A Concise Summary of my Hatred Towards the World in General

       With only eight days until Christmas everyone is in the Holiday Spirit and I am absolutely sick of it.  Now don't mistake me as some Scrooge, I love Christmas and it's capitalistic ploys as much as the next person, it's that a conglomerate of soulless people who shall remain nameless have decided to be the Scrooges of the season and assign project after project, paper after paper, and inane test after inane test.  Now normally I would be frustrated and would feel yet another piece of my spirit become emotionally detached, but this week seemed to be the semester's-worth of paper's that broke the passive-aggressive girl's back.  So I sat quietly in my seat all day, silently praying for God to smite every damn person in the school because that was how freaking done I was at that particular point, and wondered what the administration would do if I just went home at the end of the day and never came back.  While I was doing all this pondering I was sending very angry, all-caps texts to my mother, in which I demanded that she come and tell the principal that "she has got to get her staff  the hell under control" along with: "pick me up right now," "homeschool me," and, "help me stage a coup."

        I was not surprised that she was waiting in the formal sitting room for the inevitable rant that comes with the last week of school before Christmas Break.  Now this would not have to occur if teachers didn't have a giant bug up their nose and seem to think that they're homework is the only thing you have to do that week.  When absolutely every teacher believes that students just end up surrounded in a sea of homework, crying into their pillow and contemplating whether or not a high school diploma is even worth it.  After all, that thing is really just a piece of fancy paper with your name on it.  I could make one of those at the printer store and then go to Panera afterwards.  But back on subject, I have to take six tests in two days, and have a research paper due, that my teacher gave us two weeks to work on.  Jesus Christ no wonder the American school systems can't keep kids in them until graduation!  You're working kids like dogs every damn second of every damn day!  Poor bastards don't even get a chance to sleep.  And most of us high school kids also have jobs, and places we volunteer, and school clubs because God forbid you don't join a club!

In conclusion: High School Teachers, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, Don't forget to tell Santa what an insensitive jerk you are.

The Five Stages of Grief: As Told by Someone Whose Laptop Just Broke

       Today was supposed to be wonderful.  It is a snowday! Nothing bad should be allowed to happen on snowdays! And yet, my laptop Frederick just took a dive off of my bed down to the cold, cruel floor.  Alas, he is broken and so is my heart.  Anyways, I have found myself experiencing the five stages of grief, and belief this could be a valuable guide to others who have just lost a treasured electronic companion.

1. Denial.  The first feeling is always that this horrible occurrence could not have happened to you.  You are not one of them, you take care of your precious, give it cute names and an appreciative pet once in a while.  But no, the disastrous disaster that you have witnessed did just happened, and you will be left trying to salvage your baby off the sidewalk, or the floor of a McDonalds, all while loudly telling onlookers "it's fine, it's fine, it's not broken, it has never broken in the past."  When you see the damage though you will let out a shriek, immediately moving into the second stage.

2. Anger. "Betrayal! Betrayal you stupid, useless hunk of metal!"  I yelled at my computer when I realized the damage done by it's Reichenbach fall could not be fixed by either pushing the two pieces back together or duct taping them together in a worst case scenario.  Anger is a very reasonable feeling when an electronic that you have grown to love suddenly dies on you.  However you must remember that it didn't want this any more than you did.  Also it is probably your fault.

3. Depression.  This is by far the longest stage for most people experience the death of an electronic.  I know that I will be mourning Frederick for quite some time, as he and I have been friends through thick and thin for several years now, and I don't know who I will spend my late nights on Tumblr with.  You will feel sad, tears are normal, but remember that every day people crack their iPhones, break their laptops, and smash their iPads.  You are surrounded by people grieving for the loss of their tech babies, and we will get through this together.

4.  Bargaining. After you have gotten over the majority of your sadness, you will always be sad for your lost love, you move into bargaining.  Being willing to give anything for your dead electronic to come back from the Apple Store in the sky.  Or maybe the Best Buy.  I'm not sure where you shop.  To be honest I don't think this actually happens in an electronic death, this stage my be reserved for real death only.

5.  Acceptance.  This usually happens when your new electronic arrives or when the man from Geek Squad says he can fix your laptop and that it will be ready by tomorrow morning.  However if they say they will have to send it away to their repair factory and it will be two to three weeks, read steps 1-4 again until your fixed tech baby arrives in a Fedex box at your front door ready to be cuddled and told how brave he was.

Christmas at the Ronald McDonald House

       I did not think it would be possible for me to love the Ronald McDonald House than I did before.  Then I arrived and saw it all dolled up and ready to celebrate the holiday seasons.  The House is a large facility that serves as a home for the families of children who are in the local Children's Hospital, one of the top-ranked in the country.  These families come from all over, from our neighboring states to the far corners of the world.  Some don't speak English, (I translate for a family from Honduras who only speaks Spanish) and most know absolutely no one in this new city.  They also have a child who is sick, and many have other children too.  In the mix of all this comes Christmas.  With everything that is happening in these family lives it seems that the Christmas mood would be hard to find in the Ronald McDonald House.

       That was until I walked in on Thanksgiving night for my shift and was greeted with an absolutely beautiful scene.  The outside had been decorated with lights but they had been up for several weeks, so I wasn't expecting any change.  I was in for a large surprise.  Christmas lights, bows, garlands, and wreaths adorned every wall, banister, and balcony in the main lobby.  The trees had the grandeur of nothing I had ever seen before, although I have deemed them the Rockefeller Christmas trees of the House.

      As I worked in the house that evening I discovered that the lobby was not the only place that had been decorated to look like the North Pole.  Every time I turned a corner I was greeted with a surprise.  A family room with a tree and a snow village lit up around the balcony, lights strung in the breezeway, the West Wing kitchen covered with bows and bells.  Perhaps the best surprise was the large Christmas village, complete with working train that runs three times a day.  It took two days to set up and after seeing it I think I can definitely step up the small village in the bay room window of my family's breakfast room.

