breaking up is hard to do

I woke up this morning and came to the sad realization that I would be waking up in Charleston (as a student/transfer-South Carolinian/Charlestonian) for the last time.  I graduated yesterday, and while that fills me with pride in my accomplishments and excitement about starting the next chapter of my life, it has also plagued me with sadness and nostalgia.

I have said goodbye to a lot of people I love and "see you later" to the ones who can never be rid of me,  but I am still grievously sad (as anyone within 40 feet of me can attest - I have cried a lot this week).  Why am I so sad though? This is the beginning of something new, even though it means the end of something beloved.   And then I realized why I am so weepy:

I am breaking up with Charleston.

I took this picture at Freshman Orientation, Summer 2008 :)

I once joked on Facebook that I was "in a relationship with the city of Charleston" and "it's complicated."  Complicated because so many people are in the same relationship, I think. Or because in the summer it gets really hot and smells like garbage and/or fish. Sometimes it's hard to love that. But I did.

In the summer I would joke that I was "in a long-distance relationship with the city of Charleston."   I would start to have dreams about just walking the streets, I missed it so much.  And then a month would go by and it would be time to move back. And I would roll down the windows as we drove into the city and say "it smells like beach" and smile.  And I would unpack and take a walk around the city, wishing on several occasions that it were possible to give the city a BIG I-missed-you hug.  (I had to settle for a lamppost. There was gum on it...)

I haven't experienced very many break-ups, and they have never been too devastating, and I think that's because I have never truly been in love.  Until I moved to Charleston.

I know it's a break-up (and that's why I am so inconsolably sad) because:

• Every song is about us.   (me and Charleston, that is.)  Driving home from my parents' hotel room the other night, I heard two songs on the radio and I wanted to cry.  These are songs that I have heard millions of times before and on the surface have nothing to do with graduating or leaving or anything really. They were:
• Hold on Loosely - 38 Special   "usually it's too late when you/ realize what you had/ so hold on loosely/and don't let go...etc."
• Mr. Jones - Counting Crows  "when everybody loves you/ you can never be lonely"
• thank goodness I didn't hear the Cheers theme or James Taylor or "How Far We've Come" or something otherwise reminisce-y.  Looking at these lyrics now, it seems really stupid, but the other night these songs were about meeee.  And that's how I know it's a break-up. Because I am acting crazy.
• When people say "you can still come visit!"  what I hear is "we can still be friends...."  Visiting is such a hollow mockery of our relationship it makes me sad to think about it. I will always belong here, but I won't belong to Charleston the same way ever again.
• I know that this is "for the best" but I don't care. We will both go on to grow and flourish. But I am allowed to be sad about something wonderful ending. So damn it, I will be sad. 

So goodbye, Charleston.

It sucks to leave you.  I will always have a HUGE place in my heart for you and for the College and all the wonderful people I met as a happy consequence of moving here four years ago.  I will miss you. I will miss the Farmer's Market and praline samples and Charleston Christmas traditions and nuns and church bells and crooked streets and lampposts covered in gum and old houses and boarded-up fireplaces and seagulls and the Cooper River Bridge and horse-drawn carriages and alleyways and the Battery and bicycles and the best cupcakes I will ever eat. I will probably never stop dreaming about walking these streets with the people I love.
Stay beautiful, Charleston.  I will be back to visit (we can still be friends).

I've cried a lot about leaving here, but this morning when I looked out my window I knew it was never a one-sided relationship:  Charleston was crying too.

I have been pretty stressed out lately, and noticing a few indicators of anxiety neuroses.

anxiety:  "an unpleasant emotional state for which the cause is either not readily identified or perceived to be uncontrollable or unavoidable"   

yay.

I started to ask questions: When did these start? Why am I so sensitive? Why do I feel like I am stressed or anxious all. the. time? 
How come some people can calm down and not me? (apparently, only 18% of Americans. SO 82% of Americans are anxiety free most of the time! no fair!)
and
Why do I only ever use the left-hand "Shift" key?

That last one has been bugging me for a while now, actually.

Anyway, I started looking back on my life and noticing flare-ups of stress, but a general anxiety blanket over most of my thoughts starting around high school.  So naturally I thought it must have started around there. Something about the universally traumatic experience of post-pubertal development within a public high school plus braces plus orchestra minus cool equals inevitable generalized anxiety problems. 

