SNOW!

Today was a totally cool day. I found out that Steph was in town with the kids visiting her family and we made plans for her to come by and see me during lunch. I'm so used to her being surrounded by a herd of youngens that I was somewhat surprised when she walked into my office all by herself. She had managed to convince her parents to watch the kids while she "went to lunch with her girl friend." She joked that she felt so grown-up. It was nice being able to have lunch and an entire uninterrupted conversation with my friend. And as a bonus, she brought me a little gift: Reese's Peanut Butter Cups! She's such a great friend.

Yum!

As we returned to my office, we made some comments about how different the weather was from last year at this time. Last year we had tons of snow, but this year, nothing. We compared what little whiteness we had seen in our two cities this year: me and our short-lived morning frosts, her and her longer-lasting frost. Sad, but that's how Washington weather works. You never really know what you're going to get.

And as if to prove that point, a few hours later I got an email from another friend saying that Clakamas was getting some snow. Not fair! As I was replying to her, I looked out my window and noticed that the sky had changed from a cool blue to a steel grey. Cool! And wait. . . do I see what I think I see? Is that. . . SNOW?!?!

The entire office seemed to realize it at the same time because we all started moving from window to window to make sure we weren't being tricked. Nope, snow was falling steadily from every window in the wing. Awesome!

By the time I left for work, we had already accumulated quite a bit. So much so, that some that lived a bit farther out had left work early to avoid the dangerous roads. I stayed because the payroll office has to remain open and when I walked out at 5:00 pm, this is what I saw:

My excitement for the snow faded quite a bit when the 20 minute drive home took me over an hour to make, but as soon as I was once again safe and sound inside my warm apartment with my dog, the excitement returned. As far as I'm concerned, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

A Very Merry Christmas

Christmas has come and gone. I have to say, it was a pretty good one. It had a few things missing: the snow like last year, my youngest brother, a couple of my cousins, and saddest of all, Bill and Grandpa. But overall, everything was as cheery as could be expected.

Derrick and I spent the Christmas Eve night at mom's house, as per our family tradition. Don's brother Scott was also there. Derrick was dog-sitting the neighbors pup (Jade's playmate), and Derrick, Scott, and I all brought our pets with us, so it was a very full house with five dogs, two cats, five humans, and a partridge in a pear tree. Okay, just kidding about the bird. But we wouldn't really have noticed if I wasn't.

Of course the big news for Christmas morning would be my new camera. I was so totally excited when I opened the gift. Every time anyone had asked me this year what I wanted for Christmas, my answer was always "A camera. But I know they are too expensive, so I don't really know what I want." I honestly did not expect them to get one for me. It's the SLR I had been talking all year about finding a way to get; a Nikon like Don's (which means I'm able to borrow his lenses), smaller in size than his so it doesn't hurt my hand to hold for long times. It takes really beautiful pictures (okay, I know, "camera's don't take good pictures; people do". But the quality is amazing and makes me feel more confident in my photography skills.)

Mom got the family a Wii for Christmas. That was pretty cool. Actually, Don wasn't too thrilled because he's never been much for video games. In fact, mom admitted that she almost took the Wii back before Christmas because Don had found it in the garage where she had hidden it and he expressed that he would not be pleased if it ended under the tree with his name on it. But we got it set up and popped in the Wii Sports game and started playing bowling. By the end of the day, we were all addicted. In fact, at 4:00 in the morning, mom and I were ready to call it quits and head to bed while Don, of all people, kept saying "One more game. Come on!"

No, we didnt' spend the entire day on Christmas playing the Wii. That was the next day. On Christmas we played for a little while in the morning and then we took a break to do the family part of the holiday. We always have dinner and exchange family gifts at Grandma's house on Christmas. We've taken to drawing names for the gift exchange each year and this year my cousing Angie and I managed to get each other's names. Angie was pretty easy: She simply wanted gift cards, so I got her one for Borders (cuz she likes to read) and one to JoAnne's Fabric (because she's crafty like I am, but more in the sewing area). Angie didn't have it as easy with me because as I said, I only wanted a camera (which was WAY outside the $20 price limit), and wasn't able to give her any ideas. But she's a creative girl and managed to come up with something great: Hot Chocolate! Yum!