     Talking to people around the house everyone seems to be just a little bit happier, their eyes a little bit brighter, kids who are normally seen with a frown on their face light up when they see the trees and decorations.  As a person who loves Christmas it shows me just how much the Christmas cheer really can get everyone in the spirit of the holidays.  And while the families at the House may still have sick children, mounting medical bills, family far away, and another life they wish they could be living, the workers of the Ronald McDonald House have managed to make their season a little brighter.  So this year I will smile a little bigger, ask a few more people how I can help them out, and generally just sprinkle a bit more Holiday cheer at the House.

White Girl Complex: A Public Service Announcement

            Yesterday, after parking my old SUV in the lot of the most popular place in any upper-class community, Starbucks, turning off my “Redneck Music” (as M calls it,) and going in to get my pre-work coffee, I made a horrifying realization.  I was surrounded by teenage females suffering from White Girl Complex.

            What?  You’ve never heard of White Girl Complex?  That is simply because it is often times disregarded as “in style” or “totally okay because I woke up late and I might go to the gym later”.  Neither of these statements is true.  It has been proved as of late that White Girl Complex is a legitimate disorder that is simply woefully underdiagnosed and recognized.  But don’t lose hope!  Together, we can determine the symptoms, evaluate our friends and loved ones, work towards and temporary treatment, and then the final and ultimate goal: a cure for White Girl Complex.

            The most important step in this process, and any other, is to find the symptoms and get them recorded.  This is done for two reasons.  One being that it is very important for everyone to be able to spot an afflicted teen, so as to stay away.  The other being that when people suspected of having White Girl Complex are brought to the expert doctors being trained around the world to deal with this devastating disease they can be properly diagnosed and put into isolation.  For the safety of our community, we are publishing a list of symptoms.  If you see a loved one exhibiting any of these signs please report them to your local health service providers for help containing their illness.

Symptoms:

·         Only wearing yoga pants (except when going to yoga)
·         Always having UGGs on no matter how hot it is and how ridiculous they look with the outfit they’re wearing
·         Exclusively owning North Face jackets
·         Enjoy putting on scarves as if these somehow “class up” the I-gave-up-a-long-time-ago-look
·         Having their iPhone glued to their hand at all times
·         Constantly holding a Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte
·         Can be seen making ridiculous faces for Snapchat while in public places
·         Fake tan at any time of the year that goes from “lightly sun-kissed” to “went swimming   nacho cheese” depending on how much the tanned admires Snooki

Everyone, thank you for all of your help in stopping this sickness that is ravaging every suburbia across America.  Armed with knowledge and a plan you can help rid the world of this pestilence, and we are counting on you to help us in this fight against White Girl Complex. 

If You Give a Girl a Babysitting Job

. . . modeled from "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" by Lauren Numeroff.

If you give a girl a babysitting job she is going to be excited.

If the girl is excited she is going to assume the job will go well.

If she arrives assuming the job will go well the children will sense that she is a newbie to this business.

If the kids sense that she is a newbie to this business they will misbehave.

If the kids misbehave, the parents will call to say "we're having so much fun, we'll just be a few hours late".

If the parents are a few hours late, the girl will have to put the kids to bed.

If the girl tries to put the kids to bed, she will end up realizing that the Poky Little Puppy should die.

If she realizes the Poky Little Puppy should die she will start singing lullabies.

If she starts singing the songs chosen will be questionable as to their appropriateness for children

If the girl sings questionable songs long enough the children will eventually fall asleep

If the children ever fall asleep the girl will sneak out of their room like a cat before collapsing onto their couch and promising herself she will never accept a babysitting job again.

If the girl promises herself she will never accept a babysitting job again the family will arrive home and say "so we have some more dates we need to know if you're interested in".

Seven Steps to Becoming a Pun Master

Hello, I realize that not many of you have considered what joy you could bring to your life and what annoyance and misery you could bring to other peoples' by simply telling puns.  With this thought in mind of simultaneously improving your day and making someone else want to punch you, I present:

Seven Steps to Becoming a Pun Master

Step One.  Fully commit yourself to the art of telling puns.  You have to realize that this isn't a "when I'm in the mood" or "okay this one is actually kind of funny" sort of thing.  Being a pun master means telling every pun that pops into your brain.

Step Two.  Accept that all of your puns are going to be awful.  This is an unavoidable truth.  A pun is a play on words, this in and of itself is simply the Cinderella of jokes had she never have fit her foot into that glass slipper.  Puns are essentially Fruit Rings, the lesser-known, illegitimate brother or Fruit Loops. 

Step Three.  Realize that absolutely no one one will laugh at your pun.  If you do get a laugh it is a pity laugh, and this is even worse.  Glare at this person for making the situation even more awkward than it already was.

Step Four.  Laugh anyways.  Because when no one else is someone has to be, or else it's a failure and you're just the crazy pun person.  Sometimes people will join in; however, as stated above: if this seems like pity laughter.  Glare.

Step Five.  Tell puns everywhere.  I'm serious.  Don't limit yourself to your friends who already think you're crazy and have interventions about your pun-problem, expand your humor to the world.  On the subway in the morning when you happen to see a woman in a cat sweater?  Announce to the car "are you kitten me right meow?"

