To My Dearest Fellow Boston Drivers:

You make it really difficult to be a pleasant road companion. Between unnecessary honking, cutting people off, and refusing to use your blinker when you squeeze your large vehicle into a tiny space between two others, I'll admit- I get a little frustrated.

And I was wondering- is it too late to change our driving culture?

I get it, nobody likes to be stuck in traffic like we were (I was listening to WBZ1030 and they said we were ranked 13th in worst traffic in the US). Sure, it makes us a little cranky. And after a long day of work, or play, we really just want to go home and relax and watch whatever Boston team is playing that night. Really, I am there with you.

But seriously. Wouldn't your blood pressure be a little lower if we all actively tried to play nice with one another?

"Oh I see that you have had your blinker on and are trying to get into this lane, here let me make some room for you."

Wouldn't that be nice? Or wait! Let's change perspectives:

"Hmm I need to get over to the right lane but it looks like I would be squeezing into the personal space of my beautiful fellow Bostonian's brand new car, maybe if I am considerate and put my blinker on and they might give me room to get in!"

I get it. Not everybody is going to let you in, or even see you when you put your blinker on. But there is another virtue that you can practice called patience that might help you in this situation where you have to wait for 2 more cars to go by before you meet your fellow friendly driver who will let you into the lane. 

Sometimes we are in a rush. We've all been late for something, but is refusing to use your blinker and cutting someone off, nearly causing an accident, really going to help you get to where you are going any faster?

Goodness I feel like I am preaching to a Driver's Ed class:

MassDot... I kind of love you.

Anecdote time!
You want to hear something interesting? I went to China last year, and their driving culture is only about a decade old as opposed to our century of driving. And Beijing has some of the worst traffic I have ever experienced in my life. BUT!...

But they use their blinkers and beep their horns appropriately to warn other drivers that they are getting a little too close, rather than in rage that someone isn't taking that left at the light where a steady stream of cars is coming from the other direction. What a foreign concept!

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

We aren't perfect. We are going to make mistakes. You, me, and that other guy in the big truck that thinks he's better than us. But practice makes perfect, so... maybe... try to be pleasant on the road? And perhaps, together, we can reduce stress induced hypertension across the city!

//end rant.

It's not that I don't love you Boston, but right now I just don't like you.

Cleaning Out the Bookshelf

I love to read- being able to leave the real world, and enter one that allows my transgressions and mishaps of the day to fade away. I often feel a sort of people-claustrophobia caused by social-anxiety. That isn't to say I dislike being around people, rather that I often over-analyze and work myself up about minor interactions and sometimes I just need to unwind.

I'm also a disorganized bookshelf keeper.

Recently, I found that my "unwinding" time is spent on the internet (Facebook, tumblr...), which still ends up in some sort of social interaction, even if indirect. I have begun to turn to video games, all the while my bookshelves of many unread promises are collecting dust.

I have 2 bookshelves in my dorm packed with books, and another, larger, bookshelf at home stuffed, and overfilling with many unread books.

With my last semester of college winding down, my goal is to begin reading these books, and create a collection that I wish to keep with me forever (Harry Potter, all Jane Austen novels... to name a few). I realize that because I will be moving out of my house (sorry mom, sorry dad, lovers you!)  in the near future, I should probably cut back on the number of books I hoard. My plan is to donate some of my books as I finish them- to give other people an opportunity to read, rather than have something that is going to collect dust on my shelf.

Don't get me wrong- I will one day have a large collection of books when I finally settle down. But that will not be happening soon. There is still too much of the world to explore.

With all that being said, I am beginning this clean out with a book called, Pop Goes the Weasel: The Secret Meanings of Nursery Rhymes by Albert Jack. I don't know how long I've had this book... I think I bought it back when Borders (RIP) was closing.  

I likely won't publish something about all the books I read, but inspiration often leads to writing. There are also a few milestones fast approaching in life that I am sure I will have a lot to say about.

Cozy Rosie Says Goodbye

Rosie takes a nap.

“Soft kitty, warm kitty,
little ball of fur.
Happy kitty, sleepy kitty

Purr, purr, purr.”

–The Big Bang Theory

I'm sure nobody is really surprised that I’m writing about a cat right now, but “Cozy” Rosie was so much more to our family (and probably me especially) than the cat part of those family minivan bumper stickers. We would probably never admit that if you asked us last year.

It’s been a journey, and I imagine Grammy Lou calling Rosie right now, like she did every night when she was living with us, “Pshh pshhh pshhh pshhh. Rosie!”

The Holden Residents
From back to front: Wiley, Spot, Skye

It all began fall of 2011. At the time, it was my mom, dad, and brother living at home with Spot, Skye, and Wiley. My sister was living in Maryland as a working student. I had just returned to college for my sophomore year of college.

From my brief calls home I began hearing things that summed up to: Grammy Lou, cancer, and moving in. I was busy trying keeping up with classes, extracurriculars, and soccer that updates were few and far between.

Grammy Lou moved in, along with Rosie.

