Through a Glass, Darkly

Author’s note: Keep in mind that our upstairs heat is not working.

MIKE: It’s going to be cold in here in the morning.

KARI: You know what would be awesome?

MIKE: No.

KARI: If we got the coffeepot ready and then brought it up here so that, in the morning, we could turn it on while we were still in bed. Hot coffee while we’re still in bed!

MIKE: Really?

KARI: Yeah, what’s wrong with that?

MIKE: Sure, while we’re at it, why don’t we get a George Foreman up here? I enjoy having breakfast in bed. I like waking up to the smell of bacon, sue me.

KARI: That’s not really the same thing.

MIKE: Yes it is.

KARI: No, it’s . . . totally . . . different.

MIKE: No.

KARI: Oh my lord, I’m Michael Scott.

MIKE: Don’t expect me to help you when you burn your foot.

KARI: I will probably scald my hand on the coffeepot instead.

MIKE: I’ll have the plastic wrap ready.

Something that I find amusing about myself is that it really bugs me when other people get worked up about silly things, like someone complaining about the animals at the zoo being off exhibit. “That’s right,” I think, “there aren’t any other animals to see. Also, the animals at the zoo exist only for our amusement. Dance, monkey, dance!” I lay the sarcasm on thick, because I have a zoo membership, and it doesn’t matter to me whether the animals are on exhibit or not, because I can always come back later! (Also, I have this weird dislike of animals being used for human amusement, which is why I hate the circus so much. Maybe it is also why I hate any movie or commercial with talking animals.) (I swear I don’t just hate animals. Look, Big Bunny is snuggled up to me right now. We are totally adorable together.)

But, really, all this zoo-hater is doing is getting disproportionately worked up about something rather insignificant. And it’s amusing that it bugs me because I do that exact same thing all the time. I just don’t happen to commiserate on the zoo issue, so it’s hard for me to see myself in that person’s shoes, when, really, the shoes ARE EXACTLY THE SAME SIZE. (Speaking of shoes, I bought a pair of black ballet flats at Target on Saturday. For three dollars and twenty-something cents. In the children’s department. To wear. For myself. Now back to our original topic.) The things that raise my hackles have less to do with inconvenience to myself (I want my dancing monkeys and I want them now!) and more to do with inconsideration and disrespect. This includes things like silly rules. I hate silly rules, partly because I feel like they are disrespectful to me. When I go on and on about how much I hate being disrespected and treated inconsiderately (as I have maybe done once or twice in my life), it’s no different than expecting the monkeys to dance on command. Instead of taking offense, I’m going to try to remember that.

On Wednesday morning, Mike and I got up and went for a walk. For months and months, I have been asking him to walk with me to an old graveyard that is close to our house, and he finally agreed to go with me. We put on sweatshirts and took our coffee and headed over. It was older than I had thought it would be, with graves back to the 1850s, and we were both moved to see that some of the families had lost a lot of children in a short span of time. This might sound strange, but the graveyard was such a pleasant place to spend an hour that morning. Not so much the newer, fancier part, but the older part, with the headstones that were obviously hand-carved, with the people’s ages represented in years, months, and days . . . it was sweet. And real. It might not be the normal way to spend time on Thanksgiving weekend, but this was a weekend where a lot of things I have been thinking about death and sharing life and really living all kind of came together, so it ended up being one of the best things we could have done, to go to a place where life and death are honored in such a tangible way.

Before Thanksgiving, Mike and I watched Pieces of April, as we do every year. (I am honestly not sure whether we watched it last year. I can’t imagine that I was like, “Sure, we should totally watch a movie about the black sheep of the family hosting Thanksgiving. While her mother is dying.” But maybe we did, since it is our tradition.) It was different to watch it this year. I had a completely different perspective on what April was probably feeling, and the ending struck me in a completely different way. Before this year, I had always felt like they probably just ran out of money, and that’s why the ending was so abrupt. But now I feel like the ending was in small moments and snapshots because that’s what they will remember about their mother’s last Thanksgiving. They won’t remember it like a film. It will be in bits and pieces. Knowing what my own holiday recollections are like, it seemed much more realistic and appropriate than everyone having the right words. It was everyone trying, and we (the audience) saw that, and that was enough.