Step Six: Practice.  The art of telling puns is being able to come up with one in every situation.  The easiest way to practice coming up with puns is by thinking of them during movies or television shows.  I tend to do this at the most climatic parts.  This is also why everyone I have ever watched a movie with hates me.  While it may seem difficult at first you will soon get the hang of it.  For example, while watching the Great Gatsby I came up with the following puns related to Gatsby and Myrtles's deaths:

• Myrtle's death hit them all hard
• But it caused George to just completely crash
• And Tom was a wreck
• Gatsby's death didn't make a splash with his party goers
• But it sent Nick into the deep end

Step Seven.  Take your pun inventing to the real world.  Next time someone mentions koalas bring up how unfair it is that they aren't a bear, considering they have all the "koalifications".  When passing a Butcher's shop be sure to say that not dropping in would be a "missed steak".

Have you followed these steps?  Good.  You too, my friend, are going to be a Pun Master.

NaNoWriMo

  November has come again, for most this means the promise of Thanksgiving Dinner, seeing relatives, having them question your relationship status,  and the promise of Christmas just around the corner.  For me it means National Novel Writing Month, NaNoWriMo.  Every November three hundred thousand writers join together and each writes fifty thousand words of their novel.   I am one of them.  I first began writing with NaNoWriMo last November, after letting the idea for my book develop for nearly two years, with the knowledge that there would be no more pushing off putting words to paper any longer.

Writing a book for NaNoWriMo is like riding a roller coaster, except its more downhill than up and the side effects are loss of sleep, bags under eyes, excessive coffee consumption, and constant exhaustion that lasts the entire month of November.

It starts with excitement, this is going to be your year!  The ideas will come to you and the words will flow and you will ultimately end up with a finished manuscript that is beautiful and perfect and ready to be sent out to the publishers, who will fawn and fight over it and throw money at you while groveling at your feet while they beg you to give them your creative genius.  I assume . . . that's how I pictured it at least.  And it feels as if everything will go this way for the first few days, because you've thought about how you want this written, and you know what you're doing.  And this it!

And then you get into your second week.  And the words don't come, and you just stare at a blank page in your word document.  The minutes stretch out in front of you, and you're bored, and you begin to browse the internet "for inspiration."  Suddenly it's two hours later and you haven't typed a word but you have seen everything new on Tumblr so that counts for something and you'll just make up the two thousand words you were supposed to write tonight tomorrow night.  Except you don't.

November fifteenth comes, and you are halfway through the month, and you only have eight thousand words when you should have twenty five.  Now you're panicky and there isn't any time so you're willing to write down anything, your standards have dropped on what you would normally write and the words are being spewed onto the paper in any order that they fit together.

Last year, when I finished my NaNoWriMo novel at two in the morning on November twenty eighth, I was entirely exhausted, running on coffee and candy, and not aware of what I was typing into my manuscript.  However, when I finished writing I felt like the most accomplished person ever.  So for all of the blood, sweat, tears, and caffeine, that go into writing a NaNoWriMo novel, in the end after the grueling process that will try to ruin your life and crush your soul, you will feel like a superstar.

http://nanowrimo.org/
http://nanowrimo.org/participants/ellieiswrite

The Most Wonderful Place on Earth

            My family was lucky to live in a city with one of the top children’s hospitals in it when my little sister was born premature and so ill.  Not everyone has this luxury; many find out that their child is in desperate need of medical care that can only be provided in a state – or country – that seems impossibly far away when a son or daughter is sick.  Looking at the guest registry board hanging in the foyer of the Ronald McDonald House it is easy to see the mix of culture housed under one roof.  There are families from every corner of the earth it seems, all here together because they would do anything for their children.  The Ronald McDonald House is a home where families from out of state (or country) can stay while their child is in the hospital, and unlike a hotel, they simply pay what they can.  The average stay at the House is seventeen days, but some families will reside there for more than a year.  I am a volunteer there, and I love the roles I take on once a week, because I get to contribute to what I believe is the most wonderful place on earth.                    

            The majority of the time I spend at the Ronald McDonald House is spent cleaning.  I work on a team with two other girls, and we move quickly between playrooms, family rooms, kitchens, eating spaces, and other communal areas, armed with cans of Lysol and large tubs of Clorox wipes.  With immune-suppressed children and their families living in the House, cleanliness is a top priority.  Our small team of three has become a trio working in perfect harmony when it comes to cleaning a room.  We are efficient, and we each have our roles.  In the playroom the youngest girl sprays a heavy coat of Lysol over the ever-grimy toys before moving onto the door knobs and TV remotes, I Clorox wipe the leather La Z Boy furniture while the older girl dusts every surface and cleans the fingerprints from the windows.  In the kitchen we resort to our trusted Clorox wipes, one person diligently scrubbing tables, while another does chairs, as the last vigorously cleans the counters.  While it sounds like a rather boring job, when you know that you are doing it for the good of others, it gives you a great feeling inside.

             One of the most enjoyable parts of my time as a volunteer is when I get to socialize with the families.  This is the rest of my evening, when it fits in around the schedule of things that need to get done (and with a few hundred people living in the house the list of things to be done is never short.)  It often starts simply by saying “hello” and offering a helping hand to every guest you see.  This can lead to a number of things, from running errands for them, to loading luggage carts, or most frequently, saying you have no idea, and relaying their request to a volunteer who knows more than you.  Other times the other girls and I will wander into the playroom adjoining the main kitchen, where many parents leave their children while they make dinner.  I have been a babysitter for almost six years and I automatically assume that role, monitoring where the kids are and making sure no one escapes down the hall away from the kitchen and dining room.  Entertaining kids just comes with the deal, and I can quickly get a group of children of all different ages, speaking multiple languages, seated in a circle building with blocks together. 

            I spend the least amount of time working behind the desk, and technically I’m not actually working, because that requires considerably more training than I have.  Still, as I wait for my shift to start in the office area, I am often given a task to complete, albeit never something quite like answering the phones or working the highly confusing camera system, but the supervisors always find some way to put me to work.  Usually this involves running books that were found strewn throughout the house back to the library, checking out DVDs for families, waiting by the doors and letting in the other volunteers so we don’t have to listen to the alarm system going off every two seconds, or relaying messages between the kitchen and the front desk. While it may not be my actual job, I enjoy getting to be behind the desk, with the administrative volunteers.  The way the families smile at them each time they pass, never fails to make me feel as if I am doing something important.

