morgan and I climbed in her jeep and drove towards the castle. 

Morgan is a camp friend. We met at staff training week when we were both 15. I distinctly remember grabbing her arm during some team building exercise when we were supposed to find partners. I saw this as an unspoken agreement that we would be the best of camp friends. She just remembers it as a little weird. 

Regardless, we are very good camp friends. 

She wanted to see the castle before we went hiking. 

"Ooh, can we get a picture with it?" 

I saw a team of housekeepers approaching the castle in a golf cart. 

"Uh, yes. Yes, just park over there." What were they going to do? Stop my next check?

We posed in front of her camera, which she set on a timer. There was, of course, no encounter with the housekeepers. 

"Yep, Morgs, this is Glen Eyrie... it was built by General Palmer in the late 1800s, but his wife didn't like it and moved to California." 

(I looked this up in my volunteer packet later: General Palmer's wife, Mary Lincoln Mellen Palmer, had a heart condition and was advised to move to a lower elevation. She eventually died in England. Woops.)

"Huh."

"And then the Navigators bought it in 1975 (1953), and they've been using it ever since." 

We found the trailhead with little difficulty. We parked and surveyed the map, but it did little good. We took a left instead of a right and wound up in a construction site. After wandering across a field of shrubs, we found the trail again. We hiked our way up to the top of Echo Canyon, taking the obligatory Facebook shots along the way.

"Look, I'm rock climbing!" "Take a picture of me on this bench" "Look at this rock!"

"Wow."

"That's all that Ivy would say. Remember that?"

Ivy is another camp friend. We spent the summer of 2012 with Ivy at Camp Elim. Ivy and Morgan would stay at my house on weekends before we headed back to Woodland Park for another week of camp. Ivy is from Tennessee, so the Colorado-ness of everything often reduced her to "Wow"s.

"Remember Pikes Peak?"

Morgan and I convinced Ivy to climb Pikes Peak with us after Ivy had done a week of Trail Camp. We remember this story differently. I think it was Morgan's bad idea. Two miles up Barr Trail, Morgan pointed at the summit of Pikes Peak in the distance. "Look, Ivy, that's where we're going!"

The summit must have appeared too far away, because we both turned around and saw Ivy crying on the ground.

This is funny now...

She was determined, and we made it to the top. Fortunately, a friend drove us back down (Another lil piece of Colorado trivia - Pikes Peak is one of the only 14,000 ft. mountains in Colorado that has a road all the way to the top - there's an annual road race on it).

At the top of Echo Canyon, we wandered around, not saying much to eachother.

There was an overlook of the city. My city.

And I felt impossibly bored and desperate.

I stood on a rock, lifted my arms, closed my eyes. I remembered the stretching and soaring of mania like an old friend.

One-hundred possibilities and plans, abilities and thrills, interests and ideas. A world that spreads and stretches and moves with you and from you, for you and for everyone.

All gone.

And I was reminded, once again, that it's never about location. These things we carry with us.

Bored here, bored anywhere. Alive here, alive anywhere.

"Meredith, what are you doing?"

I stepped off the rock silently.

"We need to hike back down to meet Amy for coffee."

The rocks angled upward in Echo Canyon. Hope is a sort of desperation, too.

And I have hope. Hope that there's adventure here. Hope that I'll go looking for it.  

You Are Here

I'm overdue for a new blog series.

So, here we are. And I am here.

I'm going to be in Colorado for a while - a long while. And it's time to stop sitting in my house. That's not helping anyone.

So I'm going exploring. Interior exploring. It's really symbolic, but that doesn't matter.

First stop: Colorado Springs Visitor Center.

I gave myself a pep talk as I walked up to the brick building. 'Sloan, you're going to have to TALK to people. That's how this kind of stuff happens. Don't just wander around, say something!'

The greeter's name was Olive. I introduced myself.

"One of my friends is coming to the Springs on Saturday, and she's been here before, so I was looking for something, you know, unique to do."

Her ideas included the money museum, an exhibit about Biblical documents, and Cripple Creek.

"Just throw a quarter in one of the slots at Cripple Creek. You might become a millionaire!"

I wasn't exactly encouraged, but I thanked her and took the visitor's guide.

Time to go with route two: the Carnegie Library downtown. They have all of the historical documents and travelogues. None of the materials circulate, no backpacks or pens allowed, and the librarians wear ties. At least, the two male librarians who were working the desk wore ties.

