new year

The year is ending; another one is starting and I feel like I ought to write something inspirational. Well, I'm out of inspiration. I checked my pockets and found a camera, a knotted Rosary, a knife, and a crumpled JoAnn's receipt with a few words scrawled in black pen, but no inspiration. Pity. I glanced at the clock a little bit ago and the hour/minute corresponded with the month/date of my birthday, but that's the best I can do. It made me smile.

For a while I've thought the idea of resolutions at the beginning of the year to be rather stupid. "Lent will be here soon enough," Fr. Tom says. And he's right.

Dr. Jackson mentioned to our class that his resolution one year was to start using flapjacks in place of pancakes. I think he's on to something. Here's what I've got:

1. Start using "eh?" the way yoopers and Canadians do. After seeing Tangie's reaction when she told us about the Canadian toll booth guy saying "eh?" I figured--dangit, I'm from Michigan, I can say "eh?" too. And considering how many pieces of my heart I've left up north, I'm going to have to work "eh?" well into my speech if I'm ever going to get them back.

2. Start saying "geez louise!" like Emily does, mostly because Emily's pretty cool. I type "geez louise!" in emails and IM, but I want to say it.

3. Start saying "dealies" for "things" like Grandpa and Dad do. "I've got five of these little dealies here."

4. Stop saying "like" as often. This will be harder because there are so many different uses for the word and for some of them, there just aren't good substitutes. For example:
a) "I opened the door and she's like--what?" This means "her general reaction was 'what?' though she may not have actually said that directly. In fact she may not have said anything at all. Maybe it was just her facial expression that said 'what?' Or maybe she said something that I can't repeat because it's inappropriate or because I don't remember it, but I know what her general reaction was."
*a) substitute: "she's," the way Grandpa says. "I opened the door and she's--what?"
b) "They had a crazy huge pile of snow. It was, like, five feet tall." This means "about, approximately." It may not have been exactly five feet tall, but it was about five feet tall. (Like me.)
*b) substitute: about. "It was about five feet tall." close to. "It was close to five feet tall."
c) "It was about five feet tall, like me." Here, "like" is just a shorter way of saying "similar to." This is fine, it doesn't bother me any, except that I should say "I" instead of "me." But that's unnecessarily awkward.
d) "We watched a bunch of different movies, like Escanaba In Da Moonlight and Wild Women of Wango." This just means "for example."
*d) substitute: just leave it out. "We watched a bunch of different movies. Escanaba In Da Moonlight, Wild Women of Wango."
e) "A deck of cards, like, to play euchre with?" This means "as in" or "you mean" and to used for clarification.
*e) substitute: as in, you mean, or just leave it out. "A deck of cards? To play euchre with?" (This one will be difficult.)

Here's the thing though. Pretty much every time I consciously try to alter the way I talk, it doesn't work. I've eradicated the obnoxious "like" a couple times and it keeps coming back. I pick up on how other people talk without knowing it. (Maybe that's why I got the accent I apparently have.) It'll be a fun experiment, though, I guess. We'll see what happens.

Happy solemnity of Mary, Mother of God (theotokos)!

And while we're speaking Greek--piana tapana stokavadi!

Thank you, Al Gore

Emily said it best.

I started this blog in September so that I would write. I had two ends in mind: first, writing more would make me a better writer, and second, writing what I'm thinking would force me to think things through all the way.

It's not especially important to me whether anyone reads this or not. The point is that I keep writing, and some vague idea that someone might read this is enough motivation.

It's weird not writing for an audience though. I made the beginning of my Jackson paper alliterate, but I would never do that for a history professor. I let spelling and punctuation slide when I'm emailing my sisters, but I would never do that in a newspaper. I scrawl in thank-you notes to my friends but write neatly in thank-you notes to my grandmother. It isn't dishonesty, it's just that you treat different people differently. No matter what I'm writing, the audience is in the front of my mind.