Now, any pet owner knows that introducing a new pet to your home… is a process. Couple that with having your grandmother/mother/mother-in-law, depending on who you are in the situation, move in. 

It’s chaos.

Grammy Lou began her chemotherapy for lung cancer. It did not take long until we realized that lung cancer wasn’t the only thing we were dealing with. And while the cancer was in remission, the dementia was coming on full force. Like a nice graph showing a negative correlation between x and y.  

But God bless my parents.

In addition to all the doctor’s appointments, the late night cat fights (Rosie and Wiley did not really like each other at first), my grandmother shuffling around wondering where she was and how to flush the toilet, there was my father doing all he could to support the family while working his ridiculous 40+ hour work week, and my momma did all she could keeping up with her job, keeping the house together, caring for Lou Lou, and all the pets. (Run on sentence? I don’t care that’s what my life felt like all of sophomore year.)

Rosie started peeing everywhere; a behavioral problem that occurs frequently when cats are actively telling you that they are unhappy. Her meow was obnoxious, and she didn't want to be near any of us. My family considered either giving her up for adoption… or the more unfavorable alternative.

But, real talk now- if you've ever met my family though, you learn quickly our attachment to animals—be if the fur that’s attached to our clothes that gives us away, or the fact that were 6 of them running around our house. And, if you've ever met me, you would learn pretty quickly my feelings on putting an animal down unnecessarily. So the second option was never really an option.

As Grammy Lou’s dementia worsened, Rosie began throwing up around the house. More behavior problems? The vet diagnosed her with hyperthyroid, which required a double dose of medicine every day.

An added chore, sleepless nights, worry, another auto-immune illness, and a whole other world of things kept piling on my family. And I sat at school.

And I sat at school. And I sat at school.

Stuck. Useless.

I went home every single weekend, that I could, just to be there… to try and help. But there was nothing to do but make toast and tea, and sit with Grammy Lou.

My sister moved home from Maryland, May 2012, with two more cats: Boy and Girl. The family bonded too quickly with the kittens to force them out.

Girl and Boy/The Kittens

Two parents, two kids, two dogs, four cats, one grandmother. The Holden household was bursting at the seams.

The dementia got to the point that a cloud of depression began to loom over the bursting house. We were sinking.

That’s when Lou-Lou moved into the nursing home down the road. My father would visit almost daily (not that she remembered that the next day). He would bring her to church with us, and home for frequent visits so we could all see her and spend time with her.

At least my family was able to get some sleep.

"The fat one that purrs before you even pet her."

And that’s when I started bonding with Rosie Posy. With 4 cats running rampant, it’s difficult for people to differentiate between all of them- my brother labeled her as “the fat one that purrs before you even start to pet her.”

She would literally start purring like a motor as soon as you sat next to her, waiting for you to pet her. She really liked her mouth scratched where her old lady teeth had fallen out. 

She was a shy cat, but she’d been through a lot as well. Moving three times to a new place, 3 different owners, and now living with 5 other animals. She was old too.

When I was home, I was responsible for her medicine.

I had made the decision that she was mine, and I would take her when I left home after I graduated college.

Grammy Lou passed away on December 30, 2012. Not unexpectedly. And it had already felt like we lost her months before that date, but it doesn't make it easy.

My family asked me to write and read the eulogy, and it ripped me apart to mentally relive everything. And I cried. And Rosie walked into my room, and just lay on my face, purring.

“I don’t have hands to bring you tissue, here’s my fur.” -Plop-

Over this past year, Rosie finally became comfortable with all the people in the family: sitting on the couch with us watching TV, hanging outside right off the porch, meowing a greeting when we entered into the driveway.

Her favorite place to nap outside.

She was struggling to breathe at one point over the summer, and the vet found a cancerous tumor in her nose. It seemed the medication they gave her was helping, and the tumor wasn’t growing, until this week.

I saw her last week, a few sniffles but perfectly fine. But over the course of the week the tumor grew. She struggled breathing most of the time, and her right eye was watering constantly where the tumor pushed up on it. My poor baby.

The vet tried softening the blow of the awful word: euthanasia. This would be the fourth and final time we would call the vet for the same thing. 

The previous three times the family all agreed she had time left, and we weren't ready to play God.

And we wanted that. We dearly wanted that for the fourth time too.

“Animal’s bodies are resilient.”

Aren’t they though? Like they are trying to hang on just to be with you.

Rosie, you can’t breathe. Please stop looking so content.

But there was no getting better. Not from here.

I’m not meant to play God, and that makes this all the worse for me, because I left the room while she was still purring.

It’s been a long journey Rosie Posy, sleep well and get some rest. You deserve it.

 Maow meow prr. I love you my Button Nose.

A Little Creative Spark: A Storm at 4000ft

I love storms. I've always been interested in weather. And, for a good portion of my life, thanks to Twister, I wanted to be a storm chaser. I'm not crazy though. I don't look to get struck by lightning whenever there is a storm. For the most part, I try to stay safe. I've never been scared of a storm though... until this summer.

