A brief and strictly factual update on my life

I have a new job. I started this morning. I am making much more now than I was a week ago. I like the children. I put in my two-weeks' notice at Gymboree. I am happy.

I have to juggle two intense schedules this and next week, pulling at least three fourteen-hour days and no less than two additional ten-hour days. I am stressed.

I learned this afternoon from my father that Terry Schiavo died. I spent the rest of the day crying. I am angry. I am frightened. I am sad.

Taut between two lines

Still no word on the job front; I hear Tuesday or Wednesday.

So tonight I was heating milk on the stove to make yogurt while I talked with Hillori on the cell phone. Beads of sweat dripped down the sides of the saucepan and hissed onto the gas flame, so I lifted the pot to wipe the bottom with a towel. Still talking, I set the pan down and noticed that the towel had caught on fire. Without missing a beat in my sentence, I blew the towel out, checked the damage, found it minimal, shrugged, and kept on talking.

I don't panic about the weirdest things.

Final Interview Today

Well, if today is Friday, that is.

I'll let you know soon whether or not I have a new job.

News at last

Well, folks, it's no Notre Dame for me.

At least I finally got a letter.

There are tons of things I didn't do right, which I didn't even think through till Marianne pointed them out last night, but *shrugs* it's all for the best. I did my crying yesterday before I even got the letter, so I figure I'm pretty well adjusted.

The great thing is, I prayed very specifically today that I would hear from them today, so that I can give definite answers and definite promises to any jobs I'm offered. Now, if I'm accepted to the Center for the Homeless, I can say positively, Yes, I can work for you, and yes, I can work for you for a year or two.

So the timing is rather cool. It's going to be horribly embarrassing at Club 23 next Tuesday to admit to everyone who's already been seeing me around for six months (some of whom are still figuring out that I'm not in grad school) that I won't be joining their professional crowd. That will be a sharp blow to the ego. I have a good mind. I don't want anyone thinking I'm stupid. So yes, that's going to require some courage. For myself, I guess I'm all right with it. Obviously it's not where God wants me, although I'm a little puzzled because I thought that's why I was coming to Indiana. Shows how much I know.

Now the question is, will I stay in Indiana? If I commit to this job (and it's amazing how quickly I heard back from this job: I stumbled across the position last Wednesday, sent them a resume online last Thursday, heard back from them last Friday, was called for an interview on Monday, and had my first interview today) then I'll have to stay, for a little while at least. I don't particularly like the Midwest. I prefer the East. I miss people that make sense to me, and the hills. If I don't get/don't commit to this job, then I'll hope to go back East.

It's been a weird week. A week of praying for wisdom, a week of hoping I'm not reading everything wrong, a week of unusual introspection that has resulted in definite goals but no definite answers. Will I go to grad school eventually? Do I want to? I dunno. What I am, above all else, is a writer. (Leigh Ann just affirmed that tonight. I wonder why I run from all the things that I most am...a writer, a Christian, a woman who wants a husband, home, and family.) So everything will have to stem from that. In the meantime, since I'm not getting married tomorrow, it's important to find what I'm called to do. And where.

Fortunately Leigh Ann will be here in less than twenty-four hours and I can spend some QT with someone who knows me deeply and well, and whose laugh always makes me laugh. That will be a welcome relief in this wasteland of isolation I've been feeling lately.

massive prayer request!!

Okay everyone, this is about my entire future and happiness.

Well, not really. But it's close enough.

I had a job interview today with the South Bend Center for the Homeless. The position I'm applying for involves working with children ages 0-3 years in a daycare/intervention atmosphere, where programs are tailored to the individual, tested needs of the children. It's still a program in development, so there's lots of room for creativity. And the program is extremely well-organized AND the benefits package is great.

So. I'm going back tomorrow to actually be in the room with the supervisor and the kids tomorrow afternoon. They want to fill the position as quickly as possible, so here's praying...!!!

Whatever happens will work out for the best. But Lord, I want to get out of retail. I want to work with people. I want to do something meaningful. And it wouldn't hurt to conveniently stay in South Bend another year or two, if that's what God wants.

Thanks all!

Excuse me, do I know you? --No.

I must have "one of those faces." At least three times a week a total stranger approaches me either to tell me that I remind her of someone she knows, or to ask if she's met me before. It's very frustrating to be kind and polite and understanding and hold back from saying, "NO, you weirdo. Lemme alone" after four or five episodes of this in a day.

Plus, when someone says, "You really remind of me so-and-so" ("so-and-so" being anyone from a sibling to a cousin to a cousin's best friend to a niece to a daughter-in-law to an old college acquaintance), I always wonder to what extent that's complimentary. I'm sure it generally is. But people even comment on my mannerisms reminding them of someone else. What am I, a blueprint to half of humanity? Or a carbon copy?

Or maybe I'm part of the collective unconscious. Haha.

The strangest part of this ongoing saga occurred sometime last week. I was working at Ann Taylor straightening hangers at the front of the store when a girl drifted by; our eyes met and I smiled, as I will do. I looked down at the hangers and when I looked up she was marching straight toward me.