            When I first was accepted into the Ronald McDonald House teen volunteering program I was nervous, the House was huge and I have the sense of direction of a spoon, and I wasn't sure if I was cut out for volunteering somewhere so official.  Now I know how lucky I am to have been chosen, and how wrong I was when I had my doubts.  I look forward all week to my time at the Ronald McDonald House, and know that no matter how it’s divided it will be wonderful.

My Dearest M

           Like everything else in her life, my little sister M entered the world with drama.  Four Weeks premature and struggling to get air into her tiny lungs, the baby that was born was not like the little baby I had learned about in “I'm Going to be a Big Sibling!” class, because she was dying.  Going from being an only child to the older sister of a very ill baby was a shock, and I remember the hospitalization of M with surprising clarity for a four year-old.  When I look back I can see the way not only my life but also myself changed due to the effects of having a sick little sister.

Through necessity I became more independent.  With my dad working full-time and my mom spending twenty hours a day with her sick baby I quickly realized that I was not going to be able to rely on them as I always had in the past.  While there were relatives constantly at the house to look after me, they were not the same as having my parents.  My aunt and uncle had no clue as to where my favorite stuffed bear had gone, my grandma couldn’t locate my special blanket, and it was much easier to find the specific pair of pink shoes I was describing on my own.  My independence expanded even more so when M finally came home from the hospital at nearly two months-old, finally pneumonia free and breathing normally, but far from ‘okay.’  As M could not be left alone without a machine monitoring the oxygen saturation of her red blood cells it was difficult for my mom to help me with things that could not be done while holding a baby.  Because of this I learned at an early age how to shower, brush my hair, and get ready for bed.

            When M was born I became part of a team, something I had never been on before.  With a preemie in the hospital and a four year-old at home it is no figure of speech to say I became part of a team.  My Nana and Papa were the first two to join the team, and they helped our family out through the most difficult time.  After M had been in the hospital for a week it was decided that it was not good to have me living in our house, surrounded by the talk of “what if?”  That was when my Nana and Papa stepped in, taking me home with them to West Virginia, where I stayed until M was on the uphill side of her battle.  After M came home the team continued to grow.  It was quickly joined by a large group of doctors, all devoted to the health of my little sister.  And a few people devoted to me.  My preschool teacher and her two daughters picked me up every week and took me somewhere for the day, so my mom could get M to her various appointments.  Over the next two years of frequent visits to the doctor I learned a lot about being on a team, and what it means about sticking together when times get tough.

             As a babysitter I have watched a lot of children’s television, teaching on a variety of subjects, however the one thing that is frequently passed over altogether is death.  For children under the age of five death is simply an ominous word used by mommy and daddy, but it doesn’t hold much weight with a child who has no idea the gravity of it.  I was a perceptive four year-old, and when M was born so tiny and so sick, I became all too aware of the fragility of life.  I was never sat down and explicitly told that my sister was going to die, but I could tell that no one was sure if M would live through her first struggle.  Death was no longer some foreign concept; it was very real, and very close to my family.  My early understanding of the uncertainties has affected me greatly and extends to this day.  I believe that you never know what the day will hold, and you never know if you will be given another.  For this reason I am not the new driver who is always running at least twenty over the speed limit, nor do I attempt to take corners like that guy in that one action movie.  I (try) not to say or do things that I will wish I could take back at a later time, because you never know if you’ll get one.

            Many years have gone by since my baby sibling was born.  M is now a healthy preteen, who wants a boyfriend and passing grades (I dropped the ball on that one) and I could not be happier to have a wonderful little sister.  The effects of her illness stay with me to this day, but they only helped me grow as a person.  And now the skills I have learned will be put to use again.  Two days ago my mom arrived at my grandmother’s nursing home to find out that she is at the end of her life, having a few weeks left at the most.  This is not a surprise to anyone, as she has had dementia for years, and we have mourned the loss of her years ago, but it is still a difficult time for our family.  As my parents spend every moment when they are not at work sitting bedside with her it will fall to me to take over the responsibilities of the house, including getting M to and from her dance classes three days a week.  It is at this time that I am again so thankful for every way the hardship of M’s illness affected me.  

My Time at the Barn

When I first arrived at the first stable I would ever ride at as a shy and scared fifth-grade girl I was entirely overwhelmed by the ten thousand things that seemed to all be occurring at once.  There were owners riding their horses in the covered arena, older girls leading sweating lesson-ponies towards the main barn, cars pulling in and out of the gravel lot, and stable hands with wheelbarrows and pitchforks running in every direction.  The trainer was much more intimidating: perhaps it was the fact that she was wearing cut-off shorts that left little to the imagination, a sports bra, and no shoes, or maybe it was the way she appraised me like a horse on the block at an auction, but I was very intimidated. 

I followed my trainer back to the stable, watching the other riders around me, attempting to get a feel for the barn etiquette.  I watched closely as she tacked up Remi, the brown horse I would be riding.  I was allowed to walk by his head into the arena, and was carefully given a boost into the worn leather saddle.  The first day was little more than learning to find my balance in the saddle, and Remi and I made countless loops around the outside of the ring, meandering slowly while my friend who had been riding for six years jumped over cross-rails set up in the sand.  After dismounting I was given a step-by-step walk-through of how to untack my horse, groom him properly, and then put away his equipment in the tack room.  I left the stable that night sweaty, exhausted, and smelling distinctly of barn.

