Institute reflection guide

I found my post-Institute reflection from this summer, and reading it again at the end of the year may have helped me to re-focus. I was terrified of starting Teach for America in Chicago and later teaching in Jacksonville, but this is how I felt after I had made it through five weeks of "teacher boot camp". I'd like to share it here for anyone who wants to read it.

I came into Institute practically terrified of…just about everything.  Even before being accepted into the corps I had started to hear horror stories of Institute and tireless work, no sleep, and demon children our for blood.  I heard that we would cry everyday, and while some said that that was expected and it was OK, others simply quoted “a sad teacher is a bad teacher.”  Thank you for preying on my worst fears, I would think.  It’s not like my nightmare is being the most ineffective, sad teacher in Chicago and later Jacksonville…  No, I am of course supremely confident in my inexperience and lack of teacher skills. Please continue telling me how hard I am about to fall on my face.  I was worried, maybe understandably.   But then something wonderful happened:  Institute started. 

I was so consumed with figuring out all the intricacies of living at IIT, navigating the L, making sure I didn't miss my bus (whoops, guess I did a bad job of that one), and trying not to miss all my sessions, that I was surviving Institute, even succeeding in it, simply because I was forced to look at everyday minute by minute, session by session, day by day. 

I have had some horrible days here.  Days where I bomb my lesson by teaching to the wrong objective or executing bad classroom management or missing my bus or getting my schedule switched at the last second or finally “breaking the seal” and crying at school (and then later into my macaroni and cheese at dinner).  Oh, did I mention all of those things happened on the same day? Yep.

Institute tried to break me – but because I had tensed myself for battle, I was ready for it.  And despite my penchant for crying when I get frustrated or overwhelmed, I spent all but two days here dry-eyed.   I took every day as a new challenge.  Each new lesson plan was another chance at inspiring my kids and teaching them something they had been told they “just can’t learn.” I hope that this mindset carries over into my region, because as of right now, it is saving my life. 

It has. It did. 

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.

procrastiknitting, meet procrastiblogging.

Things that I am thinking about right now:

1. I don't want to be writing this paper.  

Prompt: If you'd been put in charge of raising you, what would you do the same and what would you do differently? What "risk factors" do you think you could have avoided? 

Seriously. "Tell me how your parents messed you up. Be explicit. Also, be explicit enough to fill 2-3 pages single spaced."
I told my mom about having to write this and all she said to me was "Don't let me read it. I don't want to read it."  Relax, Mom. I'm trying to figure out a way to write this paper but not write this paper.



      2.  ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT IS COMING BACK!!  

I feel like shouting it from the rooftops! Which I could probably do because we have access to the fire escape.
 
      3.  I would rather be using this time to finish knitting my sweater.

I only have the sleeves left to do. Well, and 8" of the right side...but if I play my cards right, I could be finishing that to.night. If I ever write this damn paper.

This is what it's going to look like. (pictures to prove my skill later)

OK, no more procrastiknitting or procrastiblogging.  Time to settle into this awful paper.

Good night.

this type

"Claire!"

My ears prick up at my name. I am walking from the MARTA station to my office and halfway through one of the tunnels between two buildings (the kind that go over the street) when I hear someone call my name. Who would be calling my name this far from the office? Maybe it's one of the people I work with who ride MARTA.

Anyone who knows my name can't be a stranger.

I turn around to face the person who has called my name.   ...And I do not recognize this person.  He is about my height, mid forties, African-American, bespectacled. I've definitely never seen him before.  But how could he know my name?
Maybe I met him around the office.  Maybe someone directed him to one of the interns because he needed help on a project.

I put on my polite face.

He says hi, and allows his business card to do the introduction.  He talks to me about working in the building, asks me about my job, what I am doing, what I am studying etc.  It dawns on me that the only way he could have known my name is if he had read it off my ID badge.

As the topics get more personal, I realize this is not a business transaction.  And then as he walks with me through the lobby towards the elevators, my suspicions are confirmed.

