My life=complete

I had Panda Express today and it was free. My company had them cater our dinner tonight because we are all working overtime to do the company inventory (I worked 13 hours today and will do the same tomorrow). So I am all done with this semester--there is no homework haunting my spare time--and I got to eat FREE Panda Express. To top it all off, my Christmas shopping is all done. If someone told me that season 4 of Arrested Development was about to start production, I would probably die of happiness.

I have officially finished my first semester of grad school. And all I can think about it how badly I want Panda Express.

Oy Gevalt

I know it's strange, but I have a fear of not being able to speak Yiddish. That, snakes, and forgetting to put on pants when I leave in the morning pretty much sum up my greatest fears in life.

The fear isn't simply that I cannot speak Yiddish, but specifically, I fear that I if I were to run into Mel Brooks at, oh say the supermarket or movie theater, I would not be able to speak to him in Yiddish and tell him how amazing I think he is and I would feel like a total shmegege.

That being said, I've decided to pick up trying to learn Yiddish again.

Giving Thanks

I should publicly express gratitude with great frequency and not need to hide behind a holiday as an excuse to do so. But I never said I was perfect.... so in honor of the holiday, I figured I'd share a few things that I am especially grateful for right now. Especially after the last blog entry I wrote. I now feel the need to prove that my life isn't totally awful. In fact, it's pretty dang awesome (minus the boot cast).

So here goes. I am thankful for...

1. First and foremost, my family. My whole entire Big-Fat-Greek-Wedding-times-seven family. They are everywhere I go. Seriously. I mean, I have a HUGE family. These people alone make coming back to the AZ worth it. I had a lot of people I needed to get close to again.

2. Dreyer's seasonal ice creams. Pumpkin rocks, but seriously, I could eat Peppermint ALL DAY. Good thing they are just seasonal or I'd have to buy bigger pants.

3. The Tierra Rica Spanish branch. I started going in addition to my n

ormal single's ward because I felt like I needed to get my spanish solid. Best decision EVER. Suddenly, I have weekly dinner invites, a tummy full of tres leches cake, and invitations for Mexican weddings and Quinceaneras all over my fridge. All that=happiness.

4. My roommate Amy, who brings with her a total of 0% drama. And she's clean. And really funny. And gives me lots of healthy recipe ideas. And she like The Smiths. She's basically the perfect roommate.

5. My friends. I have the most amazing friends ever. That seems like something Paris Hilton would say in an interview with People magazine, and as much as that makes me want to hit the backspace key, I can't. I really have amazing friends. A lot of you guys reading this fall into that category and I hope you know who you are and know how much I love you. If I've ever read you my journal, bawled uncontrollably in your presence and you still speak to me, or flown somewhere to see you or be your bridesmaid, if we ever stayed up really late chatting about life and such, shared a twin bed, camped together, wrestled in water spilled on the kitchen floor, went to the desert to burn a hateful hateful calculus book, or burned anything together (yeah, I'm a bit of a pyro), driven across the ENTIRE country together, or imitated bagpipes while strolling through France, you fall into this category. And if you have (or your mother has) ever cooked for me, you DEFINITELY fall into this category (and so does your momma). Thanks for being there for me guys. Even though you are spread out all over this planet (which is so lame), I am so grateful to have had you in my life. And I really miss you.

6. upcoming vacations

7. lovesacs

8. Arizona winters

9. imeem.com & pandora.com. If you don't know what either is, just go. Right now. Just go and check them out. Trust me.

10. caffeinated crystal light. I may owe a master's degree to you one day...

11. DEEP-FRIED FLAVOR-INJECTED TURKEY. We Thornhills do not mess around with our meat.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

This is my life...