"What's your name?" she demanded.

I'm sure my face was blank for about a second -- who says that? -- but then it rearranged itself into polite lines and I said, "Sarah."

"Where you at that party two weeks ago?"

"No." (...)

"Because I've met you. Do you go to Saint Mary's?"

"No."

"Oh. Where do I know you from?"

(Shoot me now. She had an abrupt, awkward mien, the kind of girl who hasn't really socialized well, and always looks grumpy. Also hard to convince that NO, she doesn't know me.)

"I don't actually think I've met you before."

"Oh." Here she looked suspicious that I was thwarting her. "Okay. Sorry."

"No, no problem. It happens all the time." I smiled and extricated myself from that corner of the store as quickly as possible, calling, "Have a good day" as I went.

Yicgh. Why???

Oh and it's never men who do this. I don't ever remind men of someone they know. No, it's only the women.

it's a brazzle dazzle day

(Trying to get the daycare kids to watch Pete's Dragon during quiet hours this summer was like trying to teach a parakeet to read.)

Today has started off brightly and industriously: I got plenty of sleep, was up at a not-half-bad hour, have a couple loads of laundry in, and took a brisk walk twice around the apartment community. Now I have to shower, tidy up, have devotions, and write the rest of my application for employment at the Maryland school.

A small thought that has been occupying my mind...

I seldom wish death on anyone, so if a small catastrophe like permanent laryngitis happened to settle on Celine Dion, and if by a strange chance an electromagnetic pulse globally and selectively wiped out of existence the body of her work, my mental health would be greatly improved.

Every month the Ann Taylor muzaktrack features one of her songs. Every month for a whole month I am subjected at least three times in a shift to a repetition of the most banal cliches of the English-speaking world. So many cliches that, in fact, the song becomes a textbook example of deconstructive repetition to meaninglessness. The harder I listen, the less sense the song makes, until internally I am screaming, What does that MEAN??? Well, really, it doesn't mean anything. And still is consumed by vast quantities of listeners, and forced on the rest. Kind of like store-bought bread, the mass-produced, pre-sliced, tasteless, processed, chemical-tasting kind.

My question is, do people actually listen to music anymore? Do they devote any thought to it, or is it just another opiate to dull the mind? And why settle for that?

a flock of seagulls

...just flew over the treeline. We're miles away from a significant body of water. Are they like the rat of the avian world?

I saw one swing over the house and thought, weirdo. Then a whole bunch of them followed. Why? In Erie they're as common as litter, but that only makes sense. Maybe South Bend just attracts the scavengers of the natural world.

I've always harbored a secret fondness for seagulls. They're noisy and vicious and they eat garbage, but they're so wild and suspicious and rude that I like them. One summer in high school I was wandering one of the small rocky beaches near my house and saw a bunch of teenage jerks throw a big wedge of shale at a seagull and break its wing. Of course they ran off laughing. (Dante would probably relegate them to a level of hell where they work constantly in dangerous factory conditions with impaired arms.) The gull lifted its wings and tried to take off, but the wing wouldn't work and the wind kept knocking it over. Throwing all health cautions to the wind, I bent over and approached it slowly and talked to it, and it watched me with one wary eye but let me pick it up. (A friend of mine raised chickens so I knew how to handle a larger bird.) I carried it to the water and let it down and it waded in and swam off, probably to its death. From close up those birds are pretty cool.

Laura and I were tanning at Presque Isle this past summer and watching a gang of seagulls fight over a dead fish. One gull would pick up the fish in its beak and try to fly off with it, but the fish was a little too big for a gull beak and the bird would drop it; its neighbor would then try the exact same thing. One bird in particular was persistent enough to keep attacking everyone else who stole the fish. Watching it, Laura laughed and said in a squawky voice, "It's mine, g-damn it!" And sure enough, the gull grabbed the fish and got away.

I don't know. Gulls are a huge farce of everything you can caricature about human nature. They're unloveable gutter dwellers but that's what makes them funny. I'd rather watch a bunch of seagulls being themselves than read the newspaper; at least you can get a laugh out of it.

perception is everything

So in honor of Vera's birthday, our coworker Jolly brought a store bought pie to Ann Taylor for the girls to eat in the back. As I rushed by it to clock in, the aroma hit me and I thought, "Mm, peach pie! Jolly's a genius! I love peach pie!"

So I had a piece. It was quite good peach pie.

Until Deborah mentioned the apple pie I could help myself to in the back. Then I realized that it was indeed apple. Then it just tasted like generic Bon Apetite canned fruit filling.

around the corner / there may wait...

I'm drinking my current favorite cheap wine (it stains your mouth blue!) and listening to Eric Clapton's Unplugged album. Glorious. Shortly I will be esconced in all the dumb games that accompany a youth lock-in at our church...not so tempting except that the youth leaders (our age) are wonderful and Marianne and I want them to be our friends.

