paris, je t'aime

I completely at this city's will. Everything from the sights to the language consume my entire being and cram up my brain until there is no room for anything other than "je voudrais..." and "tout va bien". I'm in love with the sounds of the French language...on the bus I feel like the man on the phone next to me is reciting a romantic, emotion filled love poem while he actually is discussing God knows what with his boss. The waiter asks if I want the bill, and I blush at how sensual it sounds. I can't help but have a romantic relationship with everyone I come in contact with, with a "bonjour, comment vas-tu?" And it's not just the language. This whole city has my head in a spin, and just like falling in love with a human being, I find myself at a loss for thoughts of my own. When the Notre Dame is staring you in the face on a daily basis, you tend to feel small in comparison. Paris, this relationship is amazing and everyday is a whirlwind, but I'm starting to lose myself in you. Though your romance has won me over, I can't compete with your lights glistening off the Seine, or your sparkling Eiffel Tower every hour on the hour, your museums which are themselves as historical as the works they hold, your beautiful natives, your rich food, or your heartbreakingly stunning streets. I'm torn, my dear city of lights. I would love nothing more than to stay with you forever, but I fear giving up myself entirely.

Maybe the best places are those we can both love AND hate, but fit into comfortably. This passionate love affair I have here cannot last...and I'll return home filled with the thrill of living in the midst of unimaginable beauty, but ready to settle back into life.

to be or not to be

He's beautiful in the way that Greek gods are beautiful. I don't know how his hair stays so damn voluminous without an overabundance of gel, and I marvel at the fact that I will never be able to say "princess" in French the way that this man does, with the P and the R making a sound I can't even begin to place in my brain. I catch him staring at me and I think about how my love handles have grown and how my fading dyed hair must be getting frizzy with the heat in this bar. I don't know how his hand got there, or what I'm saying that amuses him so much, but it's intoxicating. His assertive arrogance has me simultaneously mesmerized and repulsed. From my days of reading Twilight, I get the faint indication that I should run as fast as I possibly can from this gorgeous monster. My moment of hesitation is enough for him to wander, and for me to remember how much I want his hand to stay on my back while we piece together broken sentences in two languages to compose our conversation about nothing. I would talk about nothing with him for as long as humanly possible, because for those moments when we were there, I forgot that my body doesn't feel like it used to and began to think maybe my American accent is indeed sexy. His carefully premeditated movements equate to a well rehearsed choreography routine, and while knowing full well that it is anything but personal, the show of his attempt at impressing me has succeeded and has in fact entertained and fulfilled me.

And then I realize, that it's all a show for me. This worry about my appearance and the prospect of it changing, the capturing of another's attention, the planned words and actions- a show. Yes, this foreign man has me captivated, but eventually the routine has to end, and what will be left is really nothing of any substance. The most I could hope for is to find out the secret to his hair in order to repeat it on myself. As much as I'd like to stay for awhile and play the leading lady in his play, I've got to keep the real world in mind and peace out at intermission.

line 4 to clignancourt

I was on the metro the other day going to class and I was surrounded by people like me on their way to work or school. Everyone in the train had headphones in and were filling in a crossword puzzle or checking emails on their iPhones. They were each little islands in their heads, waiting for the next stop and thinking ahead to their presentation that day and what they were to eat for dinner that night. But in the middle of this complete void of humanity, I saw a woman on the other end of the train sitting completely still and crying. I was so startled to see such raw emotion in a public place that I started to become honestly nervous and embarrassed for this woman. I couldn't stop staring at her expensive coat and neatly pulled back hair and the huge tears rolling down her cheek. I looked around to see if anyone else was nearly as panicked as I was to see this stranger so obviously emotionally stricken, but the man next to me continued to stare blankly in front of us, and the girl sitting next to the woman was too absorbed in her book to notice. And then, the train stopped at my station and I realized that I only had 10 minutes until class started, and I left. I was swept back up into the rush and bustle of a city of 9 million. 9 million people, and I'm positive that like me, not one of the other 899,999,999 people did a thing to help the lady crying on the metro. I can't help but think back and wonder how we've gotten here. How can we stand inches from strangers everyday on our commute or in a restaurant or at work and not be moved by their pain? There are a lot of things to fear in this world. We worry about terrorist attacks, and we worry about recessions and politics and racism, but what scares me the most is how out of touch we've become with compassion.

come again?

I absolutely had this crazy idea coming into France, that this little tradition they have here in good ole Pear-ee called speaking French would rub off on me magically. Not to say that I'm a total French speaking loser...I do great...when I have 15 minutes to think through and respond to a question which was stated to me word for word with noticeable pauses. I'm not terrible at French, but I'm convinced that my on again, off again affair with the language has actually nothing to do with me at all. It's the Parisians. Yes, it's true...I've discovered that there in lies a detrimental flaw to all of Paris-kind that has lead to my decline in comprehension and added hours to how long it takes me to order a coffee...

They talk so damn quietly. I know that Americans are unusually and appallingly loud and obnoxious, but really, Pierre?! Can you speak at a decibel above a pin drop? I'd really appreciate it, given the fact that at any given time, there's some dude on a moped revving his engine to get that pretty blonde's attention or a heated debate on politics going on at the next table. And then when you ask them to repeat their last statement, I've gotten nothing but eye rolls and exaggerated shouts of their previous sentence. "Oh this unrefined ugly American who has lost her hearing from too many Monster Truck rallies". Maybe they have the superhuman ability to read minds, maybe my ears are shot from years of living among the loud and uncouth people from the motherland. Maybe they're really snotty. Maybe I'm not flexible. Until these maybes are further investigated, I will continue to shake my head when asked a question and pray that the man asked if I wanted sugar with my cafe...did he say "sugar"? or was that "umbrella"? Either way, my answer is a firm "oui".

sweet dream or beautiful nightmare

Being in France is like being in a dream. I don't use that phrase in the cliche sense, I mean it literally. In dreams nothing makes sense-elephants are popping out of peanut butter jars, somehow time passes with extreme rapidity and awkward events with people you kinda know from Oceans lab scare you. Dreams you can wake up from, and sometimes all you want is to wake up from them. But then there are those dreams you adore. The alarm goes off and you cannot for the life of you imagine that all you had just seen had really only taken place in your head while resting on a pillow. So a shirtless Zac Efron didn't actually take me for a spin to Bora Bora on a motorcycle? Dammit.

Being in France is a mix of those. I'm extremely groggy at all times since I'm still not fully adjusted to the time difference and I seem to look at the Eiffel Tower expecting to be awoken at any moment. Customs and language are a puzzle to be decoded, and acting on them and speaking in it feels like a charade. I'm a monkey watching and copying-going through the motions to keep up. So in this haze of miscommunication, winding streets with no rhyme or reason to their windings, and sleep deprived charades...I'm finding that living in a dream is a blessing and a curse, but I know that this one has all the potential to become my reality. Maybe its no bare chested Zac, but I think I can love Paris just as much.

what's love got to do with it?

There's this website called oneword.com that I use everyday. The premise is that the website gives you one word, and you have 60 seconds to write whatever comes to your mind about that word. Everyday is a new one, and by the end of your writing sesh, it posts your blurb and you can read through other people's one minute surge of thought. I suggest this because: The most unexpectedly beautiful things can come from your head when you don't think and just do. I promise, you'll surprise yourself with what comes out.

But what really amazes me is reading everyone else's posts. The word one day was possible. Another day it was cheek. Another was seconds. The commonality between every 60 second brain splat was the subject of love. Everyone managed to turn the word possible into a heartfelt love note, both happy and sad. It's amazing how consumed we are on the matter. I myself am guilty of wondering at it's existence at all, but then you see 85 pages of 4 sentence rants about a final goodbye, a first kiss, a moment when the world evaporated and only two people were left...and somehow the word of the day was pencil??? You can't help but realize that no matter how much you deny it's existence, this love thing is inescapable. It's bringing with it heartbreak and happiness, but mostly the power to consume our entire being so completely that we can't see a single word that doesn't make us feel it.

just around the riverbend

If you want to catch me in a weak moment, just sit me down in front of the last 15 minutes of Pocahontas. Forget the fact that John Smith, a man she magically learned English for, leaves her forever, but just look at how her hair blows in the wind and never gets tangled.

