I’M SO EXCITED! AND I JUST CAN’T HIDE IT!

So,

this girl,

(if she can locate her passport application from the bowels of the Passport Center in Washington, D.C.)

is going to Galway, Ireland and Newcastle, England in early May,

to visit her oldest college friend, Katie

and her boyfriend, Matthew Michael.

How do you like them apples?

P.S. The different between boys and girls:
Katie’s reaction to my announcement, “OMG i think i can go,” via Skype Chat: “melissa i’m SOO EXCITED”
On the other hand, when I very cutely texted this message:
“i need a favor! i’m arriving at newcastle airport on may 11 and i need someone to pick me up and show me around, can you make it? “
to Matt (who is currently gallivanting in France for spring break right now), this was his response:
“I’ll be there”
I’m loving the enthusiasm.

the lost semester and what i learned

This year has been characterized by change. Whoa, REALLY? you are all saying. YOU HAVE NEVER MENTIONED THIS CHANGE OF WHICH YOU SPEAK. ADDITIONALLY, YOU MUST BE THE ONE AND ONLY PERSON WHO HAS EVER CHANGED IN LIFE.

I know, I know. Not a very insightful or original statement. But as I get myself back on track and my mind becomes clearer, I’ve been trying to piece together What Happened This Year. In case you didn’t know, I began this blog pretty much two days after I decided to discontinue my pursuance of a bachelor’s degree in English Secondary Education, a degree I’d been working towards for two years–a career I thought I wanted since the tender age of 13. So, What Went Wrong? This is what I’ve got so far:

Prior to last semester, I had no idea what being an English teacher really entailed–in high school, you think it means that you get to read and talk about books and make high school kids understand what makes them so great. To which I now say: ha ha HA HAAAAAAAAAAA. NOOOO. I mean, yes, you get to read books, but being a teacher is never about your content area and instead has everything to do with using your content to teach learning and acquisition skills to 15-year-olds. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.

It didn’t help that for the first two years of college, the education major was filled with fluffy, insubstantial classes like “Adolescent Learning and Development” and “Historical and Political Contexts of Schools,” where you read criticism about students and schools but don’t actually learn what teachers DO.

I’ve since realized that I had mistaken the love of learning for the love of teaching. I had always loved to be a student and answer questions and be recognized for my abilities, to procure information and produce work.

To make things worse, I was secretly very, very self-conscious about my decision to teach–especially because I think I always knew (but chose to ignore the fact that) I was never really that good at explaining things to people.

Then I got thrown headfirst into the world of teaching last year and it all kind of hit me like an 18-wheeler. I remember the first time I wrote lesson plans. I had a nervous breakdown on the first night and Matt had to talk me down from my hyperventilating, panicky self to my somewhat calmer, more rational, can-do self. The lessons received a grade of 86/100 and I was devastated, considering the amount of work I had put into them. This was probably the moment I concretely knew I wasn’t good at teaching and that it most certainly did not bring me joy.

But I kept going.

Why?

I don’t know. Why does anyone let themselves endure something that makes them supremely unhappy? I was too proud to give up, I was afraid to let go of a dream I’d had for 7 years, and, Post Secret time, one of the reasons I think kept at it was that I wasn’t sure whether I was unhappy because I didn’t like teaching, or because I was just starting this new, great, really serious relationship and I thought it might be consuming my life. Even though I now know dropping the major was the right thing to do, I’m still not entirely certain it had nothing to do with Matt.

Eventually it would prove to be too much. But until then, I kept going.

I wrote my unit. I went to the school most mornings (and usually left early). I tried to get to know the students. Eventually I, ugh, got up in front of high school seniors and tried to teach a unit on Shakespeare’s Othello.

I still really don’t know who it was who got up and drove to that school every day and tried to execute those lessons plans. I still feel like I watch those memories from outside of my body. I have never felt less like myself than when I was standing at the front of a classroom next to an overhead projector.

I hated it. And everyone knew except me. My professors knew. My cooperating teacher knew. My boyfriend knew. Hell, even my students knew. And when I finally figured it out for myself, it killed me. I struggled with the decision for weeks.

And then, finally, a bell rang in my head, a siren screaming: “YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THIS TO YOURSELF.” And on that day I made the choice to be happy–maybe less all-neatly-figured-out in terms of a career, but happy nonetheless. And after I made that decision, I finally felt like I could breathe again.