I've avoided updating my blog because I haven't had much in the realms of happy news to report. But hey, if news channels waited for "good" news to air, we'd be stuck watching reruns of Law & Order 24/7 and never getting a daily dose of that silver fox Anderson Cooper that we all (i.e. me) seem to need to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

So here goes. My update:

I got the swine flu. It sucked. It was especially ironic that just the morning before I came down with it, I was musing over the fact that it had been a decade since I'd had the flu. I still went to school to take a final. I had a fever and was shaking while I took it. Before you judge me for infecting everyone, any of you guys paying for your own school would have done exactly the same thing. To add to my list of reasons I hate Wal-Mart, I managed to get in a fender-bender in the Wal-Mart parking lot. I guess there's all sorts of things you should do when you get in an accident...get their insurance information, not admit guilt...I basically did none of these things. Luckily for me, I hit the nicest old couple in this country. When they called to tell me the bill would be over $1000, and I proceeded to cry (in between classes), the husband told me to "just not worry about it" and there was too much good in life to get bogged down by something so trivial. The next day they told me that they told the insurance that they didn't know who hit them and just had me pay the $200 deductible. They said I just had way too much life ahead of me and they didn't want this little thing hanging over my head. I left bran muffins on their doorstep a few days later with a thank you note for being so lovely and the day after that, when I got home from work and class, there was a thank you note that they had dropped off, thanking me for the delicious muffins. These people singlehandedly restored my faith in the general goodness of man. They'd have to be absolute saints to thank me for those muffins.

Rock climbing has been my vehicle for dealing with stress these last several months. With full time grad school and work and attending two wards on Sundays (I attend my singles' ward and a spanish branch and have callings in both), life has been really insane. THe kind of insane that I like, but nonetheless, insane. Rock climbing is what kept me balanced and brought me great joy. That is, until I managed to land wrong when I jumped down from reaching the top of a bouldering route. It began swelling immediately and I couldn't move it or put any weight on it. I iced it and could only lie there until I didn't feel like either vomiting or passing out (which took about 45 minutes). I then drove myself home. The next day I woke up and couldn't put any weight on it. So I went to the doctor and, as fate would have it, I fractured my fibula and had either a bad 2nd degree sprain or a 3rd. In other words, my life was sucking pretty bad at this point.This picture was taken not even 24 hours after the accident. A couple days later, my foot was this gorgeous purple and blue. It also swelled up much larger. I felt like elephant man. I kept wanting to exclaim: "I am not an animal! I am a human being!" (skip to 2:30)

So the doctor stuck me in this equalizer boot that I was going to have to wear until the possibility for me to bear children had passed. My life felt over.

However, after about 2 weeks in the boot and no follow-up doctor visits (screw that, I thought), I decided that my fibula was no longer fractured and my ankle no longer messed up. I stopped wearing the boot. I went to the gym to try and lose some of the 10 lbs I managed to gain in the two weeks of inactivity and subsisting entirely off of Dreyer's peppermint ice cream. I even did some rock climbing. Life was good.

That is until the doctor's office called and said they found more stuff on the x-ray and that I needed to see a podiatrist asap. So I went to a podiatrist who told me that I could either wear the boot for a few more weeks, then wear a brace for three months and do intensive physical therapy--or I could have surgery and a lifetime of issues. The choice was mine to make.

To my discredit, it took 45 minutes of Dr. McKay lecturing me and another 5 hours of weighing out the pros and cons of both sides in my mind before I actually decided to put the boot back on.

After the doctor's lecture, he then proceeded to try and set me up with a former patient.

No joke.

Confused

I'm confused. Since when did the "dia de los muertos" become "dia de los slutty costumes galore?" I mean, really. Ladies and gents. Really.

My facebook newsfeed has been streaming loads of Halloween pictures from people I know--people who any other day of the year appear quite unlike the aspiring porn stars they portray in these photos. I'd say a solid 3/4th of the images I've seen fall into this category. People who would never say "hell" and "damn" dressing as Victoria angels and speedo models. Confusing.

All I can say is that when I have children, I'll be spending October 31st with my hands over their innocent little eyes.

Bag lady

My conversation with a co-worker today:

Me: Geez Chris, I need to find a way to get more sleep. Check out the bags under my eyes.

Chris: What bags?

Me: What do you mean what bags?

Chris: Well, you've got that make-up under your eyes.

Me (getting super confused): What are you talking about? What make-up? Is my mascara running?

Chris: You have all that black under your eyes. All that eye shadow.