Ever since I was little I've dreamed of being her. I wanted her tan, her natural running ability, and to pull off a mid-driff animal skin ensemble so effortlessly. To me, she is the epitome of grace, and since a young age I would stand down wind, practice my serious face, and allow my curly mess of hair to be taken where it may. Coincidentally, this plan doesn't turn out as glamorously when taking place in my front yard and not drawn by an animation artist. Two bottles of conditioner later, and my dreadlocks would begin to loosen.

Years later, my secret desire to be a strong Native American woman is as intense as ever. Although I may just be holding out for John Smith to pop out of a tree somewhere close to a river that may or may not include a waterfall that we may wade through to reach each other in slow motion with strings playing in the background...the dream is still alive. Lord knows I don't know which colors make up the wind to even begin painting with them, and I won't lie to you and say I consider any raccoons to be my close personal friend. However, when I feel like the outlook is hopeless, I still channel my inner Pocahontas. She goes canoeing, I take a drive. She runs through the woods barefoot, I put on my Nikes and go for a jog on the road. She seeks advice from trees, I consult the bottom of an ice cream tub. She jumps off a cliff, I move to a foreign country. She chooses her fate, I choose mine.

Wingapo.

a dog's life

Everyone knows that I have the rare and formally awesome ability to communicate with dogs. They get me, and I understand them. Up until just 3 minutes ago, the source of this gift was unknown to me. But then as I sat having a deep conversation about life, love, philosophy and chew toys with my own four legged friend, I was overcome with the grief of having to leave him in just 5 weeks. After I go to France, I will fly straight to California, and after the spring semester I will either be in LA or New York to begin an internship which could and will propel my career into amazingness in just 3 short months. Forget the fact that I have no idea what this career will be, as he is still a faceless blob in my personified mind -the point is, my Marley and I will be separated for an indefinite amount of time stretching out into the abyss. This may seem overly dramatic, but Marley is my bestie and I just can't see my life without him for more than a couple month stretches at a time.

Karen, the woman who birthed me, is slightly jealous of the tears I'm shedding for a dog. What she doesn't understand is that I can Skype her, I can write her emails, I can Facebook chat with her, I can call her or text her. Karen and I will only be separated physically, but our relationship won't be detrimentally affected. If anything, not seeing each other will restore the warm and fuzzies we seemed to have lost over a summer in close proximity of arguing about vacuuming, television show preferences, and the definition of "clean" (mine being straight from the dictionary, and her's in a psychologist's manual listed under OCD).

But the relationship I have with my dog requires that I be there to take him for a run or feed him leftovers or snuggle with him at bedtime. Marley doesn't have a cell phone, nor does he have much patience for the DogBook account I set up for him through Facebook. So without my physical presence, I don't exist to my pooch. To him I represent that run, those leftovers, a cuddle sesh. Dogs need a physical presence to feel the relationship. I'm not so far off from the canines in that respect. In my romantic relationships (with men, not dogs--I feel this is a necessary distinction) I too need those concrete experiences to solidify my bond with another.

I once had a stuffed animal dog that said "Love me! Pet me! Feed me!" when you squeezed its tail. That's all a dog needs in life...and coincidently, the same suffices for me.

je ne sais pas pourquoi

I'm going to France in a month and a half to live and study and exist. When I picture myself in Paris I always see myself wearing a beret and smoking a cigarette, while I sit at a cafe and discuss poetry with an attractive French man. I usually sigh with relief at this vision, until I snap to and remember that I don't smoke, don't discuss poetry in ENGLISH even, and French men are creepy. Then I usually feel my heart drop to my stomach, my stomach drop to my feet, and my feet sink into the floor 29 inches. I'm moving to another country on my own. I'm doing WHAT?!

I suppose that I am basically 21 years old and these are things that 21 year olds do. I think. Do they? And since when did my life become that of a Hollywood starlet? Living in LA, trips to New York, winters in Paris? I have to take a second and re-evaluate when I reached this point in my life. Wasn't it just yesterday that I was sitting on the dance floor in the middle of a circle of friends to avoid Anthony Bonjiavano from asking me to slow dance at the 7th grade semi-formal? Anthony, I never meant to hurt you...I just didn't see it working out in the long run. Like your locker was REALLY far away. That apology still flows from a very recent and real place within me, so when did I enter my 20s and start globe trotting and saying things to friends like...well let's meet in London for Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving is spent at my grandparents' house with an overabundance of relatives asking the same questions over and over, and dying of heat exhaustion because my grandfather is wearing 10 flannel shirts and 3 pairs of socks and is still freezing. Thanksgiving does NOT include fish and chips and the phrase "top of the morning to ya"...which is most likely Irish or Scottish...but it doesn't include those countries either. I'm scared. I'm scared shitless. When I announce that I am studying abroad, people instantly blurt out, "what a great experience", to which I want to say..."Would you like to go in my place? My visa and passport say Caitlin, but Dave you're practically my doppelganger...France will never know the difference." I am beyond lucky, I know...but my cojones are not large enough for this.

After a month or so, when I'm wearing that beret and speaking French to that good looking man, I'll look back and laugh at my sillyness in the matter. Until then I want to cry to my mommy...and I better start, because soon that will cost me $20,500 a minute in international phone calls.

prime beef

I've been told that I'm "picky" when it comes to dating. I cannot imagine what would make anyone relate that word to my taste in men. Sure, I have a small list of tiny qualifications...guidelines if you will, but who doesn't? These guidelines give a little direction to the sort of male I'm in the market for...or maybe it's that I'm ON the market for. Anyway. Usually they include such preferences such as

1. must be medicated
2. must not be a more efficient shopper than i
3. no unsightly piercings
4. preferable if he ignores me most of the time
5. is able to use the word "perfunctory" in a sentence, but never the word "shindig"
6. i would never knowingly date a cat person
7. your taste in shoes speak louder than anything you could possibly say in defense of yourself.
8. must never wear or own anything camouflage
9. if you are at all interested in me without having to be convinced...there is obviously something wrong with you. Move on to chasing the next car.
10. None of the above rules matter if you wear glasses. I die. and then come back to life. for. glasses. it's always been a terrible weakness.

I may have been once quoted as saying "my man doesn't need a passion for something in his life...his passion should be me," but please don't let that deter you bachelors out there, I promise I am a semi-forgiving, barely-judgemental, kind individual ...to your face.

As it stands however, my precautions may lead me to a life spent alone...

puppy chow

The world would be a better place if children were more like dogs. Think about it. My dog is dependent on me, yes...but all I have to do is let him out to do his thing and feed him twice a day.

I don't cook, and to be honest with you I don't trust people who do cook. So God forbid I have children some day where cooking is slightly necessary if you don't want to end up with the Pillsbury Dough boy for a son. Can't I just measure out a cup of dry food and place it in a bowl for the little darling? hmmm...cereal sounds like an excellent alternative, but I hear young humans need variety. Dogs and kids on occasion have the cuteness factor in common, but children ruin even that for themselves with their ability to communicate. Ability is actually debatable... but their sheer attempt at communication is enough to drive a stable person into the institution for an extended stay. I can deal with barking...but the wide range of vocal capacity children have, mixed with their lack of inhibition and tact makes them a nightmare. Strike three against kids: puppies can be house trained, but your kid will be pooping in his pants for at least 3 years. Your dog is a middle aged man by age 3, and do you know any middle aged men in diapers? If your answer is yes, my deepest sympathies. There is some kind of human/dog feces separation in my brain...like I have less of a problem cleaning up after something of another species, rather than people poo.

Now I know "they" say that when you have your own child, all of this changes. But you know, I've been a nanny and I've worked at a day care and I can honestly say that no child of mine will be any less annoying than those little brats. I don't care if they have my nose (I pray they don't)...or if they have the most adorable tendency to stick olives on their fingers before eating them. Of course I will have children SOME DAY...but all I'm saying is that it would be highly beneficial if they were a little more canine-esque.

case log

There are some people you meet that are instantly likeable. You know what I'm talking about-those people who suck you in and make you think they're the bee's knees with their fun references and witty remarks. But what REALLY makes them so damn easy to like? I've conducted an official sociological experiment on my own, using my own opinions, thoughts, and ever... um patient demeanor.