It's all very official.

After stuffing my backpack in a locker, I wandered around the stacks.

I was looking for a mystery. Somebody's lost grave, or trek across the country, or abandoned house...

Instead, I stumbled across the official proposal for the charter school that I attended from kindergarten to graduation.

I decided to sit with it on the floor for a few minutes. Ask it a few questions.

I flipped it open. The mission statement:

The Classical Academy exists to assist parents
in their mission to develop exemplary young citizens
with superior academic preparation
equipped with analytical thinking skills,
a passion for learning, and virtuous character,
all built upon a solid foundation of knowledge. 

My first impulse was cynical: 'Well, my "solid foundation of knowledge" didn't exactly help while the bottom was dropping out of my life.'

The school didn't prepare me for failure. I didn't prepare me for failure. It's a stupid thing to complain about, but things were too perfect.... all built upon a solid foundation of knowledge.

No, it's not something I can blame on the school. It's not an excuse, but it is a piece of the "why."

I turned back to the task at hand. The proposal included curriculum, so I searched through it for Colorado History. I was curious: I don't know much, but what was I supposed to know about it, anyway? I was supposed to understand colloquialisms like "birthday suit" by grade 5, understand basic animal classification by grade 3, and complete an exercise in orienteering in grade 2. I actually remember that last one - running around on the dirt playground with cheap compasses, hopelessly lost.

Nothing about Colorado History.

What an interesting place to start my Colorado exploration. Ground zero.

I thought about driving up to the high school, sitting on the top of my car and looking at it, making my peace with whatever bitterness or angst I have towards it. Forgiving it. Letting it forgive me.

Then I remembered that the high schoolers would be getting out of finals around the time that I could make it to the school.

I want to explore, yes, but that one has a little too much risk involved. At least right now.

After I went home, I looked through my third grade history journal, positive that we must have covered Colorado History at some point...

We did. Now I know that the state dinosaur is the Stegosaurus. Boom.

Running with Scissors

Let's talk about my job.

I am a group leader for the after school program at Academy Endeavour Elementary. I found the job on Craigslist, and I convinced myself that it was a teacher's assistant position.

Don't trust Craigslist.

Or yourself.

The only question I was asked in my interview was, "How would you discipline a child?" I can't remember my answer. They had me fill out a tax form and sent me to the school the same afternoon.

I walked into the modular, expecting desks and maps on the wall. There was a table with six chairs, Barbie dolls on the shelf, and a big plastic tub of Hot Wheels in the corner.

My initial impressions of my coworkers were as follows: the man wishes he had a better job. the girl younger than me knows what she's doing, but I probably wouldn't be friends with her. The older woman has a wide-eyed, clueless look.

The kids' age range spans from 4 to 11.

Within the first few days, I'm wordlessly assigned the post of "Craft Girl." The others insist that they aren't crafty.

Clothespin Turkeys. Pumpkin Play Dough. Christmas Chains. Handprint Rudolphs. Paper Poinsettias.

3 hours seems like a long time.

But.

"Miss Meredith!!"

Friendship with the fifth grade girls.

Steadily built rapport with the coworkers.

Yarn club.

Hugs from first-grade John.

"We love you here. I've been talking you up at headquarters."

And when the answer to Hangman is "We love Miss Meredith" ...

Maybe I don't want to leave.

Tuesday

7:51 - woken up by brother
8:00 - woken up by alarm
8:05 - snooze
8:10 - snooze
8:15 - snooze
8:20 - snooze
8:25 - snooze
8:30 - YouTube
10:34 - get dressed for climbing
10:46 - pick up Rachel
11:03 - wait outside climbing center so we're not the first ones in.
11:06 - be the first ones in anyway
11:13 - fall off wall
11:14 - fall off wall again
11:15 - pick a new problem
11:26 - more falling
11:32 - stranger asks us to film him climbing
11:33 - consent
11:45 - more falling
11:56 - close but no cigar
12:15 - give up and go for lunch
12:34 - ask Rachel to "Tell me all your secrets."
12:44 - success
1:01 - drop Rachel off at UCCS
1:16 - try to write something, anything
1:44 - this is not a sonnet
2:00 - leave for work
2:09 - "I CAME IN LIKE A WRECKING BALL..."
2:24 - sit outside work in the car
2:27 - text
2:28 - walk into work
2:36 - start cutting paper for paper chains
3:17 - fail to open can using a can opener in front of 17 small children
3:19 - use other side of can opener, experience relief
3:27 - help with homework
3:45 - paper chains
3:58 - despairing look at clock
4:06 - paper chains
5:00 - clean up
5:18 - aimless wandering
5:25 - leave work
5:39 - "EVERYTHING THAT KILLS ME MAKES ME FEEL ALIVE..."
5:56 - UCCS paperwork
6:05 - dinner with family
6:19 - meltdown
6:46 - beginning of Take Shelter
7:04 - summoned upstairs for tree decorating
7:06 - meltdown
7:35 - discover tiny wooden Christmas trees, paint them
8:00 - more Take Shelter
8:37 - pie
10:00 - finish Take Shelter, mind blows up
10:01 - texting
10:34 - try to write something, anything
11:37 - Seraquel, 50 mg, Lithium, 900 mg
11:48 - down for the count