I'm also in my "Desperate Housewife" ensemble...a printed blouse far too unbuttoned, a rolled-up kerchief holding back my (longer!) hair, and a pair of fitted jeans. Oh yes baby...I'm one hot not-yet-mama. :) (A couple of buttons will be finding their way back into their respective holes before the lock-in. Wouldn't do to get refused at the door.)

So today was relatively decent...Yesterday I send a resume to the South Bend Center for the Homeless; they're looking for a Teaching Assistant for small children ages 0 to 3 years. Which sounds perfect. This past summer working with toddlers at the daycare was the best summer of my life (except for that one summer when I was seven or eight...that summer was great. And the summer I met Dustin was great too) and I miss working with children so badly it's like a blow to the gut sometimes.

Anyway, the Center director called me today for a pre-interview sort of conversation. The woman actually in charge of hiring is out this week but will be in next, and he said when she looks over my resume, if she wants an interview, she'll give me a call.

I really want this job. (I'll still be applying for the Maryland job teaching high school down the hall from Hannah and Garrett.) But whatever happens, if I either get into grad school or get the Montrose job, I have at least till July or August to subsist independently of either income. And let's be honest, I'm not happy at my present jobs. Retail is okay, but I have never loved the business world. I much prefer working with people, undiluted by the underlying pressure to get their money.

Actually Marianne sat me down the other night (bless her) and said, "You're not happy. You don't have to stay in these jobs. I'll look over your resumes. Just do something."

And she's right; I haven't been happy. I've been miserable. Especially at Ann Taylor, there is a lot of pressure to rake in a certain amount of money each day, and if you don't make your sales goal, the District Manager notices and starts asking questions about why you're working so many hours when you're not productive. Never mind that no one who came in the store was in the mood to shop, or that you were working alongside some of the best saleswomen in the store that day, or that the weather was terrible and no one came into the store. Plus -- and get this, people -- I make eight bucks an hour. Eight. I make squat and they're expecting this huge commission-level performance -- only of course I'll never see a dime of what I earn for the company. It's halfway between some Fifth Avenue private shop and The Gap, where I'm told to be this fashion expert (and come on, Ann Taylor carries good, stylish, nice-quality clothes, but it's not Dolce and Gabbana for God's sake) who can outfit a woman for all her wardrobing needs, but behind the scenes I'm some prole who doesn't deserve a decent day's wage.

No thanks.

So I'm scouting. New job necessary. I don't even care if I make that much more (although it would be very very nice so I could do the occasional wild thing like go home every once in awhile); I just want to feel like what I'm doing has some meaningful contribution to the world. Not how many dollars did I bring in for some soulless company, but how deeply did I impact someone's life. Even if it's just that I taught a two-year-old to tie her shoes.

So (fingers crossed, lots of little prayers!!) I hope I hear back from this hiring woman for the Center for the Homeless next week. I would love to work with people again. And this job has health benefits.

Ha, little happy note of the day. I was helping a discouraged mother-of-a-five-month-old pick out a pretty yet professional outfit that would flatter in spite of her post-baby tummy while she tiredly told me about the difficulties of finding clothes. In sympathy I responded, "Yeah...that's tough; that's real tough" and her eleven-ish daughter -- great kid; friendly and eager to communicate and relatively self-assured yet sweet -- piped up and said, "But you're really skinny."

Great kid. (Granted, I've lost twenty pounds since moving, so I guess the comment had some merit, but still. It's nice to hear.)

p.s.

I am in ecstasy over the two pairs of cardinals that lighted on the railing of my porch while I typed the last entry. They perched with that rippling tension under their skin, that wild beady brightness in their eyes, looking at each other, ready to spurt into the air, and they were gorgeous. While they poised against the wind that pushed them, a finch hopped along the porch boards harvesting shreds of needle and tree leftover from the Christmas pine. The woods beyond them are brown and yellow with scattered patches of day-old snow and against that backdrop it was altogether picturesque.

it's time

Today is relatively sunny and we're supposed to get snow later this weekend, but just in case I wake up one morning and find that it's June and I've missed the beautiful secretive, bare, dead-looking days by spending all my time at the mall, here it is, my favorite poem of spring (because it is spring now, even the snow smells a tiny bit green):

Spring and All

By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast--a cold wind. Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen

patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees

All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines--

Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches--

They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter. All about them
the cold, familiar wind--

Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
One by one objects are defined--
It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf

But now the stark dignity of
entrance--Still, the profound change
has come upon them: rooted, they
grip down and begin to awaken

~William Carlos Williams

a little gem

Rationalists, wearing square hats,
Think, in square rooms,
Looking at the floor,
Looking at the ceiling.
They confine themselves
To right-angled triangles.
If they tried rhomboids,
Cones, waving lines, ellipses--
As, for example, the ellipse of the half-moon--
Rationalists would wear sombreros.

~Wallace Stevens, from "Six Significant Landscapes"

a new contraceptive

The count is now three for the number of songs on Garrett's "Etc" compilation that have wandered their way onto network television commercials. It's bizarre.

