Willie

Right now my cat and companion is in the pet hospital and I am at home, moving back and forth between a midterm paper and looking at pictures of him, telling myself he may not get better and hoping he does. He's dealing with- and has been dealing with for some time, although I didn't realize it- a very serious, common feline disease that mainly strikes the boy kitties, and it strikes them hard.

For the last few days, I have watched him progress from struggling to pee, to failing to pee, to failing to move. Last night, he walked slowly down the hallway to our bedroom, hopped so softly onto our comforter and dragged himself to my side of the bed. When I laid down next to him, he hit his face against mine like he always does, and that was the last time he interacted with me. This morning I woke up and called the vet to ask him how I could help Willie die.

Steven and I had decided that we couldn't afford the very expensive, possibly ineffective treatment that Willie needed. We talked again and again about how Willie is an animal that we love, but an animal nonetheless and that the money we have is already assigned to needs in our life. Like rent and my graduate school program; the money we have is only enough for maintaining Willie's life, not saving it. But we have been trying so hard to save him.

Several trips to the vet, syringes full of medicine, water and mushy food to get him even the littlest nutrition. We've been sitting by his litter box for hours, holding hands, watching him shake and strain to pee. We've counted all the little dots of his urine, shoved muscle relaxers into his little mouth, and helped him onto his pillow when he couldn't make it himself.

This morning, I brushed my hands on his fur and willed my love for this tiny, dependent creature to make him well. I begged his body to fix itself and I catch myself begging still, please just get better, Willie. But so far this process has been a disappointing one and I don't have much hope that he'll stay better, even if the treatment works.

When I asked the vet what I could do this morning, he tried to schedule a hospital visit to do the emergency catheter and fluids, but I told him we couldn't afford it. He convinced me he would figure out a price that works and that he really wanted to help Willie. Steven and I agreed that, one time only, we would pay the amount and try the treatment. Most everything I read online says that once isn't enough, that cats with this problem need to return for the catheter again and again; ultimately, surgery is the best bet. So, we're back to where we were; biding our time, hoping for the best, expecting the worst.

I think I have spent the last 48 hours saying goodbye, smelling his fur, telling him I'm sorry.

I am sorry for him and I'm sorry for us. And I'm embarrassed about how carried away I am at the thought of losing my friend. I think of my dad and Steven's Burkinabe friends and what they would think of ME and the visceral grief I feel for this feline. I think of so many reasons why I should just pull it together, value the time I had with him, and embrace the reality of life and death. I am judging myself for feeling too much and for not being able to "do enough". The typical stages of grief, I'm sure. Or whatever.

Right now I just want to embrace my kitty without hurting him, even if it's to say goodbye.

If you've read this far, you care about my cat and so I wont be embarrassed to list a few things about him:
Willie gives me hugs and I love them
Willie loves salty snacks and he always tries to steal our movie popcorn
Willie has ten different meows and they all sound like words to me
Willie follows me from room to room, he keeps me company when Steven works long night shifts
Willie has the happiest tail

A Letter to Myself

I am now a full time graduate student, which means that I spend most of the day in my pajamas telling myself I can't watch anymore TV until I do some work. Today, I completed one of my first assignments: a letter to myself, reminding me why I want to become a teacher.

McKenna, 

You're on your way to becoming a teacher. At moments, you feel certain that this is what you want. You imagine all of the wonderful men and women who taught you over the years and you are overwhelmed with gratitude. How did they do it? How can you be like them? As a student you saw your teachers (the good ones, anyway) as wise, kind and constant. Now that you are stepping into their shoes, you imagine that there must have been times when they felt as you feel now: scared and small in the face of all you must do and be for yourself, your students, their parents, and the system. You know there are moments when the job you do will feel impossible. Fight the fear, push through the frustrations, and remember that there are ten reasons for becoming a teacher for each one against.  

You love people, especially young and awkward people. You love to share with them and to learn from them. You treasure their stories and their potential, you are humbled when you think of the opportunity you will have to be a positive presence in the lives of your students. What's more, you love adventures and working with people is always an adventure. Remember, however, that adventures are not always fun. You also like to be bossy and this is your chance. 