What really struck me, though, was when, at some point, April was talking about Thanksgiving and said that it was important because it was a day when everyone realized they needed each other. At my grandma’s house on Thursday, I felt that, too. I guess a visual representation of that is the meal, how each person brings a few dishes . . . and then suddenly there’s an entire meal (and then some) on the counter. I felt it in the conversation, in the way the men in my family come together to take care of my grandma’s needs, and, yes, in the food. I don’t see my relatives all that often, and I don’t always know exactly what we have in common, but . . . they are willing to eat my pie and tell me they enjoyed it. That means something to me, you know? It means something that I have people I can bake for, and it means something that I can trust my family enough to try recipes out on them.

On Friday, after our Christmas decorating, I read Story of a Girl by Sara Zarr. I did, in fact, read the whole book. I couldn’t put it down. (And, to be honest, earlier that day I finished The Golden Compass, so I finished two books that day. I also finished two books on Saturday. It was quite a productive reading weekend.) I wanted to read it because of it being a finalist for the National Book Award, and because I have read the author’s blog and she seems wonderful. And the book, though I don’t think I will write it up, was also wonderful in ways I am not sure I can articulate. Though my life is very different from that of the main character, there was a scene in the book where she was sitting at a table with her friend, her best friend, and she was absolutely unable, because of her own junk, to be the kind of friend she knew she was supposed to be. She was not able to say the right things. She was not able to offer a hug. Instead, she sat there and ripped a hole in the plastic booth she was sitting in.

Oh, how I know that girl. I think I am not completely her anymore, but I still find, from time to time, that I don’t always say the things that are on my heart or offer to hug someone because I don’t know how to say them, because I am afraid. Afraid of being rejected, of being too emotional, of people thinking I’m weird, of it being the wrong response. But I don’t want to dwell on that, either, because I do see how far I have come, that I am much better at reaching out to people and risking my heart. Even a small thing, like making a pie, has, in the past, been fraught with peril. But I can remember specific things that have happened this year where I stood at a crossroads, and instead of playing it safe, I chose to offer the hug to someone I don’t normally hug. I chose to try the difficult recipe. I chose to say what was on my heart. I haven’t done it all of the time, but the memories of trying are like stones in my pocket, and I run my fingers over them from time to time to remind myself of what I am capable of.

One of the books I finished on Saturday was a book of poetry by Mark Jarman that I worked on for a few weeks. I have been trying to read more poetry, and I have been trying to really take it in when I do read it. One of the poems in that particular book was, oddly enough, about sharing your heart with people. It closed with the line, “You can’t take it with you. Why not leave it with me?” It was such a reminder for me of all the things I have been learning: to make the move and extend the hand, to make decisions that allow me to spend time with friends and family, to be wise about where I invest myself. That last one is pretty important, too, because I have spent a lot of time worrying about the opinions of people whose opinions really shouldn’t matter. I still do, to some degree, but it’s another area where (I hope) I have made some progress.

This is all kind of a mess, I know, but in my head there is a thread connecting it, and I hope you can see glimpses of it here and there. I have learned a lot in the past year and a half about friendship, about choosing the people who really matter, and about opening myself up because life can be so short. It has looked like different things - entering a chili contest that I didn’t win, entering a Scholastic contest that I did win (well, Mike did, anyway). Standing in the sanctuary and hugging my friend. Learning how to bake. Making the phone call that was hard for me. Choosing to enter a friend’s grief rather than focusing on my own. Taking another job. Joining a book club with people who impress and intimidate me. I want to honor my dad by really living life the way he did, and I want to honor God by making the most of the life that he gives us here on earth.