I attribute that fear to a couple things 1) it was dark outside, 2) I was alone, and 3) I was in a tent. In any case, it got me writing a creative piece that has a little bit of me, and a little bit of my fear speaking (maybe I'm just losing my nerve). I named that character Franny... because I couldn't think of anything better. :]

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

 

The thunder shook the earth. The lightning seemed to be striking close. Unnervingly close. It's to be expected, Franny thought. At 4000ft elevation, there wasn't much atmosphere for the lightning to have to travel through, and the thunder could easily be twice as loud here as she ever thought it was at home.

 

Granted. While she was at home, she was usually inside the house or on the porch, rather than in a tent, but this is what she chose for herself.

 

She grew up in the city, and knew it quite well, but something inside her always yearned for the outdoors, and for nature, and to be consumed by it.

 

"Well, you're consumed by it now," she muttered to herself. She didn't very well like storms. Sure, they were exciting... if you liked the whole heart pounding in your chest- scared to death sort of thing.

 

Well not Franny, thank you very much. She just as well would have liked to be home right now. In the warm and dry with a cup of tea, or hot chocolate, or maybe just some dang company to make her feel a little bit more secure. She glanced at her watch, lighting it up with a convenient push of a button.

 

"It's not even 9," she complained to herself. She wasn't tired, nor did she have much to do in the current state of weather.

 

She could write in her journal, or read a book... re-read the same book she had already read 4 times now on this trip.

 

Franny sighed, laying her head down on the pillow. Staring up at her tent ceiling, she tried to locate where each individual rain drop fell. It was distracting at least. Until the next bit of lightning flashed so bright she could only see white, and swore it could've made her blind. Quickly followed by one of the loudest, shaking booms of thunder, she shrieked and pulled her pillow over her head to try to block everything out.

 

It worked when she was at home, and too stressed to function. She figured it could work now, to at least give her a sense of home and comfort.



Alaska

I've been slowly hearing back from the places I applied for internships at, and most recently I've heard back from an internship in Alaska that asked me for an interview. I was reminded of a poem I wrote last year when I was rejected from an internship. Even though I knew I wasn't likely to get it, I was still sad so I wrote this. Here's hoping for good news. (So far so good!)

"Alaska"
The frozen caps call me.
The glaciers melt, waiting.
Ocras breach their impactience
as I sit, with only dreams.

The forests rustle with whispering wind,
The wolves howl, trying to pass the message.
It is lost in translation
as the moon shines and a coyote scurries.

The oceans crash the shore, reaching for me.
The lights point colors, trying to direct me.
But they cannot reach me, because
I wake to a sunrise on the ocean.

Dear Basketball,

I am sorry.

I am sorry that we have fallen apart in the past few years. It wasn't your fault. I take full blame. I went to college, you know? I joined new clubs and got a few jobs. I played a lot of pick up freshman year, you probably thought I would never give you up. I mean, I didn't think I was going to either. Funny how things don't always turn out the way we were expecting.

I'm a junior now. I played some intramurals this year... but it wasn't serious We had maybe 4 games. My heart wasn't there though. I was just going through the motions: dribble, pass, box out, lay up. I am sorry I let myself fall so far away.

I had a reality check this past week. I was in the stands, watching you. And you know what? I was jealous. I had stopped trying to play, and yet I had the audacity to be jealous of those players. Not because of the fan count (though ENC represent!). You remember those high school games? We had maybe 5 parents (15 on a good day) in the stands (M-what? MV) and we still played our hearts out. No it's not the fans, it's you.

It was the competition and the heart, the bruises and the sweat, the strategy and vision. The one time I got poked in the eye but hit the shot and everyone thought my eye was bleeding. The one time I was afraid of playing varsity, so I made a bigger deal about my back pain than was true. We've been through a lot.

I think of the love letter Michael Jordan wrote you. I remember reading it in high school, and thinking, "Yes. Basketball, you truly are fantastic." I thought about playing college ball. I got scared though. I didn't think I was good enough, and was afraid to try... and this is where it has gotten us.

I'm sorry Basketball, and I'm sorry Delilah. We will make amends.

Thank you ENC Basketball for reminding me.

Much Love x14,
Mega Leg

Activism for the Out of Shape

I would never call myself an activist, an advocate maybe... but I don't actively advocate anything. As a vegetarian, I advocate for a more humane, and environmentally friendly meat industry, but I am not actively doing this. I am passively advocating; quietly boycotting the infrastructure.

I am non-confrontational as well. This means that if I disagree with someone, I likely will not argue with them; rather try and find a less confrontational way of saying what I wanted to. Like making a blog post about what someone said to me, sharing it on Facebook, and then blocking them from being able to see the post.

There you go. Passive and non-confrontational; the two things that are completely opposite of an activist.

"Let's clean the river!"

Now here's the problem: essentially, I want to be an activist, but I am afraid of judgement, and anger, and confrontation that inevitably follows it.

My mom always told me: Know what you're advocating, before you advocate. (I am pretty sure she worries that I am about to become a protesting hippie that just protests because it's cool.)