Me: Um, Chris, those ARE the bags under my eyes.

Chris: Holy crap. Erin, you need to get some sleep. You look like someone gave you two black eyes. I thought it was makeup.

Me: Chris, why would I use make up to look like a complete mess?

Chris: [silence]

Needless to say, full time work, full time grad school and an internship are all catching up to me.

Bad idea of the day:

Eating bluberry yogurt over 2 months after the expiration date. Bad, bad idea.

A dose of perspective

I spent two hours in the hospital yesterday getting a much better perspective on my life. This happens from time to time. Occasionally, I leave the very small place that is my world and get a better idea of what all this is really about.

While just hours earlier I was distressed about my woeful love life or something else equally trivial, I sat there comforting a mother whose 19-year-old son was in very critical condition--in ICU since a July 10th back surgery from his neck to tailbone--and was now having a violent reaction to too much morphine.

Suddenly, I did not have any problems worth mentioning. As I held my arm around her, praying for both this poor kid and his remarkable mother, but I could not help praying that I would never be sitting in her chair, helplessly watching over my child suffer through years of unspeakable pain.

To all those strong enough to be that mom, I salute you.

Most disturbing thing I've heard in a while

I'm certain that these sort of conversations are not overheard at Neiman Marcus, but until the day that I can afford to even touch a catalog from that store, I will continue to experience such gems as this:

I'm standing in line at the Ross Dress For Less today, cart full of towels, a rug, shower curtain and other miscellaneous home stuff that I've managed to go years without owning thanks to very kind roommates and my knack for mooching. The lady in front of me is trying on the reading glasses that are sitting on the counter, temping the geriatric impulse buyers that seem to saturate my state. 

The woman was there with what must have been her daughter. They both shared either an unawareness of their size when getting dressed in their neon spaghetti straps and acid wash booty shorts or a deep desire to show off the square footage of their ample flesh. Whatever the case, the mother stood trying on reading glasses while the daughter was purchasing more of the aforementioned clothing. The piles on the check out counter suggested she thought a nuclear holocaust was impending and she would be prepared to ride out the storm always dressed and ready for a NASCAR event.   

"These 'uns here must be for people who don't see too good up close," the 40-something woman said removing a pair and grabbing for another brightly-colored pair of glasses. As she put those on she turned to her daughter.

"I can't see past the !$%* hood of my car when I drive, but there's no way in hell I'm gonna pay some crook to get some glasses."

The burly security guard waiting at the entrance a few feet away looked over at me. We exchanged frightened glances. 

I was mind boggled as I tried to decide what was more disturbing: the fact that she was basically driving blind or that she thought that glasses she bought at Ross were going to correct her vision issues. Yikes.

Getting Old

Things I've learned on my latest road trip:

1) Contrary to popular belief, I can actually drive long distance without a red bull. Not pretty, but possible.

2) Arizona is hot. I mean, we all know it's hot, but it's sick crazy hot here. Watching the temperature on my dashboard drop 50 degrees en route from Phoenix to Provo was not comforting considering we are only halfway into June.


3) Delvine Jackson is a husband stealer. There were many more things I learned about the people of Kanab, UT from reading what was written on the bathroom stalls of the local service station. However, while the other things were rather informative, this was the only revelation appropriate to make the list.



4) I can no longer finish an entire order of french toast from Magleby's Fresh, let alone get my money's worth from being all-you-can-eat. Sad sad day.


5) I am getting old. I am no longer a crazy college kid. I like going to bed early. I drink herbal tea and never ever drink soda. I am very concious of my fiber intake, I like NPR and have absolutely no idea why girls are wearing headbands like this:

Kickboxing

A few days ago, I was sitting with my dad and two sisters in a theatre at Gilbert Community College waiting for my mom's voice recital to begin. 

I sat reading Slaughterhouse-Five when suddenly I overheard my sisters conversation which was basically a discussion of the value of punching someone in the throat or the face and which one would cause A) the greatest damage and B) the greatest pain. I put Vonnegut down, turned to my sisters and asked them what in hell's name they were talking about.