Exhibit A: The Bubbly Visionary. This girl has got a beautiful perspective on everything in life from the Bible to ants. Her view of the world as being her oyster gets you to thinking that hey, you're running a little low on shell fish in your life, and you might need to transform YOUR world into one of those as well. After being around Exhibit A you might feel a high sensation, and may attempt to single-handedly obtain world peace and cure cancer in 3 days. After leaving her presence and realizing that you are 20 years old and living with your parents, you might experience a little fall from that high horse you were riding. I don't know what kind of happy, go-getter drug this girl emits, but it's serious business...jump on the Lindsay band wagon and check yourself into rehab.

Exhibit B: The Mime. This guy will take specific note of your likes, reactions, and cadence and match his exactly. He then subtly redirects the conversation and you find yourself talking passionately about tea and the meaning of art like it's your job. Who's the mime now?! The subtle mind trick will make this guy look like a pure genius, and may leave you in awe and coming back for more of his rare interests that have suddenly become your own. BUT it's not that hard to tune into people's thoughts and emotions, replicate and reiterate them ever so slightly altered, until matter actually forms from the duplications. When dealing with exhibit B, you must remember to take credit for the seemingly deep discoveries that are being made. Otherwise, you will end up feeling the worst kind of violation known to us cerebrals....brain rape.

Exhibit C: The Kiss Ass. This person will agree with anything and everything you say. This dude will pull me in every time due to my overactive need to be accepted. You like manatees? NOWAY so does he and he just so happens to have read some bogus article on them 2 weeks ago where he very convieniantly can't remember any details other than that they're called sea cows. But of course you don't notice this shameless lie because you're too busy loving how he loves you and all of your glorious opinions. The point of this guy is to get you talking about yourself so that he can gush and you can come to the decision that he is incredibly intelligent and fascinating...because despite the fact that you may not realize his kiss ass techniques, you walk away with a fanastic heightened sense of self, and false feeling that someone out there "gets" you. Sorry sister, he just "gets" to fake his way into your head, heart, and pants.

Obviously my observant nature deserves that science award thing..pulitzer? newberry? ...nobel peace? I'd settle for an honorary mention at the elementary school science fair...the point is, people, BEWARE of the likeables. Proceed with caution.

frogger?

Yesterday I was driving around doing this, that, and the other thing when I spotted a squirrel in the middle of the road in my way. It was a baby squirrel and I guess doesn't quite have the rules of the road down...being that I am dominant, and he is roadkill. You all know how I feel about squirrels, but my kind heart had to stop and wait for him to cross the road. I pulled up to him...and he didn't budge, so I pulled up a little more...still nothing. I started yelling at him from my car...excuse me, squirrel, but I am big and scary and it's time for you to move because technically your life is in my hands...or the will of my right foot. He didn't seem to understand English, and I didn't feel like whipping out my Rodent, I'm a little rusty. I also kind of liked the power trip I was getting from this exchange. So I waited...in the middle of a street, putting my own life at risk for a squirrel's. Aren't they supposed to have an instinct for this exact occasion? And where would that instinct come from? I mean, I'm sure squirrels were around for a long time before cars. Acquired instinct? Since he was a baby maybe he hadn't acquired it yet. Isn't it crazy that for as often as we all drive, it's extremely rare to actually hit something?? Birds fly right in front of cars all the time but it's like we're all sychronized in a ballet of life so that we whiz by each other in a dance way too close to be coincidence. I did hit a butterfly yesterday, though. I saw it floating happily toward me in slow motion and before I could make a terrible decision to swerve, it splatted against my windshield...it was heartbreaking. But I am digressing...

The point is, the squirrels have an instinct for danger..a little signal that says, you better get out of the way or that loud moving object will flatten you. Sometimes I wish life were as easy as that...and the signs were as clear as a truck barreling toward you at 60 mph. All you have to do is run to the side and continue your fruitless search for acorns you hid a year ago. Our dangers are much more cleverly disguised, making it that much easier to get hit...and the aftermath often feels the same as a truck to the body. But there's a special place in my heart for that little squirrel I met yesterday, despite his worthless and terrifying species, because I relate. I too am oblivious to the bad, and am too preoccupied with my acorns to notice.

is it in my elbow?

So when I write, I usually convince myself of these great realizations about life and the world and humanity. I get on a writer's high and the wisdom flows from an unknown source in my body. I reread them and I'm like, wow, this chick has got it together. The only problem is, I definitely don't have it together. If only I could be skellsbells in real life (apart from just with john wilson who coined the name circa 2008), then maybe I'd have the guts to be stronger, better, and tread more carefully and with more courage in this 3D, color film I'm living in.

rapunzel-itis

When it comes down to it, as much as I like to feel like a fiesty, strong little woman who has the upper hand in relationships, men always call the shots. I hate to admit this, but I wonder WHY?? If a girl calls off a relationship, it's socially accepted that a man is allowed to woo her back via: poem, serenade, flowers...any kind of soul bearing groveling that will get the job done. But women, if we are broken up with, we eat a gallon of ice cream and some fried chicken and are forced to move on with our lives. If WE grovel, we look desperate, needy, clingy, and that is inherently a bad thing.

So what gives? When men decide they need us back in their lives, many times they win. Women care too much! We want to see the best in someone (he was always so nice...when he was in a good mood...and not looking at himself in the mirror...), we hold onto our emotional attachments (ommmmg I loved how he used to text me back in a somewhat timely manner...or the time we went to the mall and he complained until I took him out to eat-it was so endearing the way his nose crinkles when he whines...), we TAKE THEM BACK. But guys--they throw us away like a used condom, and don't look back. They don't care, they never will.

But why can't I throw a rock at some dude's window and hold a boombox over my head? Why can't I decide I don't want to live without him anymore? I mean, I guess I could, but I just don't think a guy would respond to "In Your Eyes" the same way girls do.

It really doesn't matter how you look at it...we, women, will always be the ones stuck in a tower waiting for our knight to save us.

who... me?

My whole life I've had one basic picture of my identity. I am Caitlin Skelly, I am slightly shorter than average, I have brown hair, brown eyes, and I am from a tiny town in Pennsylvania. My life has been average. Like every typical suburban girl, I played field hockey, soccer, basketball, softball and a short stint as a dancer when i was 3 (that ended fast). I was averagely intelligent throughout high school, and averagely popular. My life can be traced through my outfits and my current boy issues. I am your basic, AVERAGE damsel. This self portrait is something that I believe in wholly, and I'm sure a lot of us do it. The truth is, it is debilitating.

It's summertime and I am home for 4 months before heading abroad, and I have nothing to do with my life. Sure, a summer job is in the works, but I have no obligations, no responsibilities, NOTHING that I must put effort into...and frankly I am beyond bored. What other time in my life will have this much free space in my schedule? And what am I doing with all this free time? I'm worrying about ME. I'm going to the gym, I'm picking about what I eat, I'm watching the television I want to watch, and reading books that will help me "grow" as a person. I see myself as average and unable to make a difference...and it's literally holding me back from heading out into the unknown and doing something for the good of humanity. That sounds lofty, but the good of humanity could be ANYTHING! I'm still figuring out what that exactly means for me, but it's time to start anywhere.

The "what can I do, I'm only me" attitude will set boundaries for myself that I don't recall placing. Why can't I head my church youth group? Why can't I rally to make a change locally? Why can't I volunteer and shake things up? I absolutely can, but I have to change my self-identity. I have to erase every belittling thought I have ever conjured up about myself, stop thinking, and start acting. I have got to admit that I am completely self-absorbed...and even wasting time putting yourself down counts, because that's time that could be spent using your health and gifts beneficially.

So I'm done analyzing my small problems. I'm tired of trying to change the little things in my life that are out of my control. I will not grow until I step outside of myself...and this summer was given to me for that purpose.