"So, what are your lunch plans?"

I told him it was my last week of work and burrowed myself through people deep into the back of the elevator.

It's happened again!  Sometimes people have a "type" that they date/are attracted to...but what if a type has you?

I did not get this kind of creeper attention before...

1. I got a job, and
2. I got my hair cut.

This damn Zooey Deschanel hair is just too cute for its own good. And all kinds of creepers are getting trapped in it like a fisher's net. Made of bangs.
 

Oh, Zooey.

one more New York story

I'm trying to decide the best way to tell this story. It needs to accurately convey my emotional states through every point: exposition, rising action, climax, denoument, the whole enchilada*. So here goes.

(*side note: don't ever use the phrase "the whole enchilada" in an essay on an exam about Skinner's learning principles, or your professor will leave the comment "...no" next to it and [along with the receipt of a crappy grade in the first place] reduce you to a shapeless mess of low self-esteem noodles in tepid weak sauce)

The last advice Mallory gave to me before heading to New York for the first time ever was

"Make sure you get a window seat on the left side. You'll get to see Manhattan from the plane as you fly in!"

So when I checked into the airport and picked my seat at the ticket printer, of course I got the last left-side window seat. 30A. Success.  Boy, I thought, what a super lucky day for me.

As I boarded the plane, I realized I was not so lucky after all.  For some reason, this was the stupidest plane ever and there was a big ole jet engine obscuring my view.

I took my window seat and began to read my book.  The man in the seat next to me (the aisle seat - this plane had a [][]  [][][] set up) sat down as he was chatting to his friend. They were play-arguing about how many apps he had on his iPhone.

"I've got everything I need. Why would I put anything else on here? ...yeah I know, that does sound cool. But I don't need anything fancy! I've got what I need, I'm happy, leave me alone!  hahaha"   

Hmmm, I thought, that is the most sensible iPhone user I've ever eavesdropped on. A few minutes later, he broke the silence between us, the pointed silence created between two people on public transportation (and that's all a plane is, really. Public transit. Just like taking the bus!), to say

Plane guy: Don't let me hog the arm rest. I'm always hogging this thing.  (friendly smile)
Me: Oh, no, I'm fine. Thanks though.
      (inner monologue): Shit. Now when he does hog the arm rest I'm not allowed to get upset about it. ...Wow, I am pretty crammed up against this window. I look like I'm trying as hard as I can to be as far away from him as possible. And he's just trying to be nice. (I try to loosen up my body and unroll from the ball I have hunched myself into.)

 Then, a few minutes later:

Plane guy: So, whatcha readin'?
Me: (tilts book to show cover) It's one of the Game of Thrones books. It's the second one. It's pretty good. But I don't usually read fantasy so... I dunno. I like it, I guess. (inner monologue): Why am I talking so much?? I'm one of those annoying plane people. No. Wait a minute. Why is this middle-aged man interrupting my precious book reading time by asking stupid questions?  ...He must be one of those nervous fliers who talks to people to pass the time and distract him from worrying about his impending fiery death.

So, in an act of kindness from the "hey, this guy could be Jesus" school of thought that I learned from my mother, I indulged his chatting.  We talked about what I was studying in school (a lot to say) and the city of Atlanta (less to say) and local sports teams (even less to say).  He asked my advice about schools and SAT scores because it turns out his "friend" sitting in the aisle next to us was actually his sixteen year old son.

Eventually, I realized our conversation was none too interesting, and I began to check the time more and more frequently. But I kept smiling, because I had no way of escaping the conversation (I couldn't think of a cleverer way to say "Can you please stop talking now, I'd like to read at least two pages of my book before we land, thanks.") But as I've learned before, my please-let-this-conversation-be-over-soon smile is virtually indistinguishable from my you're-my-favorite-person-ever smile, at least to people who don't know me.