In the end, that’s what I am most thankful for this year: that I am here, that I have a chance to keep on trying to get it right with the people I love. Maybe one day I won’t need a specific Thursday in November to help me remember that.

My pumpkin and chocolate obsession dates back to a vacation my family took with another family when I was in . . . middle school, I think. The mother in that family brought pumpkin chocolate chip muffins for us all to snack on. I tried one and fell in love, and I have been eating them ever since. They are always a crowd pleaser, and more than one skeptic has been converted (”Pumpkin and chocolate together? That sounds weird . . . Oh my heck, these are delicious!”). Not to mention the fact that people who claim not to like pumpkin also like them. In fact, Mike thought he did not like pumpkin when we met. But don’t worry, I have taught him about the glory of pumpkiny goodness. These muffins bring people together. I truly believe that if I baked these muffins and gave them to the leaders of the world, we could have world peace. But don’t blame me. Blame the people who frown upon the idea of sending baked goods to world leaders.

Of course I wanted to try Triple Layer Pumpkin Chocolate Pie when I saw it in the book Mike gave me for my birthday. If there’s anything we’ve learned, it’s that pumpkin + chocolate = good. Nay, great. That pie is in my refrigerator right now (along with the Chocolate Brownie Pecan Pie I made and the Sweet Potato Pie that Mike made according to Alton Brown’s specifications AND the mashed potato casserole he made according to Pioneer Woman’s specifications), but the top layer is just a white topping, which didn’t seem exciting enough to photograph. But if we can get a good picture of one of the pieces tomorrow, I will report back with photographic evidence of the day’s baking adventures. And a recipe, if I liked the results.

Meanwhile, may I offer the recipe for Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Muffins? Don’t be a pumpkin chocolate hater.

3 cups all purpose flour
2 cups granulated sugar
2 Tablespoons pumpkin pie spice
2 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
4 eggs
1 can pumpkin (15 oz)
1 c. melted butter
2 c. chocolate chips

Mix flour, sugar, pumpkin pie spice, baking soda, baking powder, and salt.

In another bowl, mix egg, pumpkin, and butter. Stir in chips. Pour wet ingredients over dry and fold in until moistened.

You can either use muffin cups or grease the pan, either works. Bake at 350 for 20-25 minutes. Makes about 24 muffins.

I usually use semisweet chocolate chips, but milk chocolate works as well. It makes 24 muffins because the original recipe called for half a can of pumpkin, which, frankly, is just silly. (Although super-convenient when you have half a can of pumpkin left over from the Triple Layer Pumpkin Chocolate Pie you made earlier in the day. I will be making some later on this weekend.)

(Oh, wait, maybe [SPOILER ALERT] that’s Neville Longbottom. Sorry, Dwight.)

And, lo, did Dwight K. Schrute pull the Sword of Gryffindor out of the Sorting Hat, and it was revealed that, despite his extreme freakishness, he was, after all, a true Gryffindor.

I have started and not finished so many books recently. Here is a brief list.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J.K. Rowling – I want to reread the books now that we have heard the whole story (plus what she’s said in interviews), but I just don’t have the heart to do it right now.

A Swiftly Tilting Planet by Madeleine L’Engle – Are you ready for this? This is going to shock some of you. I was going to wait and say this when I actually finished it, but who knows when that will happen. I have never been able to finish this book. I like the Austin series so much more than I like the Time Quartet (I noticed now they are packaging An Acceptable Time as the “fifth in the series.” Very strange). This is the year, though. I will finish.

The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman – I will finish this one, too. But it hasn’t captured my attention. I feel more like I ought to read it than I want to read it. I feel like breathing a long sigh whenever I pick it up. Siiiiiiiiiiigh.

Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light by Brian Kolodiejchuk – I can’t even finish a book on Mother Teresa. Mother Teresa, you guys! What is wrong with me?

I also checked out several books I am remarkably uninterested in, including Extras by Scott Westerfeld (I hadn’t realized it was part of a series when I checked it out) and Flipped by Wendelin Van Draanen. Siiiiiiiiiiiigh.