When you think of becoming a teacher, you think of some of the things you loved about being in school: the challenge of learning something new and how good you felt when you accomplished something that was not easy. As a teacher, you will be challenged every day to be an expert in your content area, to create lessons that will engage and grow your students' knowledge. Being a teacher will be one of the hardest things you will ever do, but that is part of the reason you want to teach. You can see that the most difficult things in life are often the most important (like not eating an entire bag of chocolate chips in one sitting even though you really want to). Your character will be refined as you are constantly striving to be the best of yourself. You will learn things from your students you did not know they could teach you. 

You want to teach because you can't help but to keep returning to the idea of teaching. You have tried to stay away, to find a job that pays more and requires less. (You could have been a movie star if you weren't always eating bags of chocolate chips.) You looked for jobs like teaching, all the while telling yourself you didn't want to spend the rest of your life in a classroom... But you do, you want to teach and you want so badly to be good at it. You want the chance to share your favorite books; to lead meaningful discussions; and to equip your students with the skills they need to make reasoned, well-supported claims in their writing and in their lives. You want to provide a safe place for those who need it and a scary place for teenagers who think they are the shit.  

You are at the beginning of the process but you are not far from having a classroom of your own. Now, act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly as you join the ranks of some of the most special humans on earth: (English) teachers. 

Best, 

McKenna  

If you are already a teacher and you are finding some serious (albeit adorable) misconceptions in my letter, don't tell me. Finding out for myself will be half the fun and, then, if I call you crying one day because none of my students appreciate Shakespeare, you won't be able to say "I told you so." 

The Ravings of a Potentially Homeless Twenty-Something

When I woke up this morning, I jumped on Craigslist first thing, as I have been doing every morning for awhile now, to find our next apartment. Link after link of places that we can't afford, don't like, aren't real all in the hopes of finding the perfect place eventually. As long as eventually comes around real soon. And we've found a few places, and gone to look at them, and even really liked one or two, but none so much as the one we looked at this morning. Oh, we liked it so much. Enough to ignore the lack of closet space, or cabinets in the kitchen, or height of the shower. Enough to say, wewantitwe'lltakeit and have the landlord say OK, it's yours! just fill out the application I email to you later and write that deposit check when you get home.

OK we said, and the world was a f**king dream.

And for the last several hours I've been clinging to that dream like an (insert metaphor here), while sitting in front of a computer trying to pound out ten pages worth of a grad paper, My Reflections on Adolescent Literacy. I have not been doing a good job, writing and un-writing paragraphs that have no direction, on the edge of freaking out that this paper might never happen.

Hysteria mounting, I checked my email to see if the beautiful application to our apartment would be waiting for me! And it was, with a note from the landlord saying "I've never been in this situation before but, bla bla someone else also really liked the apartment too, and says they'll pay more than you, so, if you want to match or exceed their offer, then THIS time, it's yours!" NEVERMIND that he stood there in the kitchen saying some bullshit about first-come-first-serve.

Now I'm crying in front of the computer, not writing my paper or functioning as an adult human, but rather a baby human, writing the book Reflections on the Evening I Lost My Mind. 



I can feel myself collapsing inward, rubbing my own back in the sickest display of self-pity that says "Papers are hard to write, thinking is hard to do, no more please."

And maybe I'm PMSing, but I'm also just scared. 

Where Are They Now?

I’ve been prompted multiple times since college -when trying to decide on a career- to think of what I would do if no one were paying me. What would I do if it weren’t about the money? I know this is meant to be a liberating question- the clouds should part for the sun to shine on the one thing-the sum of my talents and joys- that would lead to purpose, meaning, AND a paycheck, but that hasn't worked for me yet.

Before starting my undergrad, I asked myself What do I like to do?

I like to read books and sing show tunes. I like to drink coffee and eat popcorn. I like to ask foreigners how to say __________ in their native language and then I like to repeat that phrase back to them every time I see them. I like to make friends. I like to pull my suitcase through airports, especially when wearing a scarf.

With that list in mind, I became an English major. I read a lot of books and drank a lot of coffee and watched the movie versions of those books and ate a lot of popcorn. I saw my friends in shows, but didn't do any myself. And then I graduated and started looking for a job. And I found a job, but not THE job. I'm still hoping for THE job, but maybe there is no such thing. In which case, What would I do if it weren't about money? That, my friends, is called Saturday.

