Contemplating Cole Hall

There's a lot of things in life that don't make sense to me, like why "domestic partnerships" are more threatening to the Religious Right than "gay marriage", or the way guy's brains work. As I sit here on the morning of Friday, Februray 15, 2008, I'm attempting to make sense of the series of emotions that have been tumbling around whatever area of my body where emotions reside. I'm thinking the stomach.

For at least half of my high school career I was semi-obsessed with school shootings, in the sense that they horrified me, and I saw the stirrings of how it could happen at my own school and took active measures with my more creative friends to raise awareness. There's something exteremely, intensely personal about a school shooting. Schools are places where people go to be safe, to make their lives better, and bringing in fear and hate and anger and sadness in such an extreme, violent way makes me feel so...violated.

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, and I'm hoping that what happened at NIU won't earn some horrifically cheesy title, like "The Valentine's Day Massacre", partly because that's already taken. I also hope that the school's name doesn't become synonymous with this tragedy, like Virgina Tech.

It's strange to me for something of this magnitude to be so near to me, and yet I still remain so far removed. On the one hand, I know people who attend NIU from high school and the speech circuit, I know people who teach there, work there, and I felt justifiably worried about them. But on the other hand, these people that I know are acquaintences. I don't have any of their phone numbers stored in my cell, I had to call second-parties to check up to make sure that my acquaintences were okay. Overall, I'm struggling between being overwhelmed with the absolte terror of it all-- imagining what it must be like to be a student there, and feeling like I should just go on with life as usual.

The latter is probably the best and most reasonable option, and the one I will probably employ. It's what you do after any major tragedy that doesn't personally affect you, right? But this one was so much closer, just personal enough that I can't help but to feel like I'm a part of it, in just a little way. I just can't help but to think back to a couple weekends ago when I was in Cole Hall, celebrating the success of my teammates and speech friends, laughing, joking, being alive; now juxtaposing that image of the lecture hall with terrified, wounded, dead peers. It's something that keeps threatening to overwhelm my usual placid emotional balance.

If you're the praying type, pray for NIU, pray for parents, students, friends, family. Pray for other schools, because this sort of thing seems to be catching.

Huskies,
Cathi

Farewell, Heath Ledger

Every new beginning is some other beginning's end

A number of years ago some older actor died and I remember my mom being shocked and saddened for a bit. I thought she was being a bit silly, as were all the people on TV who had gathered at the actor's home to cry, lay flowers, and mourn. These weren't friends, family, or community members. They had seen the actor on TV and in movies, that was it.

Giving my mom the benefit of the doubt, I tried to imagine how I'd feel if Lance Bass died. I decided I might be sad about it, but crying about it seemed a little much.

Heath Ledger died today, and I have to admit, I'm still in a little bit of shock. He was somewhat near and dear to my heart, seeing as Linda and I once went on a double date with him and Jake Gyllenhaal. I honestly can't describe how I'm feeling about it, because my life isn't really affected by the discontinuation of his. Yet I'm feeling stunned, saddened, even a little teary-eyed.

This vague shadow of grief seems ludicrous in the face of the fact that 4 days ago a friend of the family succumbed to cancer and while I was sad, especially for my mother's best friend whose brother is the deceased, I did not get weepy. I listened, I processed, and I moved on.

I will admit, however, that my first thought (after realizing my customer wasn't pulling her friend's leg) was "I hope they'd finished all the filming for Dark Knight."

In other news of the day, I declared my first jihad against whomever is responsible for plowing NCC's parking lots. After being forced to park on north end at 2am due to my south end parking lot being closed, I had to spend half an hour this morning kicking/hand-shovelling a 3-foot pile of snow out from behind my car. I was rather put out.

10 Things I Hate Love About You,
Catherine

Ah, l'amor

This love isn't good unless it's me and you

Disclaimer to The Boy, should he read this: You're going to try to read between the lines, or think I'm hinting at something. I'm not. Don't freak out, love. Kthx.

I mentioned in my Late '08 entry (one click away ala the "previous" button!) that I'm mere weeks away from Real Adulthood. I'm soiling myself in fear on a daily basis and have metaphorically thrown up in my shoes so many times a metaphorical DSW could buy out Microsoft. Metaphorically.