Next to my fantastic and very unexpected camera, my favorite gift would be the one that Grandma gave to everyone. It wasn't a surprise since it actually had been my idea, but that didn't take away from the specialness of it. Grandma gave everyone pillows. Yes, pillows. The reason these pillows are so special to us is because they are pillows made from some of Grandpa's old shirts. Every year for Christmas I would give Grandpa a flannel shirt and he would wear it all year round. My pillow is made from one of his favorites. The flannel is well-worn and comfortable. I think everyone was really happy to get a little piece of Grandpa to keep with them.

Don't tell the rest of the family, but buying Grandpa's shirt was always my favorite Christmas present to get. I loved picking out what color to put him in this year. And I know he always loved whatever one I got him. I really missed that part this year.

It was a very full and wonderful Christmas indeed.

No, she's not fighting to get out of his arms. She's actually asleep!

T'was the Night Before Christmas

Merry Christmas to all. . .

. . .and to all, a good night.

I love this season.

Happy Birthday To Me

I know this is about a week late in coming. My apologies. . .

I had a pretty decent birthday last week. Even though my original plans failed to materialize, I made the best of it. I had taken the day off from work, so that right away started my birthday on a happy note. Oh how I love days off. And since it's no fun taking a Thursday off just to go in for one more day before the weekend, I also took Friday off. Weekends are so much better when they start in the middle of the week.

It was a really nice day outside. Much too nice to spend my birthday in my little apartment, so I layered on my coat, scarf, gloves, and hat (it was bright and clear but still VERY cold), grabbed Jade's leash and Don's camera (he was kind enough to let me play with it all day), and raced the dog out to the car (she won, as usual. She's like a little black lightening bolt of speed. Especially when it comes to going for a ride).

Our first stop was at the dog park. I wanted to give Jade a chance to run some of her cooped up energy out while I practiced taking action shots and figured that would be the safest place to do it.

Jade was very excited to go to the park. As soon as we drove into the parking lot and she realized where we were, she started wiggling and whining. "Ooo, ooo, ooo, let me out, please, let me out, ooo, ooo, out now!" I parked the car and had hardly turned off the engine when she started her impatient barking. "Come on, let's go, why are you just sitting there, let me out so I can play, let's go, let's go, let's go!" Her impatient bark (also used when we don't throw the ball quick enough for her) is extremely high pitched so my ears were literally ringing when I opened the car door and she flew past me. Crazy dog.

There were plenty of dogs there for Jade to play with and for me to take pictures of. There was just one minor problem: bending down to be closer to their eye level to get pictures is not a good idea at a dog park. Because the dogs all figure that you are down on their level, therefore you are to be licked and played with. I was knocked over several times while we were there. The owners always felt bad about it, but I laughed it off every time. No harm done.




While I tried to get pictures and not end up on the ground every couple seconds or so, Jade ran off to play with the dogs and people who were throwing balls. She LOVES chasing the ball. The people didn't mind when she would join their dogs in the race to retrieve the ball, but they got a huge shock when she would grab the ball and run away from them. I was taking pictures when I heard one person say "hey, where are you going with that?" I looked up and realized that Jade was bringing the ball to me! She's such a weirdo. Eventually I got to the point where I would stand near the owner of the ball so she would at least bring it in their general direction.



When I had my fill of doggie antics, I took Jade on a bit of a drive out to Lucia Falls.

Again, it was gorgeous, but VERY cold. I enjoyed getting to take some lovely scenery shots out there.


We hiked up the stream for a little while and I got some really nice shots. Jade, it turns out, is absolutely fearless. There were several times when I had to shorten her leash because she would walk right out to the cliffs and stick her nose downward. I kept having images of having to choose between rescuing Derrick's dog from the icy water or protecting Don's very expensive camera from being dropped to the cold, hard ground. Luckily, it never came to that.

On the way home, I stopped and birthday treated myself to a Chocolate Hazelnut milkshake from Burgerville. Yum!