Seroquel Dreams

There are things that you

aren't supposed to talk about.

Like the pills that you're 

taking. It's not table conversation.

But it's what I have

to say. When someone asks

"How are you?" I either

bite my teeth into a 

grin and give the standard

"Good. And you?" or I 

launch into a monologue about

lithium or klonopin or my 

seroquel dreams. Don't lower the

lithium until you've been stable

for months. You can stand

the tremor until then. Careful 

with klonopin, or it'll be 

next Tuesday before we see 

you awake. And 

seroquel. 25 mg flattens most people 

         the first time.

   And a few recommendations: don't

go see a midnight showing of Catching Fire 

        and then take some,

  because the seroquel dreams

have a field day

       with movies, especially in theaters,

and just might take you 

     back there. But it's different,

because they're in your 

                  own head

with your memories

    and they fold them into

               any pattern they want to. 

I'm lucky enough to have

friends who enjoy these little

talks, who laugh and ask

"Have you ever tried ... " and 

give me a story of 

their own prescription drug use. 

And my hands shake, and 

I wake up at 4 

to get water, and I 

dream seroquel's brand of unreality.

But so do these friends. 

And we talk about drugs. 

And psychiatrists, and family history,

and there's humor in it

I wouldn't have seen by

myself. 

It's a side effect not listed on the bottles. 

     

Um.

I came home from college in the middle of a semester and I don't know what I'm doing and blogging about it seemed like a good coping mechanism.

As in, came home. Permanently. Actually, I have to go pick up my stuff tomorrow, which is probably going to be some kind of tear fest.

I will live at home for the rest of this semester.

That has not settled in yet.

But here's a brief version of the story: I am bipolar manic-depressive. Manic-depressive is like this:

MANIC: EVERYONE LOVES ME LET'S LIGHT EVERYTHING ON FIRE.
Depressive: What have I done? Everyone hates me.

That's the problem with lighting everything on fire. It burns. And turns into ashes. At least, it does in your brain. And sometimes in the real world, too.

Depressive follows manic. I made two mistakes here. 1. I thought my depression wouldn't be that bad (wrong) and 2. I didn't stick to a strict regimen of therapy (exercise, activity, positive self-talk, pills, counseling). Kind of like a diabetic chucking the insulin pump out the window. (I actually was taking my pills, but medication takes a while to "take" and it's also only about 1/3 of the "treatment"). Regardless. Unhealthy human being. And too proud to admit she couldn't take care of herself.

I don't want to take care of myself. I don't want there to be anything "wrong" with me. And I want to be MANIC all of the time.

So.

Welcome home.

Pretending to be an Introvert

So, I drove myself to school this year.

Typically, I can wrangle a couple people to go with me (or my mom can wrangle a couple people to go with me).

But this time, it was just me, the Silver Bullet, and the Open Road. Which all sounds great, until you realize that the Open Road is 1-70, and Kansas is... well, corny. Actually, I've been told that all of the corn grows in Nebraska. Kansas is like... wheat and stuff.

I drove, I listened to Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Google just spell-checked "Azkaban," and I went back to see what I had spelled wrong).

Turns out, Sirius had given Harry the Firebolt... THE WHOLE TIME.

Sorry.

Open Road.

A hotel room all by my lonesome... not as creepy as it sounds.

I don't think I could have done that four months ago.

QFinal: 4&7vi

The last time I nannied for 4&7, 7 locked me out of the house.

I ask him to go inside and open the garage door so we could put our bikes away. I grab the other sports equipment from the car and head toward the garage. No movement of any kind.