On one hand, The Great Unknown is terrifying in of itself. I don't know where I'm going, what I'm doing, or how I'm going to get there once I figure it out. On the other hand, The Great Unknown is...freeing. I'm no long on the great conveyor belt of life. I've reached the end and I can do anything I want. I can move to Berlin and teach English, or move to Aurora and get a meth habit to occupy my time. Anything my heart desires.

The problem with these infinite possibilities is that as they come rushing in at me, they all crash abruptly against the great Relationship wall and then mingle about in confusion and panic. I've realized that The Boy and I are important enough to each other that whatever it is I do with my life will also affect his.

And that's a responsibility laid upon my shoulders that I'm not entirely equipped to deal with.

I'm a product of late 20th century feminism, whether I like it or not. While I might feel that factoring The Boy into my decisions is a good and right thing to do, the part of my brain that absorbs American Culture revs up and starts shrieking at me. "Factor him in?! Are you nuts? You're letting a man interfere with your future?! Don't let the patriarchy tie you down! You can be anything you want to be and he will only hold you back!"

And thus, I can see why so many people get married right out of the college gate. Factoring "some guy" into your big, beautiful future is limiting, silly, stupid. But factoring in your husband has an entirely different societal connotation. Marriage is a bond more important than many things. Marriage is about compromise. That's what we hear. So, when trying to figure out what to do, getting married in order to narrow the Big Scary Playing Field seems like a great idea! Even if you're not ready quite yet, you will be eventually, right?

Obviously, this sort of nonsense is easily sorted out by having rational conversations, but when one is standing on such a large precipice, irrationality has a way of creeping in and presenting scenarios in ways that don't seem so ludicrous.

I'm mostly just counting on my historical good fortune to kick in when I need it most. Things almost always work out for me, I don't see why that should end now.

Don't panic,
C!Mart

Ringing in '08....late

I love you so much, but do me a favor, baby, don't reply. Cause I can dish it out, but I can't take it

Here's fun statistic for you. In 2005 I wrote 140 diaryland entries. That's an average of almost 12 entries a month, or in different language, I wrote an entry about every 2 or 3 days. For comparison, in 2006 I only wrote 56 entries, or about an entry every week. This past year (2007, geniuses)? Two or three entries every month, 30 all together.

I'd say I'd make a New Year's Resolution to write more, but seeing at it's already January 12th and I'm just getting around to writing my first entry of the year, it's not looking so good.

Since it's Entry #1, there's some business to be attended to.

2007 "Wish-List" Recap

-Dean's List (I really need to start achieving again)
I rocked out my Spring Term with my highest per-term GPA I've ever achieved. Incidentally, it was the exact same GPA Linda got for her 2nd semester, which was her worst college GPA to date.
-Another internship (WGN?)
I failed a little at this one (WGN earns the honors of being the first person/thing/entity to ever reject me), but I did get a board-op job at the Next Media radio stations, so I at least did something productive.
-Keep the Boyfriend (lack of heartache always a plus)
Fortunately a success. I'm pretty sure he's a keeper, plus he's not allowed to dump me because I'm Best Girlfriend Ever.
-Kick ass at Nationals (both of them?)
Not necessarily a success, but I did, in fact, attend both Nationals, which was pretty huge in of itself. I've also not gone home empty handed from a tournament since Nationals '06.
-Good driver's licence picture (ha!)
Considering my track record with cameras, it might come as a shock to you that I have a good driver's licence picture. I was surprised too.

What is supposed to follow here is my 2008 Wish-List, but I'm not entirely sure I feel I'm capable of doing it. 2008 is going to be a terrifying year for me. I'm graduating from college in 8 weeks, which means that Real Life is nigh. I hear the next steps are 1) Get a Job and 2) Get an Apartment, but for some reason it never seems that simple. When the whole world is my playground, there are endless possibilities to choose from, and if there's only a handful of right choices, the margin for error is crippling.

Give me a nice, narrow playing field, then I'll do the right thing.

So, in the spirit of the New Year, here's a tentative, terrified wish-list.

Things I Hope Come To Pass in '08

-Find a job that utilizes one of my degrees in some capacity
-Avoid the Gen Y syndrome (ie: not live with my parents for more than 6 months)
-Keep the Boy
-Hawaii?
-Vote for the "right" candidate so that I can balance out the karma from my last Presidential ballot.

I will, Interested Party, try to blog more. I miss writing.