Over the next few months I progressed dramatically.   I was no longer too horribly intimidated by the trainer – although I still avoided eye contact and attempted to speak with her as little as possible, – I could tack Remi up and be in the arena ready to ride in under ten minutes, and I had quickly moved on from wandering aimlessly around the ring at a walk.  By the time I was three months in I had the posting and sitting trot down to a science, and my seat was beginning to resemble the other girls.  Instead of being stiff as a board in the saddle, with my back arched and my entire body tensed I sat deep in the saddle with all my weight in my heels and my toes, knees, hips, and shoulders in alignment.  I was taught how to preform routines, simple ones, but routines nonetheless.  I relished trotting around the arena in the careful movements of an equitation figure eight or a serpentine, leaving hoof prints that marked mine and Remi’s trail.  After leaping down from my perch on the chestnut horse’s back I would run my stirrups up and loosen my girth, feeling very much like the stable hands who lived the dream I wanted to when I got older.  Back in the barn I was responsible for more.  I would spray my horse down in the wash stall in the summer, or blanket him in the winter, before putting Rem back in his stall for the evening.

By the time I was entering the seventh grade I was riding a different horse, a dun Tennessee Walker mix named Blaze.  Due to my desire to jump and Rem’s continuing health problems it had become difficult for him to school students, and he had never been a jumper.  I had ridden for two years, and was one of the more advanced students of the stable by that point in my training as a horseback rider.  As a jumper my confidence soared, in all aspects of my life.  There was something about the freedom of flying through the air over a fence below you that made you feel powerful and strong.  I was no longer afraid of my trainer, and was willing to make bold requests as to what horse I wanted to try out.  There was progression in jumping too, I did not start off jumping over 2 feet high oxers (jumps with both height and width) in six jump courses, which required lead changes (when the horse switches what foot is in front while cantering), turn-backs, and exceptional timing.  I began with six-inch cross rails, half of which Blaze and I knocked down.  But as my skill and technique improved I got to move forward.  It became second-nature for me to slip into a two-point (only the rider’s feet are in contact with the saddle) the stride before a jump, raising my chin and looking between my horses ears towards the next jump in the line. 

The most exciting day of jumping for me was when I entered the arena to find a triple set up at eighteen inches, two feet, and two and a half feet tall.  A triple is a jump combination that the horse goes through in which when the horses back legs land from the first jump his front legs are already going over the second one, and when his back legs land from the second jump his front legs are halfway over the third.  When I found out it had been set up for me I was so thrilled I didn’t give myself time to be scared, instead I mounted up, cantered  my horse towards the jump, and went for it.  I know for a fact that I was not graceful going over that jump, on the other hand I was thrown forward in the saddle and made the last two jumps leaning precariously on my horse’s neck, but I still hold the satisfaction that I jumped a triple.

With the improvement in my skills as a rider came a change in my reputation around the barn as a whole.  I was no longer the kid who some older student had to watch while I tacked up to make sure I didn't get the bit chain too tight or accidentally walk behind the horse and get myself killed.  Instead I was the student who was doing that for the new kids, sure I was a glorified babysitter but it felt good to know that my trainer trusted me.  I had more privileges around the barn: I could make requests of which horse I wanted to ride, my trainer looked the other way when I talked owners into letting me watch them work with their horses, and I occasionally was allowed to stick around when the vet or farrier came so I could see them interact with the horses.  With more privileges also came more responsibility, I was expected to know what was going on with my horse at all times, and could no longer rely on my trainer to be watching for the little things when I was mounted up, I was often an extra set of hands when a pony acted up or a horse got loose, and it was expected that the older and more experienced riders would stay after their lesson until all of the tack was properly replaced, the horses were groomed to the trainer’s standard, and they had made it back to their stall for the evening.

Now I'm older, and I haven’t ridden in several years.  After a falling out with my trainer over the way she treated her horses I was unable to find another barn anywhere even vaguely close to me, that’s what happens when you live in suburbia.  I still have my passion for horses, and I think that they made a large impact on my life, and changed it or the better.

Writing

My World

        School has never been my cup of tea.  It seems to require a very specific combination of special information and skills that I simply do not possess.  My mind is a mirage of thoughts like: “maybe if I were more confident,” “maybe if I could just talk with them,” “maybe if I wasn’t so inherently awkward.”  Somewhere in me logic is stifling a laugh and muttering “you don’t fit in because you’re that weird chick who is constantly reading a novel, you talk about comic books, and your social etiquette is lacking on the best of days.”  And so, for me, I spend my seven institutionalized hours a day sitting in various, equally hideous rooms, making no noise and pretending I’m not there.

        This quiet, mild-mannered, painfully shy girl disappears once I have sat down on my bed, laptop on my legs, fingers hovering above the keys.  I slowly transition from the trauma of another day wasted to the places that is entirely mine.  As I put in my earbuds and select the playlist titled “Imogen” or “Cove” I find my paradise.  The carefully compiled sets of songs that I feel represent the chosen character wash over me and my muscles start to act involuntarily, striking the keys with purpose and dedication, words flowing onto the page.

        As my thoughts end up appearing sentence by sentence in front of me I frequently pause to flip frantically through notebooks filled with character analyses, tentative plot outlines, diagrams that at one point meant something, before I find the scribbled memo I was in search of.  In this way my novel takes form.  It’s a long, arduous, and all over frustrating process.  As I write words, decide they sound wrong, delete, start over, realize I’ve made the scene worse than it was the first time, try again, find out three times is not the charm, get fed up, go make myself a fresh cup of Earl Grey, giving up often seems like a good option.  When a manuscript you’ve poured your heart and soul into turns into a disaster that is only causing you frown lines and lost sleep it’s easy to say “I’m done with you!” slam the laptop shut, and storm off, with the feeling that you’ve won.