Later that evening, my family took me out to dinner at Benihana's. I love going there. Not only is the food wonderful, but the chefs (who cook right at your table) are absolutely hilarious. It's such a blast. Naturally, with both Don and me at the table, many pictures got taken.

Here's the link to my facebook album where I posted my favorite ones:http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=130167&id=840189872&l=c64ca2bc2c

I may not be terribly thrilled at the whole "getting older" concept, but I have to admit, birthdays aren't that bad of a deal most of the time.

4 Margaritas Later. . .

Despite the fact that Sex and the City is one of my all-time favorite TV shows and I tend to relate many of my adventures to the girls in the show, I don't actually do the party scene very often. In fact, I do it so rarely that it really is a big event just to get me out there. But this past week had been full of subconscious emotional stress and deep down there was an inexplicable desire to go out and burn off some steam in an environment completely out of my normal realm of reality. It was that same reckless abandon that sent me to some random masquerade a few years back. So when one of my single Facebook friends announced her desire to gather some friends for a night of dancing in Portland to celebrate her birthday, I responded immediately in the affirmative. At least this time I had some idea, however slight, of who I would be going out with.

Since I go out so rarely, I'm very conscious of my drinking limits. Especially since I usually have to drive myself home. But this time I would be going along for the ride in every sense of the phrase. That was good planning on my part since I would be so far out of my comfort zone (a group of unfamiliar people in a crowded party scene expecting me to dance and talk and pretending that I'm not at all uncomfortable or shy) I knew I would need quite a bit of alcohol assistance. I was curious to see what would happen when I passed my usual stopping points.

We started the night at a 10:00 pm show at Harvey's comedy club. Being a Saturday night it was incredibly full. So much so that the seven of us were forced to scrunch around a tiny table and spill over to another table that luckily had a couple empty seats and very gracious occupants who didn't mind shuffling around a bit so our overflow could at least be close to our overcrowded table for two. This brings us to Margarita #1. Apparently this is what it takes to keep me from hyperventilating in the crush of people surrounding me. It's also what allows me to find tolerance (and chuckles) for the crude humor coming at me from on-stage. You can never be sure with Harvey's what kind of comedians you are going to get, but you can usually bet that Friday and Saturday nights are going to be less "family friendly" than during the week (not that any are appropriate for children. It's still a club and you have to be 21 to go in anyway). The comedians were funny (if a little embarrassing to my prudish side which hadn't yet had enough tequila to put it to sleep) and we all had a lot of fun laughing (which is the point of going to a comedy club, after all).

Next we walked a couple blocks down to a club called Embers. When we walked in, we were greeted with strobing colored lights on the dance floor and the boom-ba-boom-ba-boom of dance remixed 80's music. My first thought was of an episode of Sex and the City where the girls go to Stanton Island and dance to 80's music after judging the hot firefighters competition. While the others wandered the crowd and looked for a table, I headed off to the bar and ordered Margarita #2. This one was to allow me to talk to the strangers I was spending the evening hanging with. This is also usually where I stop in my normal world. It's just enough to loosen me up enough to forget I'm shy, but not so much that I can't drive home at the end of the evening. But I wasn't driving that night, so that didn't have to be a factor for once.

You know, it's really hard to sit and get to know people at a dance club. I suppose I should have realized that I wasn't going to be allowed to hang out at the table and chat. Eventually one of our group left us to check out the drag show in the other part of the club and Dee Dee (the birthday girl) dragged the rest of us out to the dance floor. The second I stepped out on the floor, a new song started and I cringed. Of all the dang-gum 80's songs to greet me on the dance floor. . . I stood there for a few seconds, trying to get my body to pretend to dance along, but I realized very quickly that I didn't have enough alcohol in me to bust a dance move to the dreaded sounds of "Love shack, baby, love shack. . . " so I gracefully swung my hips toward the bar and picked up Margarita #3.

