the run of death

I know this entry is slightly postdated, but that's what happens when you have to work 50 hours a week. Last Saturday, my dad had the brilliant idea that our family needed to bond. Well, not bond, per say, but have a common experience to complain about. So at 8:30 a.m., we were huddled with thousands of other Tri-Citians at the base of the Cable Bridge, waiting our chance to trot over the river and through the non-existent woods to a finish line 5 kilometers away. At first, I was fairly nonchalant about the whole activity. Sure I griped and moaned for an appropriate time, but I was actually sort of excited. I like doing large group sporting activities, plus, I knew I got a sweet free shirt out of the deal. I thought to myself, you were a two-sport varsity athlete and a dancer and a frolicker when the moment struck, this should be a walk in the park. (pardon the pun, though the race was through back roads of Pasco so it doesn't quite fit.)

Then I realized that those days were three years ago, and by the first half mile I was pretty much ready to die.

My sister and I (who, in my defense, was a varsity athlete in a much less distant past) decided to run the first part. Then the combination of our lungs about to burst into little tiny shreds and our legs screaming for asylum slowed us to a walk. We were so beat that we ended up walking the majority of the race, and finished in the last 10% of our age group. To put our patheticness in perspective, an asthmatic dog being dragged by its owner crossed the finish line before us. Needless to say, I'm realizing that this strange thing called fitness doesn't just transfer from your slim and trim high school body to your new and not so improved post freshman-15 self. Bummer.

The week of insanity

I'm finally done with finals for this semester, and my GPA is looking like it's going to come out better than it has thus far at Whitworth. My dad will be happy. Now all I have to do is clean my bathroom and my room and pack to go home for three weeks plus pack for Mexico plus try not to cry again. Flip.

A little bit of courage

I realized this afternoon that I am a writing major, yet I hardly ever share any of my writing. Sure I've had Alyssa look over something or occasionally talked about a project in the works, but I never just put myself out there. Writing is such a personal experience for me. Not because I've had some terrible life situation or I write things that would somehow imply my "soul is a swirling black abyss," (actual comment from a literary journal editor at the national college media convention this fall about student poetry) but because I consider it a piece of myself that is somehow lost, given away, taken from me. But I've also realized that writing for myself is selfish, and impractical as a career option. So here is a short piece I turned in for my creative nonfiction class as part of a writer's notebook. It was written in response to the prompt "pick a place in nature that has meaning to you." And at first I was wholeheartedly against the prompt: transcendentalism nature writing (Emerson and the like) makes vomit a little in my mouth. But I went for it, and was actually pretty excited about where I ended up. So enjoy.

The dock squeaks when the current gets strong. After they open the dams, usually. The railing, chipped like a beat up chunk of plywood, seems to wail and moan with the weight of its memories. It’s the only secluded dock on that stretch of the river. Hidden behind the tall oak tree, a world of possibilities is revealed. A beaver’s lodge is wedged between the edge of the fading wood and the luscious green bank. At dusk you can get lucky and catch a glimpse of his tail as the beaver leaves his haven to explore his limited terrain.

During winter you can try to catch frozen chunks of river as they float by. The hinges on the bridge freeze over. It stops the squeaking, at least. The winter dock smells like desolation; even the ever-present whiffs of geese droppings fade into the arctic island. But during the summer, the smells of freshly-cut grass collide with the stench of river water, invading your senses with the idealism of all things pure. For the dock is not just an old, squeaking platform. It’s a way of life.

I never visited that dock until high school. My family always went to the Park St. end of the long a narrow city park. That’s where all the table and swings were anyway. The Albertson’s fried chicken would leave our fingers too greasy to make it across the monkey bars, so we would take turns wiping our hands off on the other sister’s shirt until the friction was just right. The dock was past our boundaries; it was beyond our experience.

But the dock became my rebellion. The edge of the wood was like the edge of my childhood. I could stand on the threshold, staring into the murky wet freedom just below me. I knew those two girl had drowned; they were different. They jumped in May, not August. The water was swifter then. I would be fine. I had a towel in the backseat of my Nova just to make sure they couldn't find a drop of water on the driver’s seat.