BUT, as I pointed out earlier, not everyone has these chronic problems. Clearly.

And then, remembered for a completely different reason, a fully formed memory floated into my head:..... (bubbly dream sequence harp playing)...

I was walking behind my church, leaving after some post-Mass event or other, and I was worriedly asking my mother what I would have to know to make my First Communion.  I remember that it was warm and sunny outside, with fluffed pine straw in the landscaping to the right of me and the carpool lane on my left. I remember seeing everything from my much smaller 7-year-old height and the hum of the generator behind the old gymnasium. 
And I remember someone telling me "...you're going to be quizzed on all the priest's homilies. I hope you were paying attention..." 
and all of this, the carpool lane, the generator, the pine straw swirling around me as anxiety scooped me into it's dizzying arms.
 ...I haven't been paying attention, I worried, I'm not going to get it. I'll never get it. I'll be old and wrinkly and no one will give me the Eucharist...

Something in his voice (and the laughter that followed the statement) told me he was kidding, but I couldn't undo the worry. And I didn't - not until I finally did make my First Communion a few agonizing months later (during which I spent every Sunday willing my attention to the priest at his pulpit and begging my brain to remember it). 

And so the pattern goes.

1. Evil thoughts.
2. Needless worry
3. Needless worry
4. must calm down.  CALM DOWN.
5. Oh no!! [insert worry here] is about to happen...
6. Oh, what? [insert worry here] already happened? And everything's fine? Oh. Phew.
7. repeat. ad nauseum.

 Moral of the story: Claire has been like this for a while.

I don't know if you can tell, but I'm about to graduate from college. 
 

don't forget to breathe

Life has been stressful lately. I'm going to live in this song for a while.

And all the suffering that you've witnessed
And the hand prints on the wall
They remind you how it's endless
How endlessly you fall


And the answer that you're seeking
For the question that you found
Drives you further to confusion
As you lose your sense of ground


So don't forget to breathe
Don't forget to breathe
Your whole life is here
No eleventh hour reprieve
So don't forget to breathe

Sorry if this bummed you out.

you CAN come home again

They say you can't go home again. And at least physically, that is not true.

Of course you can get in your car/plane/bus/tardis and travel back to where you grew up/where your family is/where you keep most of your stuff. But often times the place that you get to just isn't the same as you remember.  (that is what the saying means, of course, but, like my brother Ryan said last night "I'm just trying to break it down for you guys")

This always strikes me when I come home for winter break, especially this year.

My brother Daniel has taken over my room upon my absence. The only real change to the room is a lightsaber mounted on the wall and an x-box in the corner but it is enough to remind me that it's not my space anymore. 

And that makes me more than a little sad. And it reminds me that I have a future out there to be worrying about.
(but instead I ignore the scary thoughts about next year and the echos of concerned relatives "what are you going to do? what are you going to do? what are you gonna do?" and burrow myself into another knitting project)

The most radical change - the one that takes the most getting used to and always reminds me that I don't really live here anymore - is the refrigerator. 

this is not our fridge. this is a stranger's fridge, which is what I see every time I come home for the holidays

Every time I come home it's completely different, and it serves as a microcosm of the changes within my own house, my own family.  Sure, the cheese is still in the cheese drawer, the vegetables are still sitting (ignored and browning) in the vegetable "crisper" drawer, but the contents and configuration are constantly changing.

Sometimes completely new foods show up that I have never heard of or foods that should never have been bought (called over my shoulder: "Who eats blue cheese stuffed olives???" response from the living room: "Oh they're really good. Try one! Try- just try one. Just. Try it. Fine! Don't ever say I don't introduce you to new things").  Then again, there is still a bottle of sake in there that has been lurking at the back of the fridge for several years now. I'm not sure where we got it. Or why.  But it's still there.

I am almost always completely thrown off by the refrigerator.  I open it, seeking refuge for my gurgling hunger, and stop short as I glance around and remember I have no idea what is in there (or how long it's been in there).  It's just one more thing that's different. 
One more reminder that I don't live here anymore and I better get on with my life, because things are changing without me.

Wow. blogging therapy.

