journey

I'm in the middle of finishing up my English major's requirement of a senior portfolio. Granted, the intent of the 1-credit class is not to revise old work at the last minute that you did last minute in the first place, but nonetheless that is the route I have chosen. It's not as stressful as I anticipated throughout the semester, and actually has been an interesting process.

I look back on writing from last fall and spring, and some of it received orginial grades that I know think are total crap. In one essay about my name, for example, I have paragraphs that start about 8 different thoughts, and only half-finishes one of them. Who read this and thought it was coherent? Ugh. The other creative work is a play that has gone through 4 different endings just for the original assignment, and before the end of the night promises to add about 3 more to the tally.

Our department is always encouraging us to sumbit stuff for publication, no matter how small of a college's literary journal it might be. And as for the first time in my college career this semester I'm not taking a creative writing course, I've been realizing how much I miss writing for writing's sake. I'm not a faithful journaler, nor do I very often just sit with my computer and record random thoughts (with the occasional exception of this blog). But it's been making me think: what drives a writer to write? It's not as if this semester I've had less noteworthy observations about the world around me. In fact, I've regretted on several occasions not writing down a thought or phrasology, and subsequently can no longer remember it. Do we write for ourselves, thinking that if you get all the crazy out on a hard piece of paper it will free up room in your brain for more thoughts of substance? Do we write for others, to prove that we can communicate in a somewhat organized and useful manner? Or do we write for writing's sake, to fuel the firey power that words can have to change lives or start revolutions? I don't know what revolution I want to start, but I have the sinking suspicion it's a goal worth working towards.

sometimes, I wonder...

Here is the latest opinions column I wrote for The Whitworthian. And honestly, I could've written about three times as much after further reading of the book the column is based on, "Seventeen Things to Do While Waiting For Mr. Right: A single girl's handbook for the 21st century bride-to-be."

'Mr. Right' focus misses equity in marriages"

that's what she said

On the back of the door to the media office at Whitworth, The Whitworthian editors maintain a "Quotations" board. This board is really just a large piece of white butcher paper with silly sayings or pieces of conversations pulled from the long hours of Sunday production. Many residence halls or other organizations keep similar records of words taken out of context. And in almost all of these situations, the quotations deemed "funny" have sexual connotations.

I remain fascinated by mankind's relationship with sex. Sure, it's been around since the first of mankind, but sexuality is contextual to cultural and time periods. Take, for example, ideas of physical "sexiness." A recent episode of Oprah explored beauty standards from around the world, from the noses of Iran to the staggering rate of plastic surgeries in Brazil. In almost every culture, sexual attraction is based on that culture's own somewhat arbitrary definitions.

In my class last year about the English language, part of our reading included Bill Bryson's The Mother Tongue. The chapter on swearing studies the history of profanity, and points out two common insults across history: the male member and someone's mother. Somehow, a man's penis, at least in terms of civilizations that contributed to the development of English, has always been seen as funny.

I have failed to conclude an answer to why sexuality is a go-to joke generator. Maybe it's because regardless of culture, sex happens in some capacity, whether simply as the method for procreation or a nonchalant activity. Maybe it's because language and history have been dominated by the male narrative, and thus jokes that relate to something that universal male understanding at the most basic level. This could also contribute to the fact that it's much harder for a female comedian to incorporate sexual material into their act, compared to acts like this one from Dane Cook. All I know is, my staff has come up with way too many "that's what she said" comments to ignore this somehow innate understanding of humor.

Carmen San Diego style

Growing up in the Tri-Cities, most of my classmates and I swore we would graduate high school and move to a town with excitement, glamor, or at least more concert tour stops. But as a look ahead to a potential future with Teach for America, I'm finding myself slightly stumped in answering what seems like such an easy question: what do you look for in a place to live?

My original plan, and probably still top choice, is the D.C. area. I've visited there three times in my life, and with the exception of one bitingly cold winter day, I love the city. It has plenty to do and see, a large majority of which is free to the public. I also enjoy its public transportation system, as well as diverse culture.

But beyond that, I really have no concrete reason of wanting to move there, or for that matter, not wanting to move somewhere else. I could, I suppose, take the advice of several articles and sites that offer "top places to live"-type lists. Take, for example, findyourspot.com, which offers a simple online quiz to determine your list of top cities. Questions focus on weather, cultivating culture, teachers and doctors, outdoor recreation, and regional preference. I was surprised at how many different way this quiz asked how important college or professional sporting events are to my happiness. According to my results, my top spots include Memphis, Little Rock, Honolulu, Norfolk Virginia, and most of Texas. Not exactly my ideal locations. Other lists include Money Magazine, which rates Plymouth, MN as the top city for 2008, based on its "Topnotch schools, good jobs, affordable housing, low crime, an active outdoor culture."

Then I could move on to look at lists geared toward specific genres, such as "30 great cities to start out in" (ranges from Atlanta to Seattle to Cleaveland). Criteria for this list included "major breadwinning," "social and recreational scene," "crib sheet," and "navigating."

But in searching through the lists and reading all the statistics, I'm realizing that no one asks the questions that have more significance than whether I can go clubbing on a Tuesday for only a $5 cover. Questions like "will I be able to fly home for Christmas affordably?" or "how likely is it I'll get so lost in the first week I'll never find my apartment again?" I still haven't really come up with any sort of criteria, or even a definition of what I consider a "good place to live." I would love any suggestions.

big picture classrooms

I've thrown a shout out to Mrs. Stairet before in this blog, for her ability to teach a meaningful, in-depth AP literature course my senior year in high school. And now, it looks like I'm not the only one who was influenced by this class.

A recent Washington Post article, "A Tale of Two Literature Courses,"is the first in what they're calling an "occasional" series of articles exploring how popular courses are taught. It's conclusions should be no surprise to anyone in secondary education: teachers teach material they enjoy, not necessarily what the curriculum dictates. Sure, everyone has to teach the dreaded district-mandated texts, or teach to specific testing material, but for the most part, a good teacher is one who is passionate about their subject and thus conveys that passion to their students.

One example from the article is a teacher's decision to teach The Scarlet Letter because it "teaches well." In my own experiences, Hawthorne's story of adulterated love and Puritan double standards brings back both horror stories and memories of success. I first read the story in my junior year of high school, and anyone who knew me then could tell you it was not a pleasant experience (As a silver lining, though, I did get the privilege of capturing the essence of Hester Prynne as a band tramp for the class' final project). However, upon my second reading of the story in my college American Literature survey course, I found I was really able to engage with the story and get some real meaning out of it. Part of this I know is from our additional Hawthorne texts, which I greatly enjoyed and thus lumped The Scarlet Letter into that enjoyment. But I also know a large part of my 180 was due to the professor's passion for Puritan-era writings, and his amazing ability to bring the stories, and time period, to life in a meaningful contextual study.

This isn't to say the first teacher wasn't passionate, but rather she taught to a test, and not to our intellect. As the article notes, many high school students grumble at the seemingly formulaic discussions of "rhyme, meter, metaphor, tone, similes, themes and imagery." However, as was the case for me, teaching these fundamentals can be done in a way that reflects on their ability to create a meaningful story, rather than a form for classic literature.

copyright schmopyright

Sarah and I (along with my sister and two other friends from school) attended the Jason Mraz concert last night at Spokane's IMB Performing Arts Center. Besides the show being OUT OF THIS WORLD AMAZING, I was especially impressed with the tour's theme of user generated content. Before the show started, screens at the back of the stage were showing slideshows of pictures fans sent in by text message, along with captions and messages to their friends. Messages repeatedly reminded us that "photos and videos ARE allowed, so please take them and share them with us." At any given moment during the show, you could see dozens of phones or digital cameras recording the performance.

As much as I respect artists who crack down on illegal downloading and file sharing, I respect musicians that can say their music is more important than the bottom line. In the case of this concert, it's not like people wouldn't go to the show because they could watch someone's video post of it on YouTube. I guess it fit with his album title of "We Sing, We Dance, We Steal Things." And since I already had the sing and dance parts thoroughly covered, it was refreshing to not have to worry about stealing intellectual property just to capture a memory with my best friend through my phone's camera.

feel included

This blog is now open to all commenters, anonymous or otherwise. So for those of you who have always been dying to post your 2 cents but didn't have a blogger account, feel free to throw in 4 cents to make up for lost time.

I want a sticker

Like Alyssa, this was the first presidential election I was eligible to vote in. As such, I became eligible after Washington state switched all elections to mail-in voting only. So last week as I filled out my double-sided, unusually sized piece of paper they call a ballot, I kept saying "all I want is the sticker." The brightly colored sticker that I would've received after voting at a local elementary school or such designated precinct. I remember going with my mom to Tapteal Elementary and sitting for what seemed like hours in cold metal chairs as she disappeared behind a thick blue curtain. She and my dad would always give my sister and I their stickers, which we promptly stuck to our bed frames and competed to see who's would stick the longest (she usually won, because I could never decide where I wanted mine to go, so I kept taking it on and off.)