So I jumped. I hit the water of my adolescence and gasped at the frigid waves that flooded over my head. Once I gained by breath back I kicked to the surface and bobbed for a moment. I stared back at that dock, at what I had left behind. And I knew I could never really climb back on.

Mother Nature's menopause

Today's weather was another progression in Mother Nature's fast approaching insanity, at least when it comes to Spokane. As of around 3 p.m. Sunday afternoon, we had at least 4 inches of snow on the ground. It came down hard starting Saturday afternoon and didn't stop all night. That was in addition to the 2 inches or so we got the previous Monday. (It's a tradition here: the first snow always comes the Monday after Thanksgiving. It's slightly eerie.)

As of noon today, the only snow left on the ground is that which was previously packed for a snowman or left by plows in the parking lot. It rained straight from Sunday afternoon until this morning, when I walked outside in a T-shirt and was perfectly content. I just don't get it, sometimes.

But in spite of Mother Nature's ploys with my ability to dress weather-appropriate in the morning, I have been forced to examine just what I would define as "ideal weather." My fallback answer is usually just "spring." Granted, this is a season more than a specific climate, but what can you do. I think what appeals to me about spring is its optimism. Spring is a time of new life, new growth, new chances. It's an awakening out of the frozen depression of 4 months of grey winter. I'm not opposed to rain, or snow, or the occasional windstorm. I think all weather has a time and a place, and I love that seasons come and go, bringing a change of pace every 3 months (ideally). So maybe it's not spring that I love, but the idea that the world doesn't have to be stuck in a overcast gloom.

on writing

I sat down last night with my personal essay haunting my every procrastinating move. I've been brooding over the essay for about a month now, and all I managed to squeeze out was 3 spliced pages. (Actually, this was better than I originally hoped for, but still.) The assignment required outside research of some sort, so we could practice creating nonfiction works that were based on more than just a memory of an 8th birthday party.

I read about spiders.

I chose this topic based on a Carly Simon song I used to dance to with my dad. (Yes, my father dances occasionally. And sometimes it even happens in public.) It's called "Itsy Bitsy Spider," and it's essentially the children's song intermixed with a chorus about lost love. I loved that song as a little girl, because I though it meant that my seemingly foolish interests as a kid weren't so foolish because a big bad grown-up was singing the same song.

So I sit down to write this highly symbolic essay using the analogy of my dad being a brown recluse spider. And a strange thing happened: it turned out to be about my mom. I've heard of this happening to writers before, that a story or character drives its own plot whether that's where you wanted it to go or not. I'd sort of viewed this phenomenon as a cop-out for writers who didn't want to talk about the tough themes that emerged from their work. But I get it now. I wanted to write about myself, but I realized that it would turn out to be more of a "feel sorry for my screwed up family" piece than an actual lyrical narrative. So I wrote about my mother instead. Somehow making her the victim doesn't seem as harsh, as self-serving. She has suffered so much more in her 59 years than I have in a meager 20. (God, my mom is getting old.) I still don't know how I feel about where the piece is going. But at least now I understand that it's not always in my control. Writing is art; it's not a formula or some sort of imposition of your values on a reader through a cleverly weaved plot. It has a mind of its own.

rest: an active verb

I meant to write this entry over a week ago, when it was actually applicable to my life. But nevertheless, it's still a valuable chunk of food for thought.

Before reading Anne Lamott, I had never really seen the psychological value in silence. Sure I knew that 8 hours of sleep was important so you didn't pass out in 2nd hour and I knew that taking a 30-second water break in the middle of a race is a generally encouraged resting point. But I had never considered the benefits of rest, of stillness, just because. Anne Lamott (who if you haven't read are missing out possibly the best nonfiction writer of the 21st century) talks a lot about the value of scheduling rest. No TV, no music, just laying flat on your back and breathing in the silence of life. I had always assumed that this sort of rest was synonymous with napping. Well, let the myth be shattered, my friends. Napping leaves you, while slightly rested, usually more groggy than when you started and in my case leaves awkward lines all over one side of my face. But a few Saturdays ago, I had the day free of homework, a boyfriend, and the majority of any other distractions. I layed on my bed, flat on my back, with my eyes closed. I slowly let my brain drain itself of the gunk that I too often let get clogged in the pipes of my mental sanity.