In the end, the refrigerator becomes normal again.
I learn not to eat that thing in the black tupperware that's been there since before I got home, that blue cheese stuffed olives are pretty delicious, after all, and that home will always be home. It's just waiting for me to normalize.

NYC

30 Rock is filmed in Brooklyn. Sad face.

I just got back from New York!  For the first time in my whole life. Until this weekend, all I knew about New York came from movies and TV.  And in the case of a few of those (like How I Met Your Mother, Friends, Will & Grace, and Seinfeld) they aren't even filmed in New York. Or even on the East Coast.
So all I knew came from

• Jungle 2 Jungle
• Home Alone 2
• Big
• Kate and Leopold
• Someone Like You
• You've Got Mail
• Hitch
• ...I don't need to list these. Just think of pretty much every movie ever made. Except the ones by John Hughes.

Overall, this did not give me a very good idea of what the city is actually like and gave me a weird set of expectations going into this trip.  Mostly that the city of New York exists to be filmed: with wet streets to reflect lights at night and the streets perpetually bustling around a single person as he or she walks slowly, obliviously through them with a look that betrays the fact that their thoughts are far, far away.  Thinking about him. Or her. Or how to keep their superhero costume from bunching under their day clothes.

But surprise(to me)! New York is a real place. That exists. It exists when the cameras aren't there. It exists when the Glee kids aren't dancing around all over the place and the Gossip Girls aren't...gossiping.  So if I learned anything from this trip it's that New York is real and real people really live there.

There are lots of opportunities to take pictures of people taking pictures.

I also learned all those apartments in shows like Friends don't exist. Unless you have a trust fund. Or you're in Brooklyn.


My goals for this trip:

Eat real New York Pizza.

check.

Eat a real New York bagel. 
- Russ and Daughters - check.


Find Bret and Jemaine's apartment.

check.

See a famous person.
- BAM! Saw Brian Williams walking around NBC Studios wearing hipster glasses. - check.

Overall, a COMPLETELY successful trip that surpassed all my expectations and thoroughly exhausted me.

THANKS MALLORY!

girls rule and dogs drool ( a lot)

I took Einstein to the dog park today!

notice the drool that is about to plummet from his mouth to the floor below. number one downside to an exhausted dog.

 This probably wasn't the best idea considering I was freshly showered and would inescapably be flecked with mud within minutes, OR because it is pretty freaking hot outside and Eistein and I have too much hair to really be comfortable (except when in the shade). Yet still we ventured to the park and enjoyed the adventure.

At first, it was just poor Einstein. No friends, no Frisbee skills, incapable of fetching a ball (he doesn't even run after it- how is this possible?).  Then some other dogs showed up and he revealed himself to be That Dog. That jerk dog who play-fights with everything and humps everyone. Bros, bitches, soccer moms. He's not picky, just overly enthusiastic. But he's fixed. Go figure.

Oh, I forgot to mention that these other dogs are attached to people. Presumably their owners, but who can tell? And as I sat at my loner table, reading Tina Fey's Bossypants and periodically intervening to keep Einstein from trying to "dominate" a German Shepherd puppy, I realized that this is about socializing dog owners as much as it is about socializing the dogs. I know what you're thinking: Duh, Claire. Where have you been? And I knew this, but it was illustrated brilliantly to me today.

Women come in with their dog(s), and you exchange pleasantries.  

• What's his/her name?  
• ...What is it? (this means "what breed?" but I take it slightly offensively because my dog isn't clearly identifiable and the supposition is that he must be some sort of mixie. which he is, but whatever.)

who doesn't love a panting pooch and a refreshing beverage?

These people very rarely learn anything about you, however.  The very least they will come to knowing about you is why you named your dog Vermouth or where you can get the best vegan dog food. I overheard one woman today say that she had a live-in dog trainer for four months. A LIVE-IN DOG TRAINER. I think live-in nannies and maids are lush, but a dog-trainer? I quickly realized I was out of my element.
I didn't have any cute stories to share about Einstein ("the little rascal ate poop this morning! It was adorable- like, we give you food, silly thing! Oh, parenting can be tough, right?? Hahaha. Oh, you!") so I decided to let the two women entertain themselves and I cracked open Bossypants and slurped my iced coffee.