Last night, I didn't find out about the call for the Presidential race until about 20 minutes after it happened, because at the time I was focused on state supreme court races in Virginia or referendums in Nevada. And as I dubiously entered the votes in individual numeric order (you read 123 as "one, two three," not "one hundred twenty three",) I just kept thinking about all those people who were getting stickers for standing in long lines and, in more than one case, delaying childbirth, in order to vote.

I got no such tangible stamp of democracy. I couldn't walk into Starbucks and take my free cup of coffee without getting a second glance (or my free scoop of ice cream, or slurpee, or any of the other numerous corporate celebrations of election day). I have to tell people that my vote contributed to our first black president, rather than them being able to see me pump my "yes we can" fist walking out of the voting booth. I guess I'll have to settle with a Facebook application.

let's hope my fingers don't cramp

First of all, I'm never ceased to be amazed at how many tidbits of political insider knowledge I've picked up from my habitual "West Wing" watching. Take today, for example. It's early in the afternoon, but the rain clouds are so thick you would think it's close to dusk. It's been raining all day, and is supposed to continue for another 10 straight days. Relevance? Because of Josh Lyman, I know that both parties are freaking out that voter turnout will be down because of the bad weather.

And speaking of TV, that's where you can watch me tonight. I'm working in one of the four Associated Press Election Centers in the country. How half of these centers ended up in Spokane is still a bit of a mystery. I will be tabulating voting results by phone as AP stringers call in from counties from 11 states, including Washington, Pennsylvania, Virginia, Ohio, and California. So as you watch the CNN ticker, give a shout out to whatever election bash you're attending and say "hey, I know one of the people who's sitting for 11 hours at a computer typing in numbers all night." The best part? We get free lasagna for dinner.

UPDATED: America's youth, again corrupted by the media

Before you read on, I must admit a huge personal bias: I am a strong supporter of comprehensive sex education in public schools. While I believe that stressing abstinence is important, I value freedom of information over my personal beliefs about what the right choice is. Besides, when it comes to sex education, decisions should be based on health issues, not value systems (at least when we're talking about public funds).

A new study released in the November issue of the American Academy of Pediatrics has found a "prospective link between exposure to sexual content on television and the experience of a pregnancy before the age of 20." In interviews with the Washington Post, lead researcher Anita Chandra noted that in TV depictions of sex (or activities such as kissing that imply a sexual relationship) rarely display topics such as STD protection or other risks involved in sexual activity.

My reaction to this study is the same as my reaction to many studies that have linked video game violence to school shootings or other violence in children: the problem isn't the media, it's personal responsibility. I don't argue that media, especially those that focus on visuals such as television or certain Internet sites, have a huge influence on public opinion on all levels. Republicans wouldn't care about a "biased" Oct. 13 Newsweek cover of Sarah Palin if they didn't think the image would sway voters away from the McCain ticket. Responsible voters are looking at issues and their interpretation of a candidate's ability to do the job, not their ability to remove facial hair.

The same responsibility should fall on media consumers when it comes to sexual or violent content. I know that when I watch Grey's Anatomy, I'm not watching a realistic depiction of a Seattle hospital. I watch the show for personal enjoyment and a way to relax in someone else's storyline, not for a dose of reality. However, the controversy comes when we're talking about children (and yes, teenagers are children). As an avid supporter of the First Amendment, can I also say that censorship in the name of childhood development and socialization is ok? I struggle with this line a lot, because I think the core of the issue is not who is doing who on TV, but rather why Sally and Jimmy feel that their lives would be bettered by emulating the characters they see on television. I don't have an answer, or even a clear argument, except to say that blaming media for teenage pregnancies (as many of the abstinence-supporting sources in the WA post article do) is not the solution.

Other sites that have covered the study: The Spokesman-Review (from the AP), Los Angeles Times, FOX news, China Daily, New York Times, a CBS affiliate (this one includes a quiz titled "test your pregnancy know-how", which is a blog commentary in and of itself). As a side note, this story makes an interesting media study on how the same information gets turned into totally different stories, especially in regards to leads and headlines.

Another tally in the "we're screwed" column

I try not to make this whole blog just about posting other articles I think others should read, but this one is worth the exception:

Almost half of women have sexual problems, from the Washington Post.

The interesting part is that of this almost 50 percent, only 12 percent reported distress due to the physical problems. And the survey includes nothing about the role of these women's partners in their "problems." Yet another example of how women are expected to be the perfect Cosmo girl, and if it's not working then she's to blame. No good.

trains, planes, and really cramped automobiles

This is a first for me: I'm blogging from the airport. It's appropriate considering I'm leaving Kansas City (Missouri) after a 4-day college media convention that screamed themes of convergence and the mysterious world of online journalism. (Note of interest: I was in a session with the University of Washington's newspaper advisor, and got to talk to her about their ethical decisions in running a photo of the man who lit himself on fire. Crazy stuff.) And as I sat through sessions about anything from Twitter to using Facebook for community journalism, I couldn't help but wonder if hyper-connectivity is really a good thing.

I realize this sounds like the grandparent argument that everyone is just on their cell phones all the time, and no one talks face to face anymore. And as mass media history will teach you, this "phenomena" and changing trends in media consumption are nothing new. People thought radio was the end of all civilized neighborhoods, for goodness sakes. I guess for me, the lines aren't necessarily drawn at who is allowed to be a journalist, but rather how we will continue to distinguish the personal from the professional. I maintain this blog mainly for personal reasons, and as a rule leave out specifics about my work on The Whitworthian or other publications. Does that mean it's fair game for a reader to point out a bias I hold in the off-chance I report about something I've blogged about?

Facebook is a whole other ballpark. Again, I have to this point kept a Facebook profile for personal reasons. But as co-workers and potential employers scan my pages and updates, do they now get the right to evaluate my professional abilities by my personal proclamations? Newspapers want to know that I can use social networking, but I don't want to have to water down my photo albums or censor wall posts from friends just because I'm worried about how they may be perceived.

This all goes along with the changing roles, and even definitions, of journalists. Anyone with a phone camera can make headlines on CNN these days if they're in the right place at the right time. I just worry that as we spread the roots of journalism into worlds previously considered off limits, the lines of professional and personal get a little too complicated.

shameless plug

Latest review I wrote for whitworthian.com, on the Secret Life of Bees.

man's best friend: ideally, also a man

As Fall Break approaches at Whitworth, you start to see students get a glassy look in their eyes. This haze is caused by three scenarios: 1. The student is looking forward to free laundry, homemade lasagna and 24-hour access to a TV remote; 2. The student is not going home and thus is picturing the four days they have to spend alone, with cafeteria food; 3. The student is going to be able to see his or her dog.

My freshman year, I thought it was just a fluke, a weird quirk that only applied to my small group of friends who felt they could trust me with their homesick desires. But as college has progressed, I've seen more and more that college students grow more wishful to spend time with their pets than their actual families. People have pictures up all over their rooms, or refuse to wash a blanket or article of clothing because the dog hair all over it just "reminds them of home." (And Katie, this isn't just you...) One friend even had an entire calendar made with 12 different pictures of her dog.

Now I never had a dog growing up, for several reasons. For one, we don't have a fenced in back yard, so logistically it would've been pretty a pretty expensive alteration to our backyard. Plus my house was always here and there and then over yonder about 18 times a day, and none of us could've really committed to taking care of a dog. (Cats are low-maintenance when it comes to indoor pets.) Sometimes when I was at the river I would sigh in longing at the family splashing in the waves with their golden retriever, or think that I might be motivated to run more if I had a canine companion. But then I would see the dog shake itself all over the family's dry blanket, or realize that I will never be motivated to run for running's sake, dog or otherwise.

So let all those dog dependents swoon over man's best friend. Sure, I might be missing out in the long run. But I've always supported the notion that a man should be able to maintain a two-way conversation with his best friend. And to me, a wagging tail or slobbering snout is a conversation I can live without.

back in the day

The Smith family is on campus today, because little Nat (who I guess isn't so little anymore) is considering Whitworth. Nancy came up to the media office and immediately was drawn to our opinion columnists' byline styles, which made me smile. Kelsey was up here too, and it was then that I realized that little Bacon was also the editor-in-chief of The Altitude, Hanford High School's newspaper. And of course, this took me down memory lane...here are some of the stops I made along the train of thought:

• explaining the difference between a gordita and chalupa as Alyssa and I made late-night Taco Bell runs. We keep things soft.

• constantly wondering, "where did Brandon go?"

• making glass after glass after glass of hot chocolate

• taking three hours to make a map in Photoshop, and then making Ben admire it for an hour

• sneaking into the press box at the state basketball tournament

• having people stare at my chest to read about the Hanford curling team

• playing hours of hearts instead of going to the journalism workshops at Central

• yelling at Ben to go take a photo of something, even though he had no idea what the story was about

• arguing over whether or not certain French phrases were common knowledge.