For that 30 minutes or so, I experienced a calm that has been missing from my life for quite some time. It was an act of prayer, without words. I just let myself be. I let the stillness wrap itself around me like an old shawl and I took time to just not take time for anything. And now, as my head gets gunky again and my life starts to spin itself into events rushing at me like bullets from a machine gun, I try to draw on that shawl to protect me from the deadly penetration of being rushed.

Why I worked at summer camp

I realize that it's November, and I finished my summer job almost exactly 3 months ago. Honestly, it felt like a different lifetime. But I haven't ever really talked about camp, in a comprehensive "this is what I did with my summer" sort of way. So here goes.

Deciding to work at Lutherhaven was probably the hardest decision I've ever made, but at the same time the most validating. My family was pretty set against me going. My bank account was pretty much set against me going. I was pretty set against me going. Sure, I've camped before. But I'm not what you call a "nature" person. I enjoy walking through a park or just sitting on a porch and listening to the wind, but I want that porch to be attached to my house with a car parked out front and my cell phone fully charged. I was not excited about living in the dirt in Idaho for three months, let alone doing it with little connection to the real world. But for some reason (and a lot of prodding from Sarah), I made the jump. I took the financial, emotional and personal risk of doing something I'd always wanted to do but never had the courage to.

It was more worth it than I could have ever imagined.

I hadn't realized before what living with a purpose meant. Sure I'd worked in jobs or groups that had goals, and I was passionate about those goals. But there is something transforming about living an entire week for the sole purpose of making the life of someone else a little better. I would get my girls on Sunday afternoon, and usually by Tuesday night I was saying to myself "they aren't getting it," "they think I'm weird," "I'm not the right person for this job." And with the exception of a few girls, by Friday afternoon I could not believe how blessed I was to have the privilege of working with that group for the short time we were together. Whether that blessing came in a huge hug as they left or the simple joy of watching a shy and self-conscious teenager bloom, it was always evident to me that something greater than myself was at work.

I even got to the point that I enjoyed cleaning. I mean, really cleaning, like getting down on my hands and knees with bleach and a sponge for two hours. The satisfaction from pouring yourself into something for no benefit to yourself was motivation enough. Sure I griped all the time about minuscule tasks and a large portion of my co-workers who I thought had no business working with children, but in the end I wouldn't trade it for the larger paychecks and comfortable showers I could have had all summer. Not to mention that I made some of the best friends I've ever had, and miss them all to the point of physical pain sometimes. I know it sounds cliche, but seriously, those women were my salvation.

Not to mention that Glory, the camp cook, made the best 7-layer bar I've ever tasted.

Everything I need to know about college I learned in AP Lit

The idea behind Advanced Placement (AP) classes is that you get a taste of a college workload and experience in order to test the waters, so to speak. This is why you get college credits for the majority of AP classes in which you score at a certain level on their respective tests. Granted, I got credit for 3s that now require at least a 4 to even be considered for credit. Thank you AP Biology. But honestly, half of the AP classes I took were no different from high school classes I was taking simultaneously, the only difference being that they were essentially over by the second week of May.

This was not the case for AP Literature, thanks to Mrs. Stairet. She taught her class in almost an identical way to the literature courses I've had at Whitworth so far, and in some cases I think she did it better than some of my professors here have, at times. Especially for someone who went into studying English, that class gave me an incredible advantage in college classes, especially in the areas of critical theory. I came into Reading Lit with a working knowledge of at least 5 different approaches to literature, while the majority of my classmates were still analyzing plot development as the "rising action."

And in light of my evening that has been spent cranking out a 10-page literary analysis paper, Mrs. Stairet was right on target. She trained me in how to write an independent thesis without having someone spoon-feed me ideas. She gave me the close reading tools to be able to annotate a novel as I go, even before I know my writing topic. And logistically, I can now write lengthy papers at high quality in one sitting, or at least a decent first draft. I appreciate high school teachers who teach to prepare, rather than teach to meet a template lesson plan.