I do agree with her though. I want to know every little thing about what I am supporting, and the group I am with before I join a chant, and crazily wave banners around. I don't want to jump on a bandwagon with no basis or background information.

This is why I usually stick to passive advocating: it's easier, nobody can justifiably hate you for it, and if you change your mind, nobody will really know you had an opinion about that subject in the first place.

Activism requires energy, time, knowledge, courage, organization, and not batting an eye at someone's crude words.

Passivity requires... next to nothing.

Now you see why I am so drawn to my passive advocation. The cat's out of the bag! I am a terrible environmental science major.

This past week however, I got my first taste of activism. I attended a protest. I was asked to represent the YECA (Young Evangelicals for Climate Action) at a protest on Romney's Headquarters in Boston over his environmental "plans." My response was: Absolutely (although my anxiety levels immediately began to sky rocket). Me? An activist? What is this madness!?

The rally delivered a petition with thousands of signatures demanding that Romney take environmental issues more seriously. (For those of you interested- his campaign rejected the petition).

Thumbs up for activism!

Chanting, poster waving, large groups of people... these things makes me nervous. So, going to this rally put my anxiety at an all time high, and yet I am proud to be able to say that for those fleeting moments, at that rally, I was an activist.

Activism is not for everyone, I can attest to that. But maybe it becomes easier with more practice, and I am just out of shape.

I do know that with the right conviction, people can make a change for the better.

Here's hoping.

The Break-Up Counselor.

It is not a fun job but chances are, in your friends group, you have that one friend who you turn to for advice when your relationship has gone sour and you need advice. Maybe, in your friends group, you have a friend that is in a... not-so-good relationship, but cannot see the problems, or needs someone to point them out because they are in denial. Hearing a 3rd party, outside perspective, that only has your well-being in mind, is a useful tool when things get out of hand.

Hate me; I am that friend... which is funny, because I am also probably the one who has the least experience in the whole fantasy Realm of Relationships. That aside, I think any outside person (please note: this does not mean a random person) can give advice as long as they truly care for their friend.

Here are my thoughts on the experience of the Break-Up Counselor:

The Break-Up Counselor is a jerk. There is no win-win. In reality, the friend is probably just looking for confirmation that breaking-up is the right decision, but to the break-up counselor it feels like the whole world has been put on their shoulders. You give your thoughts, and either the friend hates you for suggesting it and the should-be-ex now hates you too, or the friend agrees and breaks up with boy, and you are filled with this doubt on whether or not you should have said anything, because it feels like you convinced them to break-up. You are now on par with the controlling significant other.

Ugh. Break-Up Counseling: Not for the weak of heart or mind.

You have to be logical. This sucks because your friend has invested a decent amount of time, tears and emotion in this relationship.

"But you don't understand, I love him."
Yes, well... you're right. I don't exactly understand how you feel, but I know that he is making you cry yourself to sleep on a regular basis, criticizes everything you do, is controlling and verbally abusive. 
"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger?"
-__-''

Sometimes all you can do is talk to them. Let them talk about everything that they hold inside. As a Break-Up Counselor sometimes, you may want to go and shake sense into your friend, or punch the guy who is causing this conversation in the first place. It is recommended that you do not do either, because that will cause more problems, and make the 3rd party join the 1st party, and nobody likes a party crasher.

The number one quality required to be the break-up counselor is patience. Denial is cyclical and not easy to break. When you think you have made a break in the cycle, everything falls back to where you started. The break-up counselor is a loving friend who really just has your best interest in heart. And let's be honest your friend just wants someone to talk to.

Natural Harmony

The mountain will not do
what the river does.
The river cannot,
what the mountain can.

And while the mountain can
poison the river,
The river is what gives
the mountain life.

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

A random poem, written in the spur of the moment thought while walking in the woods.

Curiosity Has Gotten the Better of Me

This is old news to everybody, I'm sure. Curiosity, a NASA Rover, has landed on Mars. Yay! What I really want to focus on though is A Very Potter Musical, and how these two things are related.

Maybe you've heard of the musical, and maybe not. In this play, the audience is informed of a couple things that the Harry Potter series neglect to tell us, like:

Hogwarts has a hidden swimming pool, and
There is another school of wizardry called Pigfarts. (It's on Mars. You need a rocket-ship.)

In any case, it's a great 3 hours of your life that will provide you with amazing quotes to add to your arsenal.

So Curiosity has landed on Mars, and you like a musical. How do they relate? Well! Let me tell you- they are completely related.

Allow me to take you back to Harry Potter's first trip to Diagon Alley, at Olivander's Wand shop. Was it not curious that Harry's wand shared the same core as the one who was bent on killing him. (Well not really, because by the end of the series we all know that a little piece of Voldy-man was latched onto Harry's forehead.)

Any-who, the phrase to describe the acknowledgement of this coincidence was, "Curious." Now correct me if I am wrong, but the base word of Curiosity is in fact- Curious. (I know, that knowledge just completely blew your mind.)