"Well," explained Vanessa quite factually, "if you punch someone in the throat it hurts waaayyy more. I mean, haven't you ever wanted to punch someone?"

I sat and thought and realized that, in fact, it was just that morning that I had consciously thought how much I wanted to punch the person right in front of me right in the face.

I hit up the yoga and spin classes regularly at my gym, but have wanted to start going to kickboxing. I had always really liked it before, but since moving back to AZ, I hadn't been able to go very often. In fact, the one time I went, it left me sore and whimpering for days. But, not one to be beat, I attended another kickboxing class last Saturday morning.

I walked in and expected to just do my thing, channel my inner Billy Blanks and call it a day. But the teacher was so unbelievingly irritating, I had to use all my strength to keep myself for just walking out of the class during the warm up. 

She was your typical gym bunny: 70 pounds, massive fake bosoms, super tan skin, long blond streaks, and a high squeaky voice that'll make your toes curl. Now, I am not one to judge. I was fully prepared to like her immensely, but the moment she started screaming "HI-YAAAHHH!" as loudly as possibly INTO HER MICROPHONE headset every single time she kicked, I gave myself permission to hate her just as much as I wanted. 

Those who know me know that I am practically deaf. But I kidd you not, there were times in that class I just had to just stop doing whatever we were doing, cover my ears, and find my happy place. It was so annoying.

So class continues and at one point she starts dividing everyone up into pairs for some "sparring." She chose me as a partner. Just my luck. So she started punching at my face and I was supposed to dodge. At this point,  not only was she yelling RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, but she was now yelling and trying to punch my face. I'm still repenting for the violent thought that began racing through my brain at this moment. 

Then it was my turn. I was supposed to try and punch her face while she dodged. Oh, how my luck instantly changed. At that moment in time, there was no one in the world (besides Robert Mugabe, Nadya Suleman, Nancy Grace etc) that I wanted to punch and here she was actually screaming into a microphone and telling me to hit hard and faster. 

Of course I didn't hit her. But I did really want to. And because of that, I've decided that kickboxing makes me an angry person and that I'm just going to stick to yoga and spin classes.

New Car

While totaling my car wasn't fun, it's turned into a blessing in disguise. I got a new car. Not that the Civic was all that bad, but it's nice to have a car that I can roll the windows up when driving over speed of 20 mph. And when going up hills while traveling on interstate highways,  I will no longer get passed by these:

I like my new car. It looks like this:

And, in case you are following my bad luck, US Airways sent me a travel voucher and a check for my lost baggage. Not perfect, but much much better. 

I love these things

You've gotta love the French...

Today my dentist office sent me a text to confirm an upcoming dental appointment.

I love technology. 

"I am thankful for laughter, except when milk comes out of my nose." Woody Allen

A good friend once told me that when life throws hard things your way you can either laugh or cry it all out. Since I really hate crying--my eyes get all puffy and I basically look like a punching bag--and I'm trying to be more like this particular friend (the most excellent, Nicki Preece), I've taken to laughing a lot more. When the plane came down on the Hudson months ago, my coworkers and I discussed how we each would have reacted if in the same situation as the passengers. I imagine that I would have either begged the hot guy next to me to make out with me before we both plummet to our deaths, or actually explode from my insides freaking out so much. 

My mind then wondered how Nicki would have responded if in such a predicament. Suddenly, in my minds eye, I saw Nicki, standing there on the wing of the plane with everyone around her somber and shaking in the frigid waters. No doubt, if she was in such a situation she would ponder her bad luck for a moment, then burst into her crazy deep and penetrating laugh that makes you either want to start laughing with her or smack her silly for finding everything so dang funny.

Nicki laughs at everything because she seriously find pretty much everything absolutely hilarious. That's just the kind of person she is. Just happy all the time. A definite cup half-full kind of person. I tend to laugh when I go into shock and lack the ability to do much of anything else.