And the show Jack and Bobby...yes it's good...but I can also see why it's so highly rated by the (liberal) reviewers.

And dude, I'm now hooked on Smallville. I'm an incurable comic book/sci-fi freak. (Not that I've read any of the actual comic books...much to my chagrin...but my dad has and he's spent my entire life filling me in.)

So yesterday totally sucked...there was a little demon bat boy from hell visiting Ann Taylor with his overindulgent, high maintenance mother. He climbed all over all our fixtures (nearly pulling one down onto himself, which he is free to do anywhere I'm not liable), ran his sticky little hands over all our clothes, and followed Ashleigh around the store smacking her butt while she tried to assist his mother in picking out a coat. (This kid is like four, by the way.) The only attention he got from his mother was an offhand "Ethan...no no..." or, more often, "Ethan...Ethan where are you?" in a tone of panic when she (quickly) lost track of his whereabouts.

Blame the mothers all you want, but I still hate the rotten spawn they drag around in their wakes. This kid was clearly spoiled off his ASS and defiant toward everyone. The bright spot in this episode was a woman whom I'd helped last weekend to find a dress for her to wear to her daughter's wedding. She came in for a price adjustment on the dress and lingered to chat; the hellion monster boy climbed up next to her onto the high, small ledge running across the front of the cash wrap. Daycare Worker Sarah exploded out of me like she hasn't in months, pressed her hand firmly on the counter in front of him and said, "You need to get down now." He glared at me and grunted a sound in the negative. I gave him THE LOOK and said, "Get. Down. Now."

He started to squirm backward but not quickly enough, so the woman who was talking to me put an arm around his waist and neatly plucked him off the counter and put him on the ground. Affronted, he ran off to find his mama, who was all the way across the store and had missed the fact that her horrible child had just been disciplined by two complete strangers. My client looked at me and said in disgust, "My kids would never have gotten away with that." I laughed and said I was reassured that she didn't think I was out of line for reprimanding him. She said indignantly, "Of course not!"

So evilboy took it upon himself to stalk me all over the store. I don't know what he thought he was up to, but he didn't smack my butt. In fact, he stayed a good three feet away from me the rest of the time he was in the store. Fortunately the duration of the visit wasn't too long.

My manager-and-friend Jen at Gymboree told me the werewolf wonder and his mother came into her store shortly afterward. She spent some time ranting about his behavior (he had bolted into the back room and when she told him to leave, he sneered, "I don't have to listen to you" to which she responded, "Oh yes you do. Get out.") and about his mother's tossed-out "Ethan...no no"s.

We laughed about the irony of my wanting a family and then encountering this piece of work. Jen looked around the messed-up store and said drily, "Ethan is good birth control."

Heh.

Tonight's episode of House featured a woman screaming in pain. A lot. With a full string accompaniment in the background. And hm...the TV just happened to be turned up really loud.

I wonder if the neighbors heard.

then longen folk to go on pilgrimages

"Whan that Aprille" is not here yet, of course, but it should be, and in its spirit and in a fit of rebellion against the mother company my manager-and-friend Ashleigh and I journeyed across the frozen flatlands of Indiana to the Ann Taylor LOFT at Ft. Wayne.

"Our clothes are so freaking overpriced," Ashleigh said. "Let's get to the LOFT."

So we did. And it was a Herculean feat arriving there.

First, I had to meet her at her house, which is approximately half an hour across confusing backroads from mine. I dutifully printed out the mapquest directions, but when Ashleigh called to find out what time I'd get to her house, she told me not to bother with the mapquest directions and gave me directions of her own. Which left me far more confused; but determined to trust her (after all, she lives here), I abandoned mapquest and embarked on a long journey of lostness.

Indiana's highways are poorly marked. Combined with the fact that the only time I've been to Ashleigh's house was in the dark on three hours of sleep, and with the more important fact that I get lost at least once the first time I drive anywhere, it was a perfect recipe for disaster. And when I say poorly marked, I mean poorly. The signs warn you half a mile beforehand where a junction occurs, but don't tell you which intersection the junction is. So you guess. The signs also contain vague directions like "South Bend -- Next Exit" without once telling you what road you'll be getting on once you take it. And as you've already passed several "South Bend -- Next Exit"s, you're not quite sure at any given point where you are.

Then there's always the sneaking (and well-founded) fear that the highway you're on will be the road on the Next Exit, and you'll suddenly find yourself, having driven innocently straight, on a new highway taking you to places unknown and unwanted. Then, because there are at least three of every highway -- North, South, and Business -- you're not quite sure which is going to morph into which and you might as well just pick a spot on the highway and start spinning doughnuts.

I did all of this except the doughnuts. I got lost four times on the way to Ashleigh's. It set up an unhealthy precedent. By the time we got on the road, we were heading for our own full day of directional foundering.