That's when I realized: if this is people socialization too, I am failing. Big time. I am that kid in middle school who sits by herself at lunch so she can eat her food and read at the same time. I am the kid who pretends her backpack is taking up too much room so no one will sit next to her on the bus. Oh, who am I kidding? I was that kid in middle school. Why should that change now? I may have thought years of proper socialization and a strong friend group over the last ten years would change that, but again, who am I kidding?

I understand now that just because I didn't jump in to their "my dog is so silly" conversation doesn't mean I am some sort of loner deviant or a taller better-dressed version of Claire in middle school. I might just not be a dog person (the term "dog person" always makes me think "dog-person" like the Egyptian god Anubis) or at least not a coo-over-my-dog person. Which is fine with me. Just as long as I'm not reverting back to this person:

Actually, I look pretty happy to have gotten that i-zone camera, so it might not be so bad. But if I have to be in 6th grade again, I am straight up skipping health class this time.


EDIT: I totally forgot to explicitly say this: Read Bossypants. It is fantastic. Fantabulous. Wowza Hilarious. Read it. You can borrow my copy, because I won't be able to restrain myself from finishing it in the next six minutes. 

my, what big plastic tubes you have grandma

The world is a scary place.

San Diego KGTV reports:

A 91-year-old East County grandmother is getting national attention for making suicide kits. The woman started making the kits after watching her husband die a slow, painful death from colon cancer.

Death Bag and tubes

“I’m doing what I can to improve the world,” she told 10News. “There’s a lot of heartache and difficulty here.” Charlotte makes the kits — which cost buyers $60 — by taking large plastic bags and sewing soft elastic bands around the opening. There is a slot in the bag for a plastic tube carrying helium gas to be inserted. Helium — when inhaled in its pure form — is deadly. Kit users are responsible for securing their own helium gas.

“If heaven is so wonderful, you know you’d naturally want to go there, wouldn’t you?” said Charlotte. Charlotte said her sales were nearly $100,000 last year. That’s more than 1,600 suicide kits.

 This scares me for several reasons.

1. My StumbleUpon apparently thinks this is the kind of story I would be interested in. And it was right. Damn.
2. This woman is 91 years old and not retired. Stop working.
3. Her name is Charlotte, so she reminds me of a spider luring people into her suicide web.
4. This is a really scary way to go! Putting a bag over your head? Filling it with helium? Taking your last breaths as you look at the world through the distortion of the hand sewn plastic death bag? Geez.
5.  Also, THE WORLD IS RUNNING OUT OF HELIUM. AND it's non-renewable! So even if you don't disagree with her on ethical grounds, know that she is ruining birthday parties for the rest of us FOREVER.
6. She is not supplying the helium, so people are forced to interrupt their planned suicide night with a trip to Party City. Also, what's to stop people from getting the helium and making their own Death Bags? besides crippling depression.
7. How does she advertise this? We know it's not word of mouth. It's probably through news reports like this: people see the story on the news and call the station asking for her phone number, claiming to be enraged but secretly wondering if they can get same-day delivery. But why would the news station give out her number? This doesn't add up.         

I just can not understand how this woman is so successful. I did hear recently that there have been more suicides than homicides in the United States in recent years, so I suppose there is a demand, but I never thought there would be such high demand for suicide kits. Or that a kindly 91-year-old would decide to fill that need. Although now I am picturing her more like the "old lady" with the demon head from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

All the better to eat you see you with

Also, I don't believe that killing yourself will be rewarded by admittance past the pearly gates. So she's selling a crock.

The world is a scary place.

Hipster on the Roof: Tradition- you've probably never heard of it.

I overheard an interesting conversation in my Happiness class today, which is pretty unsurprising because there are some pretty interesting people in that class. Like not-really-my-freshman-roommate-girl, Dizzy Teddy and Brah-ms, the girl with the loudest snacks ever, and MetalSlayer guy, to name a few.

Add to this list Red-headed Hipster Guy and Hipster Girl with Immaculate Make-up. These two always sit together, but from my amazing abilities of eavesdropping I have deduced that they do not know each other from outside of class and are not friends. I assume they just gravitated towards the only other person in the room besides themselves dressed head-to-toe in Urban Outfitters.

This hat is $34

She looks like her make-up is professionally done everyday. At first, it was off-putting. (She wears lipstick! Who wears lipstick anymore? She might as well be wearing pantyhose). But now, I am transfixed by the effort she puts into her appearance. Her boots are perfectly scuffed, her clothes look like she just threw them on- which usually means they took serious thought and money- and  her hair is perfect. Immaculate.