        An author always goes crawling back to their novel, including me.  It’s because of their characters, and their places.  I have spent months developing my protagonist Imogen, and the cursed town she lives in, Echo Cove.  A character quickly becomes more than that, they become a person with a multi-dimensional personality, complex interpersonal relationships, and thoughts and opinions of their own.  Imogen is no longer a seventeen-year-old girl who lives in Oregon.  She is me: albeit a smarter, prettier, wittier, skinnier, me, with boy problems.  Unlike me, I am sorely lacking in the boy department at all.  It’s unfortunate.  Imogen is no longer a character I think of as a “small-built girl, with short, dark hair, grey eyes, and stunning likeness to the portrait of Maeve hanging in the entryway of Worthington.”  She is a hero, with brains, and more fight in her than anyone else, and who is willing to sacrifice her own life to save the lives of the ones she loves.  And she is a creation of mine.  I shaped her simply from my own imagination, tweaking until Imogen was exactly what I had imagined in my head.  The rest of her character was molded by the plot of the manuscript, and her evolution has been incredible as her role has made drastic changes.

        Places receive this special treatment from their loving author as well.  When I began writing my novel the location seemed entirely unnecessary.  It says in my notes “birthplace: Deep South (not important,) current home: small town in Oregon.”  There have been some large additions to this section.  The history of Imogen’s hometown in rural Mississippi fills half a notebook, and the small town in Oregon is carefully mapped out in sticky notes on my wall that can be moved around when locations for certain important places do not work well.  Favorite locations of mine have sketches and earn special attention in their descriptions in my writing, as I want my writers to see them the coastline from Worthington exactly as I do.  I want them to see the gray, churning water swelling and cresting in whitecaps, before slamming into craggy boulders along the rocky shore.

        When I lay on my bed in the dark, eyes shut, music playing softly in my ears, just thinking, I know that this is what I'm meant to be doing.  With all the plot lines my mind is constantly inventing that quickly twist themselves together into a tale that is dying to be told, it seems that the only thing I can do is sit down and put pen to paper, leaving my thoughts in a more tangible form.  Creating people and places and their stories is what I love.  Through writing I have found my identity, I am a writer.

The Incredible Dr. Banner

The Incredible Dr. Banner

            “It’s good to meet you, Dr. Banner.  Your work on anti-electron collisions is unparalleled.  And I’m a huge fan of the way you lose control and turn into an enormous green rage monster.”  These words, the first interaction between Tony Stark (whose fame as a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist is trumped only by his alter ego as Ironman) and the recently returned Bruce Banner, perfectly capture the war that is constantly waged by his two personalities.  The unsuspecting physicist-turned-third-world-doctor Bruce Banner and his more volatile side: The Incredible Hulk. 

            The tone is bitter when Bruce Banner says "Tony Stark and Reed Richards use their genius to save the world every other week. That's how they'll be remembered in history. Meanwhile, I – I who, forgive me, have just as much to contribute – will be lucky if my tombstone doesn't simply say "Hulk Smash.""  His hatred of the Hulk is deep-seated and justifiable.  The abuse he suffered at the hands of his alcoholic father (who killed his mother, the only one who loved him, in a fit of rage) coupled with the trauma of waking up surrounded by rubble and the knowledge that it is due to your alter ego's destructiveness would be enough to convince anyone to think the thing they shared their body with was a monster.  Each Hulk Out leaves Bruce to wake up alone, not knowing where he is or what The Other Guy has done, but knowing that there is a body count and a city in ruins around him.  Hulking Out not only has psychological effects that leave Banner with blame and guilt on his very un-green shoulders, but physical effects.  Bruce's body is left exhausted, with sore muscles, and a pounding headache that can last for days. 

            The major flaw that comes from Bruce Banner not remembering anything from his time as The Other Guy is that he only has his pre-conceived notions of what the Hulk does when he hijacks his body.   This is unfortunate because the Hulk is not a monster who goes out and destroys cities, like King Kong.  The Hulk, sometimes referred to as The Jolly Green Giant, was selected by the Strategic Homeland Enforcement Intervention and Logistics Divisions, otherwise known as S.H.I.E.L.D., to be a part of the Avengers Initiative, an elite team of Earth's Mightiest Heroes.  The screening process was long and arduous.  Tony Stark, was originally kicked out of the initiative for displaying compulsive behavior, self-destructive tendencies, and textbook narcissism.  To have picked for the Avengers Initiative by Director Fury makes it clear that the Hulk can do more than just destroy things.  And he's proven it, even with the mindset of a child who says little more than "Hulk smash" and "Puny God" he has saved the life of more than one of his teammates.  For instance, in the Avengers movie, when Tony fell from the sky (again) without the aid of the Mark VII the Hulk came from nowhere, caught him out of thin air, and landed with him gently. 

            The sweet, shy, socially awkward physicist-turned-third-world-doctor that is the unassuming Dr. Banner is a surprisingly emotionally unstable person.  After suffering the horrible childhood that seems to be a prerequisite for becoming a male comic book superhero it’s not too surprising, and his transitions into an enormous green rage monster certainly do nothing to help his mental state.  To most the Hulk would be a superhero, a great power, but for Bruce Banner the guilt and blame combined with memories of suffering at the hands of his father makes The Other Guy something Banner hates and wants rid of.  Several times badly enough to take drastic measures against his own life, saying once to Betty Ross: “It’ll be worth dying, Betty – if it rids this planet forever of the Hulk.” He claims that the Hulk is too much of a liability, and is too much of a danger to everyone on the planet.  It’s the reason he goes into “exile” in the third world pre-Avengers movie.  It’s his way to stay calm, and keep The Other Guy at bay.