Hello Again

I’ve been doing a lot of online window shopping, browsing shoes and international flights. There is a pair of boots I have my eye on that would go VERY well with London. I’ve also been uncomfortably full for a couple days now, but I keep on eating. I’m currently dealing with some stresses in the form of questions about my/our future, in the form of doubt about where we are right now versus where we should be etc. And I’m sure some of you might argue that where you are is where you should be but we all know that is not always true. We are not always where we should be. And then, there are many of you who would say be where you are, but I’m not very good at that. Which is part of why I can’t stop eating. The other part is that food is just so darn good.

I had lunch with a friend today. It was delicious, thank you, and while we visited we talked about the periods of life when you feel like you’re all over the place and everything is coming up question marks:

What do I want to do? Am I preoccupied with the idea that there is something unique for me to do?
How can I get my hair to grow faster?

Why is it, exactly, that I have MULTIPLE pieces of clothing with safety pins holding them together?

Where can I find the Willie Wonka candy that tastes like a three-course meal? Girlfriend NEEDS to stop eating.

As you can see, I have a lot on my mind. It makes me want to take a leave of absence, borrow allthemusicals from the library, and sit on the couch with my cat.

Hide It Under a Bushel

Over the last few months, Steven and I have lost our power twice.

Oh man, how NOT awesome is that?!? Worrying about the food in the fridge, relocating what you can to a friend's freezer or the fridge in the work breakroom. Throwing away a jar of salsa that could not be saved... one of the saddest things I've ever had to do. And then, of course, the small nuisances like flipping the light switch only to be instantly reminded that the power is out and, funnily enough, has been out for days, but your body continues to go through the motions.

Then there's the bathing in freezing cold water and the way getting dressed and applying makeup has become dependant on the use of a headlamp and the small sphere of light it casts in your bathroom mirror. Which, honestly, is pretty creepy.

Oh headlamp, I have known thee well.

I can't even enjoy thunderstorms anymore, a supreme bummer, because they've always been one of my favorite things. Now when the sky gets dark, I turn into Mrs. Banks from Mary Poppins, grabbing the vase on the piano and holding the picture frames like a cannon is about to go off.

I'm not joking.

Losing power has reminded me that I am not actually in control of anything except for how I respond to the circumastances of my life. And how I respond is to get really angry and begrudglingly play UNO with Steven in the dark, and criticize the way he lays his cards down, and to only smile when he takes a picture of me to post on instagram.

Late Bloomer

I found out yesterday that a local community theater is holding auditions for a summer musical. Since I spend half of my waking hours wishing I were a famous actress and the other half reading about famous actors, the thought of acting again dazzled me.

I found the theater group up online and scoured their archives for photos and videos of past productions. Initially, I thought that it would be a piece of cake to land a roll, and maybe a good roll, if I pulled myself together by Saturday morning. I compared myself to what I was seeing and figured a group that operates out of a school auditorium would be right up my alley.

But then I started watching videos of girls who were five years younger than me, adorable, confident and talented. And then I started reading everything I could find about the actors: articles in local papers, facebook about me sections, and interviews... these people have been acting together for years and years! They spend their summers building the sets and the show, and then hundreds of people turn out for their weekend performances.

I felt really intimidated after all of the digging and comparing. My voice is decent, but my range is limited and I haven't had a voice lesson since I sang Josh Groban for senior night at SHHS. I don't have character shoes or tights anymore. I weigh twenty pounds more and carry half the confidence that I used to...

And then I wondered if it were even possible for me to commit to rehearsals two nights a week and every Saturday. Between both of our schedules, we're already pretty busy. And would it matter that I'll be gone for a week in June?

In an evening, I explored the sides of myself that are extremely irrational and whiny and the part of me that can be practical. Folks, I even dreamed about auditioning, and it did NOT go well. Trying to decide if I want to try out for a musical has stirred up a lot of questions in me about what I want to do as a twenty-something. Are my hobbies the same? Am I dis-interested or am I just afraid? Do I even want to write or act or sing or dance, and if I actually wanted to do those things, wouldn't I be doing them?

Am I doing what I want to do, is it the same as what I used to want to do?

Blast it, I don't know.

I'd just like to be at peace with who I am, where I am. I thought I was old yesterday, looking at those high-schoolers, but I'm pretty much a big baby. A giant baby, using mini cannolis as pacifiers (um, delicious) and without a clue in the world.

Just like I never left...

The weight loss competition has ended and in its absence it has left a black hole (somewhere in the vicinity of my face), which has started to suck down an unbelievable amount of food. Obviously, this is all out of my control. If I knew more about black holes and what they are, maybe I could combat what's happening to me... Alas, thinking of space and blackness and forver-nothingness has always freaked me out, so I've never pursued more information.