I drop the stuff I'm carrying and go around to the back. Door locked. I move toward the door on the other side of the patio. 7 stares at me through the glass, waggles his tongue, and draws the blinds. I don't need to check the knob to know that it's locked, but I do anyway.

Dignity is important. But not important enough to sit outside until their dad comes home.

I squeeze through the dog door at the back of the house, finding a startled 7 in the back room. He has made a grave error in his calculations.

"7," I say, with as measured a voice as I can manage.

He runs. I follow him.

"7, go to your room right now."

"NO!"

"NOW."

As he slams his door, I realize that I have disobeyed the cardinal rule of discipline: I didn't tell him why he's in his room. I mean, he probably knows, but I didn't say anything... from 7's perspective, he's probably in there because I came straight out of hell to ruin his summer.

And if he actually thinks that, the cardinal rule of discipline wouldn't have done anything.

Well shit.

Seven minutes later, I give 7 a lecture and tell him to go make himself lunch. They don't like to eat the food I make... to quote 7 from a few weeks ago, "You are really bad at making food in the microwave."

And while 4 is eating enough blueberries to give himself diarrhea, and 7 is sulking his way through a plate of chicken nuggets, we hear the first clap of thunder.

The storm escalates into something impressive - my lightning phobia kicks in and I tell them we're going to a room with smaller windows. They pick 7's room. Before he walks in, he grabs the case of Curious George books.

"Read to us."

So I read to those boys during a thunderstorm. Curious George follows ducks, gets sprayed by a skunk, goes to the zoo, plays in the snow, and in general causes petty chaos.

Everything works out for George.

And everything works out for us, too. I wouldn't call it "happily ever after," but it certainly works out.

It's good and bad all mixed in together. All of it. Everything is.

One time I was binge-ing my way around the internet, and I found a Jennifer Lawrence interview about the movie Silver Linings Playbook. She said something to the effect of: "I like dark comedies more than any other kind of movie, because they're the most like real life. It's not like you never laugh when something bad is happening to you - and the other way round, too."

I typically choose to see things as wonderful or terrible. I typically choose to categorize things so I can deem them wonderful or terrible.

But those choices exile me from an experience that is wonderful-terrible-spiraling-color-all-mixed-up-you-couldn't-have-predicted-this-but-isn't-it-both-miserable-and-lovely-and-neither-of-those-all-at-once.

Here's to changing the way you see the world.

Here's to choice. Here's to grace. Here's to summer.

Q19: Notes From Therapy

"Cinderella didn't need a prince! She needed a damn good lawyer. The house was hers in the first place."

Q18: The Art of Taking It Personally

Start with a basically neutral comment, question, or situation. Decide that it must be about you, and then rephrase everything into the negative. The more negative you can be, the better. Try to think of the worst possible way to interpret what happened. If you're having trouble with this, ruminate! As it reviews the event, your brain will actually CHANGE the memory to help you remember it in different, increasingly negative ways. Repeat the rumination process several times.

By this time, you should be at least disgruntled, and hopefully starting to feel the pangs of self pity. It is time to generalize these feelings to other areas of your life. It's basic multiplication - say you're feeling about -5 on the negativity scale (scale of -1 [aw, nuts] to -10 [apocalypse now]). If you can feel this way about 7 different areas of your life, you will have achieved a negativity score of -35. Do the math, and now the apocalypse is happening 3 1/2 times. This magnitude of negativity takes practice, but if you have very little faith in yourself, you should be just fine.

As the negativity spreads, you might feel the urge to do something about your situation. Under no circumstances should you talk to someone about the way that you feel. If you do fall into this trap, however, there's an easy way out. As you're talking to them, notice how they don't actually understand how you feel - how could they? Try to think about the ways that they have it easier than you do. If you can get yourself to this point, it will be easy to explode at them for even a gentle disagreement or difference in opinion.

Also to be avoided: gratitude lists, activities that you enjoy, daily responsibilities, friends, writing, and tears.

Bitterness is a paralytic, so it should be easy enough to manage the above list if you are pitying yourself to the proper extent.

By this point, you should be snipping at the people who love you (but really, does anyone love you? And if they do, they wouldn't love you if they actually knew who you were), feeling a tightness in your chest and throat, crippling at anything that reminds you that other people get to be happy, clenching your teeth, and burying yourself in your basement for an afternoon of your most dismal Pandora station.