Okay, usually this is the point where bad ideas seem like good ideas, which is why I don't make it here very often. Luckily, this situation didn't lend itself to much in the way of "bad decision making" so I was pretty safe. But apparently #3 is also where my prudish side calls it a night and goes to sleep and I'm left determining that the idea of watching a drag show with everyone else seems completely logical and normal (not to mention, a hell of a way to celebrate a girlfriend's birthday!). So, off to the other side of the bar we headed.

What an experience that turned out to be! I had been dragged to a gay bar a couple times in my past, but I've never actually come face-to-face with a drag situation. I was rather impressed with the level these guys go to. I marvelled at their make-up techniques and their ability to fill out the evening gowns. And I had to admit, some of them were rather pretty. As they danced and lip-synced to Beyoncé and the likes there of, I wondered if it was a heightened sense of self-confidence or an extreme under-development of such that caused these guys to shave their legs and don the sparkles and wigs. No matter; we all make our place in this world in our own ways. I wasn't there to judge. So instead, I clapped and whistled and cheered with the crowd. Thanks to my location in the group (slightly separated from the others, using the small table to my left instead of the long table they surrounded), I seemed to garner a lot of attention from the lovely "ladies" on-stage. A few even came down to where I sat and sang and/or danced a little for me. Whether it's because tequila is a better sleeping agent to my sense of embarrassment than vodka or because they kept themselves fully dressed, I was amused to discover that I was less uncomfortable than the night I had an almost naked guy shaking his groove-thang at me at the bachelorette party last March.

Eventually, it was time for the "Last Dance" which apparently is the closing song for all drag shows. By that time, I had finished with Margarita #4 and it seems that is the magic number to get me out on the dance floor.

By the time we returned to the dance floor area of the club, they had moved out of the remixed 80's and into something more contemporary. And we danced. And danced. And danced. I'm not sure how they talked me into it, but there was even a little cage dancing going on (I hear rumor that there are even pictures documenting the event, but since I haven't seen them, I can't confirm that yet). But I did manage to snag one of the photos proving that I did actually get out and bust a move or two.

Dancing takes a lot of energy and made us all very tired and thristy. But seeing as I was feeling a touch of vertigo from my sky-high-heels already and knew I needed to still make the walk back to the car, I opted for water at that point. Probably a good idea. While out on the dance floor, I had closed my eyes and had a brief vision of myself as the Northwest version of Charlotte after one-too-many Stanton Island Ice Teas. I was afraid that one more would have me hanging out the minivan window as we crossed the 205 bridge, screaming "You hear me Portland: I'm getting married this year!!!" (And yes, for all the many of you who have never seen Sex and the City, there is a fantastic episode reference there).

When we finally decided we were done, we made our way back to the car. As we passed a different bar or club or something, we walked through the middle of a group of people standing outside smoking and talking about who-knows-what. As I stepped past one of the guys, he looked at me and said "What's the capital of Montana?" as if he was trying to prove a point to one of his buddies.

Without pausing I replied "Who cares? We don't live there."

He laughed and said "I know, right?" I tossed him one of my flirty smiles and kept going.

Suddenly I heard him calling after me. I turned around and said "yes?"

"You have a fine booty."

"Thanks," I grinned at him. "I work hard on it."

Such an interesting night. Makes me curious as to what would have happened after #5. . .

Games of the 90's

Do you remember Pogs?

Random, I know. But strangely, I remember them quite clearly. For those of you whose foggy noggins are struggling to recall the memory of that particular 90's fad, let me help:

It's a game played with colorful milk cap-type pieces. Players would contribute a determined number of discs ("pogs") to a pile. They would stack all the pogs one-on-top-of-another all facing down. Then they would take turns trying to turn the most number of pogs face up by bouncing a heavier game piece (called the "slammer") on top of the stack. The player kept the pogs that landed right side up during their turn and when there were no pogs left, the player with the most won.