Just Laverne

Tonight I decided to make dinner for my loving family. When I say that I decided upon this, I actually mean that my mother woke me up at 7 AM demanding I do so. So I went to the grocery store, and took with me a list. I decided on the baby cart with the dual carriages...since my arm would most likely fall off with a basket, but I don't think I've reached full blown 4 footer status quite yet. That's a lot of maneuvering that I have not yet trained for...I'm pretty sure you need a license actually. Ok, I am in no way domestic. I have tried, I really have, but grocery stores absolutely allude me. Did you know there is an entire aisle dedicated to tomato products?? AND in that same aisle is where you find assorted beans?? If I had a grocery store, I would be WAY more systematic about the entire thing. I mean come on...beans and tomatoes? All my aisles would be themed...under the sea, day at the beach, christmas (there would ALWAYS be a christmas aisle), vegetables that are nasty, vegetables that are just okay, fruit with surprising pits that you might chip your tooth on if you were unaware, food my grandma might eat. Much better. So after wandering around aimlessly and quite inefficiently for over an hour, I headed to self check out. Why would I choose self check out? Why wouldn't I bask in the five star, high end idea of someone ELSE scanning and bagging my items? But no, society today has adapted a do it yourself slummin-it attitude to grocery check out, and I fell right into the scheme. I chose a frustrating fate for myself.
The machine started off pleasant enough, she welcomed me to Giant. I named her Shirley. Oh heyyyy, thank you I feel so welcome! But after scanning my seventh yogurt, Shirley got a little hostel with me, claiming I didn't place the item in the bagging area. Alright Shirls (She hates it when you call her that), I think I've been doing this whole scanning thing for 6 yogurts now, I got the hang of it, it's not that hard, i DO go to college. She was NOT happy with me, and persisted to yell at me about the yogurt which I had obviously already placed in the bagging area. Now I was drawing attention from fellow grocery shoppers. Wanting to fit in and not cause a scene, I tried to level with Shirley, making an exceptional point that if she had eyes or was an actual human being, she could plain as day see that I had followed instructions perfectly. Since she was not though, I could not blame her for the mix up. Hoping to calm her down, I placed a hand on the screen...there was a beeping and apparently I pressed a button and the ordeal was over. In the end, we parted on okay terms, Shirls and I. She thanked me for shopping there, and even reminded me not to forget the list of coupons printed out especially for me. I told her she was welcome and ran out of there... it took me almost as much time to check out than it did to shop for the stupid meal. Not to mention I was breaking a sweat and having deeper discussions with a machine than I had with a person in quite some time.

If you brave the grocery store alone, I would skip the mess and head straight to a line with personnel operating it...just don't tell Shirley.

xoxo...

I am terrible with goodbyes. Leaving school this year made me think about the goodbye ritual. The main action in this ritual is the hug - v. to clasp tightly in the arms, esp. with affection; embrace.

And just that happened. I am a natural, born hugger. My usual hug is cuddly, embrasive (not to be confused with abrasive)...and frequent. But when there is a goodbye involved, my sweet hug turns more into a death grip than anything else. I truly believe that the tighter I hold onto someone, the less likely we will actually have to say goodbye. Really the only thing that might happen is that I kill them...either with my squeeze or with the length of time it drags on...food and water are necessities, no? Maybe the longer and tighter I hug someone, they will eventually just attach onto my body and come with me.

But why do we hug??? I mean, doesn't it just make goodbye worse to have someone so near to you just to juxtapose it to the distance once we part? No matter where you travel, you will always miss someone. But if we dwelled on the missing, then we would never grow from the new people in new places. So all we can do is go with all our hearts, knowing that everyone that we've hugged goodbye is in there.

time to move on

I've recently abandoned this blog in hopes that more space in brain could be cleared for academic purposes. But alas, now sophomore year of college has ended, and my brain is still on stressed out auto pilot! So to calm the mood and insert some nostalgia, I want to take a serious turn and write some of the people who I've gotten the incredible opportunity to know this year a little sumthin-sumthin. So I am sorry to all of you to whom this does not apply, you know that I like to keep my posts neutral, but I feel a rush of emotion sitting here in my empty dorm ...and I must get it out....

Kjrstin- You are my roommate soul sister. I have cherished getting to come home to you...and leaving the door unlocked (when I remembered) for when you brought the bacon home from work late at night. You make my side hurt from laughing just by opening your mouth...but most importantly you've been a huge rock for me. I cannot count the times I have collapsed and broken down in front of you...and you are still my friend!!! You know what to say and how to be a comfort, and I couldn't have gotten through the year without you.

Kbell- I am forever grateful for our celine dion car rides. Sometimes a girl just needs to belt out about a broken heart! ....or swoon over the sultry voice of j-biebs. either or! You always center me and remind me to chill when needed...and i know i can come to you with anything. You are generous to the core, and the only person who can keep me from misplacing my brain. You are honestly a sister to me and i adore you and all your perkyness and your crowns and your bows and your essential kaitlyn bell-ness that is only you.

Shelby-Here we were in california, 2 girls FAR from home...the distant, foreign country known as the east coast. In the midst of it all, we always spoke the same language, and it was a relief to have someone who understood me in all my weird east coast ways. You are generous and faithful and honest...such redeemable, amazing qualities. I've never had a friend who was so ferociously loyal no matter what...and I cannot believe you will be overseas in a REAL distant land for all of junior year. I don't know what I'm going to do without you.

Megan- I love you. No....like really. You have taught me to be more sane...i know, baby steps...but you have. We are room 318, the original skelly and megs gettin the job done. No matter what's happened, everytime I see you I feel like i'm looking in the mirror. You crack me up like no other, and you listen like no other. You've taken my side on so many random issues in my life...even when i was wrong (eh hem...kinkos, anyone?), but it's meant so much to me. I've missed you this semester...and I hope the future doesn't keep us far apart. ...because when i told you my parents rented a mini van to move me in, you said i was bringin sexy back one van ride at a time....and i don't just forget stuff like that :)

Lauren- as was once pointed out, we're in the early stages of dating. staying up super late, texting, making plans for the future! But really your friendship over the past 2-ish months has meant so much to me. You are someone who understands without explanation, and wants to be a shoulder without agenda. You are an incredibly positive, intelligent, compassionate person. I am beyond grateful to know you, and am completely angry we didn't sooner! BUT! We always have skype!

Scotty- I have this text message saved in my phone and I look at it when I need a laugh: "This is what you do, next time he knocks on the door, tell him you don't want any of his girl scout cookies and when he becomes a boy scout and starts selling popcorn you might be interested." I LOVE IT. I wish i had kept a book of scotty one-liners. You and Rambo are my favorite father and son combo. please please come visit, i'll miss you too much for 8 months!

Andrew- You have taught me an incredible amount about myself over the past 7 months. You've made me a better listener, you've inspired me to create more, you've tested my patience and my heart....but all around you sparked something inside of me. As we part ways, I hope your purple period is prosperously inspired.

There are so many other people...david brown, dan erickson, bobby rodrigues, fernando raigoza, lindsay adler, storie...the list goes on and now this just sounds like an Oscar's acceptance speech. This year has been an interesting ride for me, but as tom petty once sang... it's time to move on, time to get goin, what lies ahead i have no way of knowin...but under my feet the grass is growin..time to move on, time to get goin.

mull it, ponder it, don't do it

A wise woman brought it my attention something that I was already thinking. But sometimes you don't even realize what you're thinking until someone tells you! Anyway, this ravishing female told me that there's too much in the world to think about, so there's not enough time for homework. I whole-heartedly agree. As I told her, at that very moment I was thinking of painting my nails. Of course I'm not actually going to paint my nails, that requires energy and emotional as well as physical exertion that I'm ill prepared for. The color choice! What does one connotate over another? What do I want to stare at for the next week on my hands (a body part I use almost as frequently as my mouth)? Then I have to take off the existing polish...always a strenuous task. I forget my thumbs every time and am forced to double back which involves reopening the remover and grabbing yet another cotton ball. What if I make a mess of my hands? What if after all my hard work I forget and grab some chips and ruin them?! There are so many variables that I cannot wrap my head around that I'd prefer to just ponder the idea.

Tomorrow, as the smart woman told me....all the thoughts turn into possible maybes. Yes, I see that. Tomorrow I will pick up a cotton ball, and put it down. I might look at my color selection and finally choose one. I might even start to complain about the current state of my nails as a way to urge myself into finally doing the dreaded task.

Other equally worldly thoughts on my mind: girls: saran wrap or cling free dryer sheets-why most are the former in relationships and why, how awesome it would be to have a monkey named winston and dress him in suit for all occasions, why Australians like Vegemite (see? international), and most importantly why everyone in the world can open their eyes under water and I physically am incapable.