If that doesn't do it for you, you could always toss a childish cry for help out on the internet. Typically, your friends don't take your shit, but thinking about the ways that you try to make them do just that will send you into another expertly-crafted negative spiral.

Q17: Blank

Grace is an every damn day kind of thing.

It screws with my golden plateau theory. That one day, I'll figure out God, and relationships, and meaning, and life, and happiness, and everything will look like it popped out of a catalog.

Well, not one of the tacky ones.

But still.

Catalog.

I get to choose between realities. I do.

I can choose grace and God and the whole "my identity IS God" thing.

I can choose bitterness and competition and "I am what I do, and so is everybody else (except I don't actually know what they do so they are what I think they do). And GOOD THING I've got this catalog that shows me all of the things that I could have if circumstances aligned for me... and also, WHY AM I NOT LOVED?"

I can choose shame and death and "you will never, ever, ever, ever be able to fix this."

And a thousand others.

And I get to choose.

Q16: 4&7v

You know what's better for children than an iPad? 

A FREAKING SANDBOX. 

Because a sandbox can be a monster truck rally, and a noodle factory, and a field of crops (or "trops," whatever works for you), a mountain building contest... in other words, an interacting, creating, sharing, learning BONANZA that requires you to be outside.

So, 7 peed in the sandbox today. 

And I'm all, "7, go to your room. Your mom said before she left, NO WATER IN THE SANDBOX." 

7: "But it's not WATER, it's - "

"NO WATER OF ANY KIND. Room. Now."

So, after the seven minute punishment, I ask him, "7, why did you have to go to your room?"

7: "Because I peed in the sandbox."

Me: "Did you think it was funny?"

7: (smirks) "It was funny."

Me: (trying not to smirk) "Maybe. But that doesn't mean you were supposed to do it. What did your mom say before she left?"

7: "No water in the sandbox." 

Me: "And..."

7: "Fine, I won't do it again." (runs away)

Later, at the pool, after we're done swimming and they're headed for the men's locker room (yes, they go in there by themselves, I pick my freaking battles, ok, and 7 has told me that changing in the family changing room with a nanny is "illegal." He used the word ILLEGAL. I don't believe him, but he believes him, and I'm not dealing with it.)

Me: "Hey 7? Take care of your brother, ok?"

7: "I always take care of 4."

4: "And I always take tare of him!!!" 

Good stories have memorable scenes. And today felt like a better story. 

Q15: The Silver Bullet

So, I had big news. Real big news. I was going to be like,

"I GOT 99 PROBLEMS BUT A SQUEAKY LEFT TURN AIN'T ONE!!!!"

And I wanted to say that so bad I just went ahead and did it. But now I have to explain myself.

Today, my inherited (mom's side grandma) red PT Cruiser (dubbed "The Silver Bullet")  went in for repairs for the second day in a row.

It's been squeaking on left hand turns for about a year now, and I was ready for it to stop. Yesterday, the repair people said something about a special lug nut wrench that they didn't have and that we might have to dig through a junkyard to find.

But I knew my Granny wasn't the kind of person that would hide the magic lug nut. So, last night, I dug through the glove compartment, found it in an envelope (return addressed to somewhere in California), and told my parents that The Silver Bullet was headed back to Best West Tires.

I was stoked. I was really excited about the object lesson. "The fix it needed was inside it all along!"

This afternoon, I skipped up to the counter and said "thank you!" to the repair guy as he handed me my keys. Turns out, there was just a lot of dust in the brakes. We were home free with object lesson in tow. But as I drove it home, The Silver Bullet squeaked at me. I tried another left turn, hoping that I had heard another car. Nope. Now, the squeak is higher pitched. So, thanks for that, Best West Tires.

You live with your quirks. How well you live with your quirks is up to you.

I still get my object lesson.

Stupid, good-for-nothing magic lug nuts.

Q14: The Cabin

If I were a house I'd want to be Aunt Theo's Cabin.

Traded in the divorce papers from a rageoholic to an alcoholic,

  then painted like a kaleidoscope in a fit of redemption.

Crammed with color and quirky and crazy,

   with a thousand books,

 and the memories of two kids, four grandkids, and three broken marriages.

All the secrets of seventy years.

It sounds like bossing and cooking and a wood fire burning.

    In the morning, it's quiet, but only long enough for you to catch your breath. 

It doesn't give a damn about your approval but will stretch to its seams for your comfort. 

"How are you?" it says. "And you better be telling me the truth." 