Is it not curious that Curiosity has landed on Mars, the exact planet where Pigfarts is rumored to be located only a short period of time after the ending of the Harry Potter era? I say nay, it is the perfect timing to continue the story.

I, like many others, am now awaiting this rover to discover my acceptance letter from Rumbleroar (the talking Lion headmaster of Pigfarts), so to learn wizardry on Mars, which would be totally awesome.

Also! I would like to resurface the Fred isn't dead tag. At the end of the musical, Dumbledore is asked by Rumbleroar if he was going to tell Harry that he was, in fact, alive. To which Dumbledore said, no, and proceeded to ride Rumbleroar to Pigfarts. Dumbledore was dead! We all saw Snape kill Dumbledore. Which means... if Fred died... he must just have been transported to Pigfarts! (Celebrations!)

Basically, the massive NASA, science, space success story that Curiosity is, has become a new excuse for me to smirk and bring up Pigfarts in normal day conversation.

Thank you NASA. Thank you Starkid.
And goodnight.

Why I Can't Dislike Fan-fiction

I have read many different threads, articles and posts about fan-fiction, mostly negative:

Fan-fiction is stupid. (level 0 argument for those who know any TOK)  

You are using someone else's characters, and not using any of your own imagination, which is pathetic. You have no creativity!

It ruins something that was perfectly fine before hand, with bad writing.

Hater's Gonna Hate.

Now. I will agree that, sometimes fan-fiction can be written terribly, and the ideas behind it don't line up with anything from the actual book that they are writing about, aside from character names. And maybe you could become successful writing your own story with your own plot base and everything. There are debates from both sides about whether or not fan-fiction is worth it. This article discusses and supports fan-fiction beautifully.

In as much as it pains me to read certain fan-fictions, as a whole, it is a wonderful thing. Fangirling (PH-AN-GURL-ING) may be one of the funnest things there is to do on the internet. While I, personally, am not into that whole erotic side of Fandoms, I cannot disown a Fandom for what another person... enjoys?

I won't lie to you by saying: I am perfectly okay with reading a fan-fiction in public. Saying it out loud can be embarrassing, especially to people who do not know anything about fan-fiction but the erotic side. When I admit to reading fan-fiction, they just assume I'm reading a porno version of Harry Potter, when in fact I am not. Thank you very much.

Sure, there are plenty of those around if that is what suits your fancy. I prefer those that follow the plot of the actual novel up to a certain point and then take on a side of their own.

Why are people drawn to fan-fiction? Why do I read fan-fiction even when it is so poorly written? Well, it starts with the author, who writes a story, that develops characters in such a way that when the story is done... you want more.

Maybe you are upset about who ended up with who because you ship something else (I SHIP IT ALL!). There is no shame in that. Maybe you want to write your own ending, or add yourself to the story. Maybe you are not a writer, but you love the characters. That is why fan-fiction is perfect. Fan-fiction allows the story to continue even when it is over. Fan-fiction is the legacy of a novel or series.

That is why I can't dislike it. Even when, sometimes, I want to.

Here are some of my ships for my favorite Fandoms:

Harry Potter: Dramione (sorry guys), Framione (Fred isn't dead.), Larry?  SeamusxAnyone!
Divergent: I ship what's cannon, because it's awesome.
Hunger Games: Buttermuts (Buttercupxmuttations?), KatCat (Because... Cato really had a big heart... and I like cats...)
Legend of Korra: I SHIP IT ALLLLLLL! (Meesami x14)
Maximum Ride: I don't want to talk about it, if I have to pick- TotalxAkila

SoulFest 2012

Well it's about time. For those of you who don't know, SoulFest is an annual four day concert celebrating all things Jesus. And it is great, although I received a few sentiments that indicated it to be quite expensive. As a college student, the prices are not something I can afford. Especially while paying off monthly interest on my college loans. There are plenty of ways to make the cost less, but I am never sure how much time I have during my summer, let alone whether or not I'll be in New England. I'm a procrastinator at heart.

Not only are there discounts offered to buy tickets, there is also a super secret way to get in for free. But fear not! This super secret is, in fact, on their website: Volunteering! Camping, volunteering with awesome people, music, and all things festival. It is all I could ask for.

The last time I volunteered was 4 years ago, and I went with my mother and older sister. I didn't have my driver's permit (though I definatley should have). I was working "Inside parking," in which I directed artists for the Revival Stage. Big coach buses would enter the area and I would have to pretend like I knew how to direct cars. I was terrified, but I did get to casually talk with random band members from Superchic[k], Kutless and Tenth Avenue North. In the off time, I was able to catch a few bands, and I met some awesome people who had a great impact on me, and made the experience all I could have asked for.

This year, I went back again to volunteer. Just me and my sister. (I've had my license for a while now, if you were wondering). This time we were placed in the Box Office, but we only had hours to work there on Thursday night and Friday. If you purchased or picked up tickets around either of those times you might have seen us. Hello again!