Take some time to mull it over, people....all the "its" your brain can muster!

ewHarmony

So most of you know my biggest fear in life, but I would like to elaborate since I have the time and space and attention of everyone. Many people are afraid of heights, or dying, or terrorists, or M. Night Shyamalan movies, or bad dye jobs, but I have a very specific, and very real phobia that has plagued me for some time. Please feel compassion, for I am afraid of one day resorting to an eharmony account. Now you can scoff and laugh and assure me all you want that this wretched event will never take place, but I will not be comforted until I am walking down the aisle before age 50.

I will be that (insert relation here: friend/sister/daughter) that everyone passes around on holidays. My sister's or friends' kids will get a kick out of me until I hit my fifth glass of wine and start talking about my embellished glory days, telling pull my finger jokes, and getting violently jealous of their 6th grade relationships.

When commercials for eHarmony come on tv, I have a physical reaction. If I'm holding something in my hand, I immediately involuntarily drop it to the floor, my eyes get wide, and my breathing becomes shallow as I watch obvious actors describe their success. This reaction is not to be confused with the one when Anderson Cooper 360 comes on CNN...though the same on the outside, they are very different on the inside. I mean sure, the former users look happy enough, but they entered in that they like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain in order for a computer to generate a person of the opposite sex to "complete" them. I don't particularly want a computer to give me my Jerry McGuire ending. I envision a much more organic meeting of my soulmate. I will be reading in a coffee shop somewhere, completely engrossed in a thought provoking, philosophical novel...on the verge of a great new revelation...when an attractive, yet faceless, man approaches. I've accidently taken his coffee, which happens to be the same as mine, but a vente rather than a grande. As he politely interrupts, he is taken aback by the book's title. Alas, he is an avid reader and has an endless arsenal of knowledge and opinions on the book in my hands. We spend the day engrossed in conversation on a vast number of topics, and we leave with the silent acknowledgement that we will no longer be on the search.

So as you see, I have it all planned out. The only problem is, I hardly spend any time in coffee shops, and do most of my reading in my own bed. If there's a guy passing by my bed that I don't know, we have bigger problems. Maybe I should start frequenting random Starbucks'. But for the amount of lattes I'd have to purchase waiting for this faceless dude, I might as well just use that money for my eHarmony profile. Crap.

mourning morning

I spent the day in bed. I wallowed and I slept and I let myself sink down into the mattress and not worry about the crap that I was missing in my Women in Religion class taught by a flighty professor who has nothing better to do than make "Joy to the World" into a sexual experience. It was raining out today, which was so apropos, that it could not have been a better morning for wallowing. We all need these days of reflection to take a break from running, and let pain finally overtake us. Who are we kidding? Pain is a Kenyan. Pain will always lap us, so why sprint until an asthma attack, tricking ourselves into thinking it won't?

Some days you just need to feel every pin that the world has stuck in the voodoo doll version of yourself in order to mentally take those pins out. Even if you can't heal yourself, it's okay to block out the noise and listen to the only person that matters-you. At the end of the day, as much as I wish someone could, no one can make it better like I can. So I spent the day in bed with myself, to listen and learn like I so diligently do for everyone else in my life.

If you feel overwhelmed, I highly suggest this tactic.

the assembly line

We are being pulled in a thousand different directions with huge and minute decisions to make everyday. What do I eat for breakfast? Do I have time to go to the gym? What am I going to do with the rest of my life? Is this person right for me? Do these jeans make my butt look big?

I've been getting so lost in the noise of it all. The questions are coming at me too fast...like those assembly lines in comedies where the protagonist always ends up stuffing the product down his shirt or eating them. I am drowning in a sea of questions because I can't always answer them, and we are taught that you must answer all questions. Hell, on the SAT leaving an answer blank subtracts extra points. We MUST find a place to stuff all this crap coming down the conveyor belt and fast! And why? Because we have to keep up. We have to look good. We have to appease everyone around us....boyfriends, teachers, parents, friends. But what has happened to ME? Where am I in this mess? I mean, it IS my life. So easily I forget that I own one of those...a life...hmmm wow. So enough of the making everyone else happy all the time. I want to take these questions one at a time, and not answer the ones I'm not ready to answer. This life would be nothing without the boyfriends, teachers, parents, and friends...but sometimes this life is overwhelming because of them.

Someone once told me I was strong, and at the time that felt fraudulent. So I'm working on making that true, and unfortunately it has started with some drastic changes in areas of my life I've counted on and BEEN counted on. But it's time to change and answer my questions according to me, and I hope you understand.

paint by numbers

One thing I love about being home is looking back through a journal of thoughts I kept throughout high school, and that I add to everytime I'm home. For every decision that I look back on and question my judgment or my naivitee, there is an overlying emotion that strung the event together. Though I may have grown, matured, and honed my decision making skills...or simply learned through broken hearts or happiness...those emotions are so strongly in tact today.



I found this entry I had written about someone who is no longer a part of my life...and even though I don't see this particular person anymore, the sentiment rings true for so many of the people who ARE in my life at this very moment:

There are people who come into your world and turn it upside down. There are people who destroy your world. Then there are those who enter your world and color it. These people are special and very rare. They give you personal space with room to breathe in everyday life, but they fill the cracks and the ordinary with new light. This person keeps a steady 3 steps behind you in case you fall, but they never interfere with your pace. They inspire your best qualities to shine on display, and make you want to reach a little farther.

When this person comes along with their paint brush and adds color to every aspect of your life with their sheer being- don't question. Don't ruin the gift by wondering what's around the next corner. Just appreciate this rare occurance for what it is-a blessing.

Pickles

Today I enjoyed lunch at the caf. When I got my sandwhich, I noticed they gave me TWO pickles! I was so delighted that I started eating one of them before I even sat down, but after a bite I got really self conscious about possibly being known as the over-eager pickle chick and saved the rest for after my butt hit the chair. As I was eating, though, I noticed there were pickles already ON the sandwhich in addition to the two free standing ones I was given. I don't know if you're as bad at math as I am, but that's a lot of pickles for one sitting. I have this thing about pickles on sandwhiches so I took them off and ate them individually. Pickles are fantastic and I'm a huge fan, but they're so overpowering to the rest of the flavor of the sandwhich that they're best enjoyed separately. After my systematic pickle eating lunch, I went to place my plate with the rest of the dirty dishes, but I realized that I had left one of my whole pickles sitting on the plate as trash! I had eaten so many pickles, though, that I couldn't bear another, as much as I do love them. I saw the woman taking the plates from behind the wall and was struck with panic. She's going to think that I wasted my pickle!!!!!!!!!! She's going to shake her and head and sigh and say, "another good pickle lost to a wasteful student." Little does she know that I did my best, and was given TWO pickles in addition to a sandwhich bursting at the buns with them! I went to bat for my pickles. I debated grabbing my plate back and throwing the pickle in the nearest garbage can, but decided that would probably make me look even more guilty, as she definitely saw the lone pickle on my plate already. Because I didn't want to look like I was covering up, I thought about being totally honest and up front and telling her about the double pickle incident.
"...so therefore I already did eat a whole slice, and with the 7 pieces on the sandwhich calculated in, probably a whole other slice over the duration of this lunch. Given my BMI divided by my weight multiplied by my height and added to my stomach acidity, I actually exceeded my Personal Pickle Portion for the day...you know, the good ol PPP."
I even thought that maybe I could throw in a song by that VeggieTales character that looks like a pickle as a tribute to show my devotion...until I remembered that his name is Larry and he's a cucumber...yet to be pickled.
But as I stood staring at the lonely, green vegetable deciding what to do, it was whisked away and I had no time to react. Moral: find a good home for your uneaten pickles.

livin life in the splash zone

Anyone who knows me fairly well, knows to avoid human contact with me before 10 AM. Even 10 is pushing it-if you really want to play it safe, I'd wait it out until 11, or until I have caffeine in my system. So you can imagine that an 8 AM class every Tuesday and Thursday is a terror for me.