As the plane began to lose altitude, I finally got my first view of the city.

taken by snaking my camera-arm around the sleeping woman in front of me

Then the man next to me turns to me to shake my hand.

Plane Guy: I just realized this whole time we've been talking and I don't even know your name.
Me: Sorry! I'm Claire.  (no last names. my momma didn't raise no fool)
Plane Guy: Claire? Claire. nice name. I'm *****.   ...hey listen, Claire. I was wondering, I'd like to have your number. 

UM WHAT. wait, wait, wait. Maybe this man is just trying to be nice. He knows I have never been to New York before, and he probably wants to exchange numbers in case I get lost or need help. Or maybe to give to his son? Claire, you never should have told him you've never been to New York before. He'll probably murder you. Don't give him your number. WAIT, unless if you don't give it to him you make him angry, leading him to murder you. Walking on a razor's edge... 

Me: Um...O...K.... it's ***-***-**** (give him a fake area code. genius. that way, there's no hesitation when I roll off the numbers, so he won't get wise and murder me on the plane.)

Plane Guy: "yeah, I was thinking we could grab lunch sometime at Atlantic Station...
WHAT. NO.

...maybe grab a glass of wine...

FULL OF RUFIES AND POISON????

...you are old enough to drink, right?"

CREEPY DUDE, you KNOW I am in college. Also, your 16 year old son is watching you try to make lunch plans with a 20 year old girl from the plane. I WILL NOT BE HIS NEW MOM.

At this point,  I am refusing to move my head at all. I am staring straight ahead, towards the front of the plane where the stewardesses are ushering people off the plane. Away from other creepy passengers. To safety.

Me: Um, no, my birthday is in a month.
Plane Guy: (playfully) Well you do eat, don't you?
Me: Um... (the blood has drained from my face) yeah (I am petrified by uncomfortableness and fear of upsetting a potential murderer)

Plane Guy stands up and begins to get his belongings from the overhead bins. (Thank you, Jesus)  He has stopped talking to me and I am using the silence as an opportunity to plan my escape route. Then he looks over at me, and adds as an afterthought:

Plane Guy: Hey Claire, ...you tall?

How the hell am I supposed to answer that? I believe I replied something to the effect of

Me: uh, kinda, but not as tall as my DAD or my THREE BROTHERS. They're tall. And pretty muscly. Quick to anger too. And as protective as mother geese. So, I dunno. Does that answer your question?

I then waited for everyone else to exit the plane, hoping that this man would get far far ahead of me.  Then, just for good measure, I hid in the women's bathroom for about 20 minutes.

Welcome to New York City, Claire!

married to the Eiffel Tower

So I've just finished watching a documentary called Married to the Eiffel Tower.  It's about three women who are objectum sexuals.
"Objectum sexuality" or object sexuality is defined by Wikipedia as

"a pronounced emotional and often romantic desire towards developing significant relationships with particular inanimate objects. Those individuals with this expressed preference may feel strong feelings of attraction, love, and commitment to certain items or structures of their fixation."

One woman married the Eiffel Tower a few years before the production of this documentary.  She is also a world champion archer, and developed a particularly strong relationship with her bow, Lance.  She also has significant relationships with the Golden Gate Bridge, a samurai sword, various wooden gates and the Berlin Wall. Throughout the movie, we get to see several moments of this woman and her fellows caressing buildings, sharing a bed with miniature models, and visiting their significant others (some of which are in different continents).

Mrs. Eiffel Tower visited Berlin to see her lover:
To the Berlin Wall: "I tried to hate you. I tried. ...I curse myself for being human. I wish I were an object like you!"

This movie is just as interesting as I had hoped it would be and is filled with leagues of psycho-data to analyze and think about.  The only part that made me marginally upset was that these women (all objectum sexuals are women, according to the documentary) claimed to love these objects soooo deeply.  With more passion and depth than most human relationships.  But they also loved so many at the same time.
Does Mrs. Eiffel Tower have no respect for the sanctity of marriage? She spends a great deal of her married life fawning over the  Berlin Wall (who is married to another woman in Sweden, the scoundrel) and falling in love with every red fence she sees with just the right angles. 