Also, my Spanish desk calendar's phrase for the day is "Mi estomago hace ruidos raros." My stomach is making weird noises.

How did it KNOW!?

I don't even want to know what tomorrow's phrase is because, if it's following my life as closely as it seems to be, it's bound to be something like "Do you have these pants in a bigger size?"

I do NOT need to know how to say that.

The good news is, I dropped some pounds. I did some things in the three months of the competition that I've never done before. I ran three miles in one evening. I counted calories every day. On the days where I lost control and consumed more than I care to admit, I promised myself I would start over the next day and then I started over. More than anything, it was a great learning experience. It also kind of ruined my life because now that I know what I know about the amount of sugar and carbs and cals in my favorite foods, it doesn't feel so great to indulge anymore.

I'm not at the point where, if interviewed by Shape magazine, you would hear me say "Now, instead of ice cream, I prefer a fresh peach!" (seriously, a woman said that) but I do eat less cereal in the morning. I still want donuts and waffles etc. amen.

I think I'll keep going, because I didn't get to my goal weight. I also want new clothes and I can't justify the purchases unless my pants are falling off. My office isn't THAT business casual.

I deserve abs for this.

I'm always looking for ways to postpone working out. I just hate it that much. If results were instantaneous, things would be different. Alas, no, these things take time. So for the last several hours, instead of paying my dues, I've rearranged the rooms of our apartment and re-hung pictures. It looks good and all of you should visit us this instant. But now that everything is in its place, I would just like to lay down in the pajamas I've been wearing since last night. Give me a little popcorn, a little Breaking Bad, and I'll be fine.

If only.

One of the worst parts about moving away from my girlfriends is that I am so far from everyone/anyone who appreciated my attitude towards working out. There was a time in my life when an ever-softer body was, if not a group goal, an amusing issue. With my work friends and roommates, I would laugh and laugh, pleased as PUNCH to eat a pile of oreos instead of baby carrots; to wear the same pair of pants day after day because they fit; to have endless conversations about what we were eating and what we wanted to eat.

Me, caressing a shake, at my bachelorette party. 

Steven doesn't think it's as funny as my girlfriends when I would rather inhale pasta than expel calories. I know, I don't get it either. But yesterday, I promised him that I would work out every day from now until February 15th, and work out I must.

Now if you'll excuuuuse me...

Happy Saturday!

A song to send you on your weekend!

Willy Wonka knows what's up

Great news, everyone! Steven's bike was stolen.

Wait, scratch that, reverse it.

Steven's bike was stolen! Great news, everyone... we got it back.

A couple of weeks ago, I got a call from Steven saying that his bike was gone and he needed me to pick him up. At some point in the several hours that his bike was locked up at the metro station while he was at his evening class, some wacka-doo broke the lock and rolled his bike away.

Steven kept his cool and started filing a claim with metro security while I drove down the road in my pajamas, fuming, imagining that I would come across the thief on the way and run him off the road.

The claim was filed, security said they'd look for it, and Steven and I were pretty sure we would never see the bike again. Let's be honest.

Chicken BUT!, exactly one week later, we get a phone call saying that the bike was found at a pawn shop, just down the road from us. After a little negotiating between the coppers and the pawners and a lot of patience from Steven, the bike was taken to the station, where we were able to pick it up last night. No scratches or changes, even the KSU sticker required to park bikes on campus was still there.

As I was waiting in the car for Steven to get his bike, I looked in the rear view mirror and saw him rolling it down the sidewalk, the happiest, goofiest grin on his face, skipping! To all of you who prayed for the search, for all of the well-wishers and sympathisers, THANK YOU. The bike is home, double locked to our patio and the image of Steven skipping will forever be firmly planted in my memory.

Win-win.

Think about what you've done!

I miss something every day. Yesterday, I missed walking to class at KSU, the most beautiful campus in the world. The day before that, I missed getting sent to my room by my parents when I was naughty and lippy. Now I have to send myself, and that's way less effective. Who's going to save me from myself?

There are some things that I miss that I will never get back and some things that aren't gone, but aren't the same as they used to be (ahem, my thighs). But what I really want you to know is that some things I think I miss, I don't actually miss*. Just like you never know a good thing until it's gone, sometimes you don't know a bad thing until it's gone. Sometimes, we miss the idea of what we thought we had, which could be a person or a shirt or a job or a pet*, but really we're better of because of the loss.