This morning I hit the snooze on my alarm 4 times before I even realized it was daylight. My first thoughts are that I hate my life, my bed is comfy, and should I skip class. When 7:30 rolls around I jump into panic mode which literally translates to a zombie walk to the bathroom. This particular morning I find Shelby jovially straightening her hair at the sink. Now, the sequence of events that follow are fuzzy. My memory recalls something like this:
"Shelby, darling! How are you this beautiful morning? You look radiant!"
"Aw, Skells, you are a gem!"
"Would you mind terribly if I scooted in as my class commences in 20 minutes?"
"please do!"
"Oh, lovely!"
But, I am quite positive that if we were to interview Shelby on the exchange, it would go more like this:
"Morning, Skells!"
"Pee. Now. Class. Go."
*Door slam in her face*

Back in my room I put on the clothes the self from last night layed out. This is a new trick of mine. If left to my own vices, I will walk out the door pantless with one shoe on, only to awaken at 10:30 sitting in my second class blushing deeply at my state of dress...or undress.
I swear that my 8 AM classmates must wonder how I got into college. Of course this class is all group work, and I struggle to piece together any thoughts that could be recognized as coherant let alone pertaining to a particular topic. My mind skips in monosyllabic words...food, dog, bed, shoe, why, am, i, here. I try to let my mind roam to new places...but it just stands there. As I'm coercing it to venture out into the world, I catch myself drooling. Great. How is that chick sitting across from me wearing real clothes? Why are her eyes open? What God foresaken hour did she get up to do her make up? I wipe the drool off as she shoots me a weird look. I have an urge to stand up, march to the front of the room, ask my professor to stop talking for a second and announce that I'm usually much more pulled together and drooling isn't a regular act for me...well, after 10 AM that is. DON'T JUDGE ME, GIRL WHO LOOKS PRESENTABLE!!!! I'm at a crossroads to either keep up appearances as a functioning 20 year old, or continue my discussion with my brain hoping for a multiple syllable word (food, dog, bed, shoe...why, am, I, WEARING, this--yessss success! 2 syllables!) While I reason with myself, I realize that I've missed the entire class. At least I'm still awake? But crap, I'm not wearing a bra. I'm positive no one noticed, though. Good thing I didn't jump in front of the class to plead my case, the lack of bra could have made that embarrassing.

So if you happen to catch me in the morning, take no offense if I yell at you in broken English, point at you with body parts other than my fingers, or drool on you. Maybe I should post a placard for your benefit..."before 10 AM this is a splash zone".

take a ride on my brain

This is going to be a random string of thoughts. Rules for this kind of writing are that you are not allowed to stop and preplan what you will say next. Let the words flow as they may...so if this makes little to no sense, then I am sorry.

Everyone always walks around saying "I hate hospitals" which is what we're programmed to say. What we actually mean is that we hate seeing people we love in pain and suffering, helpless on a bed. But I actually DON'T hate hospitals the more I thought about it after saying above quote expressing my negative feelings. Hospitals have a lot of good in them. Those beds adjust at a press of a button! and then there are nurses! Nurses are those brave people who clean up disgusting situations and poke much needed needles in people's arms! I faint at the thought of a needle, while these people shoot things in veins like it's brushing their teeth. Ew. the mixed reference of blood and teeth just made my stomach turn, I'm sorry about that. BUT there is such an overwhelming sense of caring going on in hospitals that you will not find at Disneyland or the beach or any other place you might call your favorite. There is also an unlimited amount of television literally right in front of your face, and meals are brought to you in bed. Okay, so you may not feel so hot and may not want to finish those meals, and they may be green blobs or brown unrecognizable creations, but it is extremely thoughtful nonetheless. And there are babies! Who does not want a baby?! well..me actually. But in theory, babies are so precious! I for one do not want to pop one of those out of my who-who anytime soon, and especially after witnessing what an epidural would look like first hand on monday night, I'm especially inclined to stay celibate with my legs firmly closed for a good long while. I for one do not have child bearing hips and my dear friend informed me that I shouldn't worry-that your hips stretch when you have kids. EXCUSE ME?? stretch!?! i don't think so. I like being straight as a 12 year old dude and I do not feel the need to have to turn sideways to fit my hips through doorways. I digress. But ah, the miracle of life! It happens in a hospital, and it's beautiful.

Next topic on my mind: parallel universes. The idea that there are infinite universes where YOU are present and doing the opposite of what you're doing here on this Earth. I really believe that I am living in one right now. Same place, same people, completely different vibe. What is going on?! How are you supposed to transition from real world to this alternate one? I'm still me, but I have to be a different kind of me in this same exact situation...so I have to pretend like I'm not me even though I am me...ya know?! It's not easy, but I should probably train myself. However, I won't adjust without some pissyness, pain, and possibly some forced pleasantness. Yes, that was alliteration...it makes the world go around, you know? Words are fantastic that way, and I hate when people don't use the full range of arsenal at their disposal to say what they need. Why say snotty when you could say lofty? or dangerous when you could say harrowing?! I find myself dumbing down to appease other people, and I'm afraid I'm slowly making myself dumber in the process. I should plow ahead using my descriptive language and not worrying about the lesser individuals who don't read or don't care about relaying their message. My message is so important, that you may need a dictionary to understand it, but that is not my problem, buy a pocket one or don't talk to me. Right?? Why am I so concerned with looking like a nerd for YOUR sake?! do you KNOW who I am????! I'm getting so worked up. I should calm back down.
Next time I will have a purpose and a better message to this blog.

pardon me

Forgiveness is a weird thing. As a Christian, you're supposed to be able to forgive thy neighbor. Well since none of my actual neighbors have done anything needing forgiving, I guess my Christianity will just need to be extended to include other hoods. I don't know about you, but I have a hard time acquiring warm and fuzzies for people who did me wrong. My trust is a rarity, and when you have it, you should probably put it in a safe with 2 locks and build a moat around it. Yes, grab your pick ax and get to digging because you have something that not many do.

So when my trust is left on the floor and accidently or purposely stepped on, I have to find a way to realign myself and dig deep to be a bigger person....like linebacker big. Weighing in under 110 pounds, I've found it has proved difficult to stand that tall and wide. I'm still figuring out the logistics of it all (is torture an okay step in the process? can I yell? Do I break the other person down before I build them up again? WWJD? Humiliation? meh. probably not). So my path to finding peace with those in the world around me has lead me to a distinct realization. When I stop overthinking and I tune out the angry voice in my head that points fingers (and gives the finger), I can focus on my heart. I swear I'm not going to bust out into a techno song on "listening to your heart", but it's the actual truth -curse that stupid song for stealing my line. And now it's stuck in my head. But my heart is a warm and melty place, much like the asthenospherical layer of the earth, the only question on my Ocean's midterm on Wednesday that I will get right. My heart recognizes the people who are worth forgiving, and it does it of it's own accord, separate from my disagreeing brain. So when it comes down to it, forgiveness is not a conscious choice...it's not even a choice at all.

when the sky fails you

Today I was walking by two dudes talking outside Humanities building and the one says, "today is a beautiful day, isn't it?" the other replies, "it really is glorious". I stood there for a second, processing this exchange. My perception of today cannot exactly be summed up in 'glorious'. It's chillier than I anticipated, and my legs have goosebumps. Not to mention that half of the sky is a teasingly bright blue, while the other half threatens rain...making me anxious since I don't have my umbrella. Today is one of those days that can't seem to commit to one particular description because it just can't make up it's mind. The irony in that just kills me. So I started pondering what might make a day "glorious", and came to the conclusion that glorious has big shoes to fill.

My first scenario of a glorious day is something like this: I wake up early to the sun shining in my window, and I'm energized instantly. There is a quartet serenading me as I get ready. Suddenly, it's announced that there are no classes for the day on account that it's entirely too nice outside to be in a classroom, and we are all ordered to go the beach. After the majority of the day having fun in the sun, friends and I enjoy a favorite dinner, shopping, and a movie. The entire day I have a sense that I am exactly where I want to be with whom I want to be with.

That would be a deliciously glorious day, no? It's just one of many examples I could think of, but each example shared something in common: there was something out of the ordinary and spectacular about them. They held a sense of perfection that is almost impossible to acheive. Scratch that--perfection in a day IS impossible to acheive. So I started rethinking what glorious could possibly mean to me. It hit me that today COULD be a glorious day despite the indecisiveness of the sky that I trusted so adimently to never fail me with it's rays of sunshine. Today is whatever I want it to be. I can choose to appreciate my time with my friends today as glorious, or the package I got in the mail as glorious. There are so many little things that are taken for granted in a day. When life gets rocky, there's an inclination to turn it all inward, but look around! We have today to do great things, to love others, to make new decisions, to create, to BE. That's so glorious.

it is such a secret place, the land of tears

I don't know if the men reading will be able to relate, or if they are willing to admit to relating, but silently, motionlessly nod to yourself, or just come along for the ride. Now, all my ladies (I've always wanted to say that but always felt i was too white to do so) I know you can relate. Yes...I'm talking about a good cry.