I personally didn't play much with the primitive game. When pogs started becoming "the thing", I was in junior high and therefore busy trying to survive by perfecting my invisibility talent and hiding in the paperback worlds of the written word. I did, however, own a few of the colorful discs, mostly thanks to the generosity of my younger brothers. I remember they had a whole bunch of different colored pogs and every once in awhile I'd humor my devoted subjects by sitting and letting them proudly show off their somewhat extensive array of useless milk caps. I was a pretty nice big sister and would try to take interest in the silly things that my brothers were into without making them feel that I thought they were silly or childish and they loved me so much that they drank up any attention I would give them. Every now and then, one of the boys would end up with a pog that would capture my eye because it was sparkly, or pink, or had the cutest kitten with big blue eyes on it. All I had to do was show a little affection for that particular pog and it was instantly offered by my idolizing little brother and added to my reluctant collection of "cute" and "girly" pogs they probably didn't want in the first place.

(So I failed in my duty as big sister in causing physical pain to my younger sibs at every possible opportunity in order to keep them from growing up into wimps, but I did discover the knack for getting what I want with the right amount of charm and sweetness. And they grew up tough enough, even without a daily beating from their big sis, so it's all good. . .)

I know what you are thinking: "that's an interesting little story, but where did this sudden flash of 90's nostalgia come from?"

Yeah, I wondered the same thing Monday night when out of the blue I heard the word "pogs" and was suddenly showered with memories of a toy I had long ago forgotten about.

It was after class. A few of us were left in the classroom, some just chattering for the sake of making vocal noise and some gathering up our stuff and trying to clear our heads of the morbid tales we had just finished discussing. The instructor was putting his stuff away and listening politely to the random chatter trying to make itself heard. I was tuning out the distracting noise and searching my brain for the hole that leaked out my most recently learned word, the Finnish word for umbrella (I found it eventually: sateenvarjo) when I heard the word that brought me back into the room. How the conversation got on the old toy from the 90's is beyond me, but suddenly I was aware of the conversation going on around me.

"I was only 5 when they were popular, so I didn't get them," announced the girl to my left.

"I remember going on vacation and all the kids in town had them," said the guy who always sits in the back of the room. "So I bought some and was excited to take them to school with me, but when I got there, everyone already had them. I was amazed at how suddenly they appeared."

My instructor chuckled at the memory of them. "I remember them, but I don't get them," he said. "I mean, I understand collecting baseball cards. And I can even kind of understand collecting those Magic cards because there's a game of some kind to go with it. But those milk cap things. . ."

"Well, there's a game to Pogs," I piped in. Sure, I didn't play them, but remember I had little brothers who did, so I understood perfectly well what they were and how they worked. I figured it would help to relate them to something closer to his generation. "It's kind of like playing marbles. You collect your set, you play against someone else and their set, and you keep the ones you win."

My instructor seemed satisfied with my explanation, but the girl to my left looked baffled. She glanced at me and then over at the instructor. "You old people and your games. . ."

Really???

True Blues

"Laugh and the world laughs with you; weep and you weep alone; for this sad old earth must borrow its mirth, but has trouble enough of its own." -- Ella Wheeler

I'm feeling down. I'm at a loss for words at all the wrong times; times when people wish I'd be sharing; times when I need to get things done; times when I just want out of my head for a second to rest.

Some nights I find myself gazing up into the dark sky, searching for an escape, wondering when I stopped believing that simply wishing on stars could magically make everything perfect.

It's the seasonal blues that always come on around this time of year. It doesn't feel quite as bad as it has in the past (yet), but it's still that all too familiar pain of depression in hyper drive.

The worst part of this kind of depression is when well-meaning friends ask "Why?" There is no why to this feeling. No reason for the sudden flood of tears as I'm driving my car down the road. No discernible cause for the complete exhaustion that plagues me throughout the day. No purpose to the self-imposed isolation that traps me inside myself. No one can fix it, so I reject all the kind intentioned offers of those around me until they become tired of trying without response and I instead reach out to the ones who caused me the most pain in their time.

It's a frustrating cycle that I can't seem to break. It's like I'm drawn to the exquisite pain of the shattered hopes and broken dreams to escape the emptiness my current situations leaves me feeling. It's the emotional equivalent to cutting. Bleeding my heart just to make sure it still feels something, anything, and deepening the scars that probably would have healed over time if I could have just left them alone.