            “It’s a . . . terrible privilege” Tony Stark says when talking with Bruce Banner, speaking directly about the Arc Reactor that keeps a cluster of shrapnel from crawling into his heart, and indirectly to Bruce’s transformations into the Hulk.  Bruce’s response is to ask what exactly The Other Guy saved his life for, foreshadowing the later confession of his latest suicide attempt.  Banner’s beliefs that the world would be better off without the Hulk have been disproven over and over, and are quelled by the other members of the Avengers throughout the movie.  As a successful character for fifty years the Hulk has more comic books than anyone could ever keep track of, and they all show why the earth, and the fictional planets of the Marvel universe sorely need him.

            While most people would be green with envy at the chance to change into the Incredible Hulk, Bruce Banner thinks of it as a curse.  As The Other Guy is triggered by stress and anger Bruce spends all of his waking hours struggling to quell these everyday emotions. The truly sad thing is the he spends his days in a fight against the rage that is always inside of him, and yet he is still so close to the edge at all times, like he says to Steve Rogers “that’s my secret Captain, I’m Always angry.”  He believes that every time the Hulk comes out it is a failure, even referring to his appearances as “incidents”.  And how could he not?  People walk on eggshells around him, whisper when he’s around, and always have one hand on their gun.  No one has ever made the impression that the Hulk is anything other than a monster that must be restrained at all times.

            This all changes when Bruce Banner becomes a part of the Avengers Team, and meets his Science Bro, Tony Stark.  Unlike Natasha Romanov, who pulled a gun on him only two minutes into their first meeting, Tony doesn’t fear the Hulk.  On the contrary he tries to draw him out, even stabbing Bruce with a sharp object just to see what would happen.  As the teams’ view of Bruce and the Hulk slowly begins to shift, so that Bruce is not feared and the Hulk is seen as an ally in battle it becomes more and more apparent that Bruce’s fear of the Hulk may not be entirely necessary.  In the end the Hulk is called on by the team for help, and while it is still saddening how easy it is for the anger to overtake the physicist it is nice to see that the Hulk does not constantly need to be restrained, and that perhaps S.H.IE.L.D. doesn’t need a Hulk-proof glass prison aboard the Helicarrier.

            The negative views Bruce Banner has about the Hulk certainly stem from his childhood and from the psychological effects of sharing a body with something that many deem a monster, but overall his view on the Hulk is one with considerable bias.  As he has no memory of what happens while he is the Hulk there is no validation to him that the Hulk is a hero, instead of a senseless murderer who will take over his body if he isn’t constantly vigilant in his control.  Even with the two entirely different views, the two manage to work together to make the world a better place.

Why I Want to go Into Social Work

Many factors have influenced my decision to study social work in college, which draws closer as each quarter passes.  One of the most important components that went into the choice of social work as my future career is the adversity I have observed, and how truly blessed my life has been.

            After leaving the quintessential southern town I was born in my family lived for five years in a diverse area only ten minutes from where we currently reside in stereotypical suburbia.  It was an eye-opening experience for me.  Yes, there were students who had more than me, and who lived in nicer houses and had more toys, but the other end of the spectrum was also well-represented.  As a kindergartener I didn’t fully understand why my mom, dad, sister, and I lived in a nice house with big windows, a large playroom, and a much-loved swingset in the backyard, while other kids my age lived in such widely different circumstances.  My school bus each morning passed run-down homes and squalid apartment buildings, and even at five years old it made me appreciate my home a little more each day.

            As a first grader I would often observe the other students, and I one time had the realization that the pants’ of the little boy who sat in front of me were an inch above his ankles.  As I scanned the other kids I became hyperaware of the new clothes I wore, that had just arrived by the boxful from Land’s End.  Some of the other kids wore what could only be hand-me-downs from many years ago.  Before the day I noticed the difference between my clothes and some of my other classmates’ I had never known what the Salvation Army was, and I had no idea what happened to the clothes you donated to Good Will.  After school as I stood leaning against my closet door and looking in at my wardrobe it again brought to mind just how blessed I was.  That night when I prayed I made sure I thanked God for taking care of my family so well.      

            When I was in the second grade I helped my mother mass-produce my favorite dinner, ham-and-noodles, to take to our church that evening.  As I stood and stirred the simple white sauce I had been taught to make my mom explained who the church was feeding that evening.  It was a group of homeless families who, to stay off the streets, traveled and slept in churches for a week at a time, where they were fed and cared for by the ministry.  I was slightly shocked. 

            We carried the meal into the gym of the church, where there were families lined up and waiting to eat.  I couldn’t help but look at the people as I helped get all the food into the shining industrial kitchen.  In the line there were plenty of moms, dads, and other adults, but what really got me was the kids.  Waiting in the line for a meal were dozens of babies and toddlers and second-graders like me.  One girl in particular caught my eye, simply because she looked exactly like me.  As I ate my dinner that night in my dining room I couldn’t get that girl out of my mind.  I pondered the unfairness of it all, that I had so much and the other little girl had so little.  I lay in bed that night and gazed around at my belongings.  I carefully appraised the large pile of stuffed animals that graced the corner of the room.  It saddened me to think that not every kid had a stuffed animal.  Even at age seven I wanted to do something to help just that one girl that I had seen that day.

            Christmas is my favorite time of year.  It’s magical, the lights and the carolers, they all come together for just a few days a year.  One thing that has always really impacted me when it comes to Christmas is the Giving Tree.  Every year our church has two trees covered in slips of paper, with a large box sitting beside them holding even more as they await their turn to be placed on the tree.  These brightly-colored papers hold the Christmas wishes of people who are not going to receive any gifts for the holiday.  Looking at the tags is always saddening.  There are hundreds at our church alone, and this doesn’t even begin to cover out community.  Reading them simply makes it more apparent that many of the people receiving presents from the giving tree are children, and teenagers like me. The adult requests are just as heart wrenching, most comprising of socks, underwear, and blankets.  These are the things I would throw into the cart while out shopping, not ask for for Christmas.  As I stand in front of the Giving Tree each year I am thankful for all that I have.