• the endless pranks

• getting ink all over my face when I always forgot to wash my hands after delivering the paper

• watching Nancy shop at gap.com instead of grading papers

• editing with Alyssa on my lap

...just to name a few

the john mayer soundtrack

I started out the day in the optimism zone. I only had one class, and I knew we weren't going to be there for the whole hour, so I pretty much had the day ahead of me to go forth and conquer. I had some evidence cards to finish for my debate class, and a little bookkeeping to catch up on for the paper, but other than that, it was supposed to be a smooth-sailing day.

Needless to say, by 3 p.m. there was no sailing happening, and it certainly wasn't on calm waters.

Long story short, I left campus feeling pretty discouraged and just overall, incompotent. Luckily, I had a date with little Bacon for some quality sister time, so I made myself leave school and just forget about all the stuff of the day. We got in Erin's car (my car is, surprise surprise, not running), and drove the .8 miles to Foxy Nails, the hot spot of beauty in North Spokane. Kelsey cranked Erin's Spanish dancing music and got really excited when I told her one of the lyrics was "I want to dance with you, without fear, until the floor breaks." With our unibrows now tamed and my stomach filled with 5-pump classic black iced tea, we headed home and spent the next hour mocking Oprah's epiphanies about the economy.

Once Kelsey left, James and I ordered pizza, and stolled over to Best Buy while we waited for our carryout order. We ended up playing 20 minutes of "Guitar Hero" and probably annoying the hell out of the Best Buy employees, but the looks on their faces told me we were not the first to sit and play the game for free, instead of buying it and sucking at guitar in the comfort of our own homes. We then watched the full set of Will Farrell's best of SNL DVDs, which I haven't seen since freshman year of college.

I tell you this not to turn my blog into my play-by-play diary, but to illustrate a point. By the end of the night when James went home to sleep before this morning's LSAT, I had forgotten about my stressful day. When I could've been cranky, I chose to be carefree. I let anxiety be pushed out by amiability. And I realized that at the end of the day, I have more important things in my life than just getting a task done. For some reason, that lesson really smacked me in the face yesterday. It's what happens whenever I listen to John Mayer's "Room for Squares" album. I just sit and recognize that trying to fit the world inside a picture frame means that everything outside of a 4x6 image gets deems unimportant, or somehow less significant in my life.

opportunity knocks

As someone who considers herself a fairly informed individual, especially in comparison to some of my university peers, I of course watched Friday evening's presidential debates. I saw the eye rolling, the name calling, and the "Truth Squad" from NBC point out the factual errors of each candidate in the post-game analysis. (Eisenhower did not write a letter of resignation. Take that.) And I agreed with most of the commentators: the candidates did a good job of reassuring their respective camps of their policies, but really didn't say anything new. Sure, they breezed over the specifics of the financial bail out, but who wouldn't? No one wants to hear that because investment banks are tanking their kid's school is going to even further cut the music program. It's the way political jargon is expected to run.

And then, when I was standing outside Martin Stadium in Pullman yesterday, I found myself standing about 4 feet away from Dino Rossi, as he was kissing the usual ass of Eastern Washington. And a thought came to me:

What would I say if I walked up to him and asked one question?

Think about it. We complain about biased coverage all day long (shout out to Chris Matthews), but if given the chance, what would we want to directly ask of a political candidate?

My first thought was broad, more along the lines of "hi, my name is Joy Bacon. Why should I vote for you?" In Dino Rossi's case, I want to ask him if he ever learned about fallacies in high school AP language arts, because if he had, he would know that you can't prove a causal link between Christine Gregoire and food prices in a 30-second TV spot. And then all the other questions that flood my mind surrounding social policy end up pinning me as a one-issue voter, which I hope to God to never be. And even now, as I sit in my office and try to come up with some intellectual, world-changing question, I can't decide.

I guess what it comes down to is that I'm tired of scripted answers. I'm fed up with ads that I don't trust or speeches you don't need corrective eye wear to see through. I want a straight yes or no, a simple explanation, or a simple "I don't know, but I'll get back to you." Now all I have to do is find the perfect question to get me that answer.

The things that can happen

Since I've been on a bit of a hiatus from the blogosphere, I've been feeling quite detached from the Internet world. Instead of reading 20-30 articles a day from various news sites, I maybe skim the headlines of two American sources before I have to scamper off to the next thing. But in the time I have had to be an informed individual, here are the stories I found that you may have missed:

1. TRL (Total Request Live) is going off the air in November. In other words, the part of my life that was lived out with Carson Daly from 3:30 to 5 p.m. every day is now being canceled. This means MTV will have even less music-based television, showing yet again how the culture created through music tends to dominate over the music itself. Get ready for more "My Super Sweet Sixteen" marathons that we should be asked to tolerate.

2. New York Times' columnist Maureen Dowd finally showed how the West Wing wasn't just a bunch of theoretical, ratings-driven mumbo jumbo by creating a conversation between the show's presidents, Jed Bartlet, and Barak Obama. Good stuff.

3. The View is becoming somewhat of an authoritative voice when it comes to political analysis. Who knew that when I sat on my couch and was rooting for Elizabeth Hasselbeck (then Elizabeth Filarski) to survive the Australian Outback, I would be rooting for one of the up-and-coming daytime co-hosts of today. Although I do think she wears entirely too much pink.

4. I wrote a sports column for The Whitworthian as a last-minute space filler. I'll never escape.

Be informed

I consider myself an educated, in the loop individual. But even I was stumped by a lot of these questions. And most disappointedly, I think my worst score was in the Arts and Entertainment section. Take the quiz from Newsweek for yourself, and comment on how you do:

Global Literacy 2008

Because curlers would have no other claim to fame

This year's Olympics have mustered months of pre-game coverage, anything from Michael Phelps dominating his sport to Paul Hamm dropping out of the men's gymnastics competition to China building walls to conceal its less "attractive" members of society. But despite human rights violations, air the color of dirt and one of the ugliest buildings I've ever seen constructed for an Olympic stadium, I can't help myself: I love the Olympics.

I love watching the Opening Ceremonies and seeing a country with three or four athletes waving their flag just as high as a country with hundreds of athletes. I love watching the face of a competitor who has worked his or her entire life to perfect one skill and that hard work has now come to fruition. Regardless of the event, each athlete or competitor there has more determination and focus that I can hope to have in a lifetime. And even if I don't think there needs to be a distinction between swimming in an indoor pool or an open body of water, I'll watch both events with equal amazement.

I also love the predicable formula of Olympic coverage. There's the classic underdog, who rules the Olympic media coverage. Inevitably there is always someone from a country I can't pronounce who comes out of nowhere and blows everyone's minds, and then is hounded for the next week on every national talk show and news program imaginable. There's the athlete whose head looks like it's about to fall off from the weight of all the medals around his or her neck. But as karma would predict, there is also the inevitable mistake, the slip off the uneven bars, the missed turn in the triathlon, the trip of the foot right off the blocks. It takes two seconds for someone to go from almost guaranteed gold to sitting on the sidelines, empty handed.

So despite my doubt about China actually implementing democratic changes for the better, or the doubt that some athletes anymore aren't using steroids even if they don't get caught, or just the fact that I only care about cycling once every four years, I will still be a fan. In any case, I have to fill up on watching real talent, before the next season of "So You Think You Can Dance" redefines how terrible you can be at something and still win a prize.

A few Olympics links:
Create your own schedule of events
New gymnastics scoring

One of many "athlete from a war-torn country" stories
IOC turns up the heat on drug tests
Time Magazine's 100 athletes to watch

my strongest suit

When I wake up in the morning, I have two main concerns: what will take the least amount of time to eat for breakfast, and what I should wear. Breakfast is usually the choice between an apple for the road or a quick bowl of honey nut cheerios. But the second item proves to be much more of a conundrum. I would describe my workplace as "business casual," meaning as long as the appropriate body parts are contained and you don't wear a logo T-shirt, you're probably good to go. However, this still leaves a very wide range of combinations to choose from. This is a typical morning run-down:

"Hmm, I think the black skirt would be nice today. Except the blue top is dirty and with the black I can't wear the brown cardigan. Ok, green top it is. But it's a little windy outside so the skirt might not be the best choice. So just put the green top with the gray pants. But then do I wear the sandals or the close-toed flats? Ok what interviews do I have today? There's a chance that I could have to go out to Fort Walla Walla meaning I would want not-nice shoes, but I could also have to go meet with the lady at the VA office and that would require nicer shoes. But the grey pants are too short for the heels. I like the white bermuda shorts, but only men can wear shorts to work. And there's always the chance that I'll get assigned to breaking news at City Hall, meaning I should totally scrap the green shirt and wear something collared..."

I think I put more energy into my daily ensembles that most college interns, but it's not for nothing. Whether we like it or not, first impressions are a big part of success in the professional world. And your appearance is a significant part of that impression. Think about it: if you went it to meet with a bank to set up a mortgage, you would think twice about investing hundreds of thousands of dollars with someone who can't keep his or her shirt tucked in. On the flipside, if you went to a farmer's market looking for fresh local berries, you would trust the farmer who appeared to actually work with his or her crops, rather than someone who can't be bothered to get their hands dirty.