The trip there passed without much incident. We got to the LOFT an hour before they closed (it being a Sunday), so we blew our money in a hurry and headed home. Heading home involved getting onto IN 33/MI 69 N for four miles, then catching IN 30 W for the rest of the trip. We found IN 33 (it doesn't really turn into MI 69 until you reach Michigan, which was a good hour and a half away), noted to ourselves that we only needed to be on it for four miles, and settled comfortably in to talk.

After animatedly comparing family histories, we started to notice that the diner we wanted to eat at hadn't appeared. Then we saw a Prime Outlets mall that we hadn't noticed on the way in. We kept getting hungrier but held on until Ashleigh, leaning forward and squinting, said, "Hey...does that sign say 'Welcome to Michigan'?"

Oh yes. It did. Complete with the entering-the-state motto, "Great Lakes...Great Times." We had never left MI 69. So there we were, much farther north than intended, at least two hours from home.

Fortunately Ashleigh has some knowledge of the roads and knew a highway that would get us back without having to retrace our lengthy route. We stopped for dinner where the waitress managed to screw up every course of Ashleigh's meal except dessert. Then we drove the two-hour trip to her house.

I drove from her house to mine without getting lost, although I had to bite my cheek to keep my attention focused. While Michigan highways are careful to post every few hundred yards what highway you're on but never tell you the speed limit (perfect: "Officer, I'm sorry, we've been looking for fifteen miles and haven't seen a speed limit sign"), Indiana highways are careful to post every few hundred yards what the speed limit is but never tell you what road you're on. Which makes me think I'm living a little too far south for this part of the country.

After blundering past four "South Bend -- Next Exits," hanging doggedly on until I reached the one actually labelled the street I live on, I made it home.

Since I bought three new tops and a spring jacket for the price of three sale tops at Ann Taylor, I considered the venture a success.

a present!

Oo oo, the good news is that I forgot to write down a deposit in my checkbook, so the two hundred extra dollars I've been seeing for the past month is really mine.

It's like Christmas. Especially with all the snow that's still coming down outside.

of course you know, this means war

The downstairs neighbors outdid themselves last night. I've never met anyone else in my life with the capability to magnify the volume of any activity they pursue -- whether it be talking over breakfast, talking over pillows, opening drawers, shutting doors, hanging pictures -- by about eight decibels. It's like a superpower. A superannoyingpower.

Last night they invited a friend or two (or ten, by the sound of it) who share this power. They laughed all evening. We had to turn up the volume on the TV just to hear Comedy Central. Now, the laughter doesn't sound pleasant and inviting; of course not. It sounds like the Weird Sisters plotting the ruination of Macbeth while hyped up on the contents of their cauldron. Cackling and all.

My tired, sick roommate and my tired self called it a night and retired to our separate rooms. The party continued. I was trying to read a little bit of The Other Wind to relax before falling asleep, but my concentration kept breaking. Then my cell phone buzzed. Who's calling at this hour? I wondered (yipes, you know you're working your way toward thirty when 12:30 in the morning becomes ungodly). I'll just check the caller ID and get back to them tomorrow.

It was my roommate. Wondering if she'd hit a button by accident, I picked up. "...Hello?" "Sarah, the neighbors are so loud," she croaked. "I don't even want to get out of bed but they're sooo loud."

So I got up and started jumping up and down like a reeling kangaroo or a five-year-old throwing a temper tantrum. The neighbors and their house guests shut up for a minute before they began slamming doors. (And these people are well into their fifties, mind you.) The door-slamming subsided and I flopped back in bed, but then they all congregated in the room directly below mine and began conversing so loudly I could hear every individual word.

I sat up and yelled, "WHAT THE HELL?" The noise stopped and the guests departed soon after. By then I didn't really give a damn as I had put my earplugs in. But really. I don't care that you're fifty and I don't care that you're happy and I don't care that you're from Texas (according to Deborah a remarkably loud state) and I don't care that you have friends. Be and have all of that, just keep quiet enough that I don't know anything about any of it. We never heard our last neighbor shutting her drawers.

The leasing office is hearing about this as soon as their doors open on Mondays. There are other apartment communities around the area that are known for their loudness and sociability. Ours is known for its silence and peace. If these people can't tolerate that, then the simplest answer is to move. Or they'll be hearing from the leasing office quite a lot.

life is beautiful

So I got two -- not one -- two messages from none other than the amazing Allen Edwards today. It made my day. Especially when I checked my voicemail from the Ann Taylor phone, as my cell was off and charging. I grinned when I heard that beloved voice saying "I miss you" -- so broadly my cheeks hurt.

Tried calling him back, but apparently an off phone doesn't kick in the caller ID, so I tried the GCC switchboard but his roommates didn't know his number, then tried the Gee, but no luck. (I'm not nearly as good as G-woman at stalking.) So I zipped him an e-mail, and then suddenly he called me back.

And I got to talk to a whole bunch of my beautiful Grover friends while they celebrated a successful production of Much Ado about Nothing at King's.

It seems Allen and Neil both thanked me in the program for introducing them to theater. God, I miss Grove City. (Save me a program, guys.)