Like 2 years ago when I started mountain biking, I went on a ride with my far-more experienced little brother. He zipped around the desert landscape, dodging cacti as he wound along the hilly, curvy bike trail. Less adept than he, but refusing to be shown up, I followed as closely as I could and felt that every sharp turn was going to take me face first into a prickly giant cactus and zillions of sharp little rocks. Minutes later, my fears were realized, but bloodied and ego-bruised, I got back on the bike refusing to give in. We continued on the trail and suddenly my brother disappeared as he zoomed down a very steep hill. I followed, my bike speed increasing, control lessening, and my blood pressure sky rocketing.

Then, before I had any idea what was happening, I rode straight into the biggest, thorniest, most gnarly 9 ft bush on planet earth. As I pulled myself out, I could feel the flesh on my arms ripping against the merciless thorns. My arms looked as though they were used as a cats' scratching post. It was pretty sick/cool. My legs too were bloodied up and I was about to black out. I sat there until I felt like I wasn't going to pass out and we started riding back to my car, taking a short cut. I started chuckling to myself on the ride back as I imagined how I must have looked just zooming, without braking one bit, straight into the unforgiving bush from hell. Staggering like a drunkard as I hopped off my bike, I tried helping my brother get the bikes back on the rack. But the chuckling soon became hysterical laughter. I sat on the asphalt next to my car because a) I was still on the verge of passing out and b) I was laughing so hard that I couldn't really stay upright. Tears were running down my face and I was shaking from laughing so hard. I'd stop breathing for bits and then burst into more maniacal laughter.

Since my brother didn't drive stick, I had to drive home, still bloodied up and laughing like a complete lunatic. He said later that he'd never been so scared in his entire life.

That was kind of like this morning.

At 7:30am, as I sat down at my desk--luggage STILL lost after 3 and half weeks (with mission scriptures, jewlery, and over $2000 worth of clothes and stuff--oy, I feel sick thinking about it), i-pod stolen, hamstring pulled, and car just totaled 45 minutes earlier--I started laughing. It was the kind of quietly delirious laughter that prompts co-workers to turn and look at each other with eyes that say "Yep, it's finally happened. Erin has completely lost it."

"Here, Erin, have some cake," said Jolene, dishing me up some pinapple upside-down cake she had made for the shipping guy, Carl's, birthday. She knows me very well. I told her I felt like vomiting and couldn't possibly eat the cake. But thanks, anyway. 

Five minutes later, I had downed two pieces and I don't even like pineapple upside down cake.

Herbert Spencer was definitely on to something.

Call me cruel and insensitive, but sometimes I really think that we should embrace the whole "survival of the fittest" concept. Let nature take its course, and save the rest of us a few headaches.

Case in point: this.

Newest Creation

I just made the coolest reusable grocery sac/tote ever. No really, it is. Pictures don't do it justice. I made it as a "thank you" for a friend in DC who pretty much bent over backwards for me while I was there a couple of weeks ago (don't worry Sheryl, I've got two in the works for you and Leah). Like another one I posted a while back, it's made entirely of repurposed grocery sacs. It's the sturdiest I've yet made. I dig the color combo and the handles running along the side (made from GAP bags). It's for a guy and I'm hoping it's manly enough for a guy to carry groceries in. What do you think? Manly enough?

Holy Moley

I never believe people when they say that they don't care what people think. Maybe that's just because I am lying through my teeth whenever I say it.

Don't get me wrong, I try not to care what people think. It just doesn't work all the time. And it's not like I am a slave to the whims of those around me, but I'm pretty sure I could have gone my entire life without having heard my name, "Enrique Iglesias," and "mole" in the same sentence. 

So last Friday, I had the offending mole removed. I had never really thought the mole noticable or unsightly, but one comparison to Enrique was enough for me. 

Needing assurance, I asked another friend if my mole was really ugly or noticeable. She refused to answer and instead encouraged me to not care what people think. Which was all good advice until she started talking about how I could be a role model for children with massive birthmarks or disfigurement obscuring their faces. 

Needless to say, my signature mole is gone. I feel sort of naked. This was one of the last moments before the mole was removed (btw, my nose is not that big). 

Still no bag :(

US Airways, Chris Brown and Robert Mugabe all belong in Hell

Never check your bags with US airways. You may never see them ever again. This is, unfortunately, my situation right now. 