We still had some volunteer time we needed to fill, and we ended up in PARKING! Woooo! So hey, if you came on Wednesday or Thursday after 2p, we might have seen you there too!

You know. Volunteering is something you have to do from your heart. Especially. Especially, when you encounter people who feel like you are a suitable person to take all their anger out on. If it weren't for other supportive volunteers, super nice people who just seemed to love everything when I walked up to their car, and the knowledge that nothing rude was meant personally (I hope!), I might have broken down a couple of times.

Switchfoot. Can't you tell?

But I made it through: fought the super heat, the meanies, and the tenting on a slope that made you wake up at the end of your tent. And, I got to see a few band that I quite enjoyed: like Chasing Cooper (formerly known as Siloam), TobyMac, Switchfoot and Reilly. Oh and Paul Colman, who was hilarious, and had the crowd singing "In the Jungle."

Unfortunately we left a day early. So if you are a SoulFest Volunteer person: I'm so sorry!! I had no intentions of leaving early, we weren't scheduled for anything yet, we didn't sign in, and my sister was ready to leave after we packed up. No excuses.

I didn't get to say goodbye to anyone. So if fate brings you here and you were someone I wanted to say goodbye to: It was good to meet you!

To the ENC tent: Thank you, Thank you, Thank you for that T-Shirt. I had grossly sweat through all of the shirts I brought, and that one saved my life, and anyone who had to stand in my vicinity. I will wear that shirt proudly around campus next year. #ENClove!

Whew. That was a lot. But it was truly a great weekend.

Befriending Irony

I always forget an umbrella when it rains. Every time. If it is a sunny, beautiful day, my umbrella weighs down my bag, laughing at me with Irony. Then, when it does rain, it happens to be the day I decide: carrying around a heavy umbrella is futile. Oh Irony, how you must take pleasure in my life.

One day last summer, I was waiting at the trolley stop. I was wearing a nice dress and was going into town to meet with some friends. The sun shone, the work day had gone by quickly, it was a Friday and the day could not seem to get any better. I boarded the trolley and was off for an adventure with my friends. The trolley went underground; I transferred to the subway (the much less glamorous form of public transit) and continued on my way.

Finally getting off the hot, crowded train, I took to the stairs anxious to be welcomed back into the sunlight. I knocked myself for ever reflecting on how wonderful and sunny the day was… I should have known that it was only a matter of time before Irony felt the need to check up on me.

Sheets of rain poured down from the sky. Buckets in the clouds seemed to just overflow and dump out onto me. I did not want to take that first step out into the street. I saw businessmen sprinting with their briefcases over their heads, people trying to use a newspaper as shelter. I had a purse… with no umbrella in it.

People pushed by me from the subway exit as I debated whether or not I should ditch my friends, go home and apologize later. Just as I was turning around to reenter the subway, a man accidentally bumped me, pushing me out from underneath my shelter: instantly drenched. So much for decision making, clearly Irony had already made plans for me. I felt like I was being manipulated into going on a date, and just could not say no.

I walked down streets, water dripping off my nose, muttering to myself and ranting about my hatred for Irony and Irony’s love for me.

I arrived at the coffee shop, where my friends said to meet. Maybe I was early. The shop was slowly filling up as college students got out of their summer classes. I shook my head at myself, thinking about all the people walking by looking at me right now: drenched and sipping on my tea…alone. I let 14 minutes pass before I looked at my phone to see 3 texts all saying the same thing:

“Weather’s bad, we’ll reschedule.”

As I sat there, I realized that I had not been sitting by myself at all. Irony was sipping on a latte beside me with a big grin slapped on his face.

Well played Irony, well played.

On the CONTRAry

Eight seconds. That’s how long he has to make an impression. Promenade; hands link, he leads her. 1, 2, 3, 4… he can smell her hair as he twirls her into the position for the next call, 5, 6, 7, 8, and he hands her off  as the ladies chain. She smiles as she swings, 2, 3, 4, locking eyes with her partner. Jealousy clouds his eyes as he easily moves to the rhythm of the fiddle, 5, 6, 7, 8.

She is taken for the rest of the night, he’s sure: partners lined up one right after another. He lost his chance. Circle to the left, 3, 4, 5, 6. His eight seconds to win her over were not enough. Though he was quick on his feet dancing, making conversation was a little different, 7, 8. Allemande right, 4, 5.

He searches the dance hall for a partner as the caller announces the next song,. Futile, his eyes can only focus on her, 6, 7, 8. The music begins, he has a chance in the line to dance with her, but it is only a moment, only eight seconds until she’s gone again.

Their eyes meet as partners balance and swing, 5, 6. Her face is flushed from the exercise, blushed from the movement, 7, 8. She smiles, 6, 7 and turns to circle left breaking the eye contact, 8. The music ends, he thanks his partner, claps for the band and goes to find a new partner, hiding the disappointment as he sees her accept the hand of her next suitor. And the music starts, 7, 8… and the music ends. There is a break before the last dance. He goes to the punch bowl. She is there.