And now there’s this new thing I’m feeling, this thing called optimism, where I look towards the future and I see open space, I see infinite possibilities and options. I feel overwhelming and unending hope for the years to come, and I can’t wait for them to get here.

things that have changed and things that will

I’m sorry I’ve been so very MIA in these past days/weeks. I’ve been re-discovering The Happy.

You know The Happy. It’s like being in the ZONE, but for school. Er. Does that simile not resonate? Hm. What can I say?

It’s the rush you get when you say something really smart in class and you can tell that everyone and the professor will look at you a completely different way from now on.

It’s independence–that Mary-Tyler-Moore-in-the-opening-credits feeling, rushing around from building to building, To-Do list in hand, getting everything done efficiently and looking good doing it.

It’s striking up conversation with the girl who sits in front of you that you’ve never talked to before and making a new friend, or at least someone new to commiserate with.

It’s suddenly feeling like you belong where you are, and the realization that you’ve come to this place on your own.

It’s probably what I’m going to miss most about college.

It’s nice to finally feel content after feeling so much disillusionment for a long time. About 3 weeks ago, I

• couldn’t wait to graduate and couldn’t imagine getting through another year of school
• didn’t see the point in learning stuff in my classes because I was sure it was all useless in the real world
• didn’t really want to do anything except talk to Matt, write emails to Matt, or talk about Matt
• was having very real anxiety attacks about going back to classes and completing the work for them, and completing the semester in general

The same sort of thing happened to me in my junior year of high school, which is just weird and uncanny. I was sort of falling apart at the seams because I was having problems in all spectrums of a 17-year-old’s life: social, home, and scholastic. I had no idea how to begin solving all these problems at once, so I sort of just didn’t. That’s my M.O., I think. When something gets too big for me to handle, I ignore it. I’m trying to shake that habit–I’m learning that facing it head-on often feels much, much better than sweeping it under the rug.

Wow, this is a lot of self-important blather, I know. I’m not sure how I started talking about it. But then, what’s a blog if not self important blather?

***

Sadly, the most compelling detail of my upcoming life is that I’m soon starting research on a 20-page paper about Stravinsky’s influence on the Modernists. My subject is The Rites of Spring and I cannot wait to get started. I am most likely going to be sharing information as I gather it, so just go ahead and remove me from your Google Reader now.

I’m also excited because my birthday’s coming up and I know what I’m asking for: a round-trip plane ticket to the UK so I can visit my good friend Katie in Ireland–and, of course, Matt. I’m not really sure how my parents are going to react to that and whether or not they will agree to fund this trip, especially because of all of their old-fashioned ideas about etiquette and dating. For instance, this is the conversation that occurred at the dinner table when I first announced that Matt and I were dating and that I was going to his house that night to meet his family:

Mom: Why are you going to his house? I think that’s a little inappropriate. Why do you have to do that?
Me: He always drives all the way up here. ((he lives about 35 minutes away from my house))
Mom: So?
Me: It’s not fair for him to always spend all that money on gas.
Mom: Well, that’s what a boy does.
Me: What do you want me to do, call him and tell him to come here instead?
Mom: I think that if he wants you to go to his house, he should come here, pick you up, drive you to his house, and then drive you back home.
Me: ::horrified silence::

Before I left home to go back to school this summer, my mom told me to never let Matt come to my house or hang out in my room, ever. My dad agreed with her and told me to “think of my reputation.”

There was also an incident where Matt and I were going with my family to the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire and were going to leave at about 7 in the morning on a Saturday. Rather than having to wake up at like 5 AM, get ready, and drive about 45 minutes to my hometown to meet my family, Matt and I thought it would make more sense to arrive at home on Friday, stay over, and all be together at leaving-time on Saturday morning.

My parents’ response?

“Melissa. What kind of parents would his parents think that WE are if we would let a BOY who is dating our daughter sleep at our house?”

Augh.

So I don’t know how to spin this, really. I wish I didn’t have to. I wish my parents were more easygoing, that they didn’t hold onto notions from the Fifties about how people date. I wish they understood that four months is a really long time to go without seeing each other, and that I’m almost 21 years old and I’m old enough to stay over at my long-term, serious boyfriend’s place.

I wouldn’t normally be stressed out for them to find out that I support boyfriends and girlfriends sharing a bed pre-maritally. I have realized that they won’t disown me just because of something like that. But if I’m going to ask them to pay for this trip, it’s different. I feel like no argument, no matter how well-prepared and rational, is going to make them loosen their principles.

My other tactic is to totally beast the rest of the semester and then ask for the trip as a reward. Or I suppose I could pay for it myself. Er. We’ll see.