The documentarian fails to reveal that objectum sexuals believe in polygamy until the last ten minutes of the film. 

Anyway, I learned something today! Someone else watch this so we can have a chat!

things I think about in the airport...

I'd like to share a few examples of how my mind occupies itself when its plane is delayed for two hours. I scribbled down a few starts for things to eventually blog and apparently today is "eventually." Here they are.

I have a habit of, every once in a while, looking around and thinking "these are the people."

These are the people I will be trapped in this elevator with.
These are the people who will be left alive with me if everything in the world is destroyed except for this room. Everything  except for this specific bank of seats in the B gates at the LaGuardia airport.
These are the people who might (in a survival situation) look at me and think to themselves "could I eat a human being?" Or, you know, vice versa.
These are the people I will be stranded on a deserted island with (if somehow this plane from New York to Atlanta flies over a deserted island. Or an ocean for that matter).

These are the people.

please don't let me spend my last hours on a MARTA train

I will scan the faces of the people around me, trying to judge their character by the way that they talk or laugh or whether they move their stuff and offer the seat next to them. He's a good guy, I think. But will his kindness make him weak? These are the kind of things you need to know. 
(Additionally, which one of these people is most likely to stab me? The small Asian boy. Watching Power Rangers on his iTouch. Just trying to be a hero.)

So this is who I'm stuck with, I think. I already hate the way that woman cackles at her cell phone. That guy over there didn't even bring a book to an airport. He's clearly not the survival type. That muscly guy on his laptop could be useful... Maybe he's a g-man or an ex-cop. 
So as people around me stress about having to deplane and where Gretchen put her boarding pass ("is it in your bag? It's GOTTA be in your bag cuz it sure as HELL ain't in mine!") I am assembling my team. And deciding who to leave behind if we find an abandoned working vehicle in our now post-apocalyptic landscape. 
...I'm looking at you, cackling cell phone lady.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

mmmm light pollution

As my plane was flying over New York on the way back home, I looked down on the sparkling city below.  I had already been delayed 3 hours and thought I might sleep on the plane until I got distracted by the view outside my cabin window.

Then my sense of geography started to fail me.
If that's New York, and we're on the East Coast...it looks like we're going further East right into the ocean! Or maybe North to Canada??  

This worry (that the pilot had no idea where he was going and I was going to be stranded in Canada for the night) began to creep into my thoughts and disrupt my reading.

"Tobacco,  introduced to London the year after Shakespeare's birth,...  

Oh no what if the flight is actually going to Canada?

...was a luxury at first but soon gained such widespread popularity... 

I got in the right gate. Right? B8. Yeah. I got in the right gate. My ticket was scanned. It made that satisfying "ping" noise that means I am supposed to be on this plane.

...that by the end of the century there were no fewer than seven thousand tobacconists in the City....  

Dad would be so upset if he drove all the way to the airport at midnight and I'm actually in Canada.

...It was employed not only for pleasure but as a treatment for a broad range of complaints... 

no. they won't be upset. They'll be worried, won't they? I'll probably end up crying if I have to call home and say I accidentally ended up in Canada.

...including venereal disease,... 

but NO. I won't cry. I'm an adult. I'm a grown-ass woman. I just went to New York all by myself!

...migraine,...

I'll take care of everything. I can get myself a hotel or something, and email work to explain my absence and book a new flight and - yeah. I'll be fine. 

...and even bad breath." 

Shit, I have to read that whole passage again. Didn't take in a word of it.

(excerpts from Bill Bryson's Shakespeare: The World as Stage)

how do you know?

When does one discover that he or she is immortal?

Surely it's not all as cut and dry as vampires make it seem. Sure, you get sired, you die, you rise again, you live forever. Never aging past that point.