Why I want to move to the other side of the country

Two weeks ago, I went on a school-sponsored trip to Washington D.C. for a national student media conference (the Whitworthian took 3rd in our category for best of show, just to brag a little.) This was my second visit to the city in a year, and my third overall. I don't really count my first trip as a valid source of data, considering I was like 9 and it was balls hot and at the time I could have cared less about anything labeled "Smithsonian." After my return adventures, however, I think it's safe to say I've caught what they refer to as "Potomac Fever." It's a common phenomenon that describes a person's love affair with the city and surrounding area. Here are just a few of my motivating symptoms:

-D.C. is its own organism. The city is alive, it has a pulse you can feel in the air and see on the streets. There are people of all countries and creeds mingling together toward a common goal of democracy and optimism. Don't get me wrong: I'm sure more debates and disagreements happen there than almost anywhere else in the United States. But it's the very idea that so many different people have the opportunity to argue in the first place that creates such a rhythm and vivacity to the city.

-It has freaking delicious food. Pot Belly's, Fudruckers, Murky Coffee, Cosi, and many more restaurants and cafes offer a wide variety of non-greased, non-processed and preserved foods that just make you feel better about eating them.

-Who doesn't want to be able to sit in a 24-hour Starbucks in Chinatown?

-Sitting on the steps of the U.S. Capitol and watching a girl get her quincinera photos, while an Indian family stands just farther in front of you, observing the whole thing. That will never get old.

-Kelly Clarkson did a show there. Enough said.

-I discovered this story about "captial scandal." It's the icing on the cake.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/11/08/AR2007110800645.html?hpid%3Dartslot&sub=AR

dreaming away the early morning

When I was younger, my nightmares would usually occur in the middle of the night, so even once I woke up I was still stuck in a dark room by myself. But as I've gotten older, my dreams have tended to congregate right around the time before I wake up for good in the morning. I think most of this is due to the fact that it takes me approximately an hour and 3-4 alarms to get out of bed these days.

So now, instead of waking up, petrified, in the dark, I wake up groggy and confused as to my location or even state of citizenship in some cases. This morning's adventure dealt with a fascist regime coming in and taking overWhitworth. It ended with James, Katie and I bolting out of the meeting where we were about to be forced into taping statements of loyalty to the university. I should really just start getting up to my first alarm.

I'm back in the game

So as the woman formally known as the blog police, I should have arrested myself with no chance of bail. I apologize to those of you who are still with me, especially *cough cough* those of who overseas. For the past month I have pretty much isolated myself, with the exception of working on the Whitworthian, homework, or my relationship. Don't get me wrong, all three are fantastic and I love every minute (except when I find a name misspelled at 4 a.m.)

But I'm realizing that social networks are not just for show. They aren't just friends on the fringe who I happen to have things in common with. They're my lifelines. No one but Alyssa and Andrew can truly understand the frustrations of working on a newspaper. No one but Sarah gets it when I just need someone to look me in the eye and tell me to get over it. I need you, all. I need you to be a part of my life. And to do that, I have to make my life available.

I know we're all getting to the point where it's easier to just say "see you at Christmas." But at least this way, we can stay connected about the little things. And who knows, maybe the big things will make their way to the drawing table as well.

My goal is to post at least every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, starting this week. Even if it's a short "here's my thoughts about cottage cheese," I'll try to stay consistent. Just hang in there, we'll get back on track.

Notes on a rainy day

It's, as James would call it, a "perfect Seattle day." In my eyes, this means that it's cold, cloudy, and barely raining. First of all, my philosophy on rain is the same as the rest of my life: Go big or go home. I hate sprinklings, or little April showers. Either be dry as a whistle or go for the gold and soak someone. This spouty rain just makes me think God is eating watermelon and spitting the seeds, and the rain is somehow his leftover saliva. Even holy spit isn't appealing.

This is the kind of weather that makes it ok to be a nerd. It beckons you to make a huge mug of weak hot chocolate and either read a trashy/sappy novel or watch "You've Got Mail" over and over again with your best friend. It's why I didn't go to school on the West Side: I knew I would never get out of bed. And as ridiculous as my father found this, I know myself. And I know that pitifully rainy days are no match for my willpower.

life as an upperclasswoman

As I finish out my first full week at school, I have been struck by the reality that I'm halfway done with school, and I can tell. Here are just a few of the realizations that have come with my new "higher" standing:

-Sometimes homework really is a better idea than hanging out with friends
-Keep your mouth shut until you have something really important to say. People will respect your opinion more if it doesn't come out every three seconds.
-It's okay to like the music you like. It's your taste, and you shouldn't have to defend it to others that disagree. Unless you like Nickelback, in which case we need to have a serious chat about your common sense.
-Community is not a state of being. It's a process.
-Journalists are viewed as right above lawyers on the morality scale of the professional world. Considering the only thing I wanted to be before I went into journalism was a lawyer, I guess I'm just drawn to "shady" professions. Take that as you will.
-Studying abroad is a really really good idea that I should have planned for earlier.
-Being honest about how you feel about someone shouldn't be as scary as it is.

cancer is scary

It is. It's an unpredictable, vile parasite on the quality of life. So if you haven't gotten the HPV vaccine, get it. If you don't see an OB/GYN yearly, start. If you don't wear sunscreen on a daily basis, go jump on the Banana Boat. Because getting tan or staying in your comfort zone are no longer options if I can have anything to do with it.

just don't do it, and if you do, wrap before you tap

Within the past week, I learned that three of my friends and/or my younger sister's friends have become pregnant in the past 6 months. One is ending in her being basically disowned by her family and rushing into marriage, one resulted in an abortion, and the third is keeping her from her senior soccer season, which most likely would have resulted in a significant athletic scholarship. Hanford High has never really had a reputation for underage pregnancies, and actually I've never known anyone under the age of 20 who found themselves pregnant unexpectedly. (For some reason, there were a handful of college-age girls at my church that got pregnant and then quickly married, but that's about as much scandal as I've ever been exposed to.)
My beef is not with the sex itself; I believe in abstinence until marriage, but I realize that for most people that's not a goal or realistic expectation. And I'm ok with that. My problem comes when the sex is just used as a way to keep a relationship in tact, as if by giving into something you don't necessarily want to do will be pleasing enough to the other person to keep them around. It breaks my heart. Women need to learn that if a man says he'll only "love" you if you sleep with him, he's bad news. A lot of times, this isn't even a spoken expectation, and I would imagine that often the guy isn't thinking that at all. But what is it about women that creates this drive and false understanding that we have to please all the time in order to be respected and loved?

I'll never take my mouth for granted again

I got my wisdom teeth out Tuesday, and I pretty much never want to have surgery again, like ever. I realize this might seem a little over dramatic, after all I only had four teeth pulled, there was no swelling, I'm a seemingly easy patient. However, it's all the other side effects that are killing me. For example, I came home Tuesday around 10:30 a.m., and spent the rest of the day sleeping, save for every hour when my mom would wake me up, shove some sort of dairy product in front of me and hand me one of three pills. I then would go to sleep, wake up an hour later, and puke up the last hour's consumptions. Yeah, I don't think we'll have to worry about me becoming addicted to oxycodone anytime soon, I have absolutely no desire to ever touch the stuff again. I also never realized how much I would crave having a clean mouth. Sure, you can "brush" your teeth. But that mainly consists of doing small circles on your front four teeth, because I still can't open my mouth all the way without wincing. Granted, I've never been a hygiene freak or anything, I didn't think it would be that big of deal. But the day that I have free range of my mouth and all it's functions again cannot come to soon.

Everything I need to know about biting my tounge I learned at summer camp

I realize that it is shameful for the blogosphere police to post more than a month later than my last update. In all fairness, working for Jesus doesn't leave much time for leisure writing. I haven't had an actual week at real camp yet, so I can't quite speak to the "camp counselor" experience yet. We had two weeks of training, which included CPR, identifying sexual abuse, and handfuls of silly songs about grasshoppers and yodelers. I was in Wenatchee last week on a Day Camp, and now I'm home for a week, getting my wisdom teeth out. However, I would like to touch on a topic that has already been a heated discussion: women.

For my non-Lutheran readers (which as far as I know is everyone but Jess), an important distinction needs to be made. Within the denomination are two main sects: The ELCA (Ecumenical Lutheran church of America) and the LCMS (Lutheran church Missouri synod). Lutherhaven is a pan Lutheran ministry, meaning both divisions are represented. I realized about 15 minutes into staff training how big of a deal this was. The two sects share most of the same priorities, save for one major disagreement: the LCMS does not ordain women. And considering Sarah, who was the youth seat of the ELCA Northwest Senate in high school, wants to be a pastor, let's just say we both have taken on some heated debates with fellow staff members. It has been interesting for me to challenge my belief in building relationships with people despite opposing views, whether that be religiously, racially, politically, or whatever. I really do try to see people as whole people, and not representative of everyone that believes in the same principles as them.