Q13: A Quote

"Is it true that King David in ancient Israel
     really wrote such sad-happy doubtful-hopeful
     back-and-forth maybe-someday
     no-not-maybe
     these-are-promises absolutely-definitely
     but-we-have-to-wait
     songs?"

Margarita Engle, The Poet Slave of Cuba 

Q12: 4&7iv

I beat the crap out of 4 and 7 in Tic-Tac-Toe.

We play on those big plastic boards at the playground.

4: "I'm the boss of O's!!!!"

7, I will destroy you every time. Even when it's the eighth game, and it's worth all the numbers in the world of money, and it's the championship of the championship of the championship. Because it's the only way that you're going to learn how to play. (Also, if both of you are going to enact your fantasies of getting rid of me by calling me "Big Bowser" and throwing "Hot Lava Power" at me, Tic-Tac-Toe is all mine.)

I'll beat you, and beat you, and beat you, and then one day, you will realize that there is a reason why I always put my first X in the middle. And you will have learned, fairly and from experience, how to win Tic-Tac-Toe.

Because beating your head against something confusing has some value. You realize you're doing something wrong. And you ask for help.

And somebody helps you realize that your personality, your genetics, and your practiced negative thought patterns have lined up. Tic-Tac-Toe, three in a row.

But you can do something about it. You can take a deep breath and put your first O in the middle. You can stop running up to the board, flipping everything around to X's, and deciding that the whole world is against you.

Because, apparently, if you make up the bad things you still have some control over them.

But that's not how the game works.

I'm learning to play it a new way. My O's include talk therapy. And burned CDs labeled "Session #1." And corny, corny Christian music. And an app called "Relax (Free) with Andrew Johnson" (Andrew Johnson is Scottish. He says things like, "Let your feet become a li-tahl he-vi-ah." Sometimes I wish it was like , "Hello, my name is David Tennant. Take a deep breath." But then I probably wouldn't be able to relax, so Andrew Johnson it is). And something psycho called "heart breathing" which basically means "take deep breaths while focusing on a strong, positive memory." So, it's a Patronus charm.

And I'm still winding up in the corner of the closet, or the shower, or under the blankets, silent screaming about how life is not fair and how everyone wishes they didn't have to deal with me.

The Patronus doesn't work every time. I guess I just need more practice.

The biggest piece of it is grace. Understanding that Jesus, and my parents, and my friends can love me while I'm sobbing on the playground grate. They don't see me that way. And because of that, I'm learning not to see me that way either.

Q11: Popcorn and Theology

"I used to say things like, 'Are you producing fruit?' I was all, 'Where the hell are the bananas?' And now I know that I didn't know what I was talking about."

And we get there late and there are only four of us and there's popcorn and Gabby reads the Bible to us and asks us what we think.

And we swear and we talk about our jobs and how nervous we are. We toss around our theology. We toss around our identity. We toss around our problems.

"I think I've been depressed for the past two years."

"My life is a total shitshow. This is the hardest thing that has ever happened to me."

"My boyfriend and I have never had sex. We almost did once. It was the worst day of my life."

"My counselor handed me this list of anxiety traits, and I have every single one. I'm embarrassed."

And then we laugh and we pray about it.

Q10: 4&7iii

7: "That doesn't mean the next one will be bad!"

Background - I've been with just 7 for the past three mornings. Monday: real golf, Tuesday: mini golf, Wednesday: we're-only-doing-things-that-are-free-don't-ask-again-olf. 7 loves golf. He is not patient, so it's more like speed golf. And he wants to re-try the shots that he doesn't like. So, teachable moment, right?

Me [during the nine holes of real golf (he played, I walked) and the 36 holes of mini golf (he beat me 100 to 101)]: "7, just because that shot was bad doesn't mean the next one will be."

And today, he generalizes the concept! BOOM! I can't even remember what the new context was, but he moved it from mini golf to whatever we're doing when he says that.

I feel like a teacher, and I feel like I'm wise.

What is it like to be seven? Well, also to be 7, but what is it like to be seven?

There are so many questions. Things hurt really bad sometimes. Friends hurt. Parents hurt. Movement is necessary. Boredom is terrible.

So, being seven is like being anyone.

I asked 7 what it was going to be like to be seven (7's birthday is next week. He's actually six. Who knew.)

"I'm gonna get PRESENTS, and I'll do whatever I want, and I'll get to stay home by myself while Dad and 4 are gone..."