But then there are stories like Tuck Everlasting. All the poor Tuck family did was drink from a spring! And there was no warty old witch or enchanted crow or strongly-worded sign to warn them against it. They were just thirsty.

don't drink the Kool-aid, Rory

In the book, the family discovers they are immortal because some mortal peril befalls their cat (or horse? it's been a while)  but the cat doesn't die. Like magic or something. And then the horse gets injured, and one of the family gets mortally wounded or something - anyway! No one dies. Musta been that darn spring water!

BUT what if it's not that easy? What if some new magic made you immortal and you had no way of tracing it back?  It could have been as simple as eating an avocado between 12:36 and 12:37 AM on a Friday the 13th.  It could have been winning six games of Monopoly in a row (maybe over several years).  It could have been letting an old lady have your seat on the bus (because, let's face it, most old ladies on the bus are probably gypsies). 

but then again, gypsies come in all shapes and sizes. Don't drink the Kool-aid, Meryl Streep!

My point is, when do you start to notice you're not aging? In our society, it's possible to avoid mortal injury for several years at a time! How are you supposed to know you're immortal if it was an accident?
Eventually the comments have to stop being "Jen, you look amazing!" and start sounding more like "That bitch Jen is back. How is her- what is her... face... doing- how does she...? ...Bitch."  And even then, when would you start to notice?

I sure hope I'm not accidentally immortal.
Everyone would hate or fear me, I'd outlive everyone I love, and I'd have to see 6 more Transformers movies squeeze their way into theaters.

and to think some people would kill to live forever...

I'm lookin at you, Voldemort.

Mob mentality

It's pretty clear I am avoiding writing a paper. Technically, I am avoiding researching for a research paper. Which is dumb because that may be the easiest part. This is my third research paper in three weeks, and I have a rhythm down. I just don't feel like being in the rhythm right now. So I am listening to Alexi Murdoch and Brother and Freelance Whales and allowing myself to get distracted.

Now a little story.

I came back from my extra long meeting (planning next year for CSA) and sat down to my computer, resigning myself to actually do work. If I get down the research on paper, take a few pages of notes, and do the bibliography, all I have to do is write 7-9 pages tomorrow! Cake. 

I checked my email and this was the only new message:
(that's not sad, it means I am on top of things. For now.)

(Important: This is not exaggerated, but copied straight from my inbox.)

Sender: Lauren R*****

Subject: REMINDER: Meeting today

Hey Guys!

This is just a reminder about our meeting today at 5pm at Stern Center Gardens. Look forward to seeing you there!   -Lauren

Um. What.

• I have no idea who this girl is. Luckily, she has a really distinctive name like Lauren, so I can narrow it down to 500 girls at this school. And 5 or 6 dudes.
• I have NO IDEA what club or organization this is for, and she doesn't bother to say.
• I had Mass at 5, so I couldn't go anyway.

Then I started to think what if this wasn't my fault? What if this is a brilliant ploy to create an "accidental" flash mob?

Picture it: This email goes out to everyone on campus. It's bland enough to apply to anyone, any group, any meeting. In the rush of exams, group projects and final papers, everyone is forgetting things and shirking responsibilities. A student receives this email and thinks "oh no! I forgot. I can't tell what this is for, but I should head over to see what it's about just in case."
When hundreds of people think the same way, you have droves of semi-curious anxious students wandering around Stern Center with a look that asks "did I leave my keys over here?" and BAM. You've got yourself a flash mob of unintentional flash-mobbers.

Or is it flash-mobsters?



EDIT: It was not a flash mob, it was for some honor society thing. If I had bothered to search my inbox for her name I would have found that out. But congrats to my friend Aaron on being president!

when Irish eyes are smiling

OK, something happened this weekend and I haven't even written about it yet. Tragic. Typical.