What am I doing so far from Pennsylvania?

Not to be too morose...I like my life. But I don't love it. I've learned and grown so much, but I'll be glad when this phase comes to a close.

Looks like it's going to be grad school or teaching, Lord willing. (Can I just hear back from Notre Dame? I don't even care what the answer is anymore. But so many questions -- where I'm going to live, what kind of job I'm going to have -- depend on what I hear from the university.)

I'm calling them Monday to see when I'm getting an answer.

there's a hole in the bucket, dear liza, dear liza

I dropped the coffee again today.

Fortunately they were the mossy green pants that absorb brown like water. Fortunately also, I jumped (or rather, stepped resignedly backward) out of the way in time, so the impact only managed to slap a wave of coffee over my hems and feet. More fortunately yet, when I do something embarrassing in public, people are more inclined to sympathize, tease, and oo and ahh (I once told my dad that if I can't be graceful, I can at least be clumsy and cute) rather than deride and lambast, so the coffee gals graciously mopped up my spill and replaced my coffee gratis, all with smiles.

It turns out they got a new shipment of lids that are a teensy bit smaller then the rim of the cups, so I feel partially vindicated, especially because I've never spilled the coffee there before, not even a little, let alone allowed two full cups to skid out from under my fingers and explode on the floor.

I had the manager put the lid on for me.

In other news, I find myself engaged in tutoring our frightening little stockwoman's thirty-something still-living-at-home son in English writing. Vera was in a positively jovial mood today, chattering and gesturing to me in the backroom while I cooled my heels on break and she steamed our latest shipment, and even though I understood about three-fifths of what she said, I did gather that she wanted to know if I knew anyone who could help her son with writing. "He good speaking, he fine speaking, but he no write, he need help," she said. "You know girls can help him?" I thought for a minute and ventured, "I could do it."

So now we're going to set up a day where I'll follow her home from work and help this son in his writing. Hell, why not? This whole thing is an adventure, right? And she said she'll make dinner.

I just hope this isn't some creepy set-up.

So. Pending my response from Notre Dame...if I don't get in, should I move to Maryland and teach English at Hannah Fischer's school?

It sounds like a possibility. Once again, I just need to write a resume.

this day...

...was planned at a board meeting in hell. Either that or a drunken bumblebee took possession of my body for eight hours. I wavered all day between laughing at myself and wanting to crawl into a hole.

So, thanks to my too-late hours last night (among other things) today I tripped half the total number of my taken steps, bumped into every available hard surface, and dropped anything I was holding for more than four seconds. Generally (as I have before noted) I'm not known for my poise and grace; today, however, made me look like someone had rearranged my inner ear.

I didn't break anything except the lining of my pants. Pants that had, mere minutes before, had a whole container of Gloria Jean's coffee dropped all over them when I misjudged the angle of the cup and the lid. (Thankfully they're a pebbled tweedy browns-and-black material, so a little more brown here and there isn't noticeable.) But when I crouched down to clean out the backroom's refrigerator as requested by Deborah, the lining, always a little too tight for my comfort, split right up the ass. For one horrible second I thought the pants themselves had ripped and was mortified at the notion of having to buy a new pair of pants right then, which would have been truly tragic as every pair in the store is at least two inches too short. But it was only the lining, which proceeded to give me a hanging wedgie for the rest of the day.

Obviously being so tired that I have to pay conscious attention to my every movement doesn't work for me. I can barely pay attention to the rhythms of life as it is. Switching to an earlier rising time has been wreaking havoc on my sense of balance....although, if you ever find the world tilting at a funny angle when you're walking, just use your arms like feelers. It helps reorient you.

The good news, and it's the best news I've had in a year, is that Eric and Kristin are getting married in June!!!

accent and all

Our stock woman at Ann Taylor is a tiny round little Russian woman with short hair always dyed a new violent color. However long she has been in the States, her English is limited and she's always angry about something. She's really quite scary and whenever she starts talking to me, I open my eyes wide and focus very hard on what she says. Miscommunication is a given but it's better to get it wrong only two or three times as opposed to never getting it right at all.

Our managers love to tease her by giving her more work. At least once a day she tells one of them, in an accent straight from James Bond, "I kill you now." (Her favorite running joke, only you always wonder if she might be serious this time.)

Every time I hear it I start giggling and have to run from the room lest she kill me too. It's all so beautifully cliche.

praise Jesus!

I love my evangelical church.

Less than a year ago I would have snorted at the sound of someone shouting "Praise Jesus!" How corny, I would have thought. Get some dignity. And while I confess that I do not join in such shouting (why is dignity so precious to me? oh, but it is), to hear it fills me with a gladness that other people are not as locked up about their faith as I am.

I don't think an innate sense of privacy regarding one's faith is a bad thing -- I'll talk specifically about my faith when I know the situation calls for it -- but I'm very glad for the others in the church body who are willing to talk about it to anyone who will listen. It's an openness that I sometimes find affrontary (if that's a word), but hey, it takes all kinds, and that brazen declaration really appeals to some people. Those to whom it does not appeal can come and hang out with me. (Introverts are people too! And I like to be with real people at their ease. Above any other human attribute I prize genuineness. God knows I'm not a pristine model of self-restraint and charity. Where's the fun in that?)