And unfortunately, I think this pressure falls more to women than men. I don't mean to go on another "women are treated as sexual objects and considered slightly incompetent in some professional settings" tirade. But the balance between feminine and professional clothing is often quite the challenge. If you dress too much like a "woman," meaning you highlight merely acknowledge the female figure, you're sometimes pegged as a flake or someone who really doesn't know what she's doing. However, if you wear a white collared shirt with black slacks and orthopedic shoes every day, people might say you don't care about your appearance, translating that apathy into a lack of interest in her work. As shallow as it sounds, I think "What Not to Wear" has been an invaluable resource for professional women. It teaches women of varying sizes, ages, and body types how to reflect their personalities and own styles, but within guidelines that are appropriate for a particular setting.

This environment-appropriate appearance is just as important in journalism, I believe. But here, the game is more about camouflage. You have to create rapport with sources, and if they get a vibe that you are either way above or below their environment, you're toast. Granted, doing your research beforehand, especially when covering a topic or feature outside your normal circles, is crucial. But fitting in and looking like you can relate to a person I feel is just as helpful to getting better quotes and a more conversational interview.

get on down the road

As I was driving back to Walla Walla Sunday night, I glanced down at my dashboard to see how much more gas I was going to have to pay for this summer. And my eyes missed the gas gage altogether when they caught a glaring "2" in the odometer. Yes, that's right: my junk of a car has finally hit the 200,000 mile mark. As of this morning 200,058 miles, to be exact. I have never seen a car over the 200,000 mark, let alone driven one on a daily basis. But this milestone (pun absolutely intended) has come with a price. Since I bought it in November of 2004, my little red 1983 Honda Accord has had:

-3 belts replaced
-1 head gasket replaced (right after the belts were done. no good.)
-required the assistance of the AAA tow service at least twice a year
-2 starters replaced
- 1 rear view mirror fall off in mid-commute to school one morning
-1 battery run down by my lovely sister, who left it running with the radio on for half an hour
- sported the label of "Bootylicious Bacon" across the back windshield
- 1 incident of being completely wrapped in caution tape by my loving friends
- carried a body in the trunk for approximately 6 months (it was a dummy, but very realistic)

And this year my Whitworth compadres will get the terrifying privilege of riding along for the next 200,000.

Teenagers are again destroying all moral value in society. Or are they just changing the values?

One of the top New York Times reads over the weekend has been an article that explores the pros and cons of online literacy. And though I've emailed the link to a few of you, I thought a more in-depth look at the article would be appropriate. I've pulled out a few key quotes or topics to highlight, since the article is, ironically, four web pages long:

1. "Deborah Konyk, would prefer that Nadia, who gets A’s and B’s at school, read books for a change. But at this point, Ms. Konyk said, “I’m just pleased that she reads something anymore.”

This is a fundamental compromise I think a lot of parents are reaching these days when it comes to the Internet. They think that if their child is spending five hours on MySpace, at least they're chatting with friends from school and not potential child molesters (although 1 in 5 children under 18 will be solicited by a sexual predator online). The same applies to reading. They say "well reading Harry Potter is better than not reading at all." And while I agree that the world of Hogwarts has kept a lot of kids engrossed in a book, there are just as many books geared toward a teenage audience that have just as much intellectual or entertainment value.

2. "Some Web evangelists say children should be evaluated for their proficiency on the Internet just as they are tested on their print reading comprehension. Starting next year, some countries will participate in new international assessments of digital literacy..."

This is an interesting concept, although the article goes on to say such testing is not being explored in the United States. It's like taking a required keyboarding class to learn home row and pump out 60 words a minute. It might lose the art of putting a literal pencil to literal paper, but over time, typing has become essential to survival in the workplace or academic environment. I would be interested to see exactly how "digital literacy" is defined.

3. When a friend introduced Nadia to fanfiction.net, she turned off the television and started reading online.Now she regularly reads stories that run as long as 45 Web pages. Many of them have elliptical plots and are sprinkled with spelling and grammatical errors...Nadia said she preferred reading stories online because “you could add your own character and twist it the way you want it to be...Nadia said she wanted to major in English at college and someday hopes to be published. She does not see a problem with reading few books. “No one’s ever said you should read more books to get into college,” she said."

I wonder what Nadia considers "published." I find it encouraging that an online storytelling site can encourage young people to become writers themselves. However, I still cannot ignore the fact that almost any professor or writer will tell you that the best way to become a good writer is to be a good reader. If all she is reading is online amateur works, regardless of length, she will never be exposed to the types of more formal and sophisticated works that she could potentially aspire to create herself. And her last statement just makes me want to smack her upside the head.

4. "Reading five Web sites, an op-ed article and a blog post or two, experts say, can be more enriching than reading one book."

Well if this is true, I've read approximately three books a day this summer. But joking aside, I still wonder if this is actually comparable data. Growing up most of the books I read were fiction, or the occasional biography. The article goes on to talk about the plurality of ideas available through reading multiple websites on the same topic. And for things like politics or world affairs, it's true that I, an avid book lover, am more likely to skim headlines and commentary than I am to sit down with 400 pages on one topic in a bound edition. But again, the art of the fiction, or even non-fiction, novel cannot be equated to reading various blogs (unless Harper Lee has suddenly returned to the literary world via a daily short story posted online).

5. Some literacy experts say that reading itself should be redefined. Interpreting videos or pictures, they say, may be as important a skill as analyzing a novel or a poem.

“Kids are using sound and images so they have a world of ideas to put together that aren’t necessarily language oriented,” said Donna E. Alvermann, a professor of language and literacy education at the University of Georgia. “Books aren’t out of the picture, but they’re only one way of experiencing information in the world today.”

I won't go into this one a ton, except to say it's the classic struggle for educators and students alike, trying to find textbooks and materials that are both engaging and informative, without having to dumb down a lesson plan or find a way to make everything "fun." (That's for my dad, who always complains that his students expect every class to be entertaining.)

6. "When researching the 19th-century Chief Justice Roger B. Taney for one class, he typed Taney’s name into Google and scanned the Wikipedia entry and other biographical sites. Instead of reading an entire page, he would type in a search word like “college” to find Taney’s alma mater, assembling his information nugget by nugget."

All I can think is of a Whitworth professor's threat that she would haunt the dreams of any student who used Wikipedia for research purposes. And as the 2007 AP Stylebooks notes, the Internet is "1/4 wheat and 3/4 chaff." A little dramatic, but it gets the point across.

Just one of the reasons why I'll never be as bad ass as my mother

A few weeks ago when my mom was rummaging through the years she stores in dusty boxes underneath my parents' bed, she came across many things (one of my favorites being her 7th grade cheerleading squad photo, in which she's front and center). But she also found two notebooks she then lent me for "education of why you're lucky to be a woman when you are." The notebooks are a faded yellow, with black binding, and labeled Spokane Elementary Schools Composition Book in a sans serif. At the top of one, a smudged print reads "Home Economics Cooking Unit. Judy Jeanes, Adams 8th." This would date it to approximately 1961. Here is just one of the entries:

Table settings and manners
pages 154-163

1. In selecting linens servicability, durability, and cost must be considered.
2. Silver plated ware and sterling silver should be chosen carefully. Either should used daily to increase its beauty and to make the meal attractive.
3. In selecting china cost, suitability, ease of replacement, and attractiveness must be considered
4. Glassware is relatively imexpensive and gives a certain sparkle and attractiveness to the table.
5. All these table accessories should be chosen with care and should be suited to family income and use.
6. The individual cover depends upon the menu and the type of service.
7. Family service is an attractive, simple, and hospitable service used most frequently in American homes.
8. Formal service is used for occasional dinner parties if well-trained help is available.

Below the list is pasted a magazine cut-out of a formal table setting, complete with gold silverware and candesticks of appropriate height. The opposing page lists recipes for a fruit salad I and egg salad sandwiches. And yes, my mother forgot a crucial verb in the second sentence of the second item. That may have contributed to the B written in bright red ink in the front of the book as her final grade. Or it could have been that she always wanted to take wood shop instead of home economics.

I stole this idea from Sarah

Things I tolerate in life only out of social necessity:

1. the Mango. I do not enjoy eating mangoes fresh, frozen, or as a flavoring. I only occasionally like their smell in lotions and potions. But mango is the "it" flavor right now, in everything from margaritas to sno cones. I just don't enjoy them. I realize that they're good for you and a really pretty color and seemingly a flavor you can't go wrong with if offered to a large group of people. Not for me.

2. drip coffee. I know it sounds high maintenance and spoiled to say I only like certain lattes made with certain coffee from certain places. But it's true. I cannot just walk into a coffee shop and order a vanilla latte and expect to be satisfied. I will drink regular coffee with creamer, but it almost always makes me really nauseous and just leaves a general sense of not feeling good. My wallet definitely wishes this was not the case sometimes.