On Saturday night I went to a St. Patrick's day party. Not as a guest, mind you, but as entertainment. Yep.
This does not mean I was a magician, comedian, dancer, clown, mime or one of those people at Disney that dress up like the cartoons and talk in a high-pitched voice to sound more like the character.

I got paid (PAID!) to play Irish fiddle. For a crowded house party full of AARP members.  ...that's just speculation. They're probably not all members. People under 50 at this party:

• Me
• friends I brought: Shane, Jenna, Katelyn
• that 25 year old from down the street who lives with his parents
• two Irish dancers, high-schoolers, one of which looked like she might be hiding a shiv in their hairpiece.

To get to this house we had to drive 30 minutes out of downtown and into the 'burbs, through the marshland, past the gatekeeper (who incorrectly told us we were late, jerk), past the boat parking lot (that's right. a parking lot. for boats. in a gated community. these people were sitting on some money) to the house with the green lights in the bushes.

I played for a while, then paired with a 65-year old on the accordion. A man I found out (through the mysterious connecting the dots I somehow learned from my mother) that he has danced at some feis (fesh) recently in New Jersey with my Aunt Dia who lives in New Orleans. It's a small world after all.

Katelyn left with the 25 year old's number, I gave mine to the accordion player and left with a nice chunk of change in my pocket. Not because I gave my number to an old guy. Because of the fiddling.

I played some singing songs for drunken red-faced Irishmen and at one point during the night an older gentleman came over to me and leaned in close to my face. I hate it when people do that. I smile widely, uncomfortably. Throughout the party, all I have been doing is grinning like an idiot. Partly because I am happy this gig isn't turning into the disaster I'd feared, and also because I don't know what else to do with my face. I'm expecting him to say something deeply heartfelt and appreciative about my playing, and then he opens his mouth. "You," he says, angling his eyes at me, "have nice teeth."
Why thank you, please feel free to contact my dentist Dr. Leach and Dr. Awbrey, my orthodontist, for comments and/or questions.
Mind you, this is a different fellow than the man who said, "they've got great legs!"  after the Irish dancer's mother explained the intensity and dedication required by the sport.

It turned out to be a nice night, and way less embarrassing or difficult than I had anticipated. Shane took a video of me playing one of my tunes, the High Reel. Feel free to watch. At one point I stumbled a bit because I looked up and saw a man staring at me from the kitchen.

Dizzy Teddy and Brah-ms

I think it's safe to say that the worst word pair you can hear in a classroom is "group project."

...followed closely by "gas leak" or "cumulative final."

My Happiness class (which is slowly becoming an ironic title) has a group project component. We have to make up our own research question about happiness and design a research study and...

I already don't want to do this. I hope this isn't a reflection on my interest level in the subject! It's probably just a representation of my horrible work ethic. For example, I have a research paper due next Wednesday and I was all gung-ho to start writing/accumulating research and instead I sat down to my computer and started blogging. Blerg.

Anyway, group projects. Every group project is the same.  No matter how many members, it could be two, it could be ten, there will be ONE person whose schedule is days ahead of everyone else. This person makes the others feel lazy, but to appease this member, the others pump out whatever they were supposed to contribute according to the Proactive Person's schedule. How is that fair? It's not. But life isn't fair, as I was reminded constantly as a child.

There is also always AT LEAST one  incompetent slacker who has decided to ride on the coattails of the other group members, who are all really just towed behind the Proactive Person. Incompetent Slacker will finish his/her assignment at the last possible second and rarely be on time/show up to group meetings in the library.

During my last group project, I discovered that I was the slacker for the first time in the history of my education. I felt terrible to be bringing down my group, but then I discovered how liberating it was not having to carry the rest of the group as Ms. Proactive. And now I am spoiled and I don't want to be that person ever again. It's a vicious cycle. Actually, it's more like when you realize that the backpack you have been lugging around all day is 470 pounds and if you carry your books to class one at a time instead of being prepared for everything all the time, you are much more comfortable.
I mean I guess. I haven't taken my books to class since freshman year.