**

There should be a tutorial on how to effectively and smoothly end entries. I’m absolutely horrible at it. It’s the same with papers–my introduction are always praised, but my conclusions are consistently about 3 sentences long and totally, totally suck. Bah. I’ll work on it. Have a great weekend, everyone!

head just above water

The worst is over. I think.

If I sound completely boring and sort of emotionally flat during this entry, it’s because, well, I am. My brain is tired. I haven’t produced this much writing since freshman year during my Weed Out The Bad Ones class (which may or may not be technically known as “Approaches to Lit).

This was probably the most ridiculous week of my college career, work-wise. I had a paper due every day of the week (except Wednesday). And then. Miraculously. My 12-page research paper that was due tomorrow got pushed back to Tuesday.

Miraculous. The universe is shining down upon me.

One small piece of kind-of-exciting news before I get back to furiously researching Gertrude Stein’s experimental poetry:

I was selected to participate in a master class taught by Gerald Stern (I realize that some of you might not share the same enthusiasm for contemporary American poets as I, so I’ll say, as modestly as I can, that Gerald Stern is a really well-known and highly revered poet who I cannot even believe agreed to teach a class at my school). I am humbled. If there’s one thing I love and totally get off on, it’s being recognized for my writing, creative or otherwise. I’m just a big attention whore at heart. But I am also REALLY REALLY NERVOUS. I ask all of you to send me “don’t be nervous!” telepathic brainwaves at or around 4:30 on April 3rd.

Now, back to Tender Buttons.

happy zombie jesus day!

1) Happy Jesus Comin’ Out Of A Hole Day!

2) Oh my friends, I am so, so sorry, but this week is going to be really, really hard, academically, and I need to focus on that before I tell you guys all about my awesome house next year, and how my sister’s staying here during her Spring Break even though I don’t really need any more distractions, and don’t you think I’m being responsible by recognizing that I need to back off on the blogging so that I can focus on the 4 papers and 1 workshop piece that I have due this week? You do, right? RIGHT?!

See you guys on the other side, if I surviiiiive!

grounds for sculpture; happy welcome-back to meee?

Ilana came up to visit last night; today we went to Grounds For Sculpture, a 35-acre sculpture garden in Hamilton. I have no words. Just pictures.

***

I’ve been practicing Grade-A avoidance tactics, I’ll admit it. I feel really guilty for neglecting this blog. But I guess I’ll have to archive the Spring Break stories and divulge them at another time.

What’s going on now is that my boyfriend has passed his insomnia onto me, at least for last night. I hope to not become a Creature Of The Night as he has, so wish me luck getting to bed at a decent hour.

***

I might kick myself for saying this later, but school is making me pretty happy right now. In somewhat boring news, I’m in the midst of switching my major from English Secondary Education to English, Plain Old. I think I’ve felt like the latter my whole college career. I’m also realizing, little by little, that the professors in the English department are my fairy godfathers. They make things happen for me and look out for me without my even realizing it.

For instance, my Contemporary Lit professor emailed another professor about my potentially wanting to do an independent study on blogs next year.

And my Brit Lit/Shakespeare professor from last semester and sophomore year has been emailing people all around Records and Registrations and basically busting his ass in his free time trying to find out if I can possibly waive my awful, nearly-failing grades from my education classes.

Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve all that. (But most times I just feel lucky.)

***

My diet died a little bit. I’m trying to revive it, currently.

***

Next time: photographs of my future abode!

Goodnight everybody!

well then.

I think the universe was telling me not to write a blog entry. I just had one about three-quarters of the way done, and then it somehow just… went away. Just like that. Gone.

Boo.

avoiding an overwhelming re-cap entry

It’s time for complete randomness!

-Tomorrow is my little sister’s Sweet 16. Is it sad that I’m completely dreading it because I agreed to accompany her on the piano during her “I’m the debutante!” song number? Somehow I think I’ve failed to remember that immediately surrounding the 2 1/2 minutes that I have to perform will be a massive, hopefully hugely successful party. Hm. Pessimism?

-Today my sister and I are getting mani/pedis. I hate it when people touch my feet but I am usually willing to go through pedicures because I quite like the result. Not without a lot of squirming and frustration, though.

-My boyfriend pisses me off when he promises to call me on Skype when he gets back to his room and then doesn’t. It doesn’t happen often, which, I think, makes the isolated incidents more upsetting. I realize I probably shouldn’t be sad–I can’t get mad at him for having a social life and getting back at 7 AM and not necessarily having the energy to get on the phone. But I still get all huffy and betrayed when he’s a no-show. How do I stop?!