3. watches. A lot of people cannot function in life if their watch isn't in the exact place on their wrist. I own two watches (one of which currently has a dead battery), and the second was only bought out of necessity for my job last summer. I don't like having something on my wrist all the time, and I inevitably bang it into filing cabinets or injure myself. I just don't find them convenient, or necessary.

4. exclamation points. use your words, not your punctuation.

the new journalist

Anyone who is remotely connected to print journalism these days knows that the industry is tanking almost as quickly as the stock market. Papers and corporations across the country from the Boston Globe to the Seattle Post-Intelligencer to even the Tri-City Herald (owned by McClatchy, who made cuts of their own) are scaling back through layoffs or attrition. It's a scary time to be thinking about finding a job.

But as newspapers shift to smaller, online news coverage, a shift in style is coming with it. For example, the Washington Post just launched the second crime series in two weeks, this one is investigating the still-unsolved case of Chandra Levy from 2001. The series works with a style almost better suited for a mystery bestseller than a reporting of facts. Granted, I will be the first to jump on board the shift to more conversational and stylistic journalism, especially when dealing with long stories or less timely features, such as stories about semi-colons or fans going shirtless at baseball games. But in this series about Levy, many of the facts or information are left uncited, and comments are made about Chandra's feelings or thoughts or opinions that would be hard to nail down as concrete without hearing them from her directly.

Another debate about the same sort of language shift is being discussed by Politico about the Associated Press and its new head, Ron Fournier. The wire service is seeing more first person (considered the unpardonable sin by some journalists and professors) and "emotive language."

I have been saying for a few years now that the shift to increasing online content should not change the basic job of a reporter: gather facts, check accuracy, and write stories based on interviews and credible research. Online news still requires fact checking, still requires accurately quoting a source, still encourages watchdog journalism. And there is still plenty of this going on, both in print and online. But I worry that as newspapers desperately try to target the under-30 audience, they will compromise quality reporting for informal language and less "choppy" citations in order to mimic personalities such as Stephen Colbert (who actually is exceptional at citing sources for his facts or statistics) or E! news. The ride is keeping aspiring journalists on their toes, that's for sure.

footprints

Yesterday, during an assignment for a feature story, I ended up tromping around in large piles of soft dirt for about an hour. I was in white flats that were in no way meant for tromping around in large piles of soft dift. When I got back to the office, I dumped about two inches of the icky brown filth from each shoe, then went home to sit on the side of the tub and scrub my feet clean. It took 15 minutes.

It was at that moment that I realized if I lived during the time of Jesus, when this cake of dirtiness would have been a daily assumption, and someone showed up at my house and not only told me to eat dinner but washed my feet as I did, I would have declared him the Messiah right then and there.

BABIES

Instead of inching closer to my third completed season of "Law & Order: SVU" for the summer, I've tried to mix in another genre of Netflix Instant Play options: documentaries. I loved watching documentaries throughout middle and high school, and my heavy diet of PBS as a small child has created an appreciation in me for the grassroots-like footage and simple message of an hour-long look into a particular issue or historical event.

Last night's choice was "The business of being born," a project taken on and produced by Ricky Lake. The film received a mixed bag of reviews and controversy when it opened in January. It essentially focuses on the "deception" of obstetricians and how the United States has the one of the highest infant mortality rates in the industrialized world. Less than 1 percent of Americans use a midwife. In Europe, that number is 1 out of every 3 births. Those statistics alone were surprising to me, considering many people in this country consider midwives to be, as the film described it, "an old lady who brings a rolled up towel for the mother to bite down on." However, this is not the case. The organization featured employed midwives who were not only certified as such, but many had nursing degrees and had worked in traditional labor rooms for several years before becoming midwives. Another fascinating statistic was the huge increase in cesarean sections in the US: almost 40 percent of all children born here do not enter the world through vaginal delivery.

But despite the clear agenda of the film, the thing that surprised me the most was the actual footage of several different home births. I'm used to the "Father of the Bride: II" images of childbirth, the woman sucking on ice chips who is definitely sweating and in pain, but still able to carry on conversation and give her father friendly advice. I know this is extremely idealized, but at the same time, how many of us have ever seen what birth looks like in its natural state, without induced contractions or fetal monitors or eight doctors buzzing around in sea foam green smocks? The footage was both revolting and fascinating. Women were walking around their homes, often completely naked, moaning and swearing and just being in general states of agony. (And not gonna lie, the image of watching a baby's head literally pop out of a woman is probably the most terrifying thing I've ever seen. I didn't take health class in high school, so I was spared the infamous birthing video.)

I will always remember when at one point in 10th grade language arts when Kim Maldonado said bearing the responsibility of giving birth is the greatest honor she could have received; for her it was a blessing, not a burden. The film also talked a lot about the rite of passage of becoming a mother, and the euphoria that comes from holding your labor pains, literally, against your chest for the first time. I just hope when and if that day comes I can remember the blessing part, rather than what an episode of Gilmore Girls described as "doing the splits over a pile of dynamite."

apples and oranges

Before the start of the 2008 race for president, I think a lot of people in this country had given up on our generation having anything useful to contribute to society besides chat abbreviations. But now, it seems like a whole focus of the campaign coverage has been the influence of "young people." In light of this, I was surprised to stumble across a Newsweek article denouncing Generation Y for not being able to identify the significance of a sign reading "Colored Entrance" or name the largest lake in the United States (Lake Superior). Now I consider myself a fairly educated individual. I can tell you the year Robert Kennedy was assassinated, why outsourcing is a debated issue, and how to look up a book using a card catalog in a library (a lost art in my opinion). The article focuses mainly on the lack of fact memorizing, such as dates or names. But it also gives credit to young people's ability to multitask and think critically, sighting Dungeons and Dragons as actually equivalent, at least in brain power, to a story problem in algebra class.

I think the discussion should not surround whether or not the same history books are being memorized by the new generation. Young people are processing and gathering information in new ways, and that should be considered. Many people would say that technology is the cause of stupidity, or perceived lack of intelligence. But think about how many of us can use the Internet to find information with a few simple clicks, that used to take a person hours to search for? How many of us can use a cell phone responsibly to check in with our parents when we went out during high school? We can create anything from family photo albums to complex power point presentations that save money, space and time. Granted, I will be the first one to admit that technology sometimes can cause more frustration than assistance. The question should not be if it is good or bad, but whether at the end of the day a person is educated enough to contribute something to society, whether that be a new way to connect the globe or merely spout of an answer for tomorrow's episode of Jeopardy.

a must read (or at least required listening)

This past week I was on a vacation that took me to a new realm of travel skills: a solo road trip. Sure my family sported the two-week power vacations every summer when I was little, but I could sleep or play "I Spy" or just generally keep myself occupied in the backseat. But for my 8-hour haul each way, I decided to kick back to the thing that always got me through those long drives through New England or down 101 to California: a book on tape.

Except now, books on tape are really books on compact disc, which makes finding a chapter so much easier, not to mention you don't have to haul around 20 cassettes and worry about whether you left off in the middle of side A or B. I rented Bright Shiny Morning, the latest bestseller from James Frey. And despite the controversy that will inevitably forever haunt this writer's career, his book was stunning. It's essentially small snippets of the lives of at least 20 different characters, whose only commonality is the fact that they currently live in Los Angeles. The book brought back the art of storytelling, the sense that you don't have to create fantastical plots or surprise endings that could inspire a summer blockbuster at the movie theater. Stories start with strong characters, period. It doesn't matter if they are on an epic journey or live out an entire novel in the space of one hour.

If you have strong, believable characters, you cannot fail.

loosen it up

I was playing Frisbee yesterday for the first time in quite a while. It was unusally hot for Seattle, and I have not been diligent in drinking water, and thus ended the day fairly dehydrated. But apparently I gave off more than just a "I want to sit down and never get up again" vibe.

For most of my grown-up life (or at least since like 7th grade), I always have people asking me the dreaded question.: "Are you OK?" Once in a while, it's justified because I'm clearly preoccupied or struggling with something. But most of the time, it worries me more than it helps. For some reason I am often seen as distant, or anxious. And it's always at times when the question couldn't be less warranted. I've always struggled with getting my facial expressions to imulate my state of mind, but I try to show happiness when I'm happy, contentment when I'm content. A lot of it comes from a struggle in high school to get over certain people that told me "everyone thinks you're a bitch" and "you're so uptight all the time." I try to just let loose and live life. I try to be silly when it's called for, and serious when it's appropriate. I try to live in the moment, because I've learned it's a waste of energy to do anything otherwise.