Good riddance and thankyouverymuch.

The other night, I sent myself to my room because, bless my heart, I was just too tired to be nice and mature. I climbed into bed, covered myself up, and asked myself what was going on... I'm going to end this scene where I talk to myself now, but basically what I told myself is that I struggle with spreading myself too thinly, trying to do too much, and explaining myself all of the time*.

I've also been reassessing what I do and have found that a lot of what I spend my time on doesn't have any meaning or doesn't mean anything to me. I'm working on changing that, letting go of some things that are already gone and nurturing the things that are really important.

*I have not ever missed my parakeets.
*Honest! I only struggle with three things.
*If You're wondering how many times I used miss/missed in this post, it's seven. You're welcome.
*I'm so vague, you probably think this post is about you. It's not.

It was beautiful.

In the middle of his twenty-seven months with the Peace Corps, Steven came home for a few weeks. It was a summer visit, July, the first time we'd seen each other in over a year. With all the holidays we'd missed together behind us and all the holidays to come before us, we decided to take a day to celebrate Christmas.

I think I've talked about this before.

I made waffles in my parents' kitchen, standing barefoot in the Jasmine pants I bought at a market in Spain. My friends thought they looked ridiculous, but I liked the feel of scarves on my bare legs, my only complaint was the elastic at the ankles, which cut in to my skin.

I set the table with speckled blue and white plates and blended Orange Julius. I played Bing Crosby's Christmas album and warmed the syrup which, it turns out, Steven doesn't really like.

He walked into the house without knocking, and hugged me withe one arm, the other arm behind his back. He surprised me with a soft green hydrangea, the first flower he'd ever handed me himself.

I cut the stem and put the flower in water, in a cup on the table. We ate breakfast, me with my waffle dripping in melted butter and syrup and him with butter only.

He went back to West Africa a few days later, got sick with mono and spent a couple weeks in bed.

That hydrangea, hardier than any I've ever seen, lasted almost a month, long enough for Steven to get better and return to his village.

Maybe it borrowed his health, pulling it from his hand as he carried it to me on our Christmas morning.
Maybe it was just mimicking our patience, lasting longer than anybody thought it could.

Get it any way you can.

I would have liked to take a nap in a hammock today, the slight sway, the weight of a blanket tucked around my shoulders, the cool air cradling the sag of my back... I settled for my car, instead, parked at the back of the lot. With an hour for lunch, it was enough time to fall asleep in a patch of sun.

I woke up sweaty and sore, which made stepping out into the cool air all the more refreshing. The short walk from the car to the building was perfect. It was hard to come back inside, sad to sit for hours at a desk, staring at a screen, facing away from the window.

The square of sunlight on the floor does not even reach the wheels of my chair.

I'm not making any promises

I'm embarrassed by how long it's taken me to post.

Don't look at me, I'm blushing.

I've just had a damn hard time organizing thoughts, choosing a focus, and living up to the sentiment of New Year posts. I felt like I should be writing reflections and resolutions, and I couldn't. What makes the first of one month different from the first of another, really? So, instead of writing, I've been eating package after package of Holiday Oreos (just .89 cents at Target), and reading the poems of Billy Collins.

Today marks the first day of a weight-loss challenge I'm participating in. Yesterday, I watched the Golden Globes. The day before that, my husband took me on a really nice date. Last week, I was at work, feeling half as grown up as I looked, looking half as grown up as everyone else. Almost a month ago, I was leaving on a plane for Kansas, thinking of how nice it would be to be with family, and that three hour flights can feel very, very long. Steven and I have been together for four years. My brothers are growing up. My grandma should write a memoir. I should write a blog.

So on and so forth, these thoughts have skipped like rocks on the water. One hop, two hop, until they sink heavily to the bottom. Nothing rocks, blurry thoughts.

I think that Spring would be the best time to make life improvements. Not the dead of winter, when everything is frozen, most especially my motivation. Good luck to all of you who have ambitiously made lists of resolutions, and good health to those of you who are sick. I'll write again, when I'm sure I have something to say.

Categories

Pre-teen sensation, Jackie Evancho, blows my mind. If you don’t know who she is, follow this link and prepare to be stunned. If you do know who she is, follow the link anyway. Every time she opens her mouth, you’ll do a double take.