Babysitting

           When people ask me what my job is I always tell them “I manage a small business, most of the work I do involves conflict resolution, time management, overseeing that the specified work gets done, and most importantly, making sure my charges are happy and entertained.  In other words, I am a babysitter.

            To say I was nervous the first few times I was left in a house alone with the responsibility of keeping several young children alive for two hours would be a grand understatement.  I was terrified, and reasonably so.  Other than a six hour course on safety that had been held in the basement of a church, my knowledge on small kids was limited.  I have now babysat hundreds times for many families, with little ones of all ages; however, some particular experiences I still remember.

            My third babysitting job was particularly rough.  Not that the first and second hadn’t been, but the third has always stood out.  Job number three has come to be known as “The Almost Fire.”  I was watching three young children, and I was just a kid myself, only eleven years old at the time.  As I stood at the stove and concentrated on making boxed macaroni correctly, I heard the sickening thud of somebody’s head hitting concrete.  I dropped my spoon and sprinted for the back yard, to see the middle child lying on the ground with blood pooling around his head.  I sat down next to him, pushing his hair back to see where he was bleeding from.  Luckily, it was only a small cut that I was sure would stop bleeding with some ice and a gauze pad.  Once the three siblings had stopped crying (and I had managed to get the tears out of my eyes) we walked back to the house.

            Directly into smoke.  In my haste to make sure there wasn’t a kid bleeding out in the backyard I had abandoned the macaroni. The children were immediately sent back outside to sit quietly, as I didn’t want another head injury on my hands, while I shut off the stove and ran water into the black and smoking pot.  The stench was horrendous, and the noodles were a blackened lump in the bottom of the pan.  The kids and I forewent a hot lunch of macaroni and cheese at the table for peanut butter sandwiches in the grass, while we aired out the house as best we could.  It was an interesting day, but we made it through.

            Another day of babysitting I’ve always remembered is the day that I first put a baby to bed.  The child was six months old and I was entirely convinced that this was the best baby in the world.  Unlike other babies I had worked with, she ate happily, was content to be carried around on my hip while I helped her older sibling, and loved to just be held in someone’s arms.  I made the mistake of assuming that she was going to be an easy baby.  I was wrong.  As soon as we went up to her nursery, turned the lights down, and began to rock she made the face.  The face that is the thirty second warning before a child starts to sob.  As soon as the tears began I began saying “don’t panic” although to whom I was talking to I’m not sure.  I quickly realized that I was not as great with babies as I thought I was.  I read stories, she drank a bottle, we walked around the room, I located a pacifier, I tried everything I could think of that would put a baby to sleep.  After thirty minutes of the six-month-old wailing I thought of one last thing. 

Feeling a little silly, I began singing “All the Pretty Little Horses” quietly.  As I only knew the part that is about receiving the pretty little horses I attempted to switch songs after about five minutes.  This was not okay with the baby.  For half an hour I sang the chorus to “All the Pretty Little Horses” until I was hoarse.

At nearly nine p.m. the baby’s older brother arrived in the doorway, to ask bluntly “do you know any other songs?”  I stifled my laughter, but when I looked down at the baby her eyes had drifted shut.  So I did what any babysitter would do.  I put the baby in her crib, turned on the monitor, and got out of the room as quickly as possible.

If I ever thought babysitting was going to be an easy job I found out just how wrong I was when a five-year-old boy I was babysitting darted out the front door, grabbed a scooter from the driveway, and proceeded to make a break for it down the street.  I stood in horror for a moment, staring at the runaway's sisters for a brief second before making a snap decision.  I shoved the phone into the oldest girl's hand, giving her instructions to call my mom (who lived in the next neighborhood over) and to tell her that "my brother’s gone, we need you."  Leaving a child only seven years of age standing in the middle of the front yard I put the littlest girl in the wagon and started on a nearly ten minute wild goose chase through the subdivision.  I ran barefooted down the street, dragging the wagon haphazardly behind me as I screamed the boy's name.  As my feet pounded the ground I pondered things like "why would you not have a lock on your front door?" and "maybe I should work out more often."  While I looked for a scooter abandoned in the grass the sister of the little escapee shouted threats such as "I'm telling mommy!" and "you're going to have so many time-outs for this!"  I wanted to tell her that this was probably counter-productive, but she had to be just as scared as I was so I let her continue explaining the punishments to her brother.

Finally I gave up and accepted the fact that I was not going to find this kid, and made my slow return to the house.  With my luck the oldest child would be gone to.  I was horrified by what had happened.  In one hour I had lost thirty-three percent of this family's children.  I arrived back at the house to see the missing child seated on the front steps eating a Popsicle. Simultaneously I wanted to hug the little boy and never let him go, and to make him sit in time-out for whatever time his sister's deemed appropriate for scaring me that badly.  Instead I led him inside, where my mother was sitting at the table.  I had been half expecting some sort of speech along the lines of "how could this happen" but instead all I got was a hug and a lesson on how to give a proper time-out.  Looking back it's ironic because if I'd already had a lesson on how to give a time-out then maybe I wouldn’t have ended up chasing a five-year-old through the streets only to find out he had already returned home.

 

Over the years babysitting has taught me not only a lot about children but a lot about myself.  When “The Almost Fire” occurred I went from high-strung to calm and collected, and I handled the situation well.  The time the baby screamed for half an hour gave me some much-needed patience, I got over my fears and tried something new, and it worked.  And the time that the boy ran out the door I learned how I really react in an emergency, and how far I can go to make sure that the kids are all safe.  Babysitting has taught me far more than I ever thought it would when I began years ago; I’ve learned stuff about myself and about kids and about life.  Because of my time babysitting I know I want to work with children.  It’s a job that I love and each child I've worked with has shaped me into who I have become.