Anyway, the young adult group is warm and open and notice when I'm there and when I'm not and are always glad to see me. I've started waking up on Sunday mornings looking forward to attending. It's the most amazing mindset. I even dance in the car on the way to church.

Today I realized that I spend too much of my life involved in pointless battles with self. They're a waste of time. Instead of lamenting that I never get up at six, why don't I just get up at six? Instead of feeling guilty for having a messy room, why don't I just clean it? Instead of agonizing about that last piece of cheese I ate when I wasn't hungry, why don't I just not eat it next time I find myself in the same situation? Instead of looking glumly at my doughy-soft abs why don't I do calisthenics every morning?

Duh. At some point it has to be the force of will over the force of inclination. Sometimes wrestling with self and agonizing over every imperfection and insecurity is profitable; usually, in my case at least, it's time-consuming, ineffectual, and counter-productive. I have too much to do to waste any part of the day in fruitless navel-gazing and self-recrimination.

Haha, like I'll ever stop navel-gazing. But as faith without deeds is dead, so introspection without action is a denial of grace...and a mockery of human worth.

The Waking

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel in my fate what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

Theodore Roethke

when the dog bites

It's one of those "I need to seriously overhaul my life" seasons.

Today is starting with the search for a better job. Well, actually today is starting with writing the resume necessary to begin the search for a better job. Well...okay, so I've found what looks like a better job, and I'm going to apply for it, as soon as I've written the resume that the online application asks for.

Why on earth don't you already have a resume, you ask? There's no good answer except that I've gotten away with not having one so far. Why write something I don't need? Only now I do.

These are classic English major procrastination skills at work. Now the even more classic writing-while-under-pressure skills are working harder. Since I work all day today and all day tomorrow, the goal is to have the resume done and the application sent by Monday. I've made some good headway and will be working on it at every opportunity between now and then.

I just heard about this job yesterday and it sounds pretty good...much better than the hours I keep now, for minimal pay. Mom liked the sound of it, and since Mom is my barometer of wisdom/folly, I'm going for it. Ideally I'll be able to keep my job at Ann Taylor and quit my job at Gymboree. Then I'll be able to afford my own small place (and hopefully a cat).

To top everything off, possibly I blew it with the latest guy. A pox on my shyness. Though in all fairness it would have helped if he'd left messages when he called. See, when I work up the nerve to call (like I did yesterday), I leave a message so that the callee knows that I desire a call back. (Common sense should have told you he wanted a call back! you say. Well, probably. But still, it's nice to get a message. Even one that says "Hey it's me, call me back.")

Well, we'll see. I waited too long to call him. Part of me throws out her hands and says, come on, what's the rush? Another part of me (the part that knows better?) hangs her head and kicks at the carpet, knowing darn well that cowardice is not its own excuse.

(Next time? Next time?)

rrrrrrrrrrrgh

Why are the fricking neighbors so loud.

crock pottery bliss

On their last visit to South Bend (or on my last visit to North East, I can't remember clearly...and did you notice that my current and my home addresses bear at least one cardinal direction in their names?) Mom donated her old stoneware crock pot to my humble kitchen. She has a newer one and I have none, so the donation was quite sensible, and much appreciated.

I think she told me it was a wedding present to her and Dad. You can tell it's from the late 70s, stoneware done in brown and yellow, with that kind of two-prong plug where both prongs are the same small size. I hadn't used it yet...normally my meat experiences consist entirely of working with ground beef...but I've been wanting stew lately, particularly with the bucketloads of snow making everything colder again, and so yesterday I ventured into the traditional American realm of crock pot cooking.

Easy, of course. But it was a little weird, cooking out of my mother's crock pot. I remember hundreds of meals from my childhood coming out of that gadget. I remember never being allowed to touch it. (Maybe that's why using it alone feels somewhat surreal, like surely there's some dire bit of knowledge I'm missing and I'll ruin the whole thing and burn down the apartment and what if Mom comes in and catches me touching the stew before it's ready?) We'd come home from church on Sundays and the house would smell of simmering beef and potatoes, all from that mysterious gizmo quietly cooking away on the counter without so much as a burner to help it.

So I guess it was a sense of legacy that gave me a feeling of temporal vertigo. (Not to mention that almost every memory of the crock pot involves me looking up at it or crawling onto a stool to peer inside.) It also was a teensy bit lonely, remembering how (in my mother's words) "that pot fed our whole family for years," and now I'm using it by myself and for myself, far from home.

However, the stew turned out marvellously, and what would feed a family of four for two days will now feed a family of one for seven. And it didn't burn down the apartment.

there's something to be said for sterility

I knew it was going to be a long day at Gymboree when the first thing I saw upon rounding the corner was a five-year-old kid in the doorway with his pants around his ankles.