"See that scar there? Yeah, I got that one in college. Look how far it runs. And that one there, the one that has the look of a wound only beginning to heal? Yeah, that one runs so deep that it's taken YEARS to start healing. Oh, check out my newest one. It's roughly scabbed over, but that's easy enough to tear off. Watch how quickly I can make it bleed again, with the simple touch of the send button...."

I wish I could talk about what's going on, but I'm not sure where to speak up. My family wants to send me back to a counselor, but I'm resisting. I just don't see how paying someone to tell me that everything that goes through my brain is wrong, wrong, wrong can be helpful. I've already got people in my life who can do that and they don't cost me money I don't have to spend. Besides, I never know what to say anyway. Like I said, no one can fix it and I don't know for sure that many people can truly understand it.

So I'm left to struggle inside myself with this enemy I don't understand and fear I won't be able to beat again....

Lessons Learned

Okay, I admit it. I was duped. Played for the fool I am. I fell for his pretty flowers and sweet words. I got set up and took the bait. Bad Deema! You know better than that! You ARE better than that!

Regardless, it happened and now I am doing everything in my power to erase the memory of the last month and my oblivious naivete. In all my years of making bad choices, I can honestly say I've never been so ashamed of my foolishness (at least my other shameful mistake was one I knew I was making from the beginning. Stupid, yes, but not really "foolish").

Haven't I learned anything in all these years?

Actually, I have. And if nothing else, this recent travesty of a relationship has reinforced the lessons I shouldn't have to remind myself of. And now I will share my wisdom in the hopes that I will save at least one young, hopeful star-gazer from making the same mistakes as myself:

If it seems too good to be true, it probably is. I know fairy tales aren't real. And yet, I seem to fall for it every single time. Yes, the right relationship should be easy, but if I find myself sailing along on a glass-smooth course toward Happily Ever After, it might be time for me to put on the breaks and take another look at the map I'm working from. There is no such thing as a "perfect relationship". Or a "perfect man" for that matter. The truly heroic knights should have a few dents and tarnish in their armor, but keep going as if they didn't.

Always trust my gut. In those moments when I call up my girlfriends in a fit of unreasonable frustration over this or that and get told I'm being paranoid, it's time I take a step back and evaluate the source of my fears. Are they coming from my head or my gut? There's a fine line between "paranoid" and "good instincts" and the difference is precisely that source. While it's never a good idea to indulge my paranoid rantings, convincing myself that my gut is actually just that could prove just as harmful in the long-run.

Long distance is a VERY BAD idea. To quote my ever entertaining TV show "Long distance is something said by teenagers the summer before college to get laid." In other words, another myth. Even with the constant connectivity of the ubiquitous texting capabilities, there's no replacement for the ability to share a meal, take a drive, or snuggle up and watch TV with the one you love. It was silly for me to pretend that a person like myself, who is fully aware of her tactical love language, could substitute the touch of another person with electronic words.

In an attempt to find something good that came out of all of this, I was able to inform Terry that after three long years, he has finally been bumped from the number 1 slot on the "Shit List".

At least one person has a reason to happy dance. . .

The Graduate

Tonight was our last class. This was what we had been working toward for the past 8 weeks. It was time for us to show how smart and obedient my pup can be.

If only I can get her to pay attention....

I was a little worried at the beginning of class that we wouldn't make it. All three of the dogs in the class (Jade, Reg, and Scout) were having a hard time paying attention and following directions. It's like they knew it was a special night for them, but it was also the worst night for them to fail in concentration.

The "test" would be done individually, which was smart because removing the dogs from each other helped a little with their concentration. It consisted of us walking around the store and performing the tasks we had been working on during class (sit, lay down, sit for greeting, "leave it", sit/stay, come when called) and then us going back in and demonstrating the new trick we started learning last week.