Coming back from my DC/NYC trip, I checked my bags, filled with my favorite clothes and shoes (including an amazing pair of red wedge slingbacks I had just purchased in NYC), my tourquoise necklace I had made in Jerusalem, my macbook powercord, my cell phone charger, my chi flat iron, my new puma and nike running clothes (bought for the marathon), new Gaultier perfume, perscription meds...the list goes on and it's all gone gone gone. All in a brand new samsonite roller. I've felt like vomiting for days.

When I told my cousin who works for the airline about my predicament, he said that I'll probably never see my bag again especially if it went through Philadelphia. He said the disgruntled workers have routinely set fire to bags or thrown them in the river. Needless to say, I felt fantastic after talking to him.

When I brought up "the Philadelphia issue" with a US airways employee who has been helping me, she became very silent and then said, "Ma'am, the situation in Philadelphia has gotten much better as of late." She then told me more horror stories about what the workers did to bags. I couldn't quite figure out why because the more she rambled on, the sick feeling in my stomach grew and the more certain I became that I would never, ever see my bag again. 

It's been three days and there is no sign of my bag anywhere. Please pray they find it...I'm really freaking out.

 

 

I think that I may end up in Washington D.C. afterall. My initial timing was just a bit off. 

Last Saturday, I ran the national half marathon there and as I ran with the hordes past the capitol building and the Washington Monument (all the while praying that I would regain feeling in my hands and feet), I began to fall madly in love. It was like a void that I didn't know could be satisfied was beginning to be filled by being in this amazing city. The love grew as I ran through Columbia Heights and past the wonderfully rowdy residents with tables of free cups of beer for the runners and the happily bundled people cheering from the sides carrying signs that said "Your feet only hurt from kicking so much a--".  

These people are so great it brings a tear to my eye.

The museums, the people, the food (Ben's Chili Bowl)---just the overall vibe---I can't get enough of it. It was 5 days of soul-satisfying goodness. So after my masters program, D.C., here I come. 

Humbled

Remember that one day in high school, the one where you go to the doctor and he's like "you have acne--let me give you drugs?" Well, that day never came for me as the perpetually clear-faced teenager. It came last Friday.

After achieving real adulthood--actually having medical insurance not offered by a university--and after vowing to take better care of myself, I decided to go to the doctor to check out some moles. Being as it is that cancer runs in my family and that I have worshipped the sun for the last 25 years, the responsible thing to do would be to have my skin checked out.  And since my life seems to not be going at all as planned, I figure skin cancer is the logical next step for me.  

So after a good 30 minutes in the waiting room, another 15 in the private room in which I was placed by the nurse, Dr. Benton walked in as I was sifting through his cabinets and looking behind his jars. He began asking the routine questions, looking through my medical history, and listening to my heart and lungs. When the reason for my visit came out as "skin," without skipping a beat he said:

 "Well, as you are well into your childbearing years..."

That first blow came suddenly and without warning. The second was to follow without even starting a new sentence. 

"it would not be wise to put you on acutane." He was intently inspecting every inch of my face with his eyes and fingers as he continued, "But I have several other options for you that should take care of your acne."

He then proceeded to prescribe me three medications and dole out instructions for using them. When the initial shock wore off, I regained enough composure to ask about my moles. He looked me over for about 15 seconds and said "Oh, you're fine."

I asked him about the mole on my right cheek. I asked about having it removed possibly.

"Right, right," he said in an understanding tone, "It IS awfully prominent isn't it. We can take care of that." And he proceeded to describe the procedure. 

A few moments later I was scheduling a couple follow up appointments to check on the efficiency of the acne meds and another to have a mole removed. I came into get my skin checked for cancer (what I thought was a very adult, "real person" thing to do) and left feeling like a pimple-faced teenager embarrassed by her visage and just hoping and praying that her acne would clear up before the prom.