WTF, right? Crazy.

I don’t really see myself buying any of her music… I mainly just want to watch the second before she starts singing and the second after, over and over again. That big, round sound coming from her tiny frame confuses my eyes. It also makes me laugh. Is that horrible, that it makes me laugh? She’s beautiful and precious, and her little arms are so fluid when she waves them up and down, but I cannot get over the combination of mature-lady-opera-voice and blue-eyed-doll-baby.

I can’t help but notice how it smacks of potential to be an SNL skit. Kind of like this skit with Kristen Wiig, where you expect one thing (attraction) and get another (repulsion). 

Kristen Wiig: Ski Retreat Skit

Which brings me to the point: I have started to categorize my life in two ways; Situations That Would Make a Killer SNL Skit and Life Experiences That Would Make a Funny Sitcom. What you need to understand is that, whatever the category, I have basically stopped living life in reality and started living it in Technicolor. I have ten different TV shows I watch throughout the week, each functioning like a course in Social Studies or Home Economics. I sit down with a pen and notebook and take notes from my favorite characters on how to live.

No, I don’t.

But I do think that, in these trying times of adulthood, I have learned some valuable things from my prime-time friends.

·         New Girl has taught me that communicating is easier if you sing what you’re trying to say. Steven and I have had lots of conversations built on melody when they might have been built on frustration. La la laaaa.

·         Up All Night has shown me that being married can take two weird people and make them even weirder.

o   1 Weird + 1 Weird= Too weird (And I know what kind of “to” I used, okay.)

·         Modern Family has reminded me that, after you’ve given up trying to change the people in  your life, you will finally see what is so wonderful about them exactly as they are… If there is anything wonderful, and let’s be honest, sometimes there are no wonderful things. Make them up.

·         The Office has taught me the beauty of a versatile phrase. In my mouth. That’s what she said.

·         And Harry Potter has taught me the most... about being a friend and a hero and a dancer. Not a TV-show, you say? Take a hike! Harry Potter  is everything. *Ugly sobbing*

Harm City

Driving on the beltway today, I was thinking about how the cars weaving in and out of each other looked like a dance. If that dance were a death wish, combined with rage and idiocy.

Drivers here are terrible.

Initially, I let myself think, McKenna, you are just a precious girl from nowhere Kansas. You don’t understand what it’s like to drive in a city, where people’s lives are so important and busy.

I even let myself think, people here drive so fast because they care so much about being punctual, and that is beautiful.

But the bulls**t stops here, I lie no more.

I wasn’t caught so off guard by the drivers here because they are great city drivers. It is, in fact, because they are awful. I’m not weird because I grew up with the bumpkin delusions that red lights and speed limits matter, THEY’RE weird because they think they don’t. They don’t understand blinkers or pedestrian crosswalks; yellow lights or white lines. They get in their cars and all that is humane leaves them until they are nothing but crazed speed racers cutting me off.

Which is why, when a woman slowed to let me MERGE ONTO THE HIGHWAY the other day, I nearly cried. I found myself over-responding to her kindness because it had been so darn long since I experienced road-way courtesy. I was waving, blowing kisses, and throwing roses at her car.

When you’re used to operating in one extreme, any semblance of normalcy can really light your fire.

Beware the mid-atlantic byways, and for godssake, midwest people, kiss the ground you drive on.

And then get the hell out fo the way, someone from Baltimore might be passing through.

Lilo and Twitch

Today marks the third day of my spastic eye twitch. It is not awesome. Every few seconds, the lower lid of my right eye quivers. I can see it and I can feel it but I cannot stop it.

If it doesn’t end soon, I know I will end up punching myself in the face. Desperate times…

I read an article about the possible causes of eye-twitching and, while I can weed out a couple of them, most of them were right on. See list:

• Stress
• Tiredness
• Eye strain
• Caffeine
• Alcohol
• Dry eyes
• Nutritional imbalances
• Allergies

So, I’ve narrowed the list down to three: tiredness, eye strain, and nutritional imbalances. Through the process of elimination and smartness, I can probably get rid of tiredness because, let’s be honest, I’m always tired. My life is just so awesome and crazy! I’m always partying and dancing until midnight and stuff. Nice try, tiredness… But, deciding between eye strain and nutritional imbalances is a little more difficult.