Jade and I went last. I was a little worried that she would be bored by that point and decide to stop paying attention (she's going through her "teenager phase"). But she did not let me down. She did everything wonderfully, even the sit for greeting (she still has a hard time trusting new people but at least she was willing to sit and be approached). The stay portion was a little hard for her because she was expected to sit still for 30 seconds. That's longer than we had done before and I could tell she was antsy because she scooted her bottom around in a circle, but she never lifted her tail off the floor, so the instructor gave her a pass. Then it was back into the training area to show off our trick. The others worked with an army crawl thing with their dogs, but Jade and I decided to be a little different (and more lady-like) and so we did "sit pretty". That's where I have her sit her butt down then get her to lift her front paws up and sit on only her back legs. It's that cute "begging" trick that some dogs do, but it's so much sweeter as a "sit pretty".

All in all, she did a great job and managed to pass her beginning training. I'm so very proud of my girl!

Isn't this one of the cutest pictures ever?

Endings

Some fairy tales end with "And they lived happily ever after...."

Mine don't.

Instead I get "This isn't working for me...." and "It's not you, it's me...."


Hooray for consistancy.....

Why Can't a Literary Rose Just Be a Rose?

I'm having trouble with the reading for class this week. It's a problem that I had sensed coming, but have managed to cleverly circumvent up until now. It's the reason that I suddenly remember with perfect clarity why I hated literature classes in the past.

Symbolism.

I had noticed that I don't read the stories quite the same way as the rest of the class seemed to early on in the quarter. Last week, it really hit me why. As we sat and discussed the reading we did for the week, I was surprised to find that I had no idea where these people (my instructor included) were getting this stuff. Did we really read the same stories? They were talking about socio-economic struggles, religious oppression, and materialism in stories where I simply read about the disappointment and understanding that comes from first love and taking responsibility for one's own decisions and actions.

It occurred to me that I don't read as the literary types of the world reads. I don't see symbols and underlying themes of the world in general; I see deep-set emotions and thought patterns and the psychological response to the society in which the character is involved. I read as a Social Psychologist.

Take, for example, one of the stories that we are reading for our next class. It's a story called "A Rose For Emily". Apparently many critics and readers find this story to be symbolic and profound, demonstrating the decline of the old-fashioned Southern culture and the changing ideas of womanhood. Also creepy and weird. Not me, though. I find it tragic and sad and my heart aches for the character to whom most everyone else gives the reaction of "ew... weird..." I see the aging and failing grace of the character to represent the natural passing of time rather than the degradation of Southern values. I cried for the loneliness and disappointment she must have felt to end up in the situation she was in instead of analyzing what the author was trying to convey with the colors of the room (by the way, there are no roses, only a rosy colored room , in the story, so even the symbolism of the title is lost on me).

It seems that my brain has no room or tolerance for the abstract, which comes as a surprise to those who know me as a "poetic soul". I might have a poet's soul, but I have the brain of a psychiatrist. My poetry is limited to wording and imagery; I don't write symbolic poems, I write colorful and/or emotional ones.

It's not that I'm not putting in an effort. I try really hard to see those things in the stories. I listen in class and try to force my brain to think like the rest of them. But mostly it just annoys me to have these discussions. Not because of the work that has to go into it to pull a story apart (dissecting human relationships and behaviors requires a lot of work too), but more because I feel like the story loses the beauty of the human aspect when it's pulled apart like that. If we are so busy finding the author's nod to civil disobedience in the underlying theme, we forget to see the tragic beauty of the woman in the story who is so disappointed and sad that she wastes away like the corpse of her long lost lover.

I'm not sure why this is so hard for me. The only thing I can figure is that understanding sybolism means having an understanding of the time and culture that the story was written in. Which all comes down to an understanding of history. My mind shuts down anything historical, political, or religiously debatable. So therefore, I must be pre-programmed to not get it....

On the brightside, I now know that I made the right decision way back when by changing my major from English to Sociology. I will never again doubt my college path.

Syksy

Okay, I know I said that I don't really like to play favorites with the seasons, but truth be told, this time of year always makes my heart just a touch happier.

It's like that "Spring Fever" everyone else gets in April and May hits me in October.
Foggy mornings, chilly sunlight streaming in through my window, the readdition of sweaters and tights to my wardrobe, Saturday morning football games on TV while I snuggle in a fuzzy blanket. . . .

And with colors like these surrounding me, who can blame me for feeling just a little more romantic than usual?