So, I immediately take that as an offense. He'd rather be by himself? When we went to the park and played baseball and went to the fountain and splashed and went to the playground and spun in circles?? When he generalized the "that doesn't mean the next one will be bad?"

And then we painted. And he painted a sign that said "BABYSITTER" and had a big black slash through it.

What is it like to be someone's parent?

Everything you have is not enough.

So, being a parent is like being anyone.

Well. This doesn't mean that the next one will be bad.

Not that this one was bad. But it kind of was. Maybe I just need to steel myself against the comments (and artwork) from people under ten. Or all people. Gah.

Here's 7's painting:

Q9: 4&7ii

"That's the stupidest park there is. I don't want to go to that stupid, stupid, stupid park. It's a stupid park."

4 has a favorite word.

"Guys. Get your swimsuits on, get your shoes on, we're going to the park to play in the fountain. Now."

10 minutes of naked dancing, timeout (four minutes), and whining later, we are IN the car, IN carseats, and we even have towels. And we are driving. Success.

7: "Who invented roads? Did the Indians invent the roads?"
Me: (Thinks. Decides to try her best) "People came from all over the world while the Indians were already living here. The people already knew how to build roads, so they built roads in the new place."
7: "Where did they come from?"
Me: "Have you ever heard of Europe?"
7: "Is that in Asia?"
Me: "Close! It's right next to Asia. Europe is a continent, and there are lots of countries in it. Have you heard of England?"
7: "Yes."
Me: "And Spain?"
7: "I hate people from Spain."
Me: (Decides to let it go) "Well, people from all over the world came to Amer - "
7: "Did they come from Indonesia?"
Me: "Yes. I mean no. I mean, maybe, but I don't think so."
7: "Like, the Indonesian rainforest?"
Me: "Well, they came from lots of places, and they brought lots of things that they already knew how to make that were new to the Indians. Like roads."
7: "It's not very nice to come and take somebody's country and put roads all over it."
Me: "No, it's really not... but we, I mean, people did it."
7: "Roads cause pollution."
4: "THE BEETLE FROM CHINA TAUSES POLLUTION!!!"
(About 4 - the hard "k" sound that c makes is equivalent to a "t" sound. E.g., "What's your favorite tolor? NO, TOLOR. LIKE A TOLOR!! LIKE BLACK OR RED!!!")

I think I'm starting to love my job.

That could change if they ever pull the "let's make a mud pit in the backyard!" again.

Q8: At the end of the day...

You've got stories and prayers. 

Hopefully, the stories are good and you mean the prayers. 

Q7: Procrastination has many different forms...

But this would be one of my favorites...



Netflix, thanks for the memories.

(Yes, Sarah, I did just blog a farewell to your Netflix account... maybe we can get a free month off of one of my credit cards next year...)

Time for some real life adventures.

Q6: 4&7i

I'll just call them 4 and 7, because that's how old they are.

And taking care of them is going to be my source of textbook, study abroad, and food that isn't caf food money.

So, today, while I'm peeling the muddy shirt off of 4, and he's talking to me, "You know, you're stupid. You are really, really stupid. You're stupid. You're stupid. You're stupid."

I'm like, inside my head, "Textbooks. Study abroad. Food that isn't caf food."

And I'm terrified that 4 and 7 are going to tell their dad, "She's the worst ever we hate her we never want her back."

And I'm like, "4, get inside the house. Now. Take a shower, and then we're going to the park."

And he looks at me. 10 yards between us. He takes a deep breath.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO."

Somehow, 4 gets inside the house. He's taking a shower. Good, I can rinse off their muddy clothes with the hose. And I hear screaming.

So I run inside, to find 4 in the shower, "RAIN, RAIN, GO A-WAY, COME A-GAIN A-NOTHER DAAAAAY."

And then we went to the park.

Oh, we went to the park.

On bikes.

Across a busy street.

4: "NO. My dad says that I do NOT have to wear a helmet on short rides."

Me, after a short and fruitless struggle: (Carries helmet while holding onto bike for dear child's life and hopes that the people in the cars aren't judging too harshly)

But you know what? After we spent about 12 minutes at the park, and I taught 4 some of the rules for tic-tac-toe, and it started almost raining,

4 LET ME PUT HIS HELMET ON HIM FOR THE RIDE HOME.

I'm putting this one down in the books as a VICTORY, folks.

Q5: If my life was like a waterpark...