However, I will have to say that this has never been as difficult as I've faced in the past few weeks. I love the friends I've made, on both sides of the political and religious isle. (I'm not Lutheran, so a lot of the denominational arguments don't really involve me, until people start thinking I'm weird because I don't stand board stiff during worship.) But I honestly have to bite my tongue when people start saying that the only Biblically-approved role for women is in a submissive position to a husband, running a house and raising children. I'm not kidding. There are people that would wholeheartedly argue that women aren't limited by society, but by God. And I couldn't more wholeheartedly disagree. My beef is not that women are still being coerced into a limited spectrum of roles that are considered "feminine." I believe that women actually have more career freedom than men. However, I just cannot believe that a God who created the universe and is beyond our intellectual understanding would tell any group of people that they are somehow less worthy to share his love with other people.

A large part of this debate also comes to the inevitable question of what exactly the role of a pastor is. But a main point of contingency comes with the fact that taking one or two verses of the Bible and making them an absolute, timeless commandment without context is a dangerous position. This doesn't just apply to women. It applies to many issues the church struggles to deal with, including homosexuality. But I would strongly urge you to think about where your viewpoints come from. Is it from a comprehensive discussion, looking at several sources and weighing all possibilities?

Fornothology

First of all, if anyone ever wants to get from point A to point B in an efficient manner, do not under any circumstances take Sarah Weakley along as your co-pilot.

With that said, I would like to introduce you to the newest way to giggle at the most mundane words/situations. It's called the "fau" phenomenon, applicable to any person, thing, or idea that isn't quite legit. For example, an almost Mohawk? Fauhawk. A virgin cosmopolitan? Fausmopolitan. Or, as Marcus discovered Thursday, one who thinks he knows a lot about birds and can do a mean impression of a house swallow becomes a fornothologist. (Not to be confused with fornocologist, which just makes you giggle even more in inappropriate public settings. Trust me, it's not a confusion you want to make lightly.)

Two years to go

As of Friday at approximately 8:37 a.m. I completed my first half of college. In light of this somewhat terrifying benchmark, here's a list of practical, and not so practical, skills I think every half-college educated citizen (or just legal worker) should have:

1. Be able to tie a tie- my worldview was shattered when I discovered that in a converstation with 4 boys, only one of them knew how to tie a tie. Especially since 3 of these 4 boys had job interviews in the past month. (The one who didn't was the one who actually knew how to do it.) When in doubt, go to YouTube.

2. Know how to judge a sprinkler cycle so you can run through the sidewalk without getting soaked.

3. If you want to type in a URL that ends in .com, you can type in the main word, hit CTRL+ENTER, and it will automatically add the www. and .com part, as well as take you to the site. No joke, this will change your life.

4. Sometimes it's more important to wait until you have something intelligent to say, rather than talk just for the sound of making noise.

5. Procrastination will ALWAYS bite you in the ass.

I would think that after 2 years of college this list would be longer. Oh well.

a writer's wisdom

Saturday night, author Anne Lamont addressed a packed Whitworth auditorium. Besides reading two of her non-fiction essays and answering audience questions, Lamont informed us that she would tell us everything she knew about everything, and it would take approximately 15 minutes. Though it started out as advice for writers, she easily applied her four nuggets of sagacity to life in a broader picture. I'm not going to get these exactly right, but the idea behind them is still valid.

1. It's ok to not be busy. Each day, take your to-do list, and remove two things. Then spend the time you would have spent anxiously bustling around to just lay on the floor and get licked by the dog, or stare into space. Lamont was adamant that relaxation is the most profoundly spiritual act we can participate in.

2. Failure, screw ups and shitty first drafts are a must. We can't be afraid to make mistakes, or fall on our butts. Often times it takes failure to even realize what you're trying to do in the first place.

3. Everyone is assigned people to help them along the way. We are surrounded by loving and wise people, even if we can't always see them. Allow yourself to ask for their help, whether it's reading a draft or sitting with you watching the mid-term elections on CNN.