In high school I was so grateful for my clear skin. I thought that I had cheated the system somehow. Little did I know that my awkward ugly stage wasn't in my past (well round 2, anyway), but awaited for me in the future. I hope this means I get to "blossom" at some point. I'm still holding onto that high school hope that there is a growth spurt waiting to happen in my chest. Fingers crossed. 

say you love me

The IT guy at work hates me.

It's not like I enjoy sending daily e-mails listing any number of problems that my computer is having at the moment--frozen monitor, inability to print, possession by demonic spirits. Or paging him over the company intercom when he ignores my e-mails.

He should love me. I equal job security.

All in the hair

So I'm back to square one with the whole life plan thing. Well, not exactly square one, but they cancelled my Masters program due to our state's little financial woes and massive budget cuts--massive cuts especially in the realms of education. Brilliant move guys. Brilliant. Way to let an economic recession penetrate as deeply as possible for years and years to come. Maybe we should just shut down the universities. That'd save loads of money. We could build sweat shops to employ everyone not going to school and really start competing in the world economy. We'd sure give China a run for their money. 

Don't mind me, I'm just a little bitter.

So I'm open to suggestions about what to do with my life. I think I'd make a killer lion tamer. Or maybe I could just go into politics. I'd have to move to Chicago, though. I mean, if they'll elect Rob Blagojevich as governor, I'll have no problems getting somewhere in that state. I just need better hair. Let's be honest, he may be a horrible human being, but you've gotta hand it to him for having such amazing hair.

Realization of the day:

Amazing bargains or really hot shoes can pretty much solve whatever problems one is facing. Today, I got both. Life is good. And may Last Chance never close its doors...    

Where I am and what I'm doing (and don't get excited and think it's anything cool--that chapter of my life is basically closed until further notice

It's about time I've updated the blogosphere as to what I'm doing these days. I've avoided it for a long while because, frankly, I didn't really have any answer other than "I'm in limbo, and yes, in the Catholic way."

Basically, when I graduated last August from university, my plans had all sort of gone down the drain. I had worked so hard and shmoozed my fair share (e.g. my entire internship at the US Embassy in Israel) and I had all my plans set only to suddenly feel awful about carrying out them out just days before graduation. It pretty much sucked.

Now, I'm sure you're just thinking it was nerves and that it was normal to have reservations about making such a huge step in my life, graduating university and moving to DC to work for an NGO and all that. You may be right, but nerves never made me feel as though I was making the biggest mistake of my life and that God was about ready to smite me from the heavens. In fact, I love adventure and I love change. I wanted to go to D.C. so badly--I wanted the fruition of that dream so badly-- but I knew that I was not supposed to go.

Unfortunately, my one track mind left me sans a "Plan B" so I went to the last place really on earth that I wanted to go and that was back home. To Mesa, AZ.

I wont go into detail, but I was basically dreading coming back. I dreaded seeing people, moving in with my parents, and most of all, I dreaded getting "sucked in" and changing who I am. I was assured by one friend who had taken a job and moved to Mesa after he graduated that I would "definitely not fit in."

So I came back, worked as a minion at the aerospace manufacturing company that my father used to own (he now is considered a "consultant, but he owns the buildings so nepotism still works) doing really boring stuff while I saved for a month-long European adventure (which I did Oct-Nov of last year) and re-grouped and started making plans to move to NYC, or Portland, or Seattle, or...anywhere really. I just knew I needed out and that I was merely in AZ on a pit stop to something much grander.

Well, I was basically lost and miserable and felt pretty much forsaken. Try as I did, I couldn't make plans that I felt good about. This lasted about 4 months and then I decided that I was going to move to D.C. anyways and that I was going to ignore that "want to vomit" feeling and just get on with my life.

And then it hit me. I came to me quite suddenly and forcefully and I knew what my calling in life was. I'm going to try as hard as I can to not sound cheesy and cliche, but what came to me really was cheesy and cliche. I need to be a teacher. A high school history teacher. A far cry from my dreams of law school, being a diplomat, living around the world, one day becoming Ambassador (I mean who wouldn't want to be called "her excellency?") but for the first time in A REALLY LONG TIME, I felt peace about what I was planning. I even felt so good about the masters program I was going to apply for at ASU that would give me both a masters and teaching certification.