“Are you not going to dance the final contra?” He asked, surprised she was not still being fought over.

“On the Contrary,” 1, 2, 3, 4, “I was just waiting for you to ask.” And they danced, 5, 6, 7, 8.

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I absolutely love Contra Dancing. My friend introduced me to it in March of 2011. It is a great way to meet new people, dance (even if you are a terrible dancer!), and have fun. I won't say I haven't met my fair share of awkward dances, neighbors, partners, because I definatley have (even in just a year), but at the end of the dance, I usually agree with myself that it was worth it.

If you want to find a dance in your area go Here. And if you want to learn some dance moves before you go (although you usually don't have to) search them on Youtube, or check out this worksheet.

If you're in the Boston Area, might I recommend BIDA?

Why I Simultaneously Hate and Somewhat Appreciate "Filler Books"

If you have read any book series in your life, chances are you have read what we call a "filler book," or a book that holds not enough significant information to merit over 50 pages. A book whose only true purpose is to continue building tension between the protagonist and antagonist and leave you with a severely annoying cliff-hanger and a year to wait for the next book. And yet we find ourselves reading these and anxiously waiting for the next installment in the series.

You usually can't tell your reading a filler book until you've finished it. And how do you know you've read a filler book? Because you feel like you haven't actually moved forward in the story. Maybe you've gained a tad bit more information, that isn't all that important to the overarching story. Most of the time, when you finish the book, you feel no sense of accomplishment, and find yourself saying, "That's it?" or "I just spent $20 to buy this is hardcover?"

This is why I despise filler books.

I would be lying however, if I said that I didn't also somewhat appreciate them. (This statement depends completely on whether or not the preceding books were worth reading).

Usually (again depending on the series), when I read a series, I get severely attached to the characters. They become my best-friends, and I don't want to grow apart. (Only a slight exaggeration).

I read the Maximum Ride series... when I thought it was just going to be three books (It's finally going to end in August 2012, 5 books and 3 comics later). When I found out a fourth book was in the works, my heart fluttered a little. And then I read the book, and then I read the book after that, and the one after that etc. etc, each time hoping that something would happen. I was slightly relieved by Angel, but still waiting for all the pieces to [hopefully] come together in the end. Filler books drive me crazy, but when you fall in love with characters, you don't care as much when they run around doing nothing.

When an amazing series ends, I can't help but silently demand more from the author. The Harry Potter series comes to mind. As much as I disliked Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and am convinced the only reason for that book was to kill Sirius and give us a real reason to hate Voldemort, I am glad that Rowling let us live in the Wizarding World a little longer.

But for me to even consider somewhat appreciating a filler book, it better be a dang good series.

What series have you read with a filler that drives you crazy?

Love the Word, Hate the Flavor

Gouda. I am not quite sure what is so appealing about this word. It's refreshing. You simply say the word and it finishes with "ahh," like you just took a sip of ice water of a stifling hot day.

Gouda. Iz Gewd.
Gewd. Ahhh...

Whether you care or not, Gouda cheese originated in Holland, and if you ever cared how to make it just click HERE!

As much as I love randomly saying "Gouda Cheese," or quoting She's the Man when I say, "My favorite's Gouda," I just can't bring myself to actually enjoy this particular dairy product.

I would love to say that I actually enjoy this cheese, rather than be an endorser for a product I don't actually eat. And yet, here I am... writing about Gouda.

I was first tried Gouda as a Freshman in college. As a vegetarian at a small (mostly commuter student) college campus, my food choices are limited. Not to mention I'm picky. So, if it's not a salad, it's a sandwich! And a sandwich for me, is basically a salad with a slice of provolone cheese and bread. It's an amazing sandwich.

Since provolone cheese is a delicacy on my campus, you are lucky to grab even half a slice before it's gone. Especially if you don't go to lunch in the first wave of people. (Which I never do). I learned my lesson- in my sandwich, there is no substitute'. No provolone, no sandwich. End of story.

It's called provolovin' for a reason.

The first time I was faced with the dilemma of no provolone, I thought, "No biggie, the cheese doesn't even make that much of a difference once I put the lettuce, tomato, cucumber, honey mustard, bean sprouts, pickles, banana peppers and whatever else I can find on the sandwich." I thought, "I always talk about how much I love Gouda. I'll just put that in my sandwich and then I can say I ate gouda, and I liked it." I though, "What could possibly go wrong?"

My sandwich looked beautiful. I was excited to have my first bite of gouda cheese.

...

I ended up taking the cheese out of the sandwich, and just eating the bread and vegetables.

With that sandwich I discovered that: Gouda, while sounding delicious when spoken, does not belong in that sandwich.

Just History: His Story.

In 7th grade (I think), my history teacher introduced the subject of history by dividing the History into two words: His Story. To make the class seem relatable and more exciting, like I am actually just reading a story? I have no idea. It didn't work.

It wasn't until about my junior year of high school that I didn't completely hate everything about the class. I always thought it was pointless to hear the same story every single year with only one or two details changed.