I wish I could remember more specifics of what she said, because I remember it all being so deeply profound, but simple. She was a crazy intellectual liberal nut, but she saw the parts of life that were the true gifts, and was able to discern them from the parts that we make important to make ourselves feel important. If you haven't read any of her stuff, you are sorely missing out. I know I added another few books to my summer reading list after hearing her speak.

Happily ever after

In the newest development in over-the-top wedding ceremonies, a designer named Kirstie Kelly unveiled a new line of dresses inspired by Disney princesses. The dresses are not costumes, as some people in my editing class though as Laura and I oogled over the site. They are full-fledged formal and gorgeous dresses that were inspired by Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Jasmine, Ariel, and Belle. For example, one of the 5 dresses in the Belle collection is very similar to the yellow dress the character wears at the climax of the movie. Dresses in the Cinderella and Snow White collections are much more traditional (full skirts, corsetts, etc.) while the Ariel collection features slinky and more provocative cuts.

When I first was shown the collection, I couldn't stop drooling over the exquisite gowns. But let's face it, I drool over any fabulous dress, bridal or otherwise. And as the class went on, more and more people realized that this was a much more interesting conversation than whatever we were supposed to be learning about (I think it was infobox day, so really no competition.) And we got to thinking, what kind of message are you sending when you "dress" up like a fictional character, especially one that carries as much weight as a prominent Disney figure in the lives of almost every girl. Both consciously and not, we remember the images of our childhood as our examples of womanhood and definitions of romance.

No matter how much I say that I recognize that Prince Charming is unrealistic and "happily ever after" doesn't have to manifest itself in a white carriage and field of roses, we hope that, someday, it will. I'm not saying this out of any particular bitterness, as I'm sure it comes off, but just in the recognition that for many girls, these are serious expectations. As much as I love Ariel and the gang, I wouldn't want their life. So what does it say if one of the most significant dresses I'll ever choose is directly influenced by those characters?

And then there's the issue of your actual Prince Charming. I would think that a dress like this, or the motivation behind the dress, puts unnecessary and unfair pressure on the groom. Because honestly, you should think whoever you marry could kick the crap out of Eric or Aladdin (though it would take a real bad-ass to beat Aladdin, he's legit.)

And for my final argument, no one needs to spend that much money on something you'll wear for one day. It's not worth it.

http://www.disneybridal.com/collections/cn/bridal/cn1.html

The curious color

Last year, I was an avid colorer. My mom and sister left a box of crayons and Lion King coloring book on my bed before they left me at college, and since then my collection has grown to include Power Puff girls, dinosaurs, Disney Heroes all Grown Up, and a few others. I enjoyed the focus that coloring requires from me, and the ability to shift my attention to something besides Victorian literature.
This year, I haven't made nearly as much time to utilize my coloring books. But for my Whitworthian writers, I decided that computerized certificates were lame and meaningless. Instead, I colored and mounted a character on colorful paper.
As I was working on this project, I needed to find the perfect shade of blue for Dori, from Finding Nemo. The original blue wasn't getting the job done, nor was the darker indigo. I had one more option: cerulean. As I reached for this color, I knew that my wildest dreams were about to come true. The vivid blue was the perfect fit for the job, and as I replaced the crayon with a sigh, I was reminded of my many coloring adventures throughout my childhood, and my many encounters with this particular color.
First and foremost, I remember never being able to pronounce it. In fact, my fear of mispronouncing the color kept me from using it, because I wouldn't ask someone for it from the community Tupperware bin of assorted colors that was present at any decent arts & crafts activity. Sadly, I settled for the straight blue, or, if the expanded crayon boxes were available, I might have bravely asked for the cornflower. But never cerulean.
This fear kept me from creating the masterpieces that could be making me millions. The next time you pick up a box of Crayola with at least 24 crayons, check this bad-ass crayon out. You could even ask for it en español : Pasa el cerúleo, por favor. Or the less useful French of céruléen. In whatever language or manner you choose, try this simple test: Color an ocean. Your basic cresting waves with 2-3 black V birds in the sky. Color half with your normal choice of blue hue, and half with the far superior cerulean. I promise, your life will be changed.