But still, I get questions about my state of mind or emotional worries. Don't get me wrong: usually I appreciate that I have people in my life that are paying attention and invested in my well being. But it still makes me wonder why I cannot seem to come off as happy, or at least as not worried about something, when I really am just being myself to the best degree I know how.

items left on my desk from the lady who worked here before me

-an odd looking pencil holder, resembling a large wooden spool turned on end, that contains one pair of red-handled scissors, a red correcting pen, and a blue pencil used for writing on photos.
-a half-used roll of paper towels
-a Swingline stapler, with ample amounts of staples left in it
-a small plastic square divided into two compartments, probably used as some sort of desk organizer
-a burnable CD
-a phone, complete with earhorn
-reference documents given to each reporter, including two phone books, a public records and meetings manual, "Access: A guide to Government Information," and an employee handbook.

the birthday run down

3: how many martinis I got out of one order at Applebee's. Pomegranate. yummy.
5: total glasses of beverage consumed (one cosmo, one long island iced tea, and the above listed items)
2: Approximate hours of badminton played at my house. I was a bit rusty.
4: times the birdie got stuck in the tree.
21: Gifts my family gave me. It was cute.
1: Excessive Hannah Montana birthday cards my dad gave me as a joke.
20: pieces of silverware I received from my grandmother.
4: People at any given point in the past month that were scheming to have James surprise me.
1: Days taken off of work
3: Times I threw up once I got home. I wasn't drunk by any standards, just too much sugar combined with Applebee's nachos. What can you do.

I can't even begin to formulate an articulate rant against this idea besides " NO NO NO!"

"Pro-Life Drugstores Market Beliefs," from the Washington Post

music whore

After Sarah hooked me up with what is probably the 40th round of new music she's supplied over the years, I've come to a saddening but justifiable conclusion:

I rarely find music I like through my own effort.

I've always been jealous of my especially music-conscious friends -- Sarah, Alyssa, and Erin being the predominant characters -- and their ability to create favorite playlists or fill iTunes libraries with original and delightful artists. Sure, I have taste. I find the majority of hard-core country music cheesy. Most rap songs contain so many slang references I don't have a clue as to what the song is actually about. I would define my favorite genres as thoughtful R&B, combined with anything that has a tasteful dance beat and most solo female artists, especially those that play their own instruments (Kelly Clarkson will always be my unabashed guilty pleasure, and I've connected many a lost soul with her prophetic ballads. Judge if you will). But for the most part, these artists have been gifted to me. With the exception of Sara Barielles and Destiny's Child, I have never gone out and bought an album without either a direct recommendation or an extensive listening history of the artist or band.

At college, some consider me a music expert, oddly enough. I am well known, at least in my small group of influence, for the "Dancing Naked" mixes, made up of 20 or so songs per volume that provide excellent pop-and-go road trip soundtracks, or the perfect freshmen social soundtrack. The third volume is almost complete, pending my acquisition of a few more songs from my sister. Speaking of whom, has probably the most unique taste I've ever encountered: anything from Panic! at the Disco to Norah Jones to Enya to Kanye West. But most of these collections are based on my crucial ability to pick out songs with solid beats or motivating riffs. Running music at the Rollarena since I was 16 teaches you a thing or to as to how to read a crowd for music tastes, and how to transition out of a slow song to something worthy of black lights. It was learned through trial and error.

But for the most part, my music taste is whatever people suggest to me that I like. Take, for example, Jason Mraz. Arguably one of my most reliable go-to guys for a chill evening or an upbeat day of running errands. Sarah first received his album for her 18th birthday. It was the first music she downloaded onto her new laptop. And if she had never burned me a copy, I probably wouldn't have listened to his full albums (which are exponentially better than the one or two singles he releases from them). And as a result, I went with a group of friends to his concert in Spokane that next fall. It is in this vein I don't have a moral aversion to file sharing. Without the ability to share and swap music, I would miss out on a majority of the music I find inspiring, comforting, or just delightful. I would have missed the crooning of Bethany Dillon, or the sometimes dirty but always grooving John Legend.

But every now and then, I wish I could find the next best thing by my own initiative.

what I would someday like to do with my life

For any of you that follow the news on a somewhat daily basis, it will come as no surprise that many commentaries have been swarming around a recent set of articles about the French marriage that was annulled because of a "breach of contract" when the man found out his new wife was not, in fact, a virgin. Both parties involved were Muslim. The story has met huge uproar from French secularists that worry religious tendencies are infiltrating the judicial system.

A few days later, a related article was published about a surgery in Europe that creates a new hymen in women, essentially surgically recreating the technical aspect of virginity. Most have the surgery for either personal religious purposes or to abide by families who want proof of virginity before they will bless an upcoming marriage.

And now, one blogger has combined these two issues with a recent "purity ball" held in Colorado Springs, where fathers pledged to their daughters to help protect their sexual purity, aka to keep them virgins until marriage. This ball was heavily debated on The View (yes, I watch it, don't judge) and other talk shows. And while I agree with some of her points, I think one commenter was right: a father pledging to protect a daughter's virginity is not comparable to incest.

But on another note, this topic is one that I hope to one day actually do something tangible with. If you are a reader that goes to college with me, then you know that I recently worked on a series for the Whitworthian about why certain people make the decision to or not to have sex, in a variety of relationship types. If you haven't gone to college with me, then you might know that I faced my share of the rumor mill in high school about my level of sexual activity. And if you're just a cool kid who likes to hear what I have to say, then hear this: I think one of the biggest tragedies in this country is that young women do not feel like they have the right to make their own decisions about sex. This could be either to keep screaming "No!" at the top of her lungs at the neighborhood love spot until he drives her home, or not being ashamed of her decision to be more intimate, whatever that capacity may be. The education aspect is a whole other debate, that I don't think anyone wants to read at this point. I think young girls need to feel empowered either way, whatever their decision, to be able to talk openly about it with peers, youth groups, even parents.

The other sad angle to this recent chatter about sexuality is the saddening omittance of the male perspective. It is by no means just the girls who should be talking about purity balls or religious morality. Guys have just as much right to say no, or yes, or just to say something at all. We need to start the discussions in a variety of atmospheres and include a diverse religious and socioeconomic voices. I hope someday I could be a part of helping make these discussions happen.

FYI

Facebook add-0ns could jeopardize privacy

roller skating, and language, takes on a whole new era

At work yesterday, a 5th grade boy walked away from the skate counter and made a comment I had never heard in this building before:

"Dude, I got pimpin' skates."

This particular pair of size six roller skates was nothing special. Worn leather, wheels that have probably seen better days. But they work just fine. However, several things amused and disturbed me about this little kid's statement.

First of all, I don't know of anyone who considers the activity of roller skating the equivalent to running a prostitution circle. I realize that the use of pimping as a description for something as cool or "hip" is almost common place these days. However, like the use of the word "rape" to describe something as being horrible or a big loss ("We got raped in that basketball game," for example), I find the use of pimping as a positive description disturbing. Especially when applied to an activity that involves rolling around in a circle for two hours. We don't even play music that includes the word or activities associated with it that are found in many No. 1 songs on the charts. So for a child in elementary school to throw the word around in such a mundane manner made me wonder what he would think when he faced the word in its literal sense and real world setting.

I realize that to go on a tirade about the objectification of women in contemporary music, especially hip hop, would be preaching to the choir of my readership. Thank you, readers, for knowing that it should not be normal for men to call women bitches and various other derogatory names without some sort of caution. I will be the last person to call for censorship or guidelines within speech of any sort. But why is this sort of language allowed, and profanities that often have less literal meaning are bleeped and played in late-night rotations? Parents worry about the effect of "foul" language on their young children, anxious that if Jay-Z says a bad word, then their 8 year old will want to say it, too. But in the case of my experience yesterday, I've realized that it is not just profanity's influence we should be cautious of.

Day 4

On Tuesday, I decided to go rollerblading when I got home from work. And I know some of you are saying, "but you work at a roller skating rink. I don't get it." Well, rollerblading for me is actually a decent workout, since I'm used to traditional skates. Plus serpentining through my neighborhood is always a challenge. But before I set out for my 20-minute journey, I took off my jewelry. And one piece in particular never returned to my right hand's middle finger: The ring.

I cannot find it anywhere. I moved everything in my bathroom, tore the couch apart, even overhauled my bed in an attempt to find the closest thing to a tangible soul I have. This ring has been with me since my sophomore year, and has been with me through thick and thin, from being stolen, washed, stuck in doorframes, you name it. People steal it to play with, stare in awe at the three intertwined bands. My finger is actually slightly deformed because of its permanent place on my hand.

James told me I was being ridiculous, and I should just buy a new one. Never. I knew the day would come when the ring would no longer be a part of my life, I just wanted a little more control over that date. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

the unchecked world of magazine copy

So I was skimming through the NYT this morning, and I came across the word "vomitrocious." Granted it was in a fashion article in T magazine, but still. I haven't decided how I feel about it.

Although the outfit being worn by Paris Hilton that it was describing warrants the invention of a new way to say hideously ugly.