But here, I'm not writing for an audience. Not officially, anyway. But I know four people who read this regularly and at least two who read it every so often, and it's hard not to gear my thoughts in their direction.

For this post, however, I do have an audience in mind: Emily and Anne, my beautiful, wonderful, completely different sisters. Look:

"Your shoulder bit my tooth!"

"Mom, I don't really need black shoes."
"That's why!"
"That's why what?"
"That's why she never buys you anything when I don't come!"

Crayola still makes historical markers.

"Emily has a boyfriend, Emily has a boyfriend!"
"Will you shut up!"
"No. Emily has a boyfriend, Emily has a boyfriend!"

"I din't hev a suth'n twaang!"

"That's south of the Mason-Dixie line."

Emily: Anne, you can't wear that green striped sweater with the blue skirt.
Anne: Why not?
Mary: Anne, even *I* know better than that!

Swing dance turned self-defense turned I don't really want to fall over right now.
"They only do this when there are guys over."
"No, that's actually not true."
"Yeah, she was beating me up in the kitchen yesterday."

"Anne, are you going to eat that?"
"No."
"Anne, is that all you're going to eat?"
"Yes."
"Anne, aren't you going to eat anything?"
"No."
"Anne, eat something."
"I just ate five pieces of pizza at quiz bowl!"

Pianatapanastokavadi!

my favorite gmail chat conversation ever-
"Is that book still in the living room?"
"What book?"
"Captivating."
"Maybe, I dunno. I'm up in my room."
"Okay, I'll go look."
"Good, cause you're closer to the living room anyway."
"Anne stole it. It was in her room."
"Oh, I wondered what she came up here for."
"I can hear you laughing."
"Have you started the book?"
"No, but if you ask me the same question...wait..."
"You're gonna read one sentence then tell me you did."
"Now I have. Yes yes, lil sis, you called me out."
"Punk. Warthog-faced buffoon."
"Actually, I read one and a half."
"I hear you laughing down there."
"That is Anne laughing. I mean, coughing."
"I'm sure. You're probably choking her to death."

"Your cell phone looks like a rabbit!"

empty

Anne and I took the last leaf out of the table before dinner. I've often marveled at what a good idea it was first to invent and second to find a table with leaves. Growing up, we had two leaves in the table and three for company. As we started graduating and moving out, the table got smaller and smaller and leaves started accumulating in the front closet. Now, they only come out when everyone is home, and we put the last one away today.

Emily left first, driving away in yesterday's rain that turned the knee-deep snow into mist. She called to let us know she'd made it to her friend's house in Ohio, where she stayed the night, then again when she arrived in Atlanta.

Joe left right after Mass and breakfast this morning, his Monte Carlo moving matter-of-factly toward Arlington. He called home when he arrived.

Paul stayed for euchre and left before noon, then returned to pick up his Costa Rican shotglass. The Oldsmobile clunked down the street, bound for Cleveland. He left the polyurethane for me on the table in the basement.

And then there were four and the table was shrunk.

Evidences of my family are scattered throughout the house. A new fan (with lights!) hangs over the family room. Emily and Joe each left a pair of shoes, and I still haven't cleaned up the golden-brown mess Paul and I left on the table when the polyurethane leaked through the cardboard. I have far more clothing in my room than I really need, some of it new (that's Emily's fault). A walking stick leans in the corner of my room. There are still five beds for all of us. The house is too big for a small family.

Briefly I thought about crying my eyes out, but mostly I feel a calm, empty sadness.

And today?

Today is the feast of the Holy Family.

how to get men to respect you, I guess

I recently discovered that two of my camp friends, whom we'll call P and T, don't like each other.

More accurately, T doesn't like P, and P merely requites the sentiment.

I asked T what the issue was, and he told me that he disagreed with P on some important things, specifically, how P treats women.

P has always treated me well, I told him.

That's because he knows he can't get inside your pants, he told me.

Was that really it?

Men are always thinking about sex, he told me, and with me, sex isn't even an issue. P doesn't look at me and think "how can I have sex with her?" because he knows he can't. He looks at me and thinks "friend."