Ald Lang Syne,
Catherine Lizzie

I am made of win

If we sweat all these debts then we're sure to drown

For anyone who doesn't know, I've been nominated for Best Girlfriend Ever. Sweet Christmas presents + infinite patience = I am made of win.

It's become apparent to me in the last 22 years that my face is, as They say, an open book. Taking my lack of emotional depth into consideration, I'd really hate to see the faces I'd pull if I was capable of feeling the full range of things. My freshmen year in college I was playing the part of fashion consultant for my roommate during a trip to Old Navy. This involved me sitting on a bench in the dressing room and giving her an appreciative nod or an unsure grimace when she came out in a new outfit. During this time, a little boy kept running out to show his mom the clothes she was making him try on, and as they were leaving the dressing area, the mom came up to me and thanked me, "Your facial expressions as you watched him come out every time really helped me make decisions!"

Yes, I'm that transparant.

Yesterday I spent some time with The Boy, and he mistook my quiet pensiveness for "grumpiness". To the contrary, I was feeling quite plesant yesterday, but was simply preoccupied with other thoughts. It seems that this preoccupation manifested itself in distant gazes, pursed lips, and a decline in my usual chattiness, which are often signs of grumpiness in your average person. However, if I was, indeed, grumpy, it would have been much more apparent. There would have been frequent sighing, plentiful eye-rolling, and the occasional derisive snort, all compiled with short, snippy responses.

My emotions, when I have them, are quite simple. Ironically, this often confuses those who have to deal with me and complicates matters.

I do, however, have a tendency to leave things unsaid. I've waxed eloquent in the past about my conversational retardation, and this disability of mine causes whatever "meaningful conversations" I manage to have to be painfully brief, to the point, and often leaves a lot of gaping "detail" holes. At the time, I simply want the conversation to be over, because I'm embarrassed to have to be having it in the first place, so the main points get covered, a basic conclusion is reached, and we're done. Later, however, I worry that I didn't say enough, that the little nuances of my simple emotions weren't conveyed properly, that the situation wasn't presented seriously enough, and I worry about it for a whole lot longer than I really should, and end up having a second painfully brief converstion that usually goes something like this:

"So... about that other conversation..."
"Yeah?"
"I just wanted to touch bases and, uh, make sure that we both understand what I meant."
"I got it."
"You do?"
"Yeah, I know."
"Oh...okay then."

I probably just need to put more faith in my conversational counterparts. It'd save me a lot of grief.

Underground,
Cathi

Oh look, it's that time of the month

If home is where the heart is then my home is where you are

I... suck at blogging.

It's not intentional, I swear. In the last month there have been dozens of interesting happenstances and amusing annoyances worthy of elaboration and articulation. I've even opened up the "new entry" page a few times and typed a few words, only to decide that whatever it is I had penned wasn't good enough. I think I'm mostly just out of practice.

My general life philosophy was demonstrated by a couple customers today. A dude was sitting at the bar top eating appetizers, and a woman wander over to a seat near him to sit and smoke away from the table where her friends were eating their dinners. She smoked about half a cigarette before putting it out and walking back. The appetizer man made some appalling sniffing noises, then grabbed the ashtray the woman had used and marched over to her table to complain that the cigarette was still smoking and it was bothering him. The situation ended on a bit of a "wtf?" note, but, as the woman muttered to her friends, "If you're sitting in the smoking section you have no right to complain about smoke."

*nod*

In addition to TAOG:D2K7, I have also been dealing with LOC:D2K7 (elongated as Living On Campus: Debacle 2007). I may or may not be living in a new room next term, depending on whether I may or may not have ruined the campus residency of my roommate. What I initially brushed off as youthful ignorance ("she's only 19, she'll learn") ultimately presented itself as depraved indifference, and I finally said "no more!". Once I know what's going on I think I'll create an entry dedicated entirely to LOC:D2K7. Until then, I can at least sleep at night knowing that, no matter what, I don't have to sleep in the same room as Creepy Cory ever again.

Aside to Creepy Middle Aged Man: I hope, that when I told you I was 22, that you felt as skeeved out as I did when you were hitting on me, especially since you asked after you told me your youngest daughter is 23.