He is equally purposefully-unkempt, with longish red hair sticking out of an ironic "vintage" flat-brimmed baseball cap. He too has scuffed boots and effortless style.

For how outwardly interesting these two are, you would think their conversations are equally stimulating. Alas, it is not so. This is what I heard today:

Girl: So, how was your weekend?
Guy: It was...pretty good, you know. Something actually happened to me that has never happened to me before.
(my interest is piqued)
Girl: Oh, really. Cool.
(she shows a natural curiosity.)
Guy: Yeah. The other night, I was on a rooftop. And...I saw another person on a rooftop...
... Which is weird, because not that many people do that. You know? It wasn't like, some air conditioning repairman. It was another dude sitting on a rooftop, like I was. It was weird.
Girl. Huh. Yeah.

Yup. Welcome to your future, America.

As I was leaving, I walked past him and his group talking about their research project: Marijuana and Happiness. Hm.

"Did you know that there are four hundred and fifty-two official government cheeses in this country?"

I am sitting at my desk waiting to leave for Middle School Youth Group, watching an older episode of Parks and Rec, drinking an IBC cream soda, and eating brie and french bread. What a nice Saturday afternoon.

I don't have much to report on besides my recent infatuation with French cheeses.  Last Friday the girls went out to eat at a little place called Fast and French on Broad St. Since it was Friday, I couldn't eat meat so I ate vegetarian escargot instead. Yup. It was just mushrooms in garlic butter with lemon. And a plate of a creamy cow's cheese with a sliced baguette. Mmmmmm....

 Now I am a full-on junkie. The World Cultures Fair was on Wednesday, featuring tables from all the different cultural organizations: the Germans had pretzels, the Indian club was giving henna tattoos, etc. OH and there were five different cheeses at the French club table. Brie. Bleu. Camembert. My tastes are getting too expensive.
Today I sampled a cheese at the grocery store. I ate it before I read what it was. White American. Ew.

What is becoming of me? Am I going to be one of those people who "becomes accustomed to a certain standard of living" and only buy groceries from Fresh Market or Whole Foods?? Will I stop liking Pita Pit and refuse to eat at Taco Bell? I don't want to be that person.

Please. Don't let me get out of control.

EDIT: fueling the obsession: A Cup of Jo: Guide to creating a good cheese plate.

you really got me

Charleston now has a Forever 21 on King St. This bugs me a lot. They put it where there used to be a Saks, and I think the trade significantly influenced the overall feel of downtown shopping. I felt the same way when they put in a Rack Room Shoes where the Banana Republic used to be. It's just... tacky. King St is not cheap tacky, it's rich tacky. Like Tommy Bahama and Lilly Pulitzer.

Now, I don't shop at these places. That's not why it bugs me. I barely shop at all. The most I ever do is gaze into the windows at perfectly dressed mannequins and wish I had more money to throw around. Sometimes I walk in and check the clearance racks while trying to avoid the attention of the people working in the store. And still more frequently, I simply walk past each store and think about which character from Arrested Development the clothes would most suit. GOB. Lindsey. Lucille. George Michael.

When Forever 21 opened they had a free gift card promotion, so it was impossible to get into the first week. But when I finally let myself wander in there (cheap clothes! even if they do tend to fall apart and have a horrible return policy) I was astounded. It is at least THREE times bigger than the one at the mall near my house. There is a section for about five or six different "looks" including what appears to be "Americana," hobo-chic, "nautical," and neon spray paint. They have a men's section and a kids section. They have enough shoes to shoe an army of overlarge centipedes. It is, in a word, overwhelming.

The first time I went was simply a reconnaissance mission. I wandered around for a bit and left. The check out line was at least 50 people long. I wish I were exaggerating.

On Friday my mitten-quotes professor had too many technical difficulties trying to get the projector to work, so he let us out of class early. About 40 minutes early.

I decided to take a walk on this beautiful Friday morning, and found myself down at Forever 21. I puttered around for a bit, looking and touching and trying and pricing. I remembered hearing someone tell me that all these clothes are cheap because they are made by poor little children in cramped sweat shops, and I looked at the items in my hands and thought I can't buy these, that would be awful. Then I remembered what Kala told me after I talked to her about the sweat shop kids (awesome band name? or too evil?): "Maybe if you buy more of the clothes, they can pay the kids more money!"