The shift kicked off with my favorite song on the all-time waste of decibels known as the video that plays throughout the store. It's a vegetable garden singing about themselves to the tune of the Hallelujah Chorus. There's something tragic -- not to mention offensive -- about hearing "For the Lord God omnimpotent reigneth" reduced to "Brow-wn potato, brown potaaa-to." And the puppeteering was terrible.

Then there were the screaming babies whose mothers, shopping for all the deals they were worth, didn't bother even to approach the overladen strollers to shut their fricking kids up. Have I ever mentioned that I hate loud noise? I'm a Virgo, innate librarian, for a reason. I spent five hours strung tight as an overstretched rubber band wanting to either pick up and hold (after all, it's not the kids' fault they're stuck in strollers for HOURS) some children, or haul off and smack their whiny little asses. Neither of which is appropriate (or legal) in a retail worker's situation.

Blech. No reproduction for moi. Not for a good long while.

This Old Heart of Mine (Is Weak for You)

This song, performed by the Isley Brothers and featured on the Ann Taylor Muzaktrack for the month of February, replays itself constantly through my head. And I don't mind a bit. It's a great song. I can't sing it with the same soul, but I can dance to it in my head. I don't dance with much soul, either, but as long as I'm the only one who sees, it doesn't matter, does it?

So my determination to relax and let life happen as it will tooks roots during my sleep. I woke feeling much more peaceful, and after reading the "Do Not Worry" segment of Luke 12 I felt greatly comforted and much more refocused, and eager both to take one day at a time and to look forward to what's around the bend.

I've also rediscovered my taste for chicken salad. Hannah and Kirsten introduced me to it our sophomore year of college; it was featured as a main course in many a meal in West 397 at the good old Grove, when the thought of Bon Apetite sickened us and we didn't feel like changing out of our pajamas to cross campus to dinner. A bit of mayo, a touch of Miracle Whip, a sprinkle of black pepper and a dash of onion powder...spread on a saltine cracker....or four or eight saltine crackers...mm.

I can hear my sister's horrified "canned MEAT?!" Hey, it's cheap and it floats my boat. I remember the advent of the Y2K scare, when folks all over town were storing up water in 2-liter soda bottles and stacking their closets with toilet paper, and Mom bought and canned a pound or two of chunk beef. We've always had canned fruit, canned tomatoes, canned grape juice, all done at home on boiling summer and early autumn days, but we'd never ventured into the canned meat realm. I was mildly repulsed by the syrupy floating chunks of pinkish meat in glass jars, but when the first of the year 2000 passed and our computers still turned on, I shrugged and ate some of it when Mom and Dad were out of town and I was too lazy even for Rice-a-Roni or boxed mac and cheese. It smelled a little like dog food but the taste wasn't bad. (I don't relish canned beef very much, however. I think we still have a few jars in the basement, next to the unopened bottle of Cherry 7-Up featuring an enormous dead fly on the surface of the soda.)

So canned meat is one of those "Hey, I can do this" kinds of things.

Speaking of home-canned goods, Wal-Mart's Equate brand has a handsoap that smells exactly like peaches. Not the Bath and Body Works fruity headache horror that haunted the halls of my high school (hey, check out my alliteration), but the real, visceral, juice-running-down-the-fingers-itchy-with-fuzz smell of boiling peaches in our little kitchen on oven-hot August afternoons. I don't remember exactly how it was done, but it involved halving and peeling hundreds of garage-ripened peaches and stuffing them into Mason jars and simmering them in a huge pot till the lids sealed. The whole house smelled delicious for days, even though the fresh peach fuzz irritated my skin so badly my hands turned a mottled red. The smell brings back the memories so strongly that I had to buy the soap. It's the harshest stuff that's ever touched my skin, but it smells so wonderful I don't care. I don't know how Equate did it but they deserve a star for it. (*)

Time to dance my little hindquarters to bed.

zzzzz

Have just made breakfast at eleven-thirty p.m. and am on the way for bed. Got it a little reversed, I think. Must be wanting the protein.

Chicago was wonderful; I picture myself there above any other city I've been to. I don't intend to move there; I'm not sure what kind of "girl" I am (city girl, country girl, small town girl, suburb girl), but I don't think it's a city girl. Certainly not a Midwest girl. However, Chicago is gutsy and fantastic, and I'm glad of the excuse to spend a day and a night in it. (Also the concert was amazing. We had great great seats.)

I'm remembering the necessity of finding joy in the lostness of being young and uncertain. I have direction but no plans. This month I've fallen back into my old habits of anxiety and terror, which is very easy to do for a worrywart, and I have (in my mind) much to worry about, many upheavals to deal with, and I somehow have to learn to surf instead of clam up and hide.

Whew, those are bad metaphors, but I'm a little tired, so they'll have to do.

The plan is (with sleep) to reacquire my sense of humor and (with devotions and prayer) to reacquire my sense of peace.

That way my blogs don't come off as whiny.

Love to all.