So in Happiness class, we are charged to make groups of four. I look at the three people in my immediate area.

1. Thom (see RLS: MetalSlayer) 
2. Thom's metal friend, who looks like a teddy bear that has been through the dryer one-too-many times. His hair sticks up, fluffy, and there is a slight dizzy look to him as he talks about the freaktacular MetalSlayer album out next month.
3. Brah-guy, named for his propensity to refer to people as "brah," which is slightly acceptable given our proximity to the beach. He has short red hair and clothes that look like he's been wearing them for years, not in a dirty way but in a loose and comfortable way. He's the kind of person who insists on wearing flip flops year-round.

 I really need to stop judging people.

Upon seeing my prospects for my group, I decided to talk to my professor after class and request a random assignment. But then, I thought, what if she assigns me to these dudes anyway? Decisions, decisions. I thought, for sure I will be Proactive Patty for this group. Damn.

As I sat lost in my own worry and ignoring the last few minutes of class, I write my contact info on the sheet of paper Brah-guy has handed me, and I hear Dazed Teddy addressing me from his seat directly behind me.

"Cookies. You want cookies? Cookies?"
Oh, man. This guy is high.
"I mean," he clarifies, "would you like some cookies? I work at a bakery and I took a bunch home today."

It turns out he works at Baked, one of my favorite bakeries in Charleston and just as I am about to say "sure! do you have any Monster cookies? They're my favorite," he says
"Do you want a Monster cookie? And I have chocolate chip. Take a few!"



Maybe this group thing will work out after all.

time is running out

I need to make a decision. About my future  my class schedule. By Monday. I need help.

I have two required classes left to take for Psychology. And two semesters. I'm not going to get into how guilty I feel that I didn't graduate early, but for now my only defense is that I have to write my Bachelor's Essay next year for the Honors College, which is like writing an Undergrad thesis. And it is gonna take a lot of research and a lot of time.
Anyway. Time is running out.

I have to take my psychology lab OR Cognitive Psychology next semester, but not both, because then I complete my major and lose my scholarship. At least that is what I have been told. 

Option 1: Take Cognitive next semester, and hope that the labs don't fill up in the Spring.
Option 2:  Take the Conditioning and Learning lab next semester.

Why Claire, you say, you don't like your Conditioning class now, and you probably don't want to work with a rat for four months next semester, why would you take this lab? Simple, I answer, because all the other labs have prerequisites and even though I feel like I have taken all the psych classes C of C offers, I have so far managed to not take any of the other three lab classes except C + L. Damn.

So I either take a lab that I will probably not like and get awful friendly with a five pound rodent next semester, or I run the risk of signing up in the Spring and somehow (despite priority registration) missing out on this quickly-filling class and not getting to graduate.

Help!

today

Things that happened today that made me HAPPY*:

1. chat with Sister Germana this afternoon at the Daughters of Saint Paul bookstore (aka "walk-in clinic for the soul")
2. bought new sunglasses for $1.50 (after accidentally sitting on my other pair)
3. conversing with academics about academics. 
4. chicken bowl for lunch with Corey at Mama Kim's
5. this beautiful Charleston weather
6. Mumford and Sons.
7. THIS WEBSITE. Thank you, Harrison.

*I'm using the folk definition of happiness: common happiness. Good feelings. Not to be confused with the Greek account of eudaimonia (virtue ethics) or any of  the anti-eudaimonist accounts.

this is why my head hurts.

What do I do when I have 30ish hours to finish my application?

Address problems, review notes from the interview with my committee.
Look at adviser's notes.

Too scary.

...not so scary, they said all of this yesterday.

I can do this. All I have to do is start writing! 5 more days!

Open my application Word document. TrumanappJan13.doc...

Facebook. I already read this status. Bored.

Write half a sentence-

Facebook. what am I doing here? CONCENTRATE.

anxiety!!! I have about a day to get this all done!