So on that faulty logic, I left having purchased a new shirt and some cute slip-on shoes.


Later that day, while wearing my new cuteness, I got whistled at by some douchey-looking guys at Andolini's. I didn't know whether to be flattered, creeped out or indignant. It's just something that happens when you put a pizza place next to the school gym/weight room: the guys get hungry after a workout and surge with "I-can-conquer-the-world" endorphins/adrenaline and "Oh-look-at-that-chick" testosterone. It was really funny to hear them try to whistle as I walked past. It came out more like whewpppthhpoooppthh.

Question to the male species: Why do you do this? Do you expect me to hear the whistle, turn around, and say "Oh, that was for me? Thank you. You look cute as well. Let's date. May I sit on your lap while you hang out with your equally repugnant male friends? You sure do know how to get a lady."

I see you, CofC

I see you, girl in front of me at Einstein's.
Someone explain to me the sorority girl paradox that makes every girl in the Greek system look either perfectly put together (like right before the Mallard Ball!) or like a pile of laundry that has become self aware and put on make-up.

Einstein's girl has clearly just finished a run. She is wearing a t-shirt from the mixer last year and bright athletic shorts. This attire alone would not lead me to the conclusion that she had just exercised, because if you pair the shirt and shorts with Uggs, a Lilly Pulitzer tote and a Tervis tumbler full of something brown (usually Diet Coke or iced tea...or bourbon??), you get the cookie cutter sorority girl as she appears in class 5 days a week. What convinced me was the splash of dirt on the back of her calves that meant she probably ran by some puddles or through wet grass. Sometimes I like to be Sherlock Holmes.

So she had obviously been for a run, but she also had a full face of make-up on. And not the slightly smudged well-I-just-didn't-wash-it-off-from-last-night make-up. This was fresh stuff. So she had either a) put on make-up to go for a run (why??) or b) gone for a run, then put on make-up to come to Einstein's, but didn't take the time to shower. She also took off her running shoes and had sandals on instead. (This is more than can be said for her friends. Two of them had on Uggs and one girl did not have any shoes on at all. This ain't the beach, this is an eating establishment!)

After I noticed the make-up, I also noticed that she had at least three HUGE hickeys on her neck. This has nothing to do with the rest of the story. I tried to fit this into my story for her, but I just can't.

So, girl in front of me at Einstein's, you confound me. You embody all the contradictions and stereotypes of the modern sorority sister. Slouchy but not comfortable. Sloppy yet put together. Like there was intention behind your outfit, but it seemed to be "why put on real clothes just to go to class? I save those for the weekends and going out drinking on weekday nights."
I save comfy clothes for weekends and staying in on weekday nights. Maybe this is where my confusion comes from. We're too different. And yet, we both exist here, we both got into this college. We must serve as parts of a continuum. I just don't know exactly where I fit on that line. It must be somewhere between pearls and PBR.

In love with the problem problem:

Why I <3 my classes.

As a freshman I took a class called Intro to Academic Writing, because I was naive and listened to my previously-unknown-to-me Honors adviser, who said that since I had already completed my English requirement with AP classes I should take this intro class to help me write papers in college. I unwittingly signed up, and did not realize until the first or second week of classes what "Introduction to Academic Writing" actually meant. It meant reading journal articles, analyzing "academic" writing styles and teaching me a trick called the "quote sandwich," which I still use in all my papers to this day. However, the most important thing I took from this class was "the problem problem."

In an article by Gerald Graff, he describes the "problem problem" in the academic community as the "tendency to make seemingly obvious assumptions explicit" and a "general obsession with searching for problems where often there do not seem to be any." I was relieved in reading this article that someone else had noticed how "academics" tend to create issues where there don't seem to be issues simply to have something to write about, and thus securing their employment through "searching for problems where there don't seem to be any." While in this class, I discovered a resentment towards academics, or perhaps my professor, for writing things I had to read about which did not need to be read about at all. Perhaps this is more the case in liberal arts disciplines, perhaps not. I just knew I was fed up with reading articles and writing papers about “Revision Strategies of Student Writers and Experienced Adults." Do we really need to analyze how people revise their writing? It happens, it's over, move on.