Are a lot of men like that? I asked him.

They pretty much all are, he told me.

Do you see why I don't want to have sex until I'm married? I asked him.

In order to love anyone--sisters, parents, friends, a specific male--you have to make yourself vulnerable to them. It's like leaning against a wall--you are vulnerable to the wall falling over, but if you're smart, you only lean against walls that won't let you fall over. Likewise, you only make yourself emotionally vulnerable to people who won't toy with your emotions or take advantage of you. "I hate you" is much more bitter coming from a friend than from someone you don't know.

If you're going to have sex with someone, you make yourself pretty much as vulnerable as you possibly can. And if I'm going to make myself that vulnerable to a man, I want to make sure it's a man who has sexual self-control. Someone who looks at me and thinks "beautiful woman" or "friend" or "girlfriend" or "fiance" or "wife"--someone who doesn't look at me and think "sex." My sexuality is a very important part of me, but it's definitely not the only part of me. The only way he can see the rest of me is if he gets his mind away from sex. If he already knows that he isn't getting any, and if he's still hanging out with me, it means he isn't just looking for sex.

Amazing how much respect something as simple as chastity commands.

another creation, inevitably overthought

And God created man to his own image: to the image of God he created him: male and female he created them. (Gen. 1:27)

The first thing God did in relation to us (as far as we know) is create. And I think part of being made imago Dei is our desire to create.

Scarves, tables, birdhouses, collages, ornaments, novels, wreathes, computers, skyscrapers, toilets, bombs, socks, children--we have a creative instinct. It's not a "man thing" or a "woman thing" but a "human thing" to make things. Look:



There are tendencies (though definitely not exclusive) for women to make some things and men to make other things; therefore, both craft stores and hardware stores. What fascinates me here is not our differences but our similarities. In either place, you can find wire, wood, wire cutters, needle-nose pliers, hammers, measuring sticks or tapes, paint, paintbrushes, sealant, string, glue, and hoards of other stuff that I can’t remember because it’s been too long since I’ve been in either store.

While the other little kids were watching the Smurfs and whatever other TV shows I cannot reminisce about, I was making cradles out of kleenex boxes, cameras out of toilet paper rolls, games out of history class, covered wagons out of swingsets, towns out of chalk. "Do you want to do 'make things'?" my brother Paul would ask, and we'd make a mess of beads and string in the downstairs bedroom. He'd end up with a tightly-knotted, well-made bracelet; I'd have a mess I thought was beautiful until my mom wouldn't let me wear it to Mass. I have a stash of cardboard under my bed at school; I keep twine and carabiners handy--often it doesn't occur to me to buy something until I've failed two or three times at making it.

I think this creative instinct in me has grown to the point of obsession. I toyed with an idea through finals week, and when I got home, I started work. I never really wanted to have it, but I wanted to make it, so I told Seth I was making it for him. And he can have it. I just wanted to make it.



It was really strange making it. I'm semi-competent at craft-store-creation and semi-competent at hardware-store-creation and this task required both. I dug through the dresser in the downstairs bedroom where we keep most of the craft-store-stuff (and some of Emily's things); I burrowed into the cellar where we keep most of the the hardware-store-stuff (and our jam and empty jam jars). This intrigued me: clearly a craft-store paintbrush on a shelf in the cellar, just shelves above scads of paint cans.



This is what the kitchen table looked like during part of the operation:



Needle-nose pliers, a hardware-store paintbrush, a knife--also a safety pin, quilting needles, mod podge--also fire!

This is how I made it:

Scrap pine wood from the cellar, power saw, and sandpaper to make the base. Green tissue paper, sparkly white tissue paper (both from gifts from my mom's students), and mod podge to make green and snow for the base. Candle wax to make snow on the base and to hold Gawain in place. Melted red crayon to make blood in the snow and on Gawain's neck.