The other night I was practically in tears because of this. I can’t get into anything. Nothing holds my attention. And so, in despair, Mike pulled Charlie and the Chocolate Factory off the shelf and read the first few chapters to me. I had wanted to read it closer to Christmas, but Charlie was the answer. I was able to finish a book.

Earlier in the month, Mike did a presentation on Roald Dahl, and he had to select a passage out of one of Roald Dahl’s books to read. I campaigned pretty hard for Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the scene where Charlie finds the Golden Ticket. Mike opted for something else, and I told him he was dead wrong, that all you need to know about Roald Dahl is in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Note: I have never done a project on Roald Dahl, and I know nothing other than what Mike has told me and what a quick peruse of Wikipedia can teach me. But I still think he was wrong. Every time I read the scene where Charlie finds the ticket, I cry. What scene could possibly be better? What more do you need to know? (It is possible, gentle reader, that Mike chose not to read that passage because he knew of its dangers. I certainly couldn’t read it out loud.)

Roald Dahl has many wonderful books, and for a long time I would have said that The BFG was my favorite. But now, more than any of the others, I return to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when I want some comfort. I want to believe in a world in which magical chocolate factories can exist, a world in which a good, brave little boy wins all the chocolate he can eat (instead of starving), a world where horrible bratty children (and their parents) get what is coming to them. When I read it, I remember reading it for the first time, how I kind of believed that maybe there was a chocolate factory like Wonka’s in the world, and that maybe, like Charlie, I’d get to go there some day. Part of me still believes this, for the record. It’s the part of me that wouldn’t settle down to read those other books.

Last year we gave a copy of the new movie to Mike’s niece, and we all watched it together. Mike’s brother-in-law, at one point, said, “This is kind of dark.” It’s true. It is a dark story. One of the chapters is entitled “The Family Begins to Starve,” and it features Charlie trying to save his energy because he gets so little food and it is so cold outside. I think that the story is better for it, though, because it makes what happens that much more powerful. (I will add that the matter-of-fact bleakness of The Cupboard Under the Stairs is what made me think that J.K. Rowling was basically doing the same thing as Roald Dahl.) We want to believe that good children will be rewarded and that they can save their families from starvation. A story like this, I think, helps fight the darkness, because it helps us all face the facts of how difficult life can be for some people, and it helps us believe that redemption is possible. I may not be able to help a poor family by taking them to a magical chocolate factory, but what I can give may be magical for them indeed.

I wanted to read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in December, because it captures that sense of wonder and amazement that I associate with Christmas. It’s too early for Christmas, though (Thanksgiving First!), so I will settle for the wonder and amazement of just being a kid again (and an adult who believes in the magic of redemption), if only for a night.

This week’s Adventures With Dwight bring you two, yes, TWO pictures of Dwight and the Brooklyn Bridge.

Since this summer, I have been reading The Divine Hours. No, I don’t do it every day, and, no, I don’t do it at all the prescribed times. But it’s been helpful to have the readings and prayers set out for me. I like saying these things over and over, because the more I say them, the more I believe them. I believe that God cares about peaceful nights, that it means something to say The Gloria every day, that the Psalms don’t have to just be old poetry that I can memorize.

I think the best part of those prayers, for me, is compline, because of the part where, every day (that I remember to do the reading), I ask forgiveness for what I have done and what I have left undone. It’s those things I’ve left undone that are the most likely to keep me awake at night: the apology I didn’t offer, the hand I didn’t extend, the kind word not spoken. I like acknowledging that it’s not just what I do that hurts people (and myself), that what I choose not to do (or don’t bother to do) can be the wrong thing, too. I like it because it’s so different from the idea of sins as lists of things to stay away from. I can’t just check “love thy neighbor” off on a list . . . it’s a way of life. I don’t have to get it right all the time, but it’s better to acknowledge that fact, because if I think about it, I might just be able to choose differently tomorrow.