So not only am I choosing a profession I thought was gender-stereotyped, cliche, and certainly not for me, I am staying in Arizona for the next few years. And guess what? I'm so happy. So so so happy. I have great friends and a really full life. And I have what I've missed so much this past year: peace of mind in knowing that what I am planning is what I am supposed to be doing.

I've taken a full-time permanent position as a planner at the aerospace company and have committed to work while I attend school. I have benefits (so I'm finally medically insured and can, as my dad says, and now get cancer), which I guess, is something I dreamed of. And I know where I'm going to be for a while.

I've opened myself up to so many things that I had before shunned like The Plague. Things like playing card games, watching football, buying furniture, and quitting swearing. It's great!

Anyways, I excited for the new plans. I am really excited about teaching and even going to ASU. I am REALLY excited about a masters.

But if I don't get into the program, I'd like to be able to say that my new perspective will allow me to go to a plan B or C, even, but I'll probably just give up completely and become one of those people that stalks movie stars.

Kevin Spacey. Definitely Kevin Spacey.

"Maybe"

I was on a nine-mile run in the desert today pondering a great many things (what one does on a nine-mile run in the desert on the 1st day of a new year when the previous one was INSANE) and I came to a startling realization: my generation cannot commit to anything. And I am, unfortunately, as guilty as can be.

Now, I am not just talking about relationships, though that is most assuredly true. We don't date as much because somehow, in our minds, committing to 2 hours with someone equates with picking out wedding colors and baby names. But it's not just that. We can't commit to much of anything. Just take a look at facebook.

When invited to an event of some kind we are given three options. We can hit "attending" and electronically commit to showing up some party, wedding reception or hugging a filipino on a specified day. Or we can hit "not attending" and refuse the afore mentioned activities. We are then given a third option, necessary for our current predicament of widespread indecisiveness:we can hit "maybe." And honestly, how many times do you hit "maybe?"

So instead of straight answers or accountability, we weasel our way around and casually respond "maybe." There are many reasons for the "maybe" we see so much these days. One is that we are always looking for a better option. Don't even try to deny it, you know you are. In our career choices,  social events, dating pool---whatever---we are always looking over the head of what stands before us to what just might pop around the corner and give us reason to ditch what is currently tempting our time. We don't want to say we'll do something because a greater opportunity just might arise. Jason Bourne might end up at your doorstep slightly battered and

in need of some TLC and someone to give a hair cut. A rich relative you didn't know existed may call you up and invite you to  cruise the French Riviera on their yacht (where, as chance would have it, Daniel Craig spends his time between movie gigs acting as the pool boy). 

But the more common reason, I believe,  is our inability to say "no" to things. Once again, we weasel around a bit. In our desire to never disappoint right off the bat, we rarely say no to a person's face. Whether they ask a favor we don't feel like doing, extend and invitation we don't feel like accepting, or recruit for some cause we don't feel like joining, we give them that half answer void of any sign of true character. We refuse to commit one way or the other and instead we drag out the disappointment. We can rip off a band-aid quickly or slowly and we tend to tug as slowly as possible under the pretense of "not wanting to disappoint." I really think Jack Johnson hit the nail on the head when he said "maybe, it pretty much always means no." 

So why don't we just say what we mean?

I just took a look at a few events I was invited to on facebook and I basically feel very validated. One girl created an event asking for phone numbers from friends because of a damaged phone. Fourty-seven people responded "maybe." Maybe what? Maybe you'll give her your number, you've just got to think it over? Maybe you have one? Maybe nothing. Give the number or don't. But by all means, don't spit in someone's face with a "maybe."

While pondering these things, I was forced to recognize just how guilty I am in this whole mess. I hate saying "no" right out and yes, I do in fact hold out for Jason Bourne and his sassy scissors.

So I think that one of my resolutions this year is to be more decisive and accountable. To say "no" when I mean it, even if I will disappoint, and "yes" with the confidence that I will follow through come rain or shine because my word is my bond.

This is my resolution. At least it might be. I still need some time to think it over.