It's an amazing mystery to me that crying in hysterics...full on hyperventhilation mode for me personally...can have healing benefits. There's something in the uninhibited release of a physical manifestation of your emotions that can have the power to lift a weight off your mind. Crying is so basic. Babies cry as their only way of expressing their desires or needs. We pride ourselves as we grow older on our abilities to communicate so sophisticatedly, while sometimes the only way to work through our thoughts is to revert back to infancy. Talking through an issue is not a sufficient method of solving it, because a lot of times there aren't words to put to our pain-it's just there and throbbing. Antoine Saint-Exupery wrote, "it's such a secret place, the land of tears", and it IS just that. It's an extremely personal experience, making it almost impossible for others to understand the swirling, rising and falling surge of emotion behind our crying. The secrecy can keep people away...but that makes it all the better. We are constantly surrounded by our peers everyday, especially in college. We sleep, eat, study, watch tv, paint our nails, brush our teeth...do EVERYTHING in the presence of other people, and we are trained to demand "what's wrong?" when another shows their emotion. Instead of trying to describe something so complex, though, have a moment to yourself with your feelings...that's what I did tonight.

I hadn't had a real thorough cry in awhile, so today the barriers broke on the dam and a flood overtook the land. It was an ugly cry. A gasping, face scrunching, snot dripping, mascara running mess of a cry. I bawled for a solid 2 hours, and when I finally calmed down and emerged, I felt drained of energy, but also drained of all my negativity. I emerged with a brighter outlook and a peacefulness about me. I also emerged with swolen eyelids, red eyeballs, and a headache...but it feels right. So please never feel like you're too tough or too old to cry the ugly cry. I believe with all my heart that it is at the core of our sanity to release our negative energy, and what better outlet than tears?

V-day? how about D-day.

Let's talk about Valentine's Day. This holiday of love is rapidly approaching, and my feelings toward it are still luke warm. Last year i spent Vday alone on a beach in Newport where I drew a heart in the sand, thinking it'd be appropriate, which only made me even more angry. So I rode my bike through it. The year before that, I wore hot pink pants to a Keith Urban concert with my parents. I figured that the situation was sad enough, why not draw more attention with neon bottom wear? The year before THAT I was deathly ill and broke up with my boyfriend on Valentine's Day. As you can see, me and good ol Vday don't have the best reportoire. I'm sorry but a child wearing a diaper with an arrow is just not safe. Add some wings and you have a disaster waiting to happen. Weapons and babies do not mix, so what gives, Cupid?! So I was planning on my usual dark day this Valentine's...staying low and pretending like it doesn't exist. However! Today my attitude was slightly altered thanks to my favorite store...Target. Target has not one, not two, not three...but FOUR aisles of hot pink and bright red. I can't help but be completely uplifted by the wall to wall coating of my favorite color, with hearts dangling from the ceiling and puppies popping out of stuffed cupcakes. They even had princess wands. It was a fairytale land! Naturally I bought Valentine's M&Ms and hershey kisses even though I won't eat a single piece (eh hem). I also got little cards for all my friends and I'm determined to make this Valentine's Day a happy one. I may even have a few other surprises up my sleeve...but ya'll will just have to wait til February 14th!

All in all: this is the dumbest holiday ever invented. It was designed to make those without a significant other feel like a leper, and to give those WITH one an excuse to be nauseatingly cute. Maybe I'm bitter? Maybe I'm heartless and incapable of feeling the LOVE on the most commercial day of the year...maybe I'm overthinking this entire thing. BUT I'm going to make the best of the holiday, and be a loving participant.

when i grow up...wait, that already happened

I like to think that I have a plan for my life. We've been constantly working our butts off for our "future" for as long as I can remember. What made us so motivated to do well in first grade? We weren't exactly vying for enrollment at our favorite colleges yet, although I was certain I would attend Penn State and wear Burkenstocks. What do you want to be when you grow up? I can't help but miss those days where the answer to such a question had 5 possible choices: doctor, teacher, vet, astronaut, firefighter. I like animals, so I want to be a vet. Ok great, yea, those cartoon pictures you see as a child representing various occupations make it all look so lovely! The vet has a clean white lab coat on, maybe a stethoscope, and one of those shiny round mirrors on his head. He's most likely wearing glasses and a smile while surrounded by fluffy kittys, dogs, and a parrot. Awwww! My dream! But take heed! These pictures tend to leave out the part of the job that turned me off of the veterinary profession for life. I was at horseback riding camp when a horse got sick. In came the vet and I watched in horror as this man stuck his entire arm up to his shoulder into the horses butt, all before my disillusioned 4th grade eyes. Cross THAT one off the list...along with horseback riding for that matter. Firefighter equipment weighs more than I do. I'm deathly afraid of heights, so that endangers my career as astronaut. I tried my hand at teaching preschoolers, and was 2 poopy diapers and a temper tantrum away from the looney bin when I quit. I often throw up at the sight of blood and therefore could never be a doctor--no matter how tempting McDreamy makes it look. So now I sit here, college almost halfway over, wondering about my options.

I have a long fancy title I am aiming for here at CLU--major in Communication with an emphasis in Public Relations/Advertising with a minor in French. But what does that even mean to ME? I found out the other day in my public relations class (my soon to be PROFESSION?!) that PR has two "founding fathers". The first later went on to work for Hitler, while the second began a campaign in 1929 that while once taboo, made it sexy for women to smoke. You could practically say that PR founders ran the Holocaust and gave millions lung cancer. Criminals practically! Is this what I really want? I've taken all my strengths and gathered them into a major and minor, and I'm plowing ahead like there's no tomorrow, but all the while I'm worried. I do NOT condone murderous dictatorship, so maybe that horse's butt isn't looking so bad after all...

no more snails

I haven't had anything great to write about lately, and I'm a little sad about that. One thing I've learned though, is that there is an ebb and flow to writing, and it comes when the time is right. Sometimes there is too much in our brains that it's impossible to pinpoint and get it all out. I started this blog, though, for a particular purpose. When I write, I see a piece of me on the screen, and I'm sharing it with whomever chooses to read my blog. I put myself in a vulnerable situation- which is not an act true to my nature. I used to hide my feelings and thoughts in a book I still keep hidden, but I realize that when we open ourselves to the world and truly expose our souls, we're inviting countless other souls to know us. A lot of people ask me if I fear that I share too much sometimes...and yes, that thought terrifies me, but it's all the more reason to spill myself on a page when moved. What's wrong with sharing pieces of ourselves for other's reading enjoyment? Especially because I do not stick my neck out. I do not take risks in letting people in. I feel worn down by so many rejecting experiences-as I'm sure so many of you do too, but this is my little way of retraining myself. It takes a special person to pass my guards at the looming brick wall before the real Caitlin. The wall has unexpectantly crumbled recently, though, and I feel a willingness to let more people in. Keeping my ears perked, ready to recoil into my shell at any sign of a threat is exhausting. So do this with me. Open up without fear because life is a risk. If you're not taking any, you're not living.

30 things i love

I love fresh sheets.
I love when you listen to a song and you feel like they're singing about your life.
I love new shoes.
I love learning a new person.
I love waking up to someone.
I love microwaves.
I love not wearing make up.
I love the non-constricting nature of dresses (it's a secret that girls won't tell you. wearing a dress has nothing to do with being girly).
I love when you get a text and cannot stop smiling.
I love to see the sun after it's been raining for days.
I love umbrellas...no really, I have a small collection for no apparent reason.
I love driving with the windows down.
I love going home.
I love lists.
I love bendy straws.
I love waiting for a table at restaurants...it's all about the suspense.
I love mix CDs.
I love catching fireflies.
I love scent memories.
I love crunchy peanut butter 10 times more than creamy.
I love post it notes-especially multi colored.
I love sleeping in with my dog.
I love having an entire day to do nothing but read.
I love listening to music in the shower...and having a good cry at the same time.
I love taking pictures...even if they're no good.
I love people watching.
I love writing.
I love the pain you feel the day after a good work out.
I love to buy underwear.
I love lamp.

who shot chivalry?