This quarter’s compline has included this familiar prayer:

Watch, O Lord, with those who wake, or watch, or weep tonight, and give your angels and saints charge over those who sleep. Tend your sick ones, O Lord Christ. Rest your weary ones. Bless your dying ones. Soothe your suffering ones. Shield your joyous ones, and all for your love’s sake. Amen.

I won’t swear to it, but I think my first introduction to this prayer was through Madeleine L’Engle, and I’m fairly sure that it was one of her books that pointed out my favorite part of the prayer: to shield the joyous. When I pray that part, I always feel as if I am praying for a bride on the night before her wedding, as she is glowing with the excitement and anticipation of getting to share her life with the man she loves. I would love to be able to protect this imaginary bride from the things that will come, the pain and heartbreak that are part of sharing our lives with those around us, so that she might be that joyful forever. I want the Lord to protect that feeling as much as I want him to heal the sick and bless the dying. The truth, though, is that my idea of healing the sick might not be what the Lord has in mind, and that for many dying people, death itself is a blessing. So it is with joy, too . . . untested, it cannot reach the same depths of joy that has struggled and won. I would not go back to being that bride, because the years between, though they have been challenging, have brought something more substantial. But I will pray for her just the same. I will go on praying for the sick, the weary, the suffering, the dying, and the joyous. I will pray because I believe that it makes a difference, that thinking of others helps me be more mindful of them, that I might not leave my own care for them undone tomorrow. And I will go on praying because it helps me believe in a God who cares for us, no matter which of those categories we find ourselves in.

If I knew I was going to die soon, I would want to travel. Though I consider myself a homebody, there are things I’ve heard about and seen pictures of that I hope, one day, to see for myself. Mike says that if he knew he didn’t have much time left, he’d try to talk the university into letting him graduate. Everyone has a different answer to that scenario, a different way to approach the question of life and death and our time here on earth. In this book, Tessa, who is 16 and has leukemia, has a list. Her list includes things you’d expect, like sex and drugs and breaking the law, but it also includes things like being famous, making a mark, falling in love. The things we all secretly hope for, that our lives mean something and that we will be remembered in some way, that people will be changed from having known us. This is the story of Tessa’s quest to make sure that she really lived her life, even as she is dying.

I got a copy of this book back in the summer, and I knew it would be too hard for me to read. It was still hard, harder than I thought it would be. I thought a lot about the things my dad never got to do, how he must have felt as his body gave out on him. I felt sorry for Tessa, and I felt like she was a realistic character with realistic responses, but, for me, this book was filtered through the experience of my dad’s illness. I did cry, but it was more for the words left unsaid, the things that might have been. I cried for the people Tessa was leaving behind, because I am still learning how to sort all of that out for myself.

This is a book for older teens who, like Tessa, are thinking about those big questions of what life means, how to make a mark, and whether they are going to die without ever having had sex. The premise sounds a bit overwrought, but it works because Tessa is a likeable (though narcissistic) character, and because we all face the question of mortality. (Besides, what teenager who only has a few months to live wouldn’t be narcissistic?) I have seen Before I Die reviewed in several places, and it seems to be generating a fair amount of buzz. If nothing else, it’s a good reminder that celebrating life shouldn’t just be for the dying.

Earlier this week I was looking through my archives from earlier this year, and . . . I haven’t written about a book in a while. I don’t know why. I have still been reading quite a lot, but I guess I have had a lot on my mind, so I haven’t felt like thinking critically about books. I also haven’t enjoyed a lot of the ones I read, though it hasn’t been an active dislike. More like, “Okay.”

With that said, I did enjoy The Sweet, Terrible, Glorious Year I Truly, Completely Lost It by Lisa Shanahan, though I do not enjoy trying to remember the entire title. Thank goodness for cut and paste. hehe.