Switching gears:

I know two people who have gotten engaged in the last two days and of three weddings happening in the next 6 months or so. 98% of the time, when talking to inquisitive bar patrons, the follow-up question to "do you have a boyfriend?" is "are you gonna marry him?"*. Needless to say, there's been a lot of talk about marriage going around. So much, in fact, that I had a nightmare about The Boy proposing to me during karaoke at Friday's (he sang "Nights In White Satin" by Moody Blues. It was a nightmare).

Don't misunderstand me. I'm all about weddings. Pretty dresses, free booze, an excuse to do the electric slide, and general lovey-dovey-ness all fall under "good ways to spend a day". I'm even all about having a wedding of my own some day. I'm just scared to death of getting divorced, which means any consideration ofactually getting married gives me the jibblies and induces musical night terrors.

I guess as a follow-up, TAOG:D2K7 turned out rather nicely. The Boy and I "had Christmas" early, and he accepted my insane gift with poise (and not too much sighing) and I was touched to the quick by the card he made me (and splashed around in puddles tonight in the gift he got me).

Being 22 feels a bit strange, like a new pair of jeans yet to be broken in.

Jibblies,
Cathers





*(for the curious: my standard response is "Well, I don't really plan on breaking up with him...")

The Art Of Giving: Debacle 2007

It's me and my +1 in the afterlife

Oh. Hello, Interested Party. Typically, all of my blogs get updated in the procrastinating frenzy of Finals Week Madness, except this term I had procrastinated so much in the previous weeks that I didn't actually have time to procrastinate when I needed it most.

In order to make it up to you, today's blogisode is an extravaganza of epic proportions. Today, I present to you:

The Art of Giving: Debacle 2007

The Boy and I are more alike than we are different, but the differences just seem to be more obvious. For example: I tend to regard most food as mere platforms to make my condiment consumption less gross, whereas he thinks that salad dressing "ruins the point" of salad.

One way in which we are alike is our mutual need to have all of our metaphrical ducks arranged in their little rows before taking action. This takes on a whole new, frightening level when gift-giving is involved.

A lightning bolt of inspiration hit me a few months ago when contemplating a Christmas gift for The Boy, but I realized it would take a good amount of duck aligning. Step One was making sure that The Boy wouldn't throw up in the agony of emasculation when his Girl gave him a pricey gift. A phone call was in order.

. "How would you feel if I got you something really nice for Christmas?" I asked him over a phone call one night.
. "How nice are we talking?" he asks.
. "Remember how Miranda got Nick a guitar for Christmas last year...?"
. There was a long pause. I figured he was going to tell me there was no way in hell he'd accept a gift on par with a guitar. Instead, his response was, "Well, I guess you could get me a guitar. I've been wanting to learn how to play and this would force me to practice..."

Boys are dumb. This is a fact that I, a girl, have been forced to accept over the last 21 years, but I had always sort of assumed that The Boy was above such silliness. Alas.

. "I'm not actually getting you a guitar!" I quickly cut him off before he could get too comfortable with the idea of a guitar, "It was an analogy. Like a guitar. Not an actual guitar."
. "But I don't play any other instruments..."

The conversation only went downhill from there. I'll spare you the painful details, Interested Party, but rest assured that it took all of my skill and cunning to get The Boy to understand my meaning while maintaining an air of secrecy.

I belong to a select group of people who suffer the misfortune of having their birthday fall regrettably close to Christmas. In the past this has meant getting "Birthday/Christmas" presents from my lame friends and relatives, or getting Christmas-themed gifts for the birthday, such as a box of candy canes or a tree ornament. Recently it has meant having to think twice as hard to come up with a list of things I want for family and friends who won't take "A hug?" for an answer.

And so, The Boy, duck-row-a-phile that he is, wants to make sure that the gifts he thinks he needs to get me are perfect. After drilling me for something I wanted beyond "Cake, cookies, pudding! Preferrably all in one!", much discussion has taken place as to what size, shape, color, texture, smell, aura, feng shui appeal, etc... my gift ideas were to have.

I drew the line in the sand of the Open Communication Beach when the phrase "What do you... well, this will ruin the surprise, but..." left his mouth. "Stop!" I cried, "Don't say it!". He protested, of course, but I stood firm and refused to hear anything more about the subject.

This entire process, of both giving and receiving, has been exhausting. Next year, we're taking a pledge of Gift Abstinence. I've decided.

There is more to TAoG:D2K7, but my wee fingers are as exhausted as my emotional resources.

Martin Out!
Cdizzle