Wire, wire cutters, and needle-nose pliers to make Gawain. (The wire kept breaking when I didn't want it to, so I had to rework my plans a few times.)

Embroidery floss and knots from a childhood friendship-bracelet-making phase to make the girdle. Quilting needle and gold thread to make the green girdle gleam gold.

Paper sack and hammer to break a bottle. Glass and craft store scouring pad to make a shield. Insignia red enamel paint and craft-store paintbrush found in the cellar to make the shield red. Braided gold thread and mod podge to make a pentangle.



(Seth, if you're wondering, I took this picture while typing "DRY, DARNIT!" into your IM window.)

Match stick to make an ax handle. Lid from an empty jam jar, labeled 2006, marked with a knife blade and cut with scissors, to make an ax blade. Hot glue to attach.

i love my sisters

Door opened.
Name yelled.
Bags dropped.

Feet run.
Bodies collide.
Arms pull.

Reunion.

the semester in review

Dr. Jackson told me that when you get a Ph.D, it's like you've climbed to the top of a mountain. You're there: you know what there is to know. Then you take a couple more steps up, turn around and look out, and see thousands of other mountains yet to be scaled.

I don't have a Ph.D but I know what he means. I'm at the top of a mountain right now.

I learned crazy amounts this semester. I learned that wife-beaters are shirts, not belts. I learned that you can fold bedsheets like American flags. I learned that I can function quite well on 5 hours of sleep. I learned that I can do a heck of a lot more than I think I can, and that sometimes endurance is all you need when deadlines fly into your face and go plaid.

I learned that nothing is too marvelous for God to do, and that if I pray about something, he will rush to help. During the summer, his strength allowed me to a mile in under two hours. This year, his strength allowed me to forgive someone in under two years--a much greater feat for someone like me.

I hit on Marine recruiters, and they know my name now.

I learned how to be a woman. I learned that knitting and football are irrelevant to my femininity, and there's no reason to get caught up trying to figure out whether it's okay that I don't enjoy shoe shopping. I learned that being a woman is a stupid reason not to snow sumo.

I live with my woman friends now, not down the street but down the hall. And I love them. I've never been good at having woman friends but I'm getting better at it. I want to have woman friends now, which is important. C. S. Lewis was wrong when he said friendship must be "about" something (e.g., stamp collecting). I have friends who knit and they can talk about knitting but knitting isn't the basis of their friendship. I have friends who love languages and we can lament together that English doesn't have an ablative, but language isn't the basis of our friendship. We don't need a common interest to have a friendship. We need to love each other and goof off. That's all. Most of what strengthened my woman-friendships were things like barging into each other's rooms, tattooing each other's arms with less-than-beautiful sayings, laughing about being half-dressed. The important thing was spending joyful time together, and it didn't really matter what we did.

I don't go out of my way to dress sloppily like I did last year.

I give hugs, and real hugs, not those lame side-hugs. Physical affection between friends doesn't scare me anymore. I'm willing to admit that the "I don't like people touching me" I spewed last year was a lie. (Don't tickle me, though.)

I danced.

My instinct still wonders what the attractive male two tables away thinks of what I'm wearing, but I now have a hand that can slap that instinct and tell it to shut up, because it's God's opinion that really matters.

I carry my own things, books and trumpet and such, not to show off my strength and not to spite the men who offer to carry them for me, but because they're my books and there's no reason I can't carry them myself.

I learned that people aren't as stupid as I tend to assume, at least proportionally. I'm just as dumb as everyone else, and there's probably a whole heck of a lot I'm completely oblivious to.

I have flaws, and there's no sense in getting frustrated over not being perfect. Virtue shields, but when virtue fails, there is mercy. I don't want people to think I don't have flaws, anyway, because when I find people who seem flawless, I usually don't like them.

I learned that showing off is utter nonsense. No matter what, no mere human can understand me as I am. I don't understand myself as I am, so who am I to know what to show off? Keep myself right with God. Then, everything will fall into place, and if it doesn't, I have him.

That's most important. I have him.