On the surface, this is the kind of story you hear all the time: a sister’s wedding, her crazy in-laws, trying out for the school play, the boy you like and the one who likes you. Gemma Stone’s life, though, is a little bit more dramatic than most when it comes to these ordinary details. Her sister’s wedding has a theme: animals that mate for life. Somehow or another, this theme ends up requiring Gemma to wear a swan costume to the wedding as she performs her duties as flower girl. Her sister’s in-laws aren’t the normal, “You aren’t good enough for my son,” kind of crazy. They’re crazy about war, with an actual military training course in their backyard. And Gemma tries out for the school play, trying to overcome her inability to speak in public . . . and maybe also to be near the boy she likes. Just a little bit. Instead of being paired with him, though, she’s paired with the boy who likes her, the one who has a rough home life . . . and also knows his Shakespeare cold.

At one point during the book, I thought that maybe it was all just a little bit too silly, the contrast between her sister’s crazy wedding and the challenges her new friend faces at home. But after finishing it, I think that the humor is a nice balance to the depth of Gemma’s journey throughout the book, as she learns to value honesty and sincerity, as she learns to speak for herself, and as she learns about love. I do think the transition from the goofiness to the more serious aspects of the story could have been a little bit smoother, but I think that teens will be drawn in by the humor and challenged by the other parts of the story.

I also really enjoyed the Shakespeare quotes and parallels. Those were probably my favorite parts.

This was a sweet, humorous look at high school life in Australia, with hints of the loneliness and insecurity that are what make high school so difficult for so many. Of course, the problems with loneliness and insecurity are that you aren’t thinking of anyone but yourself. I enjoyed traveling with Gemma as she started to learn what it might mean to stop thinking of herself and start caring more for others.

Sweaters with apples on them: 1.

Sweaters with apples on them worn by me: 0. (I hope you knew this already.)

Times I sang the “Jeans Day” song this morning: At least 5. (I got to wear jeans! To work!)

Times before this week I have been jealous of Mike getting to wear jeans on Friday: However many Fridays there have been this semester, times 100.

Number of kids I gave copies of A Wind in the Door to: 2.

My happiness about getting kids to read Madeleine L’Engle: 1,000,000 times infinity. I use my powers for awesome.

Middle school books I am excited about reading: At least 20.

Things I broke: 0. (I think.)

Things I blew up: 0.

Things I accidentally set on fire: 0.

Number of kids I overheard saying, “She’s nice. I hope she stays.”: 2. (sniff)

Times I was asked, “And how old ARE you, anyway?”: 3.

Times someone said, “I’m sorry, I thought you were a student!”: At least 10.

Times someone said, “You look 15 minutes out of middle school yourself.”: Just 1.

Age I am: 28. I am 28, okay? hehe.

And, most importantly . . .

Times stabbed: 0

I guess all you need to know about my new job is that I spent an hour in a coffeeshop with my husband this afternoon instead of having to be at work. It felt like an afternoon off, except that it was actually my new schedule. Yesterday I got to hang out with friends before church, eating chips and chatting. I never got to chat before.

And, if you really want to know, yes, I have enjoyed interacting with the kids and staff and figuring out what the heck I am doing. (I do not actually know what I am doing. But no one seems to mind all that much.)

I hope you are prepared for some numbers, because I will have some for you tomorrow. Don’t you want to know how many sweaters I have seen with apples on them? How about how many times I have been asked, “So how old ARE you?” or heard, “You look like you are about 15 minutes out of the 8th grade yourself.” Don’t you want to know these things? Well, you will just have to wait. Patience, grasshopper.

Other things that have been good this week: Alexander McCall Smith’s new book, Love Over Scotland. Did I even need to mention that I loved this? I am clearly the fangirliest of fangirls when it comes to Alexander McCall Smith. In fact, he’s very high on my list of authors I would like to meet. Other authors I would like to meet include: Madeleine L’Engle (well, I felt this way until recently, but I’m in denial right now), J.K. Rowling (oh, wait I ALREADY MET HER AND SHE WAS SUPER-NICE), and Anne Lamott (I think . . . I think we could get along). I am sure there are some authors I love who should be on that list, but they will have to excuse me because I can’t think who they are at this very moment. Anyway, look at Alexander McCall Smith being the only male on the list! Good job, sir! And please stop by my house any time!