There would be

1. more nakedness
2. more hair forgiveness
3. more patience
4. less texting
5. more tattoo reading
6. worse inner ear equilibrium
7. more screaming
8. more diverse community
9. more sunburn
10. less sitting

Q4: Confetti

I was walking through the parking lot in front of Panera Bread. A small silver car slid into the front row spot that a woman in a black car had been waiting for.

The woman in the black car honked. Well, she put the full force of her body onto her horn for about 7 seconds. She drove directly behind the silver car, parked, got out, and walked over to the window of the silver car.

"I HAD BEEN WAITING FOR THAT SPOT FOR FIVE MINUTES..."

I gave them a wide berth. You just don't interfere with sacred moments like those.

The woman retreated to her car. She reversed. The silver car backed out and drove away. The woman in the black car claimed her spot.

So I can stand in the Panera line and judge her.

Or realize that I am her. And, given the proper life circumstances and mood, I would have done the same thing.

Or I can judge her.

Or both.

Because grace is like confetti and it gets on everybody. If you're the woman in the black car, the silver car, or the woman looking on.

Q3: Great Expectations

My problems is that my expectations are too high.

We're going to the grocery store? Good, because I've always needed to bump into my future husband while selecting the right avocados...

I'm saving my journals. Good thing, too, because after I'm dead and famous, posterity will really appreciate my thoughts as an adolescent. And as a third grader. Maybe it's all secretly brilliant.

I'm still looking for a summer job? Fortunately, the right one will fall into my lap, and I'll love every second of it. It's going to pave the way to my perfect career. Also, I'll probably meet my future husband.

That is, if things with avocado guy don't work out...

I miss out on things that are good because I want them to be the best.

Maybe good is the best. Which doesn't mean I need to settle. But camping out in the real world for a few months wouldn't be such a bad thing.

There's this great part in 500 Days of Summer. The scene is a party, and the screen is split into two sections: one headed "expectations" and the other "reality."

Rewind to May 4.

Expectations: I walk into the Rockrimmon Public Library and ask about open positions. There's an opening, and I'm offered the job on the spot. I spend my summer shelving books, forging relationships with misunderstood preteens, and organizing things like "Teen Read Week." It looks great on my resume. I'm a cornerstone of the little community, and I'm wildly humble. My motley crew of friends - the old men who come in early to read newspapers, the lady who reserves the whole kitchen sink to her designated section of the holds shelf, the twihards, the stuffy librarians, and the many, many moms - are all sad to see me go on August 16.

Reality: I've spent two weeks sick, lazy, and jobless. My family is good, but we're nothing to brag about in the fall. I've watched lots of television. A couple adventures are thrown in there, but it is all somewhat forgettable.

But this is good. No, it's not what I planned, and I feel some sort of loss. Not about the library. Just about being awesome. Being important. Mattering.

Qlog the Second

A Snapshot: 

It was Kari's idea. 

"I've always wanted to go on a pedestrian bridge! You know, one of the ones over the highway in Denver? Can we please?" 

So, we parked illegally and hiked up the stairs. There were four of us, and we were the only ones on the bridge. Somewhere along the way, we all started skipping. Over eight lanes of traffic and an office park. We skipped right up to the doors on the other side, racing to touch them first. Then, winded, we headed back. The world passed under us and we walked in our own direction. 

A Soundbite:

"My big heresy is that I believe that there will be more people in heaven than we ever imagined possible. Because God is that gracious and that good." - Raleigh Gresham, Sunday morning, 5/19

Qlog 1: Summer

I wanted a quiet summer.

After a busy semester, I justified it. A quiet summer. That's exactly what I need. I'm not going to get another summer like this, so...

I just didn't plan anything.

Last Monday, I was settled on the couch with Netflix and a couple library books when panic set in.

I have nothing to do... I have NOTHING to do... nothing to DO...

What am I going to DO???

I applied to be a teacher's aid for summer schools, and a book shelver at the library, and a tutor at this local math center, and a "College Nannies and Tutors" nanny...

Nothing.

I may have to swallow all my pride and check out the Chick-fil-A applications...

I'm going to blog about summer again. Last summer, it was the Clog (Camp Log)... right now, it'll just be the "Log."

OOOh. The "Qlog"... because it's all about how things were going to be "quiet."

And if I SAY they'll be "quiet," they won't be, and I'll have something to do!

Three cheers for trying to jinx my life through the internet...

Anyway...