Chivalry is so dead. I'm waiting to be proven otherwise, but I'm severely urked in the meantime. At the airport the other day I was struggling with my bag, and there were numerous men around that should have rushed to my side to help, but of course not. They got to watch me sweat and swear. Walking to the gym today in the rain, a guy SPED UP, drove by and soaked me with a puddle. I'm self sufficient, but sometimes I just want someone to recognize when I need help and be there. Guys are NOT in tune with our needs even just on these tiny day to day bases. I have a strong feeling that I shouldn't expect anything or hold my breath while I wait.

we have nothing to fear but...school supplies

I just found myself subconsciously mulling over an extensive list of fears, and as I mulled, the list seemed to grow in length. My last 5 weeks at home have been nothing if not boring. When I say boring, though, I mean that in the best possible way. I got to expand my mind on topics of my choice instead of topics listed on a syllabus chosen by a professor out to kill my GPA. I lounged around with the occasional retail or house work, and caught up with old friends. So you can imagine my shock when I began packing today to go back to a world of constant motion. Now, I would be lying if I said I wasn't "SO FRICKIN EXCITED" to see all my friends and lead my comparatively fast paced lifestyle at school. HOWEVER there still lingers this list of fears that may not make entire sense to you (but then they wouldn't be irrational and my name would not be Caitlin Skelly), but goes something like this...

1. It's supposed to rain for a whole week on my return. - ok let's discuss all the aspects that are wrong with that sentence. Firstly, I signed up for Southern California NOT Seattle (no offense, i hear the people are JOVIAL). Secondly, I do not have room in my already 49.5 lb bag to bring rain boots. My shoe wear will be extremely limited, and this bothers me.

2. See above about 49.5 lb bag. - Let's hope to the big man upstairs that the airport's scale is within .5 lbs of my 10 year old bathroom scale, mmk?

3. The first day of school. - No matter my age, on the first day of class, I feel like a first grader. I'm nervous and squirmy and feel like crying for my mommy. I have already envisioned myself walking from class to class...like I might get lost on the expansive Cal Lutheran campus where I know no one. Should I buy some Elmer's Glue? Maybe a pencil box? nah. I'll stick with an assortment of cap-erasers, Lisa Frank folders, and a trapper-keeper and call it a day.

4. Greeting friends again. - okay, it's been 5 weeks, not 5 decades...but it might as well have been. Getting back into that flow of living again is always interesting. Not to mention my apprehensions that may have more to do with my sometimes untimely low self esteem than anything else...but that's another story...for another person...

5. The sheer excitement disguised as apprehension of not knowing. - Every new semester is a fresh start at the game. We've had halftime, now we're running back on the field. You never know if you're going to score (no sexual reference intended) or get nailed in the face by an elbow and end up with a black eye for a week or worse. Ya get back out there and give it everything you have despite the dangers. Every semester has brought detrimentally terrible events, but has also brought some of the most memorable times of my life. The not knowing which will strike when, gives me a swirling feeling in my stomach. But with a little help from my friends, I think I'm ready.

Someday

It's 3 PM as I walk into A Child's Place to begin my job as a daycare aid. Immediately upon walking in the door I am bombarded with hugs, urgent news, and a barrage of questions from my class of four-year olds.

"Miss Caitlin, guess what? I didn't wet myself during nap today!"
"Miss Caitlin, I hafta tell you something. How long is an hour?"

No matter that this was a question rather than a statement, I answer, "As long as an episode of Sesame Street."

"Oh. I like hours," comes the response.

Entering the classroom everyday is an adventure.

At recess, little Annabelle is clinging to me-her face buried in my chest, her tears soaking my shirt, and a look of fear and betrayel reflected in her eyes. Her best friend has snatched her toy and pushed her. This is the first of many heartbreaks to come today, but I am here to appease her, to punish the oppressor, to be her comfort and safety.

Saturday morning comes and I find myself calling BINGO at the Barbara Egens Nursing and Rehab Center.

"B-4," I yell as loudly as I can to the room of elderly residents sitting before me. Suddenly, the man seated next to me is awakened and yells, "Before what?"

I try to stifle a laugh as I lean over to him and sort out his card. Volunteering most Saturdays since my freshman year of high school, I have grown to have a great respect for the elderly. There is the man who insists on speaking to me in Japanese because he wants me to learn the language that he learned fighting in World War II, while another shares his wisdom by informing me step by step the proper way to behead and prepare a chicken. Then there are others who cannot speak, but their gratitude for my just sitting with them is reflected in their eyes. I love listening to stories of their past or of their children, and though most of them are bedridden, there is still a strong willingness to learn and be heard.

Having the opportunity to work with both of these age groups has brought me insight and valuable experience. From being with the preschoolers I am reminded that the simple aspects in life are to be noticed and celebrated. Children have a way of finding excitement and wonder in the everyday; I want to live and seek out the same enthusiasm in life.

The elderly have ultimately taught me to live life to its fullest and take chances. I have learned that true love really can last a lifetime, which is evident in the couple that still holds hands at BINGO, and if one should fall asleep, the other plays his or her card. But mostly I have learned that thought these people have grown and matured and experienced many things both joyous and heartbreaking, they have the same soul they did at 17. We are all not that different.

These are my middle years and experiences with both ends of the cycle of life have helped me make decisions in how I want to live these days with passion and constant questions. No matter our age, as humans we have the same desires to have close interaction with others and to continue to grow everyday as people. It has been a great joy for me to be apart of all these peoples' lives. I am happy to be a form of comfort to them and to learn through them. My hope is that someday there will be someone listening to the stories of my life. From my days of pretending to be "Harriet the Spy" at the age of 7 to swimming under the Pont du Gard in Nimes at age 17, and all the memories I create, I hope to share my wisdom and tales as well. Someday.

open wide

The dentist is a daunting experience. On my way there today, I envisioned myself with severely stained and rotting teeth and decided that I could still live a fulfilling lifestyle that way. Hey, dentures are a fine alternative as well! Pop em out, put em in a cup. DONE. Anything but the dentist. It's a real wonder of the world that I even made it there today, given the fact that I was left to drive myself. Before I left, I decided the only way my car would find itself to Dr. Corsaro's office, 22 miles away, would be to trick myself. So I pretended I was getting ready to go out shopping and have fun with my friends. Needless to say, as I sat in the waiting room hearing the distant sound of drills rev, women scream, and grown men crying behind the glass doors to the office, I looked damn fashionable. Alas, not even my favorite jeans could save me from my fate.

Once in THE CHAIR I start to feel my entire body involuntarily tense. On any normal circumstances, this chair might be a fine piece of relaxing furniture for lounging, but the way my head fits perfectly into the grooved headrest only brings foreboding. My hygenist turns on the overhead lamp and I have a sudden urgency to shout "I DIDN'T DO IT!" ...or at least fess up to never flossing. I think they do that on purpose. They always ask, have you had any problems with your teeth recently? "well now that you mention it, my incisor has been slacking on the job and I just can't seem to talk any sense into him." No. No problems. Next question is always, "any trouble flossing?" Okay, why don't you just come out and say it. You know I haven't been flossing! Who has time to floss everyday?! It hurts! My gums bleed and I do not buy that load they feed you about it getting easier over time. But today I answer, "nope, no trouble." Because I really haven't had any trouble with flossing...because I don't do it.

When asked what flavor "polish" I want, I stick to my usual mint-the only option that doesn't instigate a gag reflex. She hands me a pair of goggles that make me question my safety, and so begins the cleaning. Do you ever wonder why it's gritty? Is that entirely necessary? The grit evokes a physical response in me much like finger nails on a chalk board, and I'm slightly relieved when my focus is shifted and the hygienist starts talking to me. The only problem is that this conversation quickly turns into 20 questions--further driving home the air of an instigation. Surely I would love to tell this woman all about my college experience and future plans, but her hands are halfway down my throat, and I'm having a hard time breathing, let alone orating on my life story. When she realizes this, she pulls her hands out and I end up spitting my "polish" all over the place while trying to say "California". I now see the importance of the goggles.

I'm happy to report that I escaped the place within an inch of my life, but with shiny teeth. Six months will come too soon.