You see, I’ve just started another diet. My body is in shock, not used to being denied such nutritionally balanced foods like bags of chips, packages of Oreos, and spoonfuls of Nutella. All signs clearly point to nutritional imbalance being the cause of my twitch. Nutritionally, my body is balancing precariously on a diet.

However, just for a laugh, let’s consider eye strain, and how I sit a foot away from a computer screen staring for eight hours, every day. And also how I drive home in the dark, and usually don’t have my glasses on me. And also, how my eyeballs suck and can’t read things far away and give me headaches.

Turns out, according to Jesus and the top scientists of our time, the eyes weren’t made to function under such circumstances. They were created to look at hills and flowers and loved ones’ faces. They were created to hunt and gather and NOT always be copying and pasting into excel spreadsheets.

It’s probably true that my eye is twitching from eye strain, but as I cannot do anything about needing a job and having to work, it looks like the only thing I can do to limit the twitch is recommence my previous diet.

*Interestingly enough, my eye never once twitched while I wrote this.

*No eyeballs were harmed in the making of this post. 

You want to be stranded on an island with me.

Oh my gosh, do you even remember who I am!? Is anyone even reading this anymore!? Blergh!

Time and again, my fairy blogmother (I just made that up) has said to me:

McKenna, darlin’, dontcha want the people ter read yer blog? Why then, ya must keep posting on a regular basis.”

 Yeah, she’s an Irish pirate.

To which I say:

Fairy blogmother, don’t be ridiculous. Of course I want to keep my readership. What an unnecessary question.”

So here I am, begging you to stay, dear reader. Pleading with you to keep coming back, keep checking for updates. Because even if I’m not writing blogs with my computer, I’m writing them with my heart. And as we well know, what we do with the heart is what really counts.

I diet, save money, and do laundry with my heart all of the time.

Also, if you keep reading, I’ll tell you really cool things about my life. Like how everything is being held together with paperclips and twisty-ties. I’m not joking.

Earlier this week, I walked into our office building like a professional, grown a** woman. I looked good, with my heels on and my black fake-leather saddlebag swinging from my shoulder. The bag that I bought at Target on sale. The bag that I turned over in my hands in the purse aisle thinking this is cheaply made but, gosh if it isn’t cute! I bought it.

Fast forward: So there I was, standing at the door, doing the awkward you-go-first-ok-I’ll-go-first shuffle with a higher up from the office when my bag dropped off of my shoulder and landed on the floor. HU (Higher Up) said “Oh, man”- looking embarrassed and sympathetic- while I picked up my purse like it was totally normal for it to drop off of my shoulder and said

Well, I guess I can tape it. 

I don’t think that will work.  

No… That’s what I get for filling it too full.

But the truth is, I didn’t fill it too full. I filled it only a little full because I knew it was cheap. I never danced with my bag, swung it around, beat anyone, or used it for a pillow. I put my wallet in it, and we KNOW that weighs nothing… So where there used to be a cute brass button holding my bag together, now there is a paperclip, bent and wrapped around the strap, holding things together. It looks real nice, Clark, real nice.

Also, a screw fell out of my glasses. And then my lens fell out. I have resourcefully corrected this problem with a twisty-tie. The answer to your question is: Yes, I am awesome.

So this Thanksgiving, when you’re searching your brain, thinking of things to be grateful for, be thankful for the things that break, because without them you wouldn’t know that they can be fixed. Almost.

Be kind, please rewind.

While I was cleaning yesterday, I turned on Much Ado About Nothing (VHS style.) When my aunt left to be a teacher in Cairo several years ago, she entrusted me with a collection of her movies- this being one of them- and they are the sole reason I have a VHS player. These movies have gone with me everywhere, first to college and now to Maryland. I carry them like a child carries a blanket, I watch them and feel at home, and when they are over I am homesick.

Yesterday, I thought about the time I watched Romeo and Juliet in the park with my good friend Jason. We didn't stay for the end, leaving early for Winstead's butterscotch shakes and steak fries, but I can remember exactly where we sat and how the stage looked.

I think about the book my friend Caitlin gave me for my birthday last year, a collection of Shakespeare's work which is falling out of its binding and displayed on our piano.

I remember my trip with Steven to the Globe theatre, standing as groundlings for Henry IV in the London rain. It was magical.

And then, back to my aunt and her VHS copy of Sense and Sensibility, with Kate Winslet reciting Sonnet 116, Love is not Love.

...Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into. Hey nonny, nonny.