More recently, however, as I began seeing the problem problem as the underlying architecture for every college course I have ever taken (and therefore higher education in general, I believe), I realized that I do not hate the problem problem as strongly as I thought. In fact, I LOVE it.

Case in point: Happiness.

This semester, I am taking a class called Happiness. That's it. That's the whole name of the class. It is a Psychology class AND a Philosophy class, so we have two professors, 70 students (which is about as big as it gets at CofC) and a whole curriculum of the problem problem.

I noticed in my Family and Childhood Issues class that Psychology is about a lot of unknowns. Most things can not be measured in this discipline, and most of the things that can be measured can not be measured reliably, like happiness. We spent most of the class supplying questions as answers, discussing what influences a child's development: "What about his SES?" "Maybe there is a history of illness?" "Parental discord or harmony?"
My Happiness class is slightly more concrete, but only because Philosophy is a different discipline. Instead of inventing questions to define the situation, each person invents answers. That is why each Philosopher has his own "ism" or theory he is associated with.  There are dualists, idealists, hedonists, and anarchists. So when you get a group full of Question majors in a room with a group full of Answer majors, interesting things happen.

I love this class. I love all my classes because of the problem problem. When there is nothing left to write about, make something to write about.
And read that book, because so far it is excellent.

I wish...

I wish it would stop being cold.
I know it's not that cold. I still don't like it.

I wish people from my high school/university would quit getting married. It's freaking me out.

I wish my scholarship would apply for itself. ...wait.

I wish I hadn't eaten popcorn for dinner. Or seen How Do You Know. How do you know it's gonna be an awful movie? Answer: you don't. Not for a while. You get drawn in by Paul Rudd and Reese Witherspoon, who (separately) have not steered you wrong in the past, and you spend the whole two hours wondering how this movie is going to pull itself together and then it doesn't.

I wish Facebook would stop showing me pictures of people I don't want to see. I am sure there is a way to block this, but I am too lazy to do anything but complain.

I wish Hogwarts was real. Wait, no. Then that would mean...nevermind.

I wish that the groundhog sees his damn shadow. Or whatever means no more winter.

I wish Brother would put more songs up.

I wish I could go back to Charleston without having to go back to class.

Happy Epiphany everyone!

squeeeek

It is 47 degrees outside.

OK, so this week is hell week.I can;t wait for it to be over so that I can start taking finals! Never thought I would say that. I have spent the past several nights in the library until late o'clock (I finally took advantage of the library being open 24/7- which means after 2- last night. I am both very proud and very tired.) and I have learned a few things:

when it is the same level of pitch darkness outside from 5PM to 5AM, it is difficult to fully comprehend how late it is, but there are a few ways to tell it is way too late to be up studying (if I were up late doing fun things, it would never be "too late." puh. I'm a disco night owl.):

• no one is out on the street when I come back from the library. It kinda feels like a zombie movie: nearly everyone is gone, hidden away somewhere, and the people on the streets are dangerous and have a glazed look in their eyes (these are just the student smokers sitting outside the library). 
• the night watchman is at the desk instead of a student. They are nice guys, usually. But come on, there is a reason they work at night.
• I am ravenously hungry but too lazy to do anything about it. I need more snacks.
• I might microwave an empty cup. Or forget my keys again. These are both signs that tell me it's finals week. 

On the bright side, I feel much more capable as a writer! After finishing a 7 page paper for Spanish IN SPANISH, everything I write in English comes much easier. It's like a faucet has been opened and all my words just come flowing out. Yesterday it was more like trying to get that last bit off shampoo to come out of the bottle. It feels wasteful to throw the bottle away with that last half inch in there but it just will NOT come out without serious acrobatics that should not be done on a wet slippery surface or some seriously funny noises echoing around the bathroom.

Anyway. Finals next week. Looking like a cake walk compared to this.
Cue lightening bolt.

so now you know

So I was on Facebook the other day (big surprise), absentmindedly flipping through profiles, browsing friends of friends etc. I found a girl's profile (let's call her Mandy) that had been protected, like many are, from peering eyes like mine, I guess. Or from creepier ones.