I'll get off the couch eventually

For the past week (with the exception of yesterday), my day has been sad but predictable: wake up around 9:30, lay in bed until 9:56, stumble downstairs and plop myself on the couch, watch needless hours of terrible yet addictive daytime television, get up and eat a sandwich, argue with my sister about watching Malcolm in the Middle or Dr. Phil, then eat dinner and go to work. Pathetic. I have, today, finally dragged myself out of the living room and will soon attempt to finish unpacking. Part of the reason I find myself stuck on the couch is that I have not taken any of my clothes out of the suitcase, so I don't have anything to wear anyway.

All that is about to change. I'm tired of sitting and watching commercials clearly aimed at middle aged women sitting at home. I'm tired of not putting on real clothes until after 4 in the afternoon. And I'm tired of feeling like a lazy butt who contributes nothing to society. Granted, I know this will change in two weeks when I move and have a "real" job (even though I've been writing for two publications since I've been home and worked 7 days a week at the fabulous Rollarena). But I thought I would put some goals, in writing, to help myself feel less like a doof:

SUMMER GOALS 2008:
-write every day outside of journalism. This could be a handwritten letter, a poem, a short piece about a man walking down the sidewalk.
-watch no more than an hour of television a day.
-Wear my hair three different ways each week. (The blob on top of my head gets old.)
-Eat two pieces of real fruit a day.
-Cut down on my potty mouth. I don't swear too much anymore, but I still say inappropriate things, and usually at the most inappropriate times. That's a problem.
-Call a friend each week to just say hello and that I appreciate them.
-Improve my spelling and verbal vocabulary skills.
-Do some sort of legitimate exercise at least every other day. Walking counts, because it doubles for a mental exercise too. My head is always clearer after a good stroll.

irony

During my Contemporary American Poetry final today, our class consisted of three things; puppies, pastries, and poems. One of the women in the class brought in her two beagle puppies, one of which slept the whole time and the other kept hiding in corners and relieving himself. (The building is being gutted next week for a remodel, so not a big deal.) However, toward the end of the hour our professor, Laurie Lamon, was reading some poems from a collection she has coming out next spring.

As she was reading, a large lawnmover drove by outside, on its way to the next assignment. And and after she made a comment about poetry exposing the mundane yet universal aspects of human connection, she asked someone to close the window, so the noise of the world outside would not interfere.

I have faith in the next generation

What do children read? Hint: Harry Potter's not No. 1

it's just understood

When you advertise a BBQ, the menu is an easy assumption: hamburgers and hot dogs, maybe some baked beans, some sort of fruit, and a beverage. If a desssert gets thrown in, all the better.

Sodexho, Whitworth's food service provider, has changed their definition of BBQ to now mean chicken with an excess of ambiguous sauce, cheese tortellini (which, when sitting outside in the ever-so-sweltering 60 degrees, gets cold in about five seconds), and moldy strawberries. Granted, today they threw in some fresh blueberries, of which I had like half a plate because they are so scrumptious, and I was also first in line after they changed out the tortellini, but seriously. What happened to the good old days of following through on age-old cultural customs?

Bring back the burgers. That's all I gotta say.

Take the Time

A big theme at Whitworth this spring semester has been "balance." An administrator put together a report on Whitworth culture, and one of the 11 points was the idea that Whitworth students, for whatever reason, tend to "always be busy." Whether that's running around from student government job to Frisbee game to band concert all in the same night, or even just the perception that time is always escaping us, it's a definite vibe on campus. For most.

Going into college, I knew that the lifestyle I led in high school was not going to cut it anymore. After a junior and senior year that included two varsity sports, the Altitude, club volleyball, a relationship, six AP classes, a part-time job, two other almost relationships, church youth group, a district investigation, and trying to support my friends in their other activities, I was pooped. Sarah always would tell me to just "chill out." This is to you, Sarah: I'm finally listening.

Last night, I looked at my day today and perceived another frantic, pit-stained frenzy. (To be fair, the pit stains come regardless of stress levels. Oh the wonders of overactive sweat glands.) I didn't have essay writing in the morning, but after my afternoon class I was booked straight until 6 p.m. with interviews, training, and other meetings. I knew on top of that I had another draft of my literary essay due, a chunk of reading, and a scholarship to finish. On the surface, my life seemed no different from my usual patterns of stress.

But after two walks around campus with James, dinner and two innings of the Mariners, and an hour of just laying still and breathing, I realized that we are only as busy as we let ourselves believe. Sure, I had a lot of list items in my planner to check off, and the list will probably loom for at least another two hours. But I'm more relaxed that I have been in at least a month. It's all in the attitude, in our perception of stress, and not necessarily the stress itself. I could have a day with one meeting and be freaking out. I could have a day with 10 meetings and midterms and be perfectly in control. It's all in taking the time for the little things, like walking around the Loop or cheering on Bloomquist for part of the 8th inning. Sure, they took "time." But that hour break seemed like the longest hour of the day. I wasn't rushed, I wasn't running around, I just existed. And sometimes, that's all it takes.

the day has come

For any of you that knew me before college (or really I guess anyone that knows me at all), this next statement might come as a bit of a worldview shocker:

I'm becoming a morning person.

I know. I can hardly believe it myself. After years of having the covers pulled off me two minutes before breakfast starts and alarm clocks that might as well be in another room of the house for all the effect they have on me, my ways are changing. Oh sure, I still love to sleep in past a normal lunch hour or just lay in my bed because I have no good reason to act otherwise. But I'm slowly discovering all the things I have missed by sleeping through one of the most peaceful times of the day:

1. There was no line at the coffee shop when I got there. None. They had my drink ready before I even finished scanning my card.
2. I have the bathroom to myself. So when, like today for example, I experiment with a new hairstyle that ends up looking like a space helmet, no one is there to mock me.
3. I don't feel rushed about anything. Sure I have things to do, as usual, but it just feels like there is more time in the day to get it all done at a rate that doesn't drive me to insanity.
4. Like the coffee shop, I also have the media office to myself. No one ranting about the latest primary, no one freaking out because yearbook proofs are still missing. Just me, and my coffee, and the keyboard.
5. I won't be late to my first morning meeting (breakfast with James. I'm always late. No one is surprised.)
6. I can actually read today's morning headlines in the morning.
7. I don't feel as lazy as I sometimes project myself to be.

I've got to try this whole "get out of bead" deal more often. Just not this Saturday.

treasure

The other day I was searching through my desk drawer, scrambling for a writing utensil in order to write down a phone number for an interview. I used a pink highlighter. But when I went to re-organize the drawer, I found an old friend: the Quality Inn pen.

This is, without a doubt, the best pen I have ever been privileged to have in my care. I picked it up at the Quality Inn in Tacoma (or some indistinguishable suburb of Tacoma) in March 2005. Alyssa was actually the first one to find it, since she had been staying at the hotel two days prior to my arrival. We were there for the 3A state basketball tournament, in which the Hanford High boys team was competing. Alyssa went over with her mom early that week, and once the team proved they would be sticking around for more than one game, my mom brought me over and we took over responsibility for Alyssa.

She told me that the hotel pens were of an unusually high quality, ironically, and I would be a fool to not snag one before the trip was over. The pen I have now is actually snag No. 2, since the first one fell out of my purse during the prom dress shopping excursion. I used it to take all my notes in coverage of the tournament, including locker room interviews and signing myself into the Tacoma Dome through the press entrance. Yeah, it was that cool.

The pen is white, with a bold but friendly green lettering down the middle with a phone number, in case I was writing a check one day and suddenly got the urge to make a hotel reservation. The cap is also green, and fits snugly onto both the end and tip of the pen. I like caps that fit snugly. The ink is black, and confident. None of this faded grey or sporadic ink flow. This baby is solid, and almost always works the first time on impact. No licking or coaxing required.

But I think what I love most about this particular pen is its ebb and flow in the past three years. I usually only have it for about a month until it gets lost in a drawer or at the bottom of the handbag of that season. Once I found it in a roommate's cup of writing utensils because they had borrowed it months earlier and forgotten to return it. It's probably disappeared a dozen times since I've had it. But it always comes back, and at the most delightful times. It's just nice to know that true treasure is never really lost, it just changes hands for a while.

glimpses of the newsroom

A lot of people over the past three years have asked why I do it. Why I spend over 14 hours each Sunday editing and name checking and searching for 20 minutes for the correct spelling of our science center. They say, it's not worth your time. It's so draining. You seem like you never sleep. All of those criticisms may be valid. I'd be the first person to assert that more sleep would be a delightful change in the past few weeks. But sitting here tonight, on issue 16 of volume 98, I realize yet again that it's the little things that pull it all together:

• Arguing over whether Duvall's pod system or elevator are its most unique features as a residence hall.
• Watching people jump out of their chair in excitement when a headline fits its space allotment.
• Eating our Taco del Mar together on the grass and being able to joke about cheerleaders.
• Hearing the assistant copy chief yell a profanity as our news editor was on the phone with the dean of faculty.
• Listening to the sports editor get the last-minute sports interview.
• Finding a new spelling in the AP stylebook. I think I love AP style more than is healthy for a journalist, or even copy editor.
• Knowing that Tuesday morning, over 1,900 students will get at least one piece of mail for the week.
  

the beauty of disaster

If you though my vendetta against mother nature was fierce a month ago, you would see it as a tame attempt compared to my righteous apathy at this point. Every day we can expect some combination of hail, rain, snow, sunshine, or blasting winds, not necessarily in that order. Normally my reaction to any of these occurrences is one of disdain and disgust. But once, this morning around 11:12 a.m., I sat in the coffee shop and was memorized by the hail storm that swept in. The sky went from a foreboding sense of rain to a slightly darker filter of the sun, and then the clouds opened. It's as if the sky had been holding it's anger inside to be polite as businesspeople commuted to work and the day began.