Write a full sentence. This is going well! I can totally do this, I-

Facebook. maybe I should disconnect from the internet. But what if I need to get more research? OK, bad idea.

half a senten-

Gmail. OH NO. Email from adviser. Email demanding rapid completion of a specific question. She has to send it to the person who is writing my rec letter. Quick. I need to head him off and let him know I may have exaggerated things to make myself sound better. And more in charge. But they TOLD me to! Oh, he probably understands, maybe I don't need to forewarn him about-

OH YEAH I am supposed to be writing and revising! Shit. Back to that. Four words and....

this would be a good time to blog about this...

winter winds

Tomorrow is my (first) interview for my scholarship.

I may find out that my desired occupation/plans of the future do not make me a good candidate, and thus won't be endorsed by the school, or I bomb the interview/application and I don't get endorsed from the school. Oh, yeah, and the third option: I get the committee's approval, toil away all week and weekend finishing the application, and turn it all in on February 1st.
Any way this goes, it is going to be a doozie of a week.

My plan for tomorrow is to go to my classes, eat lunch, and RELAX, rather than study useless facts and get myself in a tizzy.

Meanwhile, Mumford and Sons.

I am so all about these guys right now.

shark farts!

I am about to blerg all over this blog.

But first I need a Coke because I am getting a caffeine-withdrawal headache.

So I am finally in the final stages of finally being final with my final draft of the scholarship application. Finally.

I have the body filled out (ex:  list your awards and scholarships in order of significance. answer: voted Cougar Call Center Puzzle Master 2010) and I have all my essays finished. They just need...lots of touch ups. And a new paint job. Maybe some body work. It'll get there.
It is all officially due on February 1, only 12 days away. And then I promise I will stop talking about it.

During this whole process I have had so many weeks where I've said "as long as I can get through _____ I'll be OK" like "I just need to get through Wednesday and I'm scott free." Sometimes I don't even make plans for the day after that because I can not see that far into the future. Seriously. Well, I am saying it again. As long as I can get through Tuesday, I'll be fine.
Lemme splain.

This weekend will be fine, but Monday and Tuesday bear the mark of the beast.
Monday: first Conditioning and Learning quiz- a class I still haven't received my book for.
Then, immediately after my Happiness class (ironically [well, Alanis Morissette ironic]) I get to make up the Spanish final that I missed for the funeral. Three hours. of Spanish. that I haven't seen in two months.

Tuesday: First Spanish quiz. With maps.
Two papers due for Learning Disabilities.

and oh yeahs this other little thing I might get around to called my TRUMAN SCHOLARSHIP INTERVIEW. Gonna be grilled on NCLB and ESEA and what was in the NYT this morning and how many pages were in Psychology Today three months ago and would I die for my country and if I had to pick which Supreme Court justice would I invite to my birthday and what's a henweigh and how many licks does it really take to get to the center of a tootsie pop and what is the exact national debt at this moment... and anything else I might be expected to know as a person of the world that I defintiely don't know.

I thought it would be easy. Interviewers ask questions about you, and I like to talk about myself. A match made by Patti herself.  But alas, it is a bit more complicated and I may need a pint or two of ice cream afterward. But all I have to do is get through the interview and then I am scott free. Right?

welcome back, beeches

I got my hair cut! And I have bangs. I look so cute I feel like I need to buy new clothes. And floss more. And stop drinking soda. Or something.

Meanwhile, outside of Hair Land: I received an email from the Dragon Lady telling me that my final draft of the scholarship application is due to her by Thursday. Which is so so close.
I may cry.

I am getting all the online scholarship filled out and if I take too long listing my accomplishments on one page, it cuts me off and doesn't save any of my stuff. mreeehhhh.


I don't know if I can do thissssss.



ALSO: this weird banging/clanking noise kept waking me up last night. I am told that the heat is turning on, but honestly it sounds like squirrels are stuck in there playing croquet.

As long as they don't burrow through the walls, I'll be fine.

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!