A lot of my friends do this- maybe to their shield less-than-proper behavior from employers or graduate school admissions or judgy family members. Personally, I subscribe to the school of thought that if you put it on the internet, it can be seen by anyone who tries hard enough, so if it's embarrassing or not fit to be viewed by your grandmother, DON'T POST IT. Not that hard. Of course I have blocked my two youngest brothers from some things, because Ryan once posted CLAIRE HAS A BOYFRIEND several times all over my wall. Y'know, mature stuff like that.

Back to the story. Mandy has blocked non-friends from seeing her wild spring break pictures, her interests, and her wall (so you can't see the comments like "Woahhh, you were totes puking all over your shoes last night! Did you ever find out that guy's name??? Luvs XXX"). Smart.

However, it does have her basic information: name, school, relationship status ("it's compicated"), political views and religious beliefs. And listed on her oh so limited profile, which is otherwise closely guarded and relatively impenetrable to judging eyes, it says

Religious beliefs: Cantheism.

For those of you who don't know what that means (and I was one of you until I wikied it), Wikipedia has this to say:

"Cantheism, also Kantheism, is a modern term for religions based on the inherent goodness of the cannabis plant"

It goes on to say:

"Observance of Cantheist rites are beneficial but not mandatory. These include the regular consumption of cannabis, offering thanksgiving and blessing for cannabis when you partake, and sharing the holy smoke among the faithful."

So now you know.

It also provides a link to an incredibly legitimate website, that in no way looks like it was created 9 years ago by someone who was undoubtedly high and lazy.

i know i'm back in chucktown

I know I'm back in Charleston because...

1. my legs are killing me (walking walking walking. Actually, now I've passed the pain and achy stage and I have moved on to the nice legs phase. Score.)
2. I stopped biting my nails! But that'll come back once homework gets serious again.
3. I go through clean clothes like Kleenex- I must wear at least three outfits a day, because I just keep sweating through stuff. Or changing to play glow frisbee in the dark!
4. I haven't slowed down since I got here. Funny how I thought I'd get a break once I moved back...
5. if you stand still in one place long enough, you will get dripped on. By something.
6. there is already sand all over everything. Everything. It's in my wireless mouse. (?)
   
7. I keep forgetting to eat. Which is weird, but usually happens when I'm really busy and stop listening to my body (it's usually whining about sweating and achy legs...)

Anyway, I hope after this week things will finally slow down a bit. Or at least work out a rhythm.

NOW, off to my first day of classes for Family Development and Human Sexuality.


Those are separate classes. Just to be clear.

what's with all the dystopia?

So I finally picked up my next book for book club, A Clockwork Orange.

When we were deciding on books in the spring, most of the suggestions were ones we never read in high school but felt like we should have. So far, East of Eden has been my favorite and is going on my list of Top Ten Books I Didn't Want to Read Originally, But Ended Up Enjoying. Included on the list are Name of the Wind and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? However, I don't think this new book is going to make that list (but then again, that's the nature of the list, isn't it?)

I'm getting a bit burnt out on dystopia. So many of the books we read in high school take place in a sad, grey future where problems during the date of publication are amplified to the nth degree. Books like Farenheit 451, Anthem, 1984, and Brave New World paint pictures of a dismal future where everyday man has accepted a life without books, or names, or become dependent on drugs like soma to endure the sad state of the world. Even my favorite book in elementary school, The Giver, depicts a future without color and without memory.

I fear for the future. I am sure that within 50 years, the oceans will be polluted or dried up, nuclear war will break out, robots will rebel, and aliens will plumb our green planet for needed resources. And I am "sure" of this because of the countless books I have read that tell me that our future is depressing and dark. That the sun will burn out and men and women will be used as batteries for large sentient machines.Look at the movie Wall-E! Earth is a dump, humans have fled the earth, and the only creature remaining in the rubble (that doesn't require solar charging) is a cockroach. No doubt the people that produce these movies and novels hope to influence people; to induce change and new thinking that could save us. But I don't feel empowered and capable of change. I feel crushed by the weight of outstanding evidence that tells me the future will suck. I feel powerless and scared.

The only solution to NOT feeling scared, I believe, is to stop reading these books. But it may be too late. Especially since I have to read this one for book club.

OR I can just concentrate on the movies and books with good futures. Like...

• Back to the Future II
• Star Trek
• ...that's all I can think of.