When I’m picking a book to read, I usually look at the author’s picture, and if it doesn’t seem that the author and I could be friends, I am less likely to give a book a chance. It’s true. Well, Alexander McCall Smith and I could totally be friends. I would love to drink tea with him. Or just get a chance to tell him how much I love his books. Either one.

Right now I am going to go (hopefully) finish Loving Frank by Nancy Horan and make biscuits to go with our chili. This has been a crazy week, because, suddenly, things are so different. I hope to have more interesting news/thoughts coming soon.

Dwight at FAO Schwarz with Darth Vader.

(This one was funny, because we set it up and then some people came by and said, “Why is Dwight there?” We were like, “Oh, he’s ours! He’s not for sale!”)

If you’ve been around here at all to hear me talk about my high school days, you know that the thing that made them bearable was the Quiz Bowl team. Those hours spent in my school library shaped me in so many ways, and I look back on them with pure pleasure. There’s not much else from high school that was pleasurable, so this is kind of a big deal.

I still have the shirt we made my senior year, the one that says, “There was never an age in which useless knowledge was more important than our own.” I wear it sometimes for working out, though I am always afraid to wear it too much because I want it to last, as if that piece of cotton is some kind of talisman and I can’t risk ruining it. More than that, too, it reminds me of where I’ve come from. These days I am pretty comfortable in my own skin, but back then I needed a t-shirt to explain to the world who I was. A nerd. (As if they couldn’t tell.) I wore it with my yellow shoes (of course), and I wore it in college until I decided it was too childish and put high school behind me. (It took more than relegating a t-shirt to a Rubbermaid container to actually put high school behind me, but it was a valiant effort on my part.)

(Honestly, t-shirts are still one of my love languages. I have stopped giving Mike silly t-shirts because his t-shirt drawer overfloweth, but I am still happy to receive clever t-shirts for myself.)

It has taken me a long time to feel that I have friends, that I am capable of sustaining friendships, that I don’t have to apologize for my values and interests and opinions. Part of what my high school media specialist did was start me on that path . . . by being loudly and proudly nerdy herself. I wouldn’t go back to middle or high school myself for anything, but I am excited to go and work with them now that I have something to give.

I start the new job tomorrow, and if you were wondering why, I have a t-shirt I’d like to show you. It’s not the entire reason that we made the decision, not by any means. But it’s the reason I think I can do it.

Subtitle: “Some days even my lucky rocketship underpants don’t help.”

(With my apologies to Brandi.)

1. Going-away parties at which people make it clear that you are stupid for choosing another profession. Apparently, at my new job, I am very likely to get stabbed. And have huge discipline problems. And no support from the administration. People do generally like to tell you horror stories/how awful your decision is when you are entering the school system, but one would think the going-away party would be a time not to share those thoughts, wouldn’t one. One would be wrong.

2. Professors who have information you really need and who do not email you back for two weeks, and whose phone numbers are disconnected. Disconnected!!?! I do not understand how this could happen. (I will feel really bad about saying this if she died.)

3. People who take something that is very very important to you and turn it into a petty power play. Congratulations, you just ruined something really special. You make me feel much better about the new job, even with all the stabbing.

4. Having to show my ID to buy Advil Cold and Sinus. Because only criminals get colds. I know, this has been going on for years. But it is still not awesome. I am not going to make any meth. Give me my cold medicine.

5. Our central heating/air conditioning unit upstairs still being broken. Hooray for blankets! And space heaters! (It’s been over a month. Since it broke the last time. Not counting the two times it broke over the summer.)

I do have one thing that is awesome, though:

1. Giving out Christmas candy (bought that very day) on Halloween. (Mike wore a Santa hat, and we played Christmas music. People were confused. It was, in fact, awesome. Merry Halloween, everyone.)