I am reading The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood. In the book, there is a paragraph about history that inspired this post. (This has nothing to do with the actual story, so no worries- no spoilers if you intend on reading the book).

"I remember watching a television program once...I must have been seven or eight, too young to understand it. It was the sort of thing my mother liked to watch: historical and educational. She tried to explain to me afterwards, to tell me that the things in it had really happened, but to me it was only a story. I thought someone had made it up. I suppose all children think that, about any history before their own. If it's only a story, it becomes less frightening." -p. 144

Last year I finished my final history course. Ever. Unless I decided to change my major or take more history courses. As unlikely as that is, I have found a new appreciation for what history teaches us.

When I was younger, history was a boring story that I had to listen to every single year repeatedly. A story that I had to memorize pointless dates to, and vocabulary. History was just another English class. We were told these events were not fiction, that they actually happened. I told myself that these events had happened centuries before I was even conceived. That is what my teacher said, so it must be true, but I could not actually picture them happening. No matter how realistic the History Channel made it look.

Children don't mean to be disrespectful by complete lack of understanding regarding history. How can we even begin to fathom war upon war upon war? Why can't everyone just get along? The emotions do not register because everything is simple when we are children. Nothing is bigger than the bubbles we grow up in. And now we feel the repercussions of different events in history. Our generation's history is now being printed in textbooks. (So weird!)

History is weird.

Sorry. I just really enjoyed that quote from Atwood. For some reason it made me want to blab about nothing...

Olympic Dreams

**DISCLAIMER** Content of this post is only 14% serious

I love watching the Olympics. There's something for everybody. Even people who don't generally like watching sports. By far, my favorite event to watch is men's gymnastics. (And no, not just because there are men in tight spandex). Don't get me wrong, women's gymnastics is pretty awesome, but there is a difference between men's and women's athleticism. (Sorry feminists, but we are different).

Well, since the Olympics have not actually started, I have been spending random amounts of time watching the trials. And since I am from the United States, I have only been paying attention to the USA men's gymnastics Olympic trials... to be specific.

And yes, I have found a man to put my money on. (Figuratively of course, I don't gamble, and I don't really have money). Jake Dalton. Not only are his biceps huge, and his skills impressive (to someone who doesn't know anything about gymnastics aside from "ooohhh a flip and he didn't break his neck!") but, he is a cutie.

Forgive me for my shallowness!

This being said, what any 20 year old woman with all her dignity would do, I immediately consulted my friend to discuss. And this is what we decided:

We both love to kayak, although admittedly, neither of us have a kayak nor the means to transport one if we had the money to buy one. Technicalities. As wannabe (professional) kayakers, we decided to create a new Olympic event:

The Double Person Kayak Race

Since this is not a real race. Because this race is so new, there is no official trial to determine teams for each country, rather a intense feat of Olympic proportions is necessary to prove your awesomeness and worthiness to compete.

Because we are from Boston, have no sponsors for this completely legitimate event, and this year's games are in London, to prove our worthiness, we shall kayak across the Atlantic Ocean! (Begin playing intense music). Oh Yes! Prepare to hear about us in the news and everything! Don't worry, we are prepared. Lots of protein bars and, naturally, we have a pocket water distiller that will let us turn sea water into drinkable fresh water! Better yet, reverse osmosis anyone?

Also, since we are the only people in this event, we are pretty much guaranteed a Gold Medal. No big deal. Bring on the sponsorships!

Oh yeah, back to the point-- Jake Dalton. When we receive our Gold Medals, he won't have a choice but to think we are nothing less than the coolest people ever. Then we live happily ever after. 

OLYMPICS 2012- Leggo!

Coffee Past 7p

Some people are night owls while others are early birds. What do you call a person who is neither? What kind of bird just likes to sleep? Well, whatever it is, when I am in summer mode that is the kind of bird I become, even though I try to force myself to wake up early.

My freshman year of college I tried to become a night owl. I would stay up to anywhere from 12a to 3a before going to sleep, and I would wake up at 7a. All without drinking coffee. I was pretty smug about it. But, it did not take long to figure out that 4 hours of sleep for me was simply not enough. Long story short, I decided to self-enforce a bedtime.

The summer before my sophomore year, I began drinking coffee because I would go to work at 6a. During the school year I would go to bed at a reasonable 11p. I didn't need to drink coffee, but it tasted good, and it was nice having a little bit of help waking up in the morning. A few times however, I decided that it would be a great idea to get a coffee at 7p. Thinking it would help me with my homework. Besides, caffeine doesn't affect me that much. (Denial).

I did this last night again:

"It's 3a. I'm wide awake. And I want to sleep. I love sleep. It's a hobby. I want sleep. I tried to sleep. I was yawning. That means I'm tired, right? Why is my mind racing a million miles a second, and my eyes wide open? My eyes hurt, but they won't close.

I know better than having coffee past 7p. I should have known better, I have to wake up at 6a tomorrow today. I won't be happy."

The solution? -- More Coffee.

And I thought I wasn't going to give in and drink coffee when I got to college.