-Maury is my official favorite show of Spring Break. These are my top three types of episodes, in descending order of preferredness- 3. Outrageous Fidelity Lies As Determined By A Dubious Polygraph Test; 2. 14-year-olds Who Have Sex 40 Times A Week So They Can Have A Baby They Are Completely Unprepared to Care for; 1. Ghetto Paternity Tests And The Hilarious Subsequent Juxtaposition Of The Female’s Meltdown And The Male’s Breakdancing To The Bassline Of “Baby Got Back.”

-I hope this semi-cold, semi-warm weather we’re having means that spring is on the way. It would be so, so nice if the temperature didn’t stay in the low teens until April. So nice.

-I’m really impatient for Maymester and the summer.

-I should probably take a shower and start my day.

-Fare thee well!

in which i return with great fanfare and a confetti parade

Just a quick entry to say that I’m back from my wonderful couple-days-off in New York City, and I don’t have ANY pictures.

(commence record scratch; liquid-spitting-out montage)

I know, I feel like a failure. I’m normally a FIEND for taking pictures. I’m a MANIAC, MAAAANIAC, with a point-and-shoot. Generally. But I don’t know, this time around I was too caught up in the movement and Things To See and the subway-taking and shopping and stuff that I didn’t feel compelled to collect a snapshot of every little thing I did. And it was nice to just enjoy each moment without having a camera permanently strapped to my fist.

So no pictures, but much news in the next entry! A couple thank yous to:

1) Jenn and Matt for babysitting this blog, I owe you guys! Your Certificate of Awesomeness and Virtual Cookie are on their way (disclaimer: said certificate and baked good may be figments of the author’s imagination)

2) My Wise and Totally Fun cousin Abbey, who let me crash on her couch and lent me a spare key to her apartment and gave up half her work day to entertain little old me. Also for totally being my therapist and suggesting the New York trip in the first place. Thanks for EVERYTHING ::cheesy grin::

3) My Dearest Ilana, one of my bestbestbest friends, who ushered me around Brooklyn and very nicely brought me to a cupcake bakery after I inquired about one (aka demanded, “I REALLY WANT A CUPCAKE!”)

Y’all rock. Seriously.

/living out my fantasy of delivering an acceptance speech at an awards show

Guest bloggings for Poetry Monday…

Hello, everybody. I’m Matt, HBoO/Melissa’s boyfriend/male confidant and I’ll be your guest blogger for this oh so glorious Poetry Monday. On my blog (shamelessly plugged above), I usually talk about my wacky misadventures studying abroad in England illustrated with ridiculously pretentious photographs. I won’t be talking about those here, however, as the point of this entry is to share with you the wonders of my poetic taste (or extreme lack thereof). Prior to writing this entry, Meloogal made this statement, “You’re not going to post Shel Silverstein again, are you?!”

My answer..?

Yes, yes I am…

Inspired by the trash situation in my flat…
Female readers may commence the “ewwwwww! You’re gross!!”ings because, without further ado, I present you with Shel Sivlerstein’s Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would Not Take the Garbage Out…

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out!
She’d scour the pots and scrape the pans,
Candy the yams and spice the hams,
And though her daddy would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.
And so it piled up to the ceilings:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown bananas, rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the window and blocked the door
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans and tangerines,
Crusts of black burned buttered toast,
Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . .
The garbage rolled on down the hall,
It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . .
Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Globs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from green baloney,
Rubbery blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk and crusts of pie,
Moldy melons, dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold french fried and rancid meat,
Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.
At last the garbage reached so high
That it finally touched the sky.
And all the neighbors moved away,
And none of her friends would come to play.
And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said,
“OK, I’ll take the garbage out!”
But then, of course, it was too late. . .
The garbage reached across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate.
And there, in the garbage she did hate,
Poor Sarah met an awful fate,
That I cannot now relate
Because the hour is much too late.
But children, remember Sarah Stout
And always take the garbage out!

This poem was written in 1974, a simple time when it was perfectly acceptable in children’s poems to have characters choking and dying in a humongous cesspool of filth because they refused to do simple household chores. You see Timmy, don’t you dare forget to take the garbage out, or you too will be subject to death by drowning in curdled milk…

That’s all for today. Thank you my honey bunches of oats (HBoO) for letting me post on your bloggle, it was an honor..:-)

-Matt