But it could no longer contain itself, and the hail (that surprisingly always looks like a Dip ' Dots food fight across a cafeteria) threw itself at the ground, as if trying to penetrate the surface. I sat, mesmerized by its force and sheer curtain of white speckles, watching through the large bay windows across the room from me.

And as I sat sipping my tall white mocha and holding a book of Christopher Howell poetry, I was floored. I could do nothing but stare, in the same way you can't take your eyes off a cripple who is succeeding at getting on a bus. It was the experience of something I normally see as an annoyance or damper to my day become magical. At 11:18 a.m., it was over.

word nerds unite

Warning: do not visit this website if you only have 5 minutes to spare. I was going to just glance at it, and an hour later I had racked up 5,000 grains of rice. It's rigteous.

http://www.freerice.com/index.php

as the wind dies down

Last week, I found myself straddling the line of nostalgia and quicksand. I love being home, especially when the weather is good (which is was for about 2 hours of the entire week), because it's familiar. I like walking into the Washington Plaza Starbucks and sitting in the corner to read. I like wandering through Columbia Center mall and remembering the time when I played bigger or better for Bethany Lotz's birthday. I like parking at the end of Newcomer and just watching the old men walk by, just like they have for the past 50 years.

But then I find myself avoiding familiar places, because I know it means familiar people. Not friends, just casual acquaintances that you're obligated to say hello to but there is clearly no reason for conversation besides obligation. People assume you never left town and are just doing what you always do, in the places you always do it. But I'm not the same person I was 3 years ago. I don't make out by the backstop in Leslie Groves or spend 4 hours a day at some team practice or, god forbid, roller skate. Sure I still have a lot of the same interests, likes and dislikes, but I also have encountered many new likes, dislikes, and interests. I've kicked a lot of the bad habits I held onto in high school, and inevitably developed new ones. As a result I end up just getting annoyed with people who either assume that time has frozen since 2005, or who ask "how's school" because they feel like they have to.

(And if you haven't seen it, the Hanford High auditorium is spectacular. I wouldn't have even recognized it as the same building.)

mother nature: an update

It's snowed three times in the past 72 hours, and then it melts within the hour. This is just getting a little out of hand.

mother nature: a history

Today, I am defiant. This defiance comes in a string of attempts to coax mother nature out of her darkness and to usher spring into the air. My first attempt at this grand task came two weeks ago when I wore flip-flops to church, rather than the usual closed-toe shoes and thick winter socks. I was doing fine, until it started getting a lot colder and I eventually had to change because I could no longer feel 4 of my 10 toes. It then snowed again the next morning. Clearly, mother nature was ready for a fight.

The next attempt came last Wednesday, when I donned a striped spring skirt and white top, my quintessential spring look. But alas, I was defeated again because I had left my jacket at my grandma's house that evening, so when I got out of the car around 10:30 p.m. that night I literally could not stop shaking. 0-2.

My third and certainly not last battleground is being staged as we speak. The ensemble consists of a denim pencil skirt, t-shirt and cute flats. The day started out gloriously; not a cloud in the sky or a worry on my mind. Within the next three hours, the wind has kicked up to almost 20 mph and the clouds are rolling in faster than a fat lady to the McDonalds drive-thru. But I will stand victorious, no matter how many limbs have to be lost to frostbite or how many fists I have to shake in the air. Spring is coming, dammit. Mother nature's got nothing else to fight with. (Except maybe a hailstorm or unexpected cold front...)

(it's actually Sunday)

I usually write these as I sit and wait for edits at the paper, so it's late/early Sunday. I hate that the next day starts at midnight. Let's think about this. If "midnight," or halfway through the night, is the dividing line between today and tomorrow, that means that each day only gets half of a night, because the rest is technically morning. And we say "I was up till 3 in the morning," but in order for that to be factually correct one would have to say "I was awake until midnight and then continued for the first three hours of the next day." And I don't know about you, but 3 a.m. feels a whole lot like night to me.

the looming list of things to finish before Thursday at 3:30 p.m.:

- 3 scholarships
-breaks down to three essays, two activities lists, 5 letters of recommendation, 3 story clips
- 1 worldview essay
-(if anyone has read any good editorials in the past 3 months, please let me know.)
- 1 poetry exploration essay
- 1 peer evaluation
- 1 Jan Term application
- 1 3-page scene
- 1 life to plan

Ready, set, go.

lessons of a college checkbook

Things that store brand is perfectly acceptable for:
-juice boxes
- facial tissue
-dish soap
-milk
-butter
-nail polish remover
-pain killers
-gushers

Things that make buying name brand necessary:
-Any sort of feminine product
-Razors
-Nilla wafers
-chapstick
-popcorn for my air popper
-nail polish
-allergy medicine/decongestant
-fruit roll-ups

square one

For the past week, I've been escaping into the worlds of the West Wing and Stars Hollow whenever I began to feel overwhelmed by the looming future I will eventually have to face. Jan Term, housing, jobs, relationships, they all pile up into one frenzy of anxiousness. And it always seems that just when I have a handle on things, the pitch from left field hits me square in the forehead. Who decided we were grown-ups?

"Whatever happened to my lunch box? When came the day that it got thrown away, and don't you think I should have had some say in that decision?"

Wise words, John Mayer. Wise words.

Smiling in amusement

Celebrating the Semicolon in a Most Unlikely Location

I can't even begin to write a worthy commentary, so I won't try. It's just delightful.

I know now why Alyssa and I are friends

Thursdays are my longest days as far as time commitments. I either have class, writing center hours, or Whitworthian meetings straight from 9:30 a.m. to 9 p.m. And then I get to start my homework for Friday. So the fact that Valentine's Day fell on a Thursday actually was, I thought, going to get me off the hook. I've only had a significant other twice on the fateful day, and since one was in eighth grade and the other was a long distance relationship, my expectations for the day have never been high. That's the way I like it. (If you haven't read Alyssa's latest post, it's a precursor to my next point.) I have extreme anxiety about any occasion that requires a gift or strongly implies that if you don't give a gift, you are a terrible heartless human being. And since James' birthday was the 9th, I had two instances that required thought and creativity in a week.

I did alright with the birthday. But Valentine's Day, especially for a male, is tricky. There are no default gifts, like the flowers and chocolates of the female world, so its either something material or something thoughtful. And then the one thoughtful idea I had (making chicken parmesan, his favorite food,) was shot down when he returned from South Africa and declared that if he never ate chicken again it would be too soon. So there I was, February 14, with nothing to wrap and no plan in sight. We even ended up "celebrating" on Friday instead, because of my schedule. And even with an extra day, I was still stumped.

I think my main hesitation lies in how I define love, and how I choose to express it. My idea of love, or even just friendship, is not based in equally reciprocated events or adhering to traditional ideas about anniversaries or gifts. Sure, I always love the occasional flower or creative birthday surprise. But my love language is acts of service. I do for people what they don't have time or are too stressed out to do for themselves. In this case, I have a feeling I won't completely fail as a mother. I fold people's laundry, or take out their garbage, or bring them an apple when they've been studying too hard to remember to eat. I do it in the daily stuff, in hopes that my feelings, at any level, won't just be noticed on calendar dates. They, at least this is the goal, will be seen as part of who I am. And because of this, I find it hard to go much beyond that. I want people to feel special and loved and worth something in this world and in my life every day.

back into action

Classes are again in full swing, and it feels like no time has passed at all. I've said this before, but I find it so odd, and yet so necessary, that we are able to compartmentalize the different aspects of our lives and our experiences in other places or situations. We fill up the shelves of our lives with carefully labeled groups of friends, trips, or circles of influence, and the shelves are stacked and excluded from one another. People can tell I'm a little tanner, but beyond that they really aren't interested in sitting down and including themselves on a shelf of my life that they don't exist in. It's the same way with camp. I occasionally hum a song or repeat phrasology that isn't significant for my friends at school, but it's not to mesh the two worlds, it just slips out.

Every college freshman learns this coping skill the first time they come home, usually at Thanksgiving. You create the 1-minute answer to the inevitable question of "how is school going?" You learn to say that classes are going well, and you're making a lot of friends. And unless you surround yourself with people who have a genuine interest and patience to learn about one of your shelves, that's the only piece of the school world that is allowed into the home world. You begin to live two almost mutually exclusive lives, because it's the only way to not always be in